Lark

by Forrest, Richard;

  “I’ve had a bad day,” Lark replied in a partial apology.

  “Did the big bad criminals say mean words to the poor lieutenant?”

  “Knock it off.”

  “Let me ask you something, Lark. Do you ever have any good days? Or are they all just bad and worse?”

  “Today reached a particularly low mark.”

  “You’ve got your twenty years on the force. Quit. Resign. Do something, anything, that doesn’t make you so unhappy.”

  “I’m not good for anything else.”

  “I know a lot of the men get jobs in store security.”

  “And bust teeny-bopper shoplifters all day.”

  Her face flushed with anger. “You know, you’re full of it. Why am I wasting my time with a man who’s such a goddamn crybaby? You feel sorry for yourself, Lark. You wallow in self-pity, and I’m tired of it.”

  “Then leave,” he said softly as he stared into his beer.

  “It’s not that simple. I’ve given you years of my life.”

  “Months would be closer to the truth. Christ, you’re melodramatic tonight.”

  “You bring out the bitch in me.”

  “No wonder your husband left you.”

  She stared at him with wide eyes. “At least he didn’t blow his head off.”

  He moved without thought. His body catapulted across the room as his hands automatically balled into fists. His hand lashed out to be deflected at the last possible moment by a massive surge of will. “I almost lost control.”

  “Do you want to hit me?”

  He took two backward steps. “I almost did.”

  “You know, Lark, one of these days you aren’t going to stop.”

  He slumped down on the divan. “You know all the wrong buttons to press.”

  “You’re not a bad button-presser yourself.” She turned and ran from the trailer.

  He heard her car-starter engine whine and whine again. Her engine started, coughed, and died. He went to the doorway. “You’ve flooded it.”

  “Screw you!” She jammed her foot down on the accelerator.

  “Wait.”

  “Up yours.” The engine caught and she threw the car in gear.

  Lark ran into the car’s path and stood before it with his hands stretched toward its nose. “I want you to hear something.”

  “I’m tired of insults.” She jammed on the brakes only feet from him. “Out of the way.”

  He walked over to the driver’s door, opened it, and gently put a hand on her shoulder. “There’s something you should know. It might explain something about me. Come with me.”

  “You take me anywhere, Lark, and I warn you, I’ll scream the whole bloody way. When you stop for a traffic light, I’ll jump out and yell rape.”

  “Gonna call the cops?” He tried to smile.

  “You know it. You almost hit me.”

  “Come.” His voice was cold and authoritative. She looked at him a moment and then slowly climbed from her car and followed him to the pickup.

  “I’m not in the mood for a beer in one of your dives.”

  “This is something else.”

  Lark parked in front of a fire hydrant at police headquarters and firmly took her elbow and led her into the building.

  Faby broke from his grip and approached the amused desk sergeant. “This man has me prisoner.”

  “So, what else is new?” the sergeant asked.

  “I demand a cop.”

  Lt. Horn came out of the watch commander’s office and looked at Faby with disinterest. “What’s coming down, Lark?”

  “I picked her up for soliciting.”

  Horn looked displeased. “Book her,” he said as he returned to his office.

  “You want me to start paper going?” the sergeant asked.

  “Got to interview her first,” Lark said as he led her to the elevator.

  “You know, Lark,” Faby said in a loud voice as the elevator doors began to shut, “you’re going to have one hell of a time explaining this to those guys at our engagement party.”

  “Lots of cops fall for perps.”

  The elevator rocked to a stop and the doors opened. “My office is third on the left.”

  She stalked ahead of him. “I don’t know what I’m doing here or what kind of games you have in mind. Maybe handcuffs in the back room?”

  “Funny.” He followed her into the office and motioned to the desk chair. He took out the cassette player and placed the earphone in her ear. She glared at him as he started the recorder and left the room. He walked slowly down to the locker room, where he stared at empty benches for a few minutes. He went to the rest room and after five minutes returned to his office.

