“I took the second job at Jack’s so I could hopefully find an exclusive. You saw that place, the people in it. It’s a story bubbling to be noticed, a piece waiting to be written. I could do several articles on the variety of people I’ve met in just the last few weeks.
“It’s no accident that I picked Jack’s, either. I followed the article in the paper about Casey Hawthorne. I knew that was her hang out. I don’t want to say I was hoping for another murder—that’s sick—but I was hoping to find out more about her, about what happened. In a way, I think, I was hoping to solve the crime,” Michael said. “But that was not the purpose.” He hated having to reveal his ‘secret identity’. He also knew how he must sound: I was hoping to solve the crime. He felt as if he had just lodged his foot in his mouth.
Cage smiled. “And that’s why you gave up your weekends, to try to get some inside tracks to stories dealing with real peoples lives. Let me ask you this, the people at Jack’s, they know you’re a reporter?”
Michael lowered his head. “Not really.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?” Cage asked. “I’ll tell you why, because not a single person in there would talk to you if they knew the truth, isn’t that so? So here you are befriending people under false pretenses—why? So you can write stories about their poor, pathetic lives. How wonderful for you. What a wonderful opportunity you’ve come across.”
“That’s enough Cage,” Cocuzzi interjected.
“I think most reporters are scum, heartless people. Meeting you, fresh out of school, has done nothing to restore my faith in your kind. You know what? You people are almost as bad as attorneys,” Cage said with conviction.
“I said, that’s enough,” Cocuzzi yelled.
Cage raised his eyebrows. “You worked Friday night until Saturday morning, seven in the morning, right?”
Back to the business at hand. “That’s right.”
“At seven, Saturday morning, were there many people in Jack’s Joint?” Detective Cocuzzi asked.
“A few. Speed was having breakfast. I know that much for sure.”
“Were Felicia or Sandy around?” Cocuzzi asked.
“No.”
“Were any of the ‘working girls’ around?” Cage asked.
“No.”
“After you left Jack’s, where did you go?”
“Home.”
“Directly?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “And no, I didn’t stop anywhere along the way. And no, I don’t have an alibi.”
“So is it safe to say that you might have been the last person to see Vanessa Vorhees alive?” Detective Cage asked as smoothly as a man with his crass personality would allow.
“If Friday night is the actual night someone killed her, then yes. I guess you might say I was the last one to see her.”
“How long did you know Vanessa?”
“I’d just met her,” Michael said. He felt tense. He did not like how this was playing out. The police were doing a wonderful job of making him feel insecure. He wondered how his answers sounded to the police. Inside he felt jittery, shaky.
“Did you ever sleep with her?” Cage asked, crass back in full swing.
“No. I had just met her.”
“So then you were attracted to her?”
“I never said that, either. She offered to let me, what she called, test-drive her for free.” Michael regretted even bringing that up. It sounded irrelevant.
“And when did you test-drive her?” Detective Cocuzzi asked.
“I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t? Why not?”
“I didn’t find her attractive. Besides, I have—had a girlfriend.” Feeling more and more trapped by the moment, Michael wanted to scream. He knew a mistake when he saw one. With every question he answered, he was subjecting himself to more and more questions. Each question seemed to travel further and further from Vanessa’s murder, and deeper and deeper into his personal life, and somehow linking the two together.
“Had?” Cocuzzi asked.
“We recently separated.”
“Because of Vanessa?” Cage asked.
“Not because of Vanessa,” Michael said. Because of Felicia, he thought.
_____________________________
Michael Buzzelli felt whipped. The questions kept coming at him. He did the best he could. He answered everything honestly. It made it easy to keep the facts straight, despite the variety of ways Cage worded his line of questioning.
When finally the ‘conversation’ seemed about to end, Cocuzzi sat down in a chair next to Michael and stared into his eyes. “You know Michael, it might be true, what you said about trying to find a story. You might be this noble reporter out to catch himself a killer, but listen to me. All right? Don’t let me find out you’ve jeopardized an official police investigation. You can write as many articles as you want about the people who hang out at that dump on Lake Avenue, but don’t, got me, don’t screw with my investigation.”
Cage was grinning. Michael stood up. “Are we through now?”
“One more thing,” Cocuzzi said. He remained sitting. He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. He hooked his thumbs into his gun belt. “By some fluke of nature, should you stumble across the killer, you better have it set in your head to contact the police as soon as possible. This is not some Lawrence Block novel. You let the police handle it.”
Michael thought about this. If he found the killer and contacted the police with the information, he wanted an exclusive. At this point, saying so would be moot. “I can go now?”
“You can go,” Cocuzzi said.
Chapter 25
Martin Wringer did not understand his feelings. Before losing his job he considered himself a focused man. His wife even thought he suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He always hated when his former wife would do that, label him. If anyone had a disorder, it was her. He never met anyone like her. She would start something and not finish it. She would do something, but not with her whole heart behind the task. Sometimes she called him anal-retentive. Between that and saying he suffered from OCD, Wringer knew she had not been complimenting him. When he started something, he put all he had into the task, and by God, he finished it. It could take him twenty-four hours straight, but he would not stop until everything was done, and done correctly.
