by John Lutz
“What—you’re afraid I’m gonna call some reporter? Try to get my name in the paper? Don’t worry. I’ve had my fifteen minutes of fame. Though it felt like a lot less.” A shadow of sadness crossed Blake’s face. It was gone almost before Harper saw it.
“Thanks.”
“Let’s shake on it,” Blake said, smiling again.
He held out his prosthetic band. Harper took it with his maimed one. It felt smooth, dry, and cool.
“Does just about anything a real one would, and I never have to worry about burning it on the stove,” Blake said. “Ain’t science amazing?”
“I’m envious.”
“Don’t be.” Withdrawing his hand, Blake went on, “Anyway Sugar couldn’t be the Celebrity Bomber. He was in prison when most of the bomber’s victims died.”
“I never thought he was,” Harper said.
Blake stared, then shook his head. “Whatever it is you think, if it’ll help you any, there isn’t any doubt that Sugar sent the bomb to me.”
“You two were friends. What makes you so sure he did it?”
“We had a fight.”
“Way Sugar tells it, you hit him and he didn’t hit back.”
“Oh, he was mad all right,” said Blake. “Only he let it fester inside. Brooded. Worked out a sneaky way to get back at me, hurt me much worse than I hurt him.”
“He still claims he’s innocent. Claims it should have been someone else doing that long stretch in prison.”
Blake looked uncomfortable. “I guess he’s pretty bitter. Maybe I better be careful about opening my mail.”
“He doesn’t blame you. In fact, what seems to bother him the most is that you believe in his guilt. In a way, he still seems to think of you as a friend.”
“Sounds like he convinced you.”
“I think he’s innocent.”
Blake was strongly affected by these words. He was blinking his large blue eyes rapidly and his lips were compressed. After a moment he burst out, “It had to be Sugar. Why would the Celebrity Bomber pick me for a target?”
“You were in show business.”
“I was just getting started. A couple appearances on cable TV, that was all.”
“That might have been enough.”
Blake continued to look intently at Harper. He was thinking fast. Abruptly he straightened up and smiled. “Now, wait. It’s coming back to me. Sugar had to be the one who did it. Know why?”
Harper shook his head.
“The bomb came to my unlisted home address. Only people who knew me personally knew that address. It had to be Sugar. Couldn’t have been the Celebrity Bomber.”
“Even unlisted addresses can be discovered.”
“Sure, but I was really careful about telling anyone where I lived. I had this idea at the time that I was on the cusp of stardom and wanted to preserve my privacy as long as possible.”
Harper swiveled slightly on his stool, toward the window, and watched the traffic pass out on Hobbie. He didn’t want Blake to see how excited he was. Maybe, just maybe, this was the break he and Addleman had been hoping for—a link between the bomber and one of his victims. Suppose the bomber had known Blake personally? Suppose he too was in show business?
Could his deep, abiding hatred of all celebrities have grown out of simple envy for one rival’s success?
It was a possibility—but at this stage only a possibility. If the bomber was someone Blake knew, he’d made a bad mistake in sending the package to the unlisted address. The kind of mistake the meticulous planner who’d killed Buckner and Rogers would never have made. But fifteen years ago, when he was young and inexperienced, he might have been capable of such a blunder. He’d been lucky the police had Sugar to fix their suspicions on, and his luck had lasted fifteen years.
Maybe now it was starting to turn on him.
Harper turned back to Blake. This was the crucial question, but he laid no special stress on it. “How many people had your address, Jake?”
Blake shrugged. “Just my agent, my doctor, a few friends. The LAPD checked ’em all out at the time. They were in the clear, except for Sugar.”
“What about friends outside of L.A., people you wrote to?”
“Well, there’s my mom and dad back in Paducah, but I don’t think they sent me the bomb.”
Blake gave the line a flawless deadpan delivery. Harper figured he must once have been a pretty good comic. “Paducah? Is that where you were living before you moved to L.A.?”
