Then Veronica had heard it, a cracking sound. It had to have been a slap. But her father had not stopped complaining, and she did not hear her mother cry out, so it could not have been a slap.
“How am I supposed to stay at work if I lost the respect of the guys I work with?”
“I’m sorry, Martin, I didn’t know. You eat peanut butter and jelly here, so I figured it would be okay for your lunch. I haven’t had the time to go grocery—” and there it was again, the slapping sound “—Martin please. I know now that you don’t want those kinds of sandwiches for lunch . . .”
Veronica knew her mother had been getting slapped, but had chosen to ignore the fact. The coming to terms with this was an emotional breakdown. Veronica could not stop crying. Victoria wrapped her arms around her big sister. “Don’t cry, Veronica. We’ll help Mom.”
“How?”
“We can call the police,” Victoria said, providing an easy and obvious solution.
“But that’s our father,” Veronica pointed out.
“Yeah, and he’s hurting our Mom.” Again, the voice of wisdom had spoken.
_____________________________
It was nearly two o’clock. The girls had to be so worried. Valerie was at a loss. She wanted to go upstairs and check on her daughters, but did not want to direct Martin’s attention anywhere near them. Sooner or later the bastard would have to fall asleep. She could hear the television in the other room, while she washed the plates from his lunch. Martin, watching the news, had the volume turned up loud. The reporter was talking about the serial killer, Johnny Blade. Periodically during the report, Valerie heard her husband grunt as if he might be laughing. Leave it to Martin to find murdered women funny. She could not help but wonder if Martin had slept with any of the prostitutes that were killed. And with that thought another, more frightening thought came to mind. She wanted to dismiss it, but could not. Not easily. It was ridiculous to think Martin Wringer, bastard that he is, is responsible for the murders.
Still, she found herself looking at the telephone on the wall. She sucked in her lips and chewed on them. She looked over toward the living room. Martin was on the sofa watching the news. The only way he could see her using the phone would be if he got up and came back into the kitchen. If she dialed 9-1-1, she would not even need to talk. The dispatcher would send out a car, just to make sure things were okay.
She moved the nozzle on the faucet so the water would come out harder and faster. She wiped the sweat from her palms onto her apron and walked quietly toward the phone. She kept looking toward the living room. She reached for the phone. She could feel her heart slamming around, wildly in her chest. As her fingertips touched the telephone, she heard the sound of him getting up. She dropped to her knees and pulled open the cupboard under the counter. When she emerged with a can of pie filling, he was standing at the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, watching her. “I thought I might bake a pie,” she said, hesitantly.
He patted his belly. “Sounds good. What have you got?”
“Cherry?” She held up the can, showing it to him. He nodded and went back into the living room. Valerie felt her hands shaking. Every muscle in her body seemed to ache. She thought she might drop the can. She set it down on the counter. As she fished the manual can opener out of the silverware drawer, she cried. How did I get trapped in this nightmare? She wondered as her hand spun the crank on the opener.
She worked diligently to bake the pie. She had pre-made crusts in the refrigerator. She unfolded one in a pie tin. She turned on the oven. As she added the pie filling, she again found her thoughts plagued with indecision. She wanted to poison him. She did not want to kill him. In the cupboard with the glasses she had allergy medication with strong antihistamines in them. She ran the water to drown out the sound of her removing tablets from the package. The tablets were solid, like aspirin. She put three tablets into a spoon. She placed another spoon on top of the other to grind up the pills. She sprinkled the tablets over a specific area, shaped like a pie slice. For good measure, she ground up three more pills and spilled the dust of the dosage in the same triangular area. She put the box of allergy medication away, washed the spoons and her hands in the water, before shutting the water off.
She put the top on the pie, and carefully marked the slice heavy with antihistamines with the fork. Setting the pattern of the tines into the top at a different angle from the rest. She sprinkled sugar onto the top crust and placed the pie in the oven.
Chapter 49
Detective Jason Cocuzzi sat with his elbows on his desk. He had his hands cupped and his face buried in his palms. He knew how to gauge his weariness. He used his mood. He had blown up at Detective Cage for no good reason, and had perhaps made an ass of himself in front of the team, not to mention, in front of Christine. The pressure was getting to him. The thought of the FBI moving in on his case felt unsettling. Thinking they would catch the serial killer before Monday morning was ludicrous.
Cocuzzi looked up when Detective Peter Cage dropped a six-inch stack of manila files onto the desk butted up against his. Cage sat down and let out a disgusted sigh. “Nothing,” Cage said. He ran his fingers like a brush through his hair. He leaned back in the chair, and tossed a foot up onto the desk. With his hands locked behind his head, he stared at Cocuzzi with a blank expression.
“Those the arrest files?” Cocuzzi asked, though he knew the answer. “Background checks on those johns turned up nothing?”
“Just married and, or, lonely men out looking for an expensive relief,” Cage said. He took his foot down and leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know why, but I felt certain we had him. I figured he had to be one of the guys we picked up.”