  She was sitting where he had left her, although her manner had radically changed. She was ramrod-stiff, with wide eyes that slowly swiveled to look at him in horror. “No more. Please.”

  He snapped off the recorder. “That was my day,” he said simply.

  “It’s real, isn’t it?”

  “Very real.”

  “How could you listen to such obscenity?”

  “That’s what I’m paid for.”

  “There isn’t enough money in the world,” she said.

  6

  Radio station WGBZ was situated inside a shopping mall on the outskirts of Middleburg. Its single broadcasting studio was located on the atrium with glass walls on two sides. The broadcaster on duty not only played records and gave commercials, but from time to time waved at the two or three people outside the window who had stopped to watch his activities.

  Bear Tooth Ryan, an announcer who spun heavy metal, was on duty when Lark and Horse approached the station’s front door. Blaring, discordant music from the station was amplified throughout the atrium and Lark winced as they opened the door and stepped into the reception area.

  A young receptionist, vacant-eyed from too much music, was looking at Bear Tooth. She turned toward them with a lopsided smile as she waited for their command. “I’m here to see Johnny Gross,” Lark said.

  She gestured down the single hall that ran through the building, and went back to staring at Bear Tooth.

  They walked by a narrow newsroom with its single chattering wire-service machine, past a door labeled STATION MANAGER, several general offices, and stopped at the far door that had a crudely lettered-sign that read, TALENT—KEEP OUT.

  Lark pushed through the door and walked over to a cluttered desk where Maurice Grossman aka Johnny Gross huddled over a large Styrofoam container of coffee and three jelly doughnuts. He looked up with a diffident look and a face spattered with white confectioners’ sugar.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” Grossman said as he extended a limp hand. “And you too, Captain.”

  Lark glanced sideways at Horse Najankian, who was nattily dressed in a three-piece charcoal pinstripe that fit like a glove. It was in marked contrast to the patrolman’s often-repaired uniform. He wondered if Horse carried his piece. He’d have to check on that when they left the radio station. “Tell me, Grossman, what’s the range of this station?”

  Maurice Grossman stuffed the last of the jelly doughnuts into his mouth, and a flicking tongue licked a few specks of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “About twenty miles. We’re a five-thousand-watter,” he mumbled through a full mouth.

  “Then it wouldn’t quite extend to Hartford on the north and New Haven in the south?”

  “They really aren’t in our market, but on a good day, if the weather was right, you might pick us up in those cities.”

  “But not on a regular basis?”

  “Daily, no. Do you think the guy who sent that tape is a regular listener?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Well, our market is really Middleburg and the surrounding towns.” Grossman looked up at the large clock on the wall and stiffened. “I got to go in two minutes.”

  “I’d like to go over the rest of yesterday’s mail.”

  “Uh, yeah. I’ll have to talk to
you about that.” He started for the door. “Why don’t you sit in for a while? I can talk when a record’s on.”

  They followed him down the hall. A young announcer was in the newsroom area with a sheaf of wire-service copy in front of him as he hunched over a microphone giving the hourly news. Grossman slowed his pace as they passed the booth and shook his head. “Look at that, will you?” He snapped a finger. “He didn’t even rewrite the stuff, took it right off the teletype. We call that rip and read, no background, no style.”

  Lark wondered if the young newsman knew who Adlai Stevenson was.

  Bear Tooth was standing by the studio’s door and gave Grossman a light punch to the shoulder. “Eat ’em up, Johnny.”

  “Fucking A,” Maurice Grossman said.

  Lark watched Maurice Grossman take three steps across the glass-enclosed booth and saw Johnny Gross take a seat at the swivel chair in front of the microphone and engineer’s board. He had heard of such instant metamorphosis that sometimes occurred in actors, but had never actually witnessed the transformation. Johnny/Maurice’s complete demeanor changed the instant he sat before the microphone. His eyes glistened and he leaned forward with a vibrancy that transcended the man they had spoken with a few minutes earlier. A group of young girls had gathered before the mall window, and a blonde with long hair, short-shorts, and a brief halter gave Johnny the finger.

