Never Too Rich

by Judith Gould

  Now, be elicited a response from her, and it wasn’t one of welcome. For Ermine Jeannot lived in Brooklyn, in a neighborhood of fellow islanders—Jamaicans, Haitians, and Grenadians—where she shared a big, inexpensive apartment with six relatives, one of whom she knew dealt drugs. Well, not drugs really. She didn’t consider marijuana a drug.

  She kept the security chain across the door and opened it only as far as it would go. “Yeah, mahn?” she demanded, scowling. “What do you want?”

  “Is Miss Billie Dawn in, ma’am?” the policeman inquired politely.

  “Why do you want to see her?”

  “Sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “She is not here. She is at work.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back? Maybe I can wait inside?”

  Ermine shrugged, secretly relieved that he hadn’t come about her cousin. And since he hadn’t, she didn’t care what he wanted or where he waited, so long as he didn’t track around behind her, messing things up.

  She shut the door, undid the safety chain, and then opened it wide. “Just don’t smoke,” she muttered darkly. “I don’t want ashes and stink where I’ve already cleaned.”

  “No, ma’am,” he assured her, and went into the house past her.

  These places were all the same, he thought as he looked around. For all the daunting security measures—ornate iron grille over the first-floor windows, three-inch-thick oak front door, state-of-the-art burglar-alarm system, and, here, two sets of locked steel doors connecting the town house with the Cooper Clinic next door—it was easy to gain entrance.

  All it took was a uniform and one not-too-suspicious cleaning woman.

  Ermine led the way through an archway to the living room. “I have already cleaned in here, so don’t go messing anything up.” Hand on a hip, she pointed bossily at a white canvas couch with giant pillows that looked like they’d received precise karate-chops. “You sit anywhere but there. Okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Is anybody else around?” he asked quietly. “That I can talk to?”

  “No.” She shook her head emphatically. “The doctor is in the clinic next door.”

  He nodded. “Any chance he’ll come over?”

  “How should I know? Sometimes he comes and sometimes he doesn’t. It all depends on the surgeries.” She stood there a moment longer, her head tilted, and eyed him queerly. Strange, but there was something funny about him . . . something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Maybe it was the way his hat, glasses, and mustache hid his face? Or the way his hair was a little too long? No, that couldn’t be it. Cops all had hair that came down over their ears nowadays. Some even wore earrings.

  She turned to leave the room, but something else caught her attention.

  His hands were smooth. Too smooth. Grayish white, like a corpse’s. And no human skin had such a sheen to it.

  He was wearing gloves.

  But not regular gloves.

  She stared, recognizing them at once. During the day, she cleaned apartments, but some nights she had a second job. Whenever the agency she had signed up with called, she did stints as a temporary nurses’ aide at various hospitals.

  Surgical gloves.

  Policemen didn’t wear surgical gloves. Surgeons wore them. Doctors wore them.

  And so did criminals who didn’t want to leave their fingerprints behind.

  But not policemen.

  Ermine broke out in a sudden cold sweat. She knew she should pretend to go about her business, that she shouldn’t show her concern.

  The thing was, she couldn’t move. She was frozen with fear.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked softly, advancing on her slowly.

  Sweat rolled down her forehead in big streaky beads, and every hair on her body stood up on end. She opened her mouth to scream, but she couldn’t make a sound.

  She could only stare at him wide-eyed.

  She never saw the switchblade, but she heard it click. Before she knew what was happening, he had one arm locked around her neck and was pressing the sharp side of the cold steel blade against her throat, just below her chin.

  “Let’s you and me go to the nearest bathroom,” he said softly, looking down at her lint-speckled hair. His mouth turned down in revulsion. This was one scalp he could well do without. “We wouldn’t want to mess up your nice clean house, now, would we?”

  Her terrified eyes tried to see down to her chin.

  With a grunt, he wrenched her so far backward that her fat legs flipped out from under her, and his chokehold was all that kept her from falling.

  “And walk slowly. One wrong move and . . .” Miss Bitch let the threat dangle.