“No. I had a room in St. Louis, but really I was living in my car. Traveling all over the Midwest, working the clubs. I was at the Crazy Bone in Chicago when I got the call from the coast.” Blake’s eyes widened. Even now, the memory of getting that call could still excite him.
“Do you remember any of the people who were appearing with you? Did you know them well?”
“Oh, sure. There was a group of us from around St. Louis who often appeared together. We knew a lot of the same booking agents and managers, and whenever one of us got a job, he’d put in a good word for the others. Those were great days. We were great friends.”
Blake was showing every tooth he had in a broad smile, and his blue eyes looked a bit misty. Harper was reminded of the famous comics he saw acting warm and wonderful on TV talk shows—except that Jake Blake actually seemed to be sincere.
“How did your friends react when you got that call from the coast?”
“Everybody was happy for me. It was the kind of break we were all praying for. Because it is such a rough business, most young performers root for each other.”
Harper looked down to hide a skeptical smile. Well, Sam Sugar had told him that Blake was a nice guy. Was it possible that he was himself so free of jealousy and cynicism that he found it hard to believe another human might have resented his lucky break enough to want to kill him for it?
“Who were the other performers at the Crazy Bone?” Harper asked.
“A singer, Belinda Warren. And three other comics: Jackie Davis, Silky Simms, and Darren Snow. We all did standup routines, some improv. We didn’t play to sellout crowds, but we did okay.”
Harper finished writing the names in his spiral notebook. “Try to remember. How exactly did they react when you told them you were going to Hollywood?”
Jake Blake became somber. “None of them sent me the bomb.”
“Just try to remember, Mr. Blake.”
Blake looked pained. “I’d hate to accuse anyone . . .”
“Just tell me. Are you sure all of them were happy about your success?”
Blake looked down at the counter. “Maybe not Darren Snow.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Now don’t get me wrong,” said Blake hastily. “Darren was perfectly okay to work with. I didn’t think he was that talented, but that’s just my opinion. He was very professional.”
“But—” Harper prodded.
“He was just kinda strange. I never saw him except when we were working. He lived in St. Louis too, but I never knew where. He didn’t hang out with the rest of us. We thought he had some kind of problem at home, but he wouldn’t talk about it.”
“And his reaction to your success?”
“Oh, he patted me on the back, made jokes about smog and sunburn just like everybody else, but I could tell he was dying inside. He was never happy about anybody else’s success.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause he thought it ought to be his. He thought he was a lot better comic than he really was.” Blake straightened up and shrugged to lighten his thoughts. “But who am I to judge? I never got half the jokes on Seinfeld. Darren was an okay guy.”
Harper put away his notebook. He figured he’d better get out of here before the charitable Jake Blake took back everything he’d said. “Thank you for your time. I suppose you wouldn’t happen to know where Snow or any of the others are now?”
“We haven’t kept in touch. None of them made it big, of course, or I would’ve heard about it. Th
ey’re probably long out of show business, like me.” An unpleasant thought struck Blake. He said quickly, “Listen, I wouldn’t want the cops to come down on Darren or Belinda or any of them because of what I said—”
Blake’s niceness was starting to get on Harper’s nerves. He interrupted, “Wouldn’t you want to see Sam Sugar cleared—if he didn’t do it?”
The candid blue eyes opened wide and the blond brows rose toward his hairline. “All these years his guilt’s the one thing I’ve been sure about. But if he’s actually innocent, then yes, I want to see him cleared.”
Harper got up from his stool. With a nod to Blake, he started to turn away.
“Wait,” Blake said. “I don’t know much about computers, but my kid’s got the whole setup. Is there any way to—”
“You’re thinking of e-mailing Sugar?”
“Well, maybe.”
“I wouldn’t let technology stand in your way,” said Harper, smiling as he turned away.
Using his cell phone at the airport, he phoned Addleman in Philadelphia and filled him in on what he’d learned.