Screw her!
Now, with everything changing in his life, these new feelings felt confusing. For all intents and purposes, he should not feel the way he did. He lost his job, but felt wonderful. He lost his wife, and was elated. He had no where to live, but in his van, and he felt free.
Free. For once no rules bound him; no responsibilities controlled him. He had thought he had been happy before, thought his life was near perfect. Why wouldn’t he? Wife, kids, house . . . Why wouldn’t he be happy? Because the wife and the kids and the house—God the house—they were like chains holding him back, tying him down. What more could he have been responsible for that could have as great a weight as the ones he only so recently freed himself from?
So maybe he did not understand his feelings because they were entirely new to him. Freedom, in the past, was little more than a word he thought he understood. He, of course, knew the definition. Of course he did, but the meaning of the word? No. He knew now—right at this very moment—that he had never known the meaning of the word free.
With a clear mind, the clearest his mind has ever before been, Martin Wringer pulled into a do-it-yourself car wash, and directly into an empty, end stall. The stalls resembled house garages. Because it was still snowing out, and not at all a nice day, Wringer’s was the only vehicle at the place.
He shut off the van’s engine and climbed out with a pail and sponge in his hand. He pulled a small wad of cash out of his pocket. He had used his credit card at an ATM for a cash advance. He inserted one of the bills into a machine and removed the extendable spray hose from the wall. The water was automatically mixed with car soap. He filled the pa
il with this concoction and dropped the sponge into the water. He sprayed down his van. On the passenger side of the van, he pulled open the large sliding door. Ignoring the blood on the paneling, and in the carpeting, he took the bundle of rolled up, bloodied sheets and dropped them into the metal garbage barrel. He used the van’s cigarette lighter to ignite a fast food take-out bag. He tossed the bag into the barrel after the sheets. While the items burned, he went back to washing the van.
Taking his time, sure to do a thorough, anal job, Martin Wringer scrubbed his wheels and white walls. He washed his windows, inside and out. He went to the sliding door with the pail and sponge, climbed into the van and worked on removing the dried blood from the paneling, which seemed to come out a lot easier than he had anticipated.
The carpeting, on the other hand, was an entirely different ordeal.
Working up a sweat, on hands and knees, Wringer scrubbed the van’s carpet until the sponge gradually at first disintegrated, and finally became literally useless.
Chapter 26
When Michael finally made it home, he felt physically and mentally whipped. There did not seem to be a joint, or bone, or muscle in his body that did not ache. He had smoked so much that a constant and steady throb beat in the front of his skull, making even his eyes hurt.
In the kitchen he downed three aspirin with a cold glass of tap water. With only the thought of sleep on his mind, he half considered not answering the door when someone rang the bell. It was not a security complex. Anyone could walk into the individual buildings and up to any apartment door. This made his rent cheaper. Living on a shoestring budget, Michael was thankful for any savings he could accumulate. Besides, he was a single male. He was not worried about thieves crouched, hiding in the hallways.
Checking the door’s security peephole, Michael quickly thanked God that he did not ignore the doorbell. He unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. “What are you doing here, Felicia?”
“I brought pizza.”
“Come on in,” he said, pushing open the door. He did not ask her how she found his address. He’s in the book. Taking the pizza box from her, he let her into the apartment. In the kitchenette, he set the box on the counter. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’ve been calling. I figured you’d have to be home by now.” Felicia removed her coat and placed it over the kitchen chair. “Have wine?”
“Did, but don’t. I have beer?”
“Beer’s better, especially with pizza,” Felicia said, helping herself in Michael’s refrigerator. She twisted the tops off two long neck bottles of Genny Light. “So what happened? How’d it go?”
Taking an offered bottle, Michael took a long swallow. “I’m not sure.” He opened a cupboard door, took out two plates and set them on the counter near the pizza box. “I have a bad feeling though.”
“Bad, how?” Felicia asked, leaning against the kitchenette wall, near the wall-mounted telephone. Michael watched as her lips wrapped around the bottle as she took a sip of beer.
“I think you guys were right. I think the police might suspect me of something.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s crazy,” Felicia said.
“I know it is,” Michael said. “But listen, if you want to leave . . .”
“Leave?”
“If the thought of me possibly being some kind of deranged killer makes you uncomfortable,” Michael explained, “then I won’t hold it against you if you want to leave.”
She set her bottle down. She moved closer to him, put her fingers on his hips. She ran those fingers up his sides. “I don’t want to leave.”
Michael, putting his arms around her slim waist, pulled her in close. He enjoyed the feel of her body pressed against his. It was from the opposite end of the rainbow that part of Michael felt apprehensive. His body responded to Felicia’s, but his mind was more aware. There could be no denying Felicia’s history. She was a prostitute. How could he proceed and not fear contamination? Diseases thrived and flourished in her profession. He knew going forward without protection could be detrimentally dangerous.
“What about your girlfriend? Do you want me to go?” Felicia asked. She moved her hands all over his back, those fingers massaging all of his aching joints and muscles. “You don’t want me to go, do you?”