  Ermine Jeannot had no choice but to comply. Her feet had to scramble to keep up with him as he crab-walked her backward.

  She was terrified that if she didn’t keep up, or happened to slip, the blade under her chin would slice her throat in two.

  “Yeah, Superdelicious, spin around!” Alfredo Toscani called out. “Make the skirt move! Faster! Faster! Superfast!”

  Billie Dawn twirled around and around, the studio spinning past her eyes in a blur. Blinding lights, silver reflecting umbrellas, backdrop, and assistants—all were a dizzy haze. She could hear the soft whirring of Alfredo’s motor drive, the clicking of his Leica’s shutter as he hopped around counterclockwise like a frog on speed.

  “I’m getting dizzy,” she warned.

  He ignored her. “Throw your arms out wide as you twirl!”

  Click-whir-click-click. “Just like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.” Click-whir-click-whir. “Now, faster!” Click. “Faster!” Click-click. “That’s it! Make that skirt whip around.” Clickwhirclickwhirclickwhirclickclickclick.

  In one magnificently choreographed moment that lasted no longer than two seconds, Alfredo and one of the waiting assistants exchanged the Leica he was using for another, identical reloaded one and, jumping closer in on her, snapped off one last speedy roll of film.

  “Okay, Superfabulous,” he called out. “It’s a wrap.”

  “Thank God!” Billie Dawn gasped. Breathing heavily, she teetered unsteadily toward the nearest chair and clung to its back. Even now that she stood still, the room kept moving around her. But at least it was starting to slow down.

  The assistants switched off the hot lights and helped her undress. One of them slathered her face with cold cream and gently wiped away the brilliant makeup with soft tissues.

  Star treatment for the supermodel.

  Alfredo, arms outstretched, glided swiftly toward her. “You were superterrific!” The trim, wiry photographer took her hand and kissed her fingertips noisily. “Superdarling, I swear you get more beautiful and talented with every passing day!”

  “And you lay it on thicker every single time.” Billie laughed good-naturedly as she got up and headed to the showers.

  When she came back out, she was wearing the latest in distressed faded denims and a man’s peacoat, a soft leather shoulder bag slung casually over one shoulder.

  Outside at the curb, the hired limousine was waiting.

  She paused midway down the front steps and breathed deeply. It was one of those perfect snappy days in New York, with sun and clear skies and a sharp nip in the air.

  Standing there, her head tilted back, she contemplated the sky. It was glorious out. Far, far too glorious to be cooped up in a car, even if it was a limo.

  The temptation to dismiss the limo and walk was strong—stronger than it had ever been before.

  She hesitated. Would it be frivolous, and would she be taking her life in her hands if she walked just this once? If she breathed the crisp fresh air deep into her lungs and sailed up the avenues on foot, eyeing all the enticing shop windows as she went? And wasn’t it possible that she was just a little too cautious—that she wasn’t living anymore, but merely existing?

  She sighed. Maybe. But then again, maybe not. There was simply no way to know. Snake was out there somewhere, probably no further t
han a scant mile or two from where she was standing right this very minute.

  And the same probably went for the killer who was preying on cover girls.

  A chill ripple of dread strummed up and down her spine. No. She wasn’t keen on becoming another headline and gory statistic.

  Better safe than sorry, she thought as she ducked into the long black car.

  “Home,” she told the chauffeur, and luxuriated in the leather seat. She adored limos. She positively loved all that splendid leg room.

  She stretched deliciously. It was barely two in the afternoon, and she didn’t have another shoot until the day after tomorrow.

  The thought of just lolling around the town house and catching up on her reading until Duncan’s surgeries were over was mighty appealing. Oh, yes, home and Doc suited her just fine. What more could a girl possibly want?

  He was waiting with the patience of the hunter.

  Instead of secreting himself, he had pulled a chair near one of the front windows and sat back a ways from the curtains. He wanted to see her the moment her car pulled up outside.

  The town house was very quiet now that the maid was lying in the second-floor tub, her throat slit from ear to ear.

