When the customer had left she said, “You must be Mr. Chips.”
“Call me Joe. And this is Lucky.”
“I’m Ms. Osborne.” She stared at Lucky, and Lucky stared back, like, How did I get here? Trent rubbed behind its ears and Lucky blinked its big eyes. Ms. Osborne’s brow knitted in a frown. “That dog is severely undernourished.”
Trent pretended nothing was amiss. “I just adopted Lucky from the Animal Rescue,” he said cheerfully, shuffling through his wallet for some large bills.
Ms. Osborne lifted Lucky’s back paw and examined it. “That was so kind of you,” she said, peering into its ears. She added, “It is very hard to find stray dogs a proper home; more often than not, they are put down.”
“I know Lucky will be well taken care of,” he said, sliding three one-hundred dollar bills onto the desk. Now he was a customer, and she gave him a sunny smile.
She swept an arm at the lavish room. “So, what do you think of our historic building?” she asked in a merry, brisk voice.
“It’s beautiful. May I see the downstairs where you board the animals? It would be very interesting, I’m sure.”
“Yes! Yes, of course!” Ms. Osborne said. She came around the counter and attached a leash to Lucky’s collar. Then she put a hand on the door. “Just want to warn you, it can be loud downstairs.”
“I don’t mind.”
She pushed open the door and the discordant wail of dog barks became louder. Trent followed her down a wooden stairway that groaned under their combined weight. They stepped off onto a dull-gray concrete floor in a small basement.
“A hundred years ago this basement was the coroner’s autopsy and storage room,” she said proudly. “Dr. Lynn’s grandfather bought the morgue from the city and converted it into his veterinary practice.”
“That old, huh?”
“Yes. The property is listed on the city’s historic register.”
“I’m impressed.”
The redbrick walls were lined with pictures of animals that Lynn had tended to. Trent poked his head into the surgery room and an examination room.
She opened another door, and they stepped into another small room with a dusty floor. An all-pervading aroma of ammonia mixed with animal urine caught in Trent’s throat.
“What’s that smell?”
“A sewer line runs between this property and the Southern Bell building. A sharp odor occasionally creeps in through those old bricks and mixes with the animal smells; if you’re down here often you don’t notice it.”
The animal stalls were lined against the south wall. Trent walked in front of the cages trying to find a dog that might have belonged to the late gangster.
He stopped in front of a stall that housed a shiny black pit-bull. When the dog stood and wagged his rat tail, Trent noticed he was all neck and shoulder muscles.
He hooked a finger inside the fence wire and the dog sniffed it with his pink snout. Then he rubbed his silken skin against Trent’s finger. When he bared his alligator teeth, Trent pulled his finger back.
Ms. Osborne placed Lucky in a stall.
“Are any of these animals regular customers?”
“A few,” she said. “That pit-bull’s name is Chopper; his owner travels extensively, so we know Chopper quite well.”
Trent walked alongside the stalls wondering if there was any connection between Lynn, Butler, and Triple.
“Well, thanks for the tour,” he said, glad to leave the stench. “Lucky should be quite comfortable here.”
“Merry Christmas, Joe.”
“And to you,” he said, walking out the front door. It was then that a man riding a Harley-Davidson cruiser pulled through the gate.
“Joe, that’s Dr. Lynn. Say hello if you have time.”
“Be glad to.”
The man in the painting and the man walking toward Trent could have been two different people. Lynn was exceptionally thin. His face was gaunt; his hair premature gray. If Trent hadn’t known, he would have guessed the doctor was in his late sixties.
Trent introduced himself. Lynn raised his boney hand to shake his. Trent thought it might have been palsy that made his hand tremble, but he had his doubts.
They exchanged pleasantries, and Trent asked him questions about buying a Harley-Davidson. Lynn gave him advice, but Trent thought he seemed preoccupied.
“Doctor, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Happy holidays to you.”
“Merry Christmas. We’ll take good care of your dog.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful with your motorcycle selection,” he said tentatively.