There was a long pause after he finished. Then Addleman said, “The bomber a failed comic, motivated by envy? Is that what you think? I don’t know if I like the idea, Will.”
“That’s because it’s too simple for you.”
Addleman gave his wheezing chuckle. “Lots of people fail in show business. But they don’t become killers. There’s going to be a lot more to the bomber, even if your theory’s right.”
“It is just a theory,” Harper admitted.
“I’d still put money on us rather than the Bureau,” Addleman shot back, in an exasperated tone.
“Been talking to your informant in Behavioral Sciences?”
Addleman sighed. “The FBI is looking for Vedic astrologers.”
“Uh-huh. Where do you look for a Vedic astrologer?”
“India. The constellation we call Aquila has an entirely different significance over there. In fact, it has manifold significances. There’s a Special Agent on the plane to Calcutta right now.”
“Good luck to him,” said Harper, “but I think I’ll try Chicago. The Crazy Bone comedy club is still listed in the phone book. I’ll see what I can find there. You fire up your modem and see if you can collect any information on our four names.”
“I’ll phone you as soon as I come up with anything, Will.”
“I’ll phone you,” Harper said. “From Chicago.”
At ten o’clock that evening, Harper was walking into his room at an old hotel west of the Chicago Loop. It was a little seedy, but the price was right. And it did have a bed—the first real bed he had to sleep in since he left home. He sat on it and called Addleman.
Addleman answered on the fifth ring. He sounded tired.
“I’ve been busy,” he said.
“With results?” Harper was weary himself, and would have stretched out on the bed to talk to Addleman if he hadn’t been afraid of falling asleep with the receiver pressed to his ear.
“Some. Belinda Warren is deceased. Cancer. 1999.”
“What about the other names?”
“Jackie Davis is a heroin addict, in and out of clinics for the past ten years. He still does club comedy, when he isn’t in recovery. There’s nothing in his past suggesting he’d know how to build a bomb, and at the time of Speed Rogers’s death he was in Holy Ghost Rehabilitation, a Catholic center for drug addicts in New Jersey. He couldn’t even feed himself, much less construct and plant a bomb.”
“So Davis is out,” Harper said. “What else do you have?”
“It gets better, Will. Silky Simms is one Sylvester Simms. He got out of show business and into burglary not long after the Jake Blake bombing. He’s been in and out of prison; he’s out now. And his other free time coincides with the other Celebrity Bombings.”
“Hmm. Got an address on Simms?”
“Yeah. He’s back in St. Louis.” Addleman gave Harper the street and number.
Harper was thinking that it would sadden the affable Jake Blake to find out how badly his old friends had fared in life. He said, “What about Darren Snow?”
“He doesn’t seem to exist,” Addleman replied.
“That’s interesting.”
“Frustrating, is what it is. I checked with Actors’ Equity, figuring it might be a stage name, but Snow isn’t in their records. It’s as if he never existed except as a performer at the Crazy Bone years ago. I have to admit, I’m stymied.”
“Maybe I can find out something at the Crazy Bone.”
“We’ll see. The really interesting name came up when I got into the old newspaper ads for the Crazy Bone. Seems there was a singer who filled Jake Blake’s spot when he went to L.A. Amy Arthur—her real name. She finished the run Blake was supposed to have at the club, then sang there for another month.”
“Is she still singing?”
“Nope. That’s the interesting thing about her. For the last eleven years she’s been doing secretarial work at a quarry near Lakeville, Illinois. I don’t have to tell you what they do at quarries, do I, Will?”
“No, you don’t. They blast.”
“Exactly. Amy has access to explosives. I like Silky Simms for the bomber. Like him very much. But we definitely should look into Amy.”
“Maybe there’s still a connection between Simms and Amy,” Harper said.
“Could be. They’re still living in the same area. After you’re done there in Chicago, I suggest you fly to St. Louis. And from there you can drive to Lakeville.”