  He laughed softly to himself. It had been surprisingly quick and easy. First, she had been so frozen with terror, and then so fatalistic, that she hadn’t bothered putting up a fight. It was as if she had resigned herself to dying. It had gone so neatly that he hadn’t gotten so much as a drop of blood on his police blues.

  Of course, the shower curtain had helped a lot.

  He wondered if all women from the islands were that fatalistic. It would be interesting to find out.

  But she had to be beautiful. Oh, yes. Very, very beautiful. Not like that pig upstairs.

  Only the best for Miss Bitch.

  Humming softly to himself, he kept an eye peeled on the quiet street. He felt absolutely no rush; none in the least. If anything, the anticipation just made it all that much sweeter.

  He thought about touching himself. The hunt always made his penis hard, and it was straining painfully against the tight tan panty hose he wore under the NYPD regulation trousers. But he wouldn’t touch himself. No no no! That would only ruin it for him.

  He poised a finger against his glued-on mustache to make certain it wasn’t coming loose, kept his cap visor pulled low, and still had his mirrored shades on. The warmth of the wig he wore to disguise his own hair made his scalp tickle and itch.

  His lips curled into a twisted smile. A scalp itch was the least of his worries. In fact, it didn’t bother him at all. He was used to wearing itchy warm wigs of all kinds—synthetic hair, real hair, real hair with the scalps still attached.

  He sat back patiently to wait. Miss Bitch had all the time in the world!

  Chapter 57

  On the sidewalk, Billie Dawn exchanged a joke with the chauffeur, said good-bye to him, and waited as two men jogged past. One was in his seventies, creased like a walnut, but tanned and fit as the proverbial fiddle. He was wearing expensive exercise clothes and had weights strapped around his ankles and wrists. He was also pressing a springed exercise grip in each hand. The other man was identically outfitted, and was in his late teens: impossibly attractive, all blond hair and pink cheeks. A grandson? Billie Dawn wondered. A kept lover?

  She smiled. It was the type of scene you saw only on the Upper East Side. Cute.

  As soon as they passed, she waved at the chauffeur, hurried up the front steps, and dug into her bag for her keys.

  She was here.

  Miss Bitch adjusted the police cap to make certain the visor was pulled as low over his nose as possible. From his vantage point behind the curtains, he could see Billie Dawn’s incredibly long splendid legs striding up the front steps.

  Inside him, everything surged and tensed. Hammered and shrieked.

  He slipped a hand into his pocket.

  The switchblade felt both hot and cold at the same time.

  Ooooh! But he couldn’t wait to get hold of that hair!

  The house seemed unnaturally silent as Billie Dawn let herself in. “Ermine?” she called out, and listened for a moment. “Ermine?”

  Shrugging, she shut the door, locked it by habit, and headed straight for the stairs, not even stopping to glance into the living room. If she had, she would have seen him.

  “Ermine?” she called out again when she got to the landing. Grabbing the banister, she leaned way back and looked up the stairwell. “Ermine?”

  Nothing.

  “That’s strange,” she murmured to herself. “Oh, well. Maybe she ran out of something and had to pop over to the store.” Heading into her bedroom, she dropped her bag on the bed and kicked off her shoes. She stretched luxuriantly in front of the dresser mirror. How perfectly wonderful to have a couple of days off work! Too bad Duncan had a clinic full of patients, otherwise she’d suggest they fly down to Puerto Rico or the Keys for a day or two of doing absolutely nothing.

  Sun and sea, she thought dreamily. Sun and sea and Doc.

  She couldn’t imagine anything more perfect—or more perfectly romantic.

  Smiling at the thought, she slid out of the peacoat, peeled off her denims, and shimmied out of her underwear. Since she couldn’t have sun and sea, a soak in the tub was the next best alternative. Nothing relaxed her quite like warm water. Especially with mountains and mountains of soft fragrant bubbles.

  Humming “Pretty Shells” to herself, she hula-ed her way into the bathroom.