“You’ve been quite helpful.” And he had. His eyes told the whole story.
Chapter 51
It was six o’clock on Christmas Eve. Trent motored sedately through an exclusive suburb in Buckhead where he crossed a narrow bridge that spanned a small lake and found the Clay’s redbrick estate at the end of a quiet tree-lined street. Colored lights were twined around boxwood shrubs by the front door.
Trent squeezed the hand brake and parked alongside a Lexus SUV. He dropped the sidestand then checked the gauze on his elbows. Grateful that no blood had leaked through, he zipped up his leather coat. His arm throbbed from the bites and he wished he could take two of the Percs for the pain. But he still needed to stay sharp. Soon, he thought, I’ll be able to rest.
Chief limped toward Trent, and he prayed the dog wouldn’t bite. Chief growled softly and leaned his weight against Trent’s legs. “You old devil,” Trent said, taking the dog’s broad head in both hands and rubbing his fur roughly. Chief sniffed and wagged his tail.
Rikki was leaning on her crutches inside the door. She was all smiles. She wore a heavy red wool sweater with wide snowflakes embroidered in silver thread: she looked wonderful in it. She shivered and said, “Merry Christmas.”
“And to you.”
“Trent, I can’t wait to tell you what happened in Piedmont Park this morning.”
That incident was emblazoned in his mind but he said, “First of all, how’s that ankle?”
“Fine,” she said, ushering him up the steps and through the twin beveled-glass doors. Trent closed the doors behind him.
In the middle of the kitchen was an island with twin stainless steel sinks and a pretty inlaid counter. Trent helped Rikki onto a barstool beside the countertop and placed her crutches beside her.
Rikki waved a hand at the refrigerator. “Trent, please help yourself to a drink.”
“Thanks,” he said, thinking longingly of Rikki and himself curled up on the couch drinking red wine in front of a fire. He wouldn’t dare suggest that until Chloe was safe and in her mother’s arms.
“Rikki, what would you like?”
“A Diet 7-Up would be nice.”
Trent opened the refrigerator and found a can of 7-Up and a bottle of dark beer. Then he opened the subzero. Steam emptied onto his feet while he put a few ice cubes into her glass. He poured her soda over the smoking ice and said, “I’m dying to hear your story.”
As Rikki told Trent what had happened in the park, he felt a wave of sadness roll out from her that shamed him. He’d caused her pain. He’d let her down.
They sat opposite one another and he said, “I can’t believe what you have endured in the last two days.”
She sipped her drink and didn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you,” he said. “Go on.”
“You didn’t interrupt. That’s the end of the story.”
Trent laughed. “End of story. The Midtown Murderer shoots the Doberman, you have a conversation with him, then he drives away in a white van,” he said, setting his scraped elbows gingerly on the countertop. “I’ll stay out of that park for a while.” And he meant it.
“I got a good look at the killer,” she said, twisting the ring on her pinky finger. “I sketched his face; it will air this afternoon.”
Trent looked at her red fingernails. He
had always harbored a suspicion that artist sketches were for crap. Now he wasn’t sure.
Staring at him, seeking something in his face-he could not tell what, and anyhow he could not look at her-she said, “The killer made a mistake.”
“What is it?” he asked, mopping a spot where he spilled some beer.
She eyed him coolly and said, “He’s a killer; but he’s not a cold-blooded killer. I saw it in his eyes.”
“In his eyes? What did you see?”
“Compassion.”
Trent tried to look confused. “Excuse me?”
“He’s a compassionate man who cares about mothers and children. Sure, he’s twisted; but in his mind he’s making Atlanta safer.”
She looked down then raised her eyes to meet his. She had a trusting expression and appealing eyes. “The killer could be you.”
He was silent for several seconds, thinking he should tell her the truth, feeling she could keep his secret.
“And how do you figure that?” he asked, sliding his eyes from her face. He decided to tread very carefully with Chief Clay’s daughter.