Harper didn’t want to think about any more traveling right now. He swung his feet up on the bed. Lying down made him even more tired, as he’d feared. He forgot about unpacking.
“Hey, I heard from another friend at the Bureau,” Addleman was saying. “He’s in the Investigative Support Unit. Seems that the day after the Rogers blast, Frances ordered every Dumpster from every motel within twenty miles of Elmhart brought in. See, they didn’t know which motel the bomber was staying in, if any, and they didn’t want any garbage that might be his to go away with the regular collection. They figured that once they established which motel he was in, they’d airlift the relevant Dumpster to the FBI labs for examination. Only they still haven’t been able to establish which motel it was.”
“Why are you telling me this, Harold?”
“Well, you were sounding kind of tired, and I wanted you to know it could be worse. At least you don’t have thirty-one full and reeking garbage Dumpsters to deal with. You know how warm it was in Indiana today?”
“Thanks, Addleman. I appreciate the thought.”
He barely managed to return the phone to its cradle before falling asleep.
25
Three hundred miles to the south, in St. Louis, Markman was spending a quiet evening at home.
He lived in a small brick house, almost indistinguishable from the other modest houses on the block. The architecture was vaguely Gothic, with ornate stonework around the front door, arched brick window openings, and a steeply pitched orange tile roof. Behind the house, at the end of a narrow gravel driveway, was a brick two-car garage whose architecture echoed that of the house.
The living room Markman sat in was small and had stained-glass windows on either side of a tiny nonfunctional fireplace. The furniture was traditional and rather austere and uncomfortable. The TV was the exception to the reserved and unimaginative furnishings. It was a newer model, flat and mounted on the wall. Next to the TV was a framed photo of a slim, smiling woman with short blond hair. She was seated gracefully before a mirrored vanity lined with cosmetic bottles, wearing only a modest pale slip, and appeared to have been surprised while getting dressed to go out. The amusement in her direct stare, and the high lace bustline of her slip, robbed the photo of any eroticism and lent it a casual innocence.
On the TV screen, the local news had just come on. Markman settled back and watched.
Adroitly finishing each other’s sentences, the mal
e and female news anchors described how St. Louis notables were taking precautions against the Celebrity Bomber. The Cardinals’ brilliant young shortstop, who was having an all-star season, was under twenty-four-hour guard. A famous overweight actor who’d made it big in Hollywood but still had hometown ties was vacationing in South Africa. Nilly Dames, a comedian who played local clubs and had done some TV talk shows, had invested in an armored sedan once owned by a famous East St. Louis gangster. Markman smiled, thinking that was the only really funny thing Dames had ever done.
Were they truly afraid of him? Markman doubted it. More likely they were just hitching their wagons to his star. Their agents and managers had convinced them that they could get a little more publicity by linking themselves to the Celebrity Bomber.
When he’d been young and stupid, Markman had craved fame so desperately. Now he had it. Everywhere he turned he would see people reacting to his deeds—with fear or outrage, with edgy humor or sneaking admiration. But the paramount emotions were wonder and curiosity. What would the bomber do next?
Just wait, Markman thought, and you’ll see.
The female anchor turned to the weatherman and started bantering about the unseasonable heat. So that was the end of the bomber news for tonight. Markman’s brow furrowed with annoyance—not because be enjoyed listening to those idiots yammer about him, but because he’d been hoping for something more.
Some mention of Ex-Sergeant William Harper.
He’d been rattled when he first learned the identity of the man he’d glimpsed on the Courthouse steps in Elmhart, just before he set off the bomb. So rattled that he’d taken the trouble to obtain a tape of Harper’s appearance before the press, outside Indiana State Police Headquarters. The former New York cop had looked exhausted under the glaring lights. The reporters pressed in close, shouting questions at him. But he still had the quality of calmness, of self-control, that Markman had observed at the Courthouse. He answered the questions concisely, in a firm voice. He’d even used his right hand to point to the next questioner, as if its mutilated state did not shame him.