  And suddenly her world tilted and the beautiful day turned into a nightmare.

  She clapped both hands over her mouth.

  Ermine Jeannot was sprawled grotesquely in the bathtub, head lolling back, glazed eyes staring sightlessy at a point on the ceiling. Her throat was like a dark, obscene mouth, and she was lying in a pool of blood. In inches of blood!

  Cymbals clanged and steel drums made metallic screeches in Billie Dawn’s mind.

  “Ermine,” she whimpered. “Ermine . . .”

  Shaking uncontrollably, she backed out of the bathroom, taking first one step, then another, and another.

  She had to get out of here! She had to—

  She turned her head away from the terrible sight just in time to see a policeman sliding into view in the mirror over the sink.

  She spun around. “Officer!” she babbled, and rushed toward him. “Officer! Thank God you’re—”

  She froze in her tracks as he blocked her way, a switchblade leaping into his hand.

  “Oh, no! We’re not going anywhere, my pretty!” the thing in the cop’s uniform whispered, taking a step toward her. “Pretty’s going to give me her hair!”

  She backed up a step, and as he advanced on her, the twin images of her terrified face in his mirrored aviator shades grew in size.

  “Such nice long hair!” Miss Bitch hissed. “Pretty’s got such nice, such silky, such wonderfully waist-long hair! And it’s mine! All mine!” He raised his knife arm and hurled himself at her.

  “Check up on Patient 101, would you, Cathy?” Duncan Cooper told the young nurse. “She should be coming out from under anesthesia right about now.”

  “Righto, Doc. One-oh-one, here I come!” She flashed him a smile and marched off efficiently.

  It was one of the gospels of the Cooper Clinic never to refer to a patient by name, only by the number of the room he or she occupied. Even if it was an internationally recognized celebrity, such as this one, the pretense of anonymity was never violated—not even in conversations among the staff. Loose lips sank ships—or in this case, could all too easily provide fodder for the gossip columns.

  “Coop!”

  Duncan turned around. Mark Roberts, one of the clinic’s newer surgeons, was bearing down on him, white lab coat flapping.

  “Have a minute?” Roberts asked. “I want to throw around a few ideas I have concerning the new annex.”

  “Sure,” Duncan said. “But let’s go next door, shall we? I haven’t eve
n had time for lunch. You can tell me all about it over a sandwich.”

  “You got it.”

  Duncan led the way to the steel doors connecting the clinic with the town house. He fished out his keys and unlocked one door, then the other.

  They had barely come into the town house when they heard unearthly screams coming from upstairs.

  For a moment they stared at each other. Then Duncan raced toward the stairs, Mark Roberts on his heels.

  “Billie!” Duncan yelled at the top of his lungs. “Biiiiillieeeee!”

  Miss Bitch was torn between monstrous rage and fear born of self-preservation. He hesitated only momentarily. Someone was already on the stairs. He could hear the crash-bang of racing feet.

  His head whirled to the door. Escape cut off there. His head snapped back around. The windows! They looked down on the shady garden out back, one floor below—a garden that would be like all the others on these blocks, either walled-in or fenced-in. But one adjoined another, and that one another yet. Yes!

  Miss Bitch threw caution to the winds, shielded his face with his arms, and ran at the nearest window, diving right through it.

  It was like an explosion as he hurled through the air in a shower of glass.

  Duncan burst into the room and ran to Billie. He grabbed her by both arms. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded numbly, her lips trembling uncontrollably.

  He embraced her swiftly. “Thank God!” he said fervently. Then he held her away at arm’s length. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

  She nodded. “Just a little shaken. I . . . I’ll be fine.”

  Nodding, he let go of her and ran to the broken window and looked down. Below, the intruder was already scampering up the shaky trellis. As Duncan and Roberts watched, the phony cop reached the top and jumped down into the adjoining garden.

  “Damn!” Duncan blurted, making a gesture of futility. “We almost had the bastard!”

  Chapter 58

  The town house was crawling with policemen. Forensics was dusting the entire place from basement to roof for prints.