“Daddy said you were a cold-blooded perfectionist the night you killed those gangsters on the interstate. And that the killings didn’t bother you. Oh, it was the right thing to do, and I thank you for that, but most people couldn’t have done it. And then there’s what went down in your office last night. The Midtown Murderer is like you; a very decisive person.”
He tried to speak, but no words came out.
“Trent,” she said with laughter in her eyes, “I was kidding you. Gosh, those crutches have made my arms sore.”
He stood and rubbed her shoulders. “This will make you all better.”
“That feels so good,” she said. Then she spun around and looked him square in the eyes. She said, “When you leave I want you ditch your iPhone off the bridge into the lake so the cops can’t track you. Take this disposable phone,” she said, handing him a small, prepaid Boost phone. “My number is programmed in it, and I’m the only one who knows your number.”
“Damn good idea,” he said, accepting the sleek phone.
“I’m a woman. What did you expect?” she said, seeming very pleased with herself. “We also need to change your appearance.”
“Do we have time?”
“We have to make time. There are Wanted photos of you up all over the place. Let’s cut and dye your hair. Hand me my crutches and follow me.”
“OK.”
An hour later he examined his appearance in Rikki’s bathroom mirror. She had shaved his hair and eyebrows and dyed them blond.
Rikki examined Trent’s appearance and said, “That should do it. Wear a stocking cap, some headphones, and dark sunglasses and you should be fine. Just don’t talk to anyone.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I work around cops; I know what’s what.”
“Yes you do.”
“Maya’s upstairs. I want you to go and talk to her.”
“She’s here?”
“Yes. It was my idea to have her stay with us. It’s been good for her, because we’ve been able to bond. And she knows it’s in Chloe’s best interest not to say a word about your visit here tonight.”
“I appreciate that.” Trent was sure he knew the answer, but he had to ask. “Rikki, have you discovered the identity of the body that McClure found buried in the woods?”
“Yes,” she said sadly. “Late this afternoon we got a positive. I’m not supposed to talk about it, but if you won’t say anything?”
“My lips are sealed.”
She dropped her eyes and said, “Her name was Ramsey; she was an Atlanta police officer who worked out of the Midtown Police Plaza. We wrongly believed that she had died in a meth lab fire along with three other GID officers.”
“What did your dad say?”
She was arranging fresh-cut flowers in a tall vase. “He’s devastated. It was unbearable at the precinct; the officers were in total shock and people were getting sick. Daddy’s pushed the investigation to the top; he’s vowed to find her killers if it’s the last thing he does.”
Trent was uncertain how to respond. He felt a deep sadness for Officer Ramsey and the officers who had perished in the fire. After a long silence he said, “Well, I’ll head up and speak to Maya.”
She fussed with the flowers and said shyly, “Trent, I could meet you at a hotel later tonight. I have a Christmas gift for you.”
She had a magnificent figure and Trent found it impossible not to stare at her. “I’d love to, Rikki. It just depends on when I finish up.”
“I understand.”
He turned from the kitchen and thought, Damn damn damn. What a night I could have had before the shit hits the fan.
Chapter 52
Trent cut across the living room. He had started up the marble staircase, but the big-screen TV caught his attention and he stopped dead, paralyzed by fear.
The words BREAKING NEWS were flashing, and two newscasters were discussing the Midtown Murderer. A split screen spliced in live footage from the gazebo where the early-morning double homicide had occurred.
Trent relaxed when Rikki’s charcoal sketch aired. The African American dreadlocked youngster had a flat nose and fat lips.
Thank God!
A ticker tape of text read: ANYONE WITH INFORMATION ABOUT THE PIEDMONT PARK MURDERS SHOULD IMMEDIATELY CALL THE ATLANTA POLICE DEPARTMENT OR THE FBI.
Trent decided to duck into the hall bathroom before he spoke with Maya. Instead, he caught her off-guard, wrapping a towel around her waist. Right before his glasses fogged up he saw a sexy body. He hastily backed out and blurted, “I am so so sorry.”