Cocuzzi nodded his head in agreement. “It would have been nice.”
“It would have been a lot better than ‘nice’. Look, I like working with you and everything, but I want to go back to my job. Maybe I wasn’t working on a murder over in Irondequoit, but I was working on cases,” Cage said. He stood up and anxiously stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I hope that doesn’t sound heartless.”
Cocuzzi smiled. He wanted Cage to go back to the other side of the river, too. “About earlier . . .”
“What earlier? You mean at the meeting this morning? You know, I was going to ask what got into you, but didn’t. We’re all under stress, no big deal. Let’s just forget about it.” Cage shrugged his shoulders as if he had already dismissed the issue.
Cocuzzi had to admit that at first he did not like the young detective, thinking him too young and cocky. He was not particularly fond of the cop’s attitude, or with the way he treated people. Over the last several days, things have changed. Cocuzzi might not admit to liking him, but he would admit he respected the guy. “You know, that would be all right if you and I were partners for years, but that’s not the case.” Cocuzzi stood up. While talking animatedly with hands, Cocuzzi continued. “Stress may be what caused my outburst, but it does not explain why I treated you with any less respect than I would have given to another police officer. I think you’re a good cop, a smart guy. You see what I’m saying? Truth is, I have no good reason for talking to you the way I did. I’d like to say I’m sorry,” Cocuzzi said. The reason he had talked the way he had to Cage was because of Christine. However, he was not lying when he told Cage he had ‘no good reason’. Cocuzzi held out his hand. Without even a slight hesitation, Cage shook it. “Thanks, man.”
“You’re all right, Cocuzzi and like I said, I like working with you,” Cage said. “But I want to wrap this mess up and get back to my department, you know?”
Again, Cocuzzi nodded. “Got any ideas?”
“Aside from what we’re doing, at this point, I got nothing. We need a solid lead on this guy. We need to get the profile out on the streets. We should let some things slip to the press, you know? Maybe have them rerun some pieces on Shawcross that we might feel apply to this case. Like, they say in the profiling that serial killers are usually male
, white and between the ages of, what was it, twenty-two to fifty?”
“I see what you’re saying. Let me think about it. It might be a good idea,” Cocuzzi said. Alerting the press could be a tricky move. Potentially, it could save lives. If the prostitutes and barfly women knew the general things to keep in mind before hopping into a vehicle with a stranger, then they might not wind up a statistical notch in the killer’s blade. However, this could also prolong the capture of the killer. Johnny Blade might be forced to move to another city where his profile had not been splashed all over everything by the media. Cocuzzi was not thrilled with that thought. He would not want simply to push his problem into another city. “We’ll think about it.”
They had a few hours before setting up for the sting. Cocuzzi glanced at his watch.
“I’m getting hungry. What do you say we run out and grab a bite or something?” Cocuzzi asked with a warm smile. He felt confident that things would work out well between them and, given enough time, a strong friendship just might grow from it.
“Man, I’d love to, but I kind of made plans to eat with Christine,” Cage said, hesitantly. “You know, you could join us id you’d like. I don’t think she’d mind at all.”
Deflated, Cocuzzi sat back down. “You know what, the more I think about it, the more I know I’d better go through these files again—you know, fine-tooth comb and all. You two go have a good meal, but hey, don’t over eat. Last thing we need is a beer-bellied prostitute on the street corner. Fine lot of johns she’d attract.” He picked up the stack and removed the rubber band.
“Cocuzzi, you can look at those files in the car while we’re staking out the place. You’re going to have to eat something, right? Just come with us. I’ll even let you pick where we go,” Cage offered.
“Nah, but thanks. I appreciate it.”
“I’ll pick up the bill. How can you say no to that? You pick the place and I’ll pay the tab. You gotta love that offer.”
Cocuzzi pretended to consider this. He pursed his lips then shook his head. “No. I’d better get through these files. Reading in a dark car will give me a pounding headache.” He opened the first of many files and leaned back in his chair. He let his eyes roam left to right, left to right as if he were immediately engrossed in the work. From his line of peripheral vision, he saw Cage stand there watching him for several seconds before turning and walking slowly away.
When Cocuzzi was certain Cage had left, he tossed the file back onto the top of the stack, rested his elbows on the table. He cupped his hands and buried his face in his palms.
Chapter 50
Michael let his cigarette sit in the ashtray on the counter in the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. With only a towel wrapped around his waist, he watched himself in the mirror as he worked the toothbrush back, forth, up and down in his mouth. He spit the foam into the sink, turned on the water, cupped his hands under the faucet and slurped up a mouthful. He swished the water around and spit it out. He turned off the water, wiped his hands on his towel, picked up his cigarette and went into his room to get dressed.