“There is no more girlfriend.” He kissed her lower lip only, gently. “I want you to stay.”
She kissed his lower lip. “Then I’ll stay.”
_____________________________
When they finally finished making love, never having made it to Michael’s bedroom, they were under a blanket on the floor in the parlor. Winded, neither Michael nor Felicia could control their breathing. Though some questions of inadequacy and feelings of insecurity crept into Michael’s mind, he did his best to ignore them. His experience with other women was not extensive. In his life, he had had sexual relations with thirteen women. Felicia was a far more experienced lover, and proof of that had been offered for him to sample tonight.
“Hungry?” Michael asked, removing his condom.
“Like you’re reading my mind,” Felicia said. “I’ll get it.”
“You will not,” Michael said, standing up. Naked he walked to the kitchenette. “Want me to warm it up?”
“I actually like it better cold,” Felicia confessed.
“Same here,” Michael called out. As he picked out two slices of pizza, his breath nearly caught in his throat. Standing in the kitchenette threshold was Felicia. During all of their lovemaking he had not been given the opportunity to view and study her body.
“I was going to ask for a glass, for my beer, so I could add some ice-cubes,” she said, smiling seductively. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was posed in the small passageway, hands on her hips, one hip tilted, one knee jetted outward. Starting at her feet, Michael took in the small dainty looking toes, the thinness of her legs around her ankles. Her calf and thigh muscles were perfectly shaped, solid and covered in the silkiest and softest skin Michael had ever seen or touched. She had a flat belly, slightly creased revealing muscular tone. His eyes rested on perky round, small breasts. They were the perfect size and shape for her body. He loved her neck, her throat. He wanted her again and felt his body respond accordingly.
Mutually decided, the pizza and iced beer would have to wait a little longer.
Chapter 27
At two o’clock in the afternoon, Jason Cocuzzi knew his energy was fading. He was operating on no sleep, after being up all night. Talking with Michael Buzzelli proved intriguing, and he and Detective Peter Cage spent the rest of the morning filling out paperwork and outlining a course of action. One minute Jason was staring at Buzzelli’s closed file on his desk, the next his eyes were closed.
“Sleeping on the job, detective?” Peter Cage said, slamming his hands onto his Cocuzzi’s desk.
Startled, Cocuzzi’s eyes opened wide as he lunged forward in his chair. He banged his stomach into the desk.
“Scare you?” Cage asked.
“Prick. Look, I’m shot. We’ve been at this all night, all morning and right now I don’t have the energy to go at it another minute. The food around here is crap. Let’s get out of here, get a good meal and rejuvenate some. How’s that sound?”
Cage shrugged. “Perfect. I’m starved, myself.”
“After we eat, I think we should do like you said,” Jason Cocuzzi said. He stood up, and began turning off his computer.
“What? About seeing Buzzelli’s old girlfriend?” Cage took his winter coat off the back of a chair and put it on. “I figure if she and Buzzelli were together long, she’d know him better than most. I also want to go to the City Chronicle, talk with his boss and some of his fellow employees. You work with a guy, you get to know a guy. Am I right?”
“I’m with you,” Cocuzzi said.
“But what? You have this tone to your voice that tells me you’re not convinced.” Cage slid his hands into gray wool gloves. “You don’t think mayb
e Buzzelli is the killer?”
“I’m not saying I think he’s innocent, but I’m just not convinced he’s the one we want. I do want to follow up on these leads. That’s important, but I don’t want to be so closed minded as to miss something even more important,” Cocuzzi said.
“The way I see it, it looks like crap, it smells like crap, then maybe it’s crap.”
“True enough. I just want us to keep an open mind,” Cocuzzi said.
“I just keep thinking of this kid, right. He’s ambitious, fresh out of college with a degree in his hand, okay? He was all high and mighty on campus, editor of the school paper—even getting some regional recognition, not too shabby,” Cage said.
“I know where you’re going with this. It just doesn’t feel right to me,” Cocuzzi said.
“Doesn’t feel right? Look at it this way, Buzzelli applies to newspapers all over the country.”
“Do we know he did that?”
“I have someone contacting his career counselor at Brockport. We’ll be able to assess just how broad a job hunt was conducted,” Cage explained. “So he gets an offer from the City Chronicle to write obituaries. Is he crushed? Sure he is. He’s like a rookie policeman, ready to take on the world, to stop crime—to save people. That dream fades quickly. Just like Buzzelli’s dream. He envisioned a newspaper begging him to take a job with them. He envisioned an office, the editor asking his advice. Buzzelli expected the world when he graduated. How do you think he felt with his first assignment? I said it before, I’ll say it again, crushed. That’s how he felt. I’ll bet advancement at the paper isn’t easy, or often, either. Of course, I’m just speculating here. I don’t look much at the bylines—accept your Dave Berry and Ann Landers types.”
“I’m sure the writers would be thrilled to hear that confession,” Cocuzzi said. He locked his desk drawers and put on his coat.
Johnny Blade Page 12