“It’s alright, Trent,” she said in a low voice. “You didn’t know.”
A minute later she stepped out in the hallway and knotted the sash on her terry-cloth dressing gown. Her hair was wet and combed and Trent could see her white scalp through the furrows. She held out her arms and Trent hugged her; she was warm and smelled of vanilla.
He gently pushed away and looked into her teary eyes. “Maya,” he said tenderly, “how are you holding up?”
She gripped his shirt and said, “I would have never made it without the Clays; they have been immensely kind. Now come in my room and talk with me.”
She sat on the edge of the twin bed and put her elbows on her knees. Dark shadows ringed her eyes and pain showed in lines at the corners of her mouth; she dabbed her nose with a Kleenex. “Are you any closer to finding Chloe?” she asked anxiously.
Trent walked to an old world writing desk and poured two cups of tea from a porcelain container. He handed her a floral-patterned cup and saucer and said, “I can’t tell you what I have discovered; please trust me.”
She nodded. Holding the saucer in her lap, she sipped the tea.
He walked to a bay window and sat in a built-in bench seat covered with plush pillows. Passing the cup beneath his nose and breathing in the fragment steam he said, “I was wondering if there were any new thoughts or memories you’ve had about Dr. Lynn. It could help my investigation.”
“There was something I mentioned to Inspector Priest,” she said, placing her cup in the tiny saucer then rested a splayed hand on her thigh. “But all he wanted to talk about was the park shooting and the Apostles.”
“What was it?”
“I stopped in Dr. Lynn’s clinic last week,” she said, raising her fingers one at a time to examine her long, graceful nails. “That was the day I had planned to tell Jack I was moving out.”
“And?”
“While I was waiting in the lobby for Jack, a big baldheaded man came in and dropped off a black pit-bull; I think the dog’s name was Chopper.”
Trent’s heart raced. “Was he Jack’s friend?”
She shook her head. “Quite the opposite, I’m sure.”
“How so?”
“Jack was coming through the swinging door behind the receptionist’s desk, but when he saw the biker he quickly disappeare
d down the stairs.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“Obviously he was scared.”
“Had you ever seen the man?”
“No. Just that one time.”
“What happened next?” Trent asked.
“After the receptionist took the dog, Dr. Lynn and the biker walked out the door into the foyer. They probably went up to Dr. Lynn’s apartment. Jack said he lives upstairs.”
“What did the man look like?”
She shivered and said, “Creepy. His arms and neck were covered with hideous dragon tattoos; he was as weird as Jack had become.”
“Really,” Trent said with genuine interest. “Would you happen to recall what he was driving?”
“Sure. A big shiny motorcycle with high handlebars.”
Trent drained the last of his tea and stood. Then he set the cup on the tray. “Thanks, Maya. Keep praying for Chloe. I’ll call tomorrow.”
Maya rose to her feet and threw her arms around Trent. She pressed herself against his chest and held him as if she were clinging to life itself. “Please, you must find my daughter.”
“Tomorrow, Maya,” he said softly. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Trent walked out and closed the door behind him.
#
He left the Clay’s house, spun his iPhone into the lake, then drove his Ducati to City Hall. Pretending to be a sub-contractor for the Midtown Alliance Sewer Renovation Project, he procured the sewer-system blueprints he needed.
Now it was dark out and he had an urgent need for a cup of coffee. Yawning and bleary-eyed, he crossed the street to an all-night restaurant tucked away between the bus terminal and a performing arts center. Its neon sign looked faded under the high bright stars of the Atlanta night sky. He went in and looked around at the people in there-bus drivers, delivery men, pimps, and night-shift workers. The air was laden with coffee and the sweet smell of doughnuts.
The meteorologist on the TV forecast more snow and claimed it was the coldest Christmas week in Atlanta since 1972. Who believes the weatherman? Trent thought, as he poured over the sheaf of blueprints. He sipped his coffee and hoped the bitter cold would cut the Friday night pedestrian crowd down to a trickle.
The Midtown Murderer Page 18