  Johnny Gross laughed and returned a full arm gesture. The mike was now alive. “Good morning, boys and girls, this is Johnny Gross and the show is Gross Out.” Johnny Gross threw a lever and the sound of a flushing toilet rose up and then down and under until it faded out. “Today is Bolero day, kiddies, and that is the most sexy piece of music ever written. Thirty-two minutes from now you are going to have eight minutes of Ravel’s Bolero, and you all know what Johnny wants you kids to do during that music. Remember, I will be with you in spirit. So, all you housewives grab the delivery boy or your vibrator and get ready to do you-know-what. Now we have a quick spin of the hot new release from the Cryptic Cadence.” Another lever was pushed and Johnny Gross leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his neck. “All right, loot, what can I lay on you?” Gross said to Lark.

  Lark glanced at Horse, who shrugged. “I’d like yesterday’s mail.”

  “Burned.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, or do you have wax in your ears?”

  Lark glared. “Listen, punk, I’m not one of your teeny-boppers.”

  Johnny Gross’s eyes flickered and Maurice Grossman peeked out for a moment. “Sorry. Maurice was upset and he threw them all in the incinerator. Maurice is a wimp.”

  “We now speak in the third person?”

  Johnny Gross shrugged and gave another arm gesture at the young girls standing outside the window. “Whatever.”

  “Listen, Gross,” Lark said, “you hear anything more from our friend, you contact me. Right?” He tossed a business card at the DJ.

  Johnny Gross shrugged again and leaned forward over the mike. “Remember, you raunchy people, it will soon be Bolero time and that’s you-know-what time.”

  Lark and Horse left the booth. “Where’d you get that suit, Horse?”

  “Wife made it from a picture in Esquire. She’s handy that way.”

  “I can see that she is.” He entered the station manager’s office without knocking.

  A tanned, athletic man with broad shoulders and a wide smile looked up from a magazine. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Lark and this is officer Najankian. I’d like some information about Maurice Grossman.”

  “Grossman?”

  “Johnny Gross.”

  The room was filled with golfing trophies and Lark imagined that this aging jock sold most of the station’s time on local courses.

  “Is Johnny in any trouble? I know he’s dirty, but we’re still within the new guidelines. There’s no reason for the police to get involved.”

  “Nothing like that. He provided some information to us on a certain case and we need routine background to complete our file.”

  “Oh, sure. Well, Johnny came to us a few weeks ago. He was in Portland before that, Springfield, and I think he worked in Laconia right after he finished the Boston University School of Communications.”

  “Why so many stations?”

  The manager smiled. “He gets fired, of course. Any DJ with a filthy mouth like his is bound to get the ax sooner or later. People like him don’t know where to draw the line, and so they can’t help stepping over it. It’s par for the course to work your way up from a five-hundred-watter to a five-thousand and then hopefully someday one of the fifty-thousand-watt flag stations. I’ll tell you this, he’s been good for our ratings.”

  “Is he married? Does he have any children?”

  “Sure. He’s got a sweet wife and two little kids. The guy’s completely different when you’re in his home.”

  “So I’ve gathered,” Lark said.

  They sat in the cab of Lark’s pickup down the street from the house on Mark Street where the body of the young woman had been discovered. Horse drank a diet-free cola while Lark pulled on the remains of a beer.

  “Why are we just sitting here, Lieutenant?”

  “Because this goddamn house with its kooky kids is all we’ve got. I want a gut feel for the place. Does that explain anything?”

  “Nothing seems to be going on in there.”

  “It’s too damn quiet.” Lark crushed the beer can with one hand and dropped it to the floor. “Let’s go.” He slammed from the truck and grabbed a metal attaché case, from the truckbed before he strode toward the house.

  “What’s coming down?” Horse asked.

  “We’ve been watching that damn place for two hours and nothing’s coming down. That’s what’s wrong. There’s too many people in that joint for it to be so quiet.”

  Horse unbuttoned his jacket. Lark gave a satisfied glance at his partner. He was carrying his piece.

  When they reached the rotting front porch, Lark put the attaché case down and stood with his back to the wall as he pulled the Cobra from its holster. Horse took up a position on the far side of the door. They glanced at each other and nodded.

  “Let’s take it,” Lark whispered. His foot lashed out against the door and it bowed under the onslaught. Horse threw his massive shoulder against the frame until the lock splintered and the door flew backward. They entered the house with drawn weapons and made their way down the hallway.

  Lark stopped at the bedroom door. “Now!”

  The door wasn’t locked and flew open. Both officers entered the room in a shooting crouch.

  Winthrop Rutledge glared at them with bloodshot eyes as he sat up in bed. “What’s going on?” Reba, the nude girl they had last seen in the cellar room, now showed more modesty as she clutched a sheet to naked breasts.

  “Where are the others?” Lark barked.

  “Gone,” Winthrop said. “We’re the only ones left. What are you doing here?”

  “We have a warrant,” Horse said as he efficiently searched the room. “Anyone else in the house?”

  “No, just Reba and me.”

  “Where did the others go?” Lark asked.

  “Home.”

  “Why?”

  “Their parents read about the murder in the backyard and came and got them.”

  “Except for me,” Reba said. “My old lady doesn’t give a shit.”

  “That’s nice,” Horse said as he pushed aside clothing on the closet rack to peer into the rear.

  “How in the hell can you form a coven if the parents come after them?” Winthrop moaned.

  “There is sanity left,” Lark said. “Get some clothes on. I want to check that room in the cellar again.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Lark’s reaction was instantaneous. In a single motion he stepped to the bed while simultaneously holstering his Cobra. He grabbed Winthrop’s hair, dragged the young man across the foot of the bed, and je
rked him to his feet. He slammed him against the wall while his elbow mashed his neck. “Listen, bastard, you open your mouth like that again and you’re going to be minus your gonads. Do you know what they are?”

  The “yes, sir” was barely a gasp.

  Lark jerked his elbow away and Winthrop fell to his knees. “Don’t try me again.” Lark’s voice dropped to a nearly inaudible whisper, which made it even more menacing. “You’ve got seconds to get dressed. How many seconds is for me to know and you to try to find out.”

  As directed by Lark, Horse took a position seventy-five feet from the house. He carried a small walkie-talkie. “Ready here,” he said into the small radio.

  “Stand by,” Lark said over a second radio from his location in the small green room in the cellar of the house. He also carried a portable signaling device that emitted a beep that was carefully calibrated on an instrument dial. “Okay, here we go.”

  “Right, sir,” Horse answered.

  Lark twisted the knob on the signaler to its first position. It emitted a series of four beeps that were barely audible to anyone standing near the machine. Lark pressed the transmitter button on the radio. “Hear it?”

  “Negative,” Horse replied.

  Lark turned the signal to its second position. The beep was louder and the reading higher. He spoke to Horse again. “That time?”

  “No, sir.”

  Lark turned the device to its third position. “How about that one?”

  “Affirmative. I heard four beeps.”

  Lark made a note on his pad. “We’ll take a few more readings from the cellar and then a few from other parts of the house.”

  Lark propped his feet on the radiator in his office and stared at the pad with his notations of sound levels. “I think that if anyone screamed in the house, it would have been heard over the whole block.”

  “She could have been gagged,” Horse said.

  “The ME didn’t think she was.”

  The phone rang. “Sergeant Soho here, Lark. We ran a match on those threads found at the murder scene. They match the same dye lot as the jeans the victim was wearing.”

  “How positive is that?”

  “To the exclusion of all other dye lots.”

  “Thanks,” Lark said. “Give it to me in writing when you can.” He hung up. “The threads you found in the woods match the victim’s clothing, and we haven’t any decent sound levels in the house.”