On the bed was the newest pair of jeans Michael owned. Setting his cigarette in an ashtray on his dresser, he chose a gray, wool, long sleeve, V-neck shirt. He put on a fresh white T-shirt, first. While he put on his socks, the doorbell rang. “Just a minute!” Michael put on his boxer shorts and socks. As he made his way to the front door, he managed to get his legs into his pants. With his towel slung over his shoulder, he answered the door.
Standing in the doorway, fidgeting like a child, stood Felicia. “Before you ask, I couldn’t wait. I’ve been ready since three.”
Michael shrugged, moving to the side. “Well, come on in. I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”
She followed him to his room. She sat on the dresser, picked up his cigarette and took a drag. Felicia stared at him while he finished getting dressed. “You know, if I weren’t so nervous I’d want us to have sex first. But I think I might throw up.”
“Because you're nervous, or at the thought of having sex with me?” Michael asked.
Felicia laughed. “You seem to always know how to make me feel better.”
“It’s good to know.”
“But I have to tell you something. I’m scared.”
“That’s not a big surprise,” Michael said, softly. “This is going to be a big change for you. Good or bad, change is hard.”
“You aren’t kidding. It’s like quitting smoking. Smoking is bad for you, even though you enjoy it,” Felicia said, rolling the butt of Michael’s cigarette around between her fingers. “Smoking is bad for you. I know it is and you know it is and still we both smoke anyway. The big change would be to quit smoking. It would be good for us to do this—but not easy.”
Michael felt himself get tense. He thought he might sense Felicia’s intentions. “Ah, I don’t think so,” he said backing away from Felicia. The twinkle in her eye told him he was right.
She slid off the dresser and stood with the cigarette in her hand. She took a long drag. “I say, you finish this one and that’s it. You have to quit smoking.” Her words had the desired effect. She was challenging him.
He pulled his wool shirt over his head, fixed the sleeves around his shoulder and just stood there shaking his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You think so? Well, I’m not. I want you to quit smoking.” She made and kept eye contact with him. Michael knew if he looked away, he would lose. This had a comical feel to it. “Well?”
Michael walked toward her. He reached for the cigarette in her hand. When his fingers wrapped around it, he smiled, never looking away. She smiled with the challenge still evident on her curled lips. “Well?” She asked for a second time.
He took the cigarette and took a long drag. He inhaled the smoke and held it in his lungs for several long seconds before exhaling a small cloud of smoke into her face. He put the cigarette back in her hand and spun around. “I’m done,” he said.
“Done? You mean you quit?”
He had given it a lot of thought. She was not asking for much. She wanted him to commit to change so she would not be the only one. “I mean I quit. Done.”
She crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “It’s not going to be easy.”
“I know. I’ve tried quitting before.”
“Make love to me,” she said.
“But you might throw up,” he said back, teasing. She ran at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Want an antacid or something first?”
“Shut up,” she said and forced him onto his back onto the bed.
Chapter 51
“Why don’t you call our girls down. They’ve been upstairs a long time. That pie smells so good, I’ll bet they could go for a piece,” Martin Wringer said. He was seated at the kitchen table next to his bottle of whiskey. He kept his hand around its neck in a firm grip. “Girls!”
Valerie cringed. She felt a tight knot wadding itself up and growing in the pit of her stomach. “Martin, they’re resting. They’re tired. We’ll give them some pie afterwards.”
The expression on Martin’s face changed. A split second ago, despite being drunk, Martin was acting as if he belonged in the house, as if everything were all right and back to normal. Now, he regarded Valerie differently. He looked at her suspiciously. He stood up and walked over to the bottom of the stairs. Not once did he look away from his wife. “Girls! Veronica? Tori? Come on down here.”
Valerie heard the bedroom door open and watched as her two frightened children slowly came out of the room. “Yes, Daddy?” Veronica asked. She stood like a protective shield in front of her little sister.
“Your mother made some pie. Would you like a piece?” Martin asked in a tender voice, just lightly flavored with suspecting sarcasm, and yet he still did not look away from Valerie. “Come down here, girls.”
Valerie looked over her husband’s head and up the stairs. Veronica was shaking her head ‘no’. She did not want to come downst
airs. It broke Valerie’s heart to see her twelve-year-old’s lower lip quivering, trembling with fear and uncertainty. “Martin, they’re not hungry,” Valerie said, making an attempt to divert her husband’s interests.
“Shut up, bitch!” Martin said. He pointed a threatening finger at her. His lip was curled in a snarl, reminding Valerie of a snake ready to strike. She kept her distance. “Girls!”
It was the tone of his voice that demanded respect this time, and Veronica and Victoria came down the stairs together. Valerie watched as her daughters carefully moved around their father into the kitchen. Veronica left her sister’s side and ran into her mother’s arms. “Oh, Mom,” she cried. “Are you all right?”
Before Valerie could answer, Victoria had locked her arms around her legs. Valerie put a hand on the head of each girl. “I’m fine girls. I’m fine.” Martin was watching them. He did not look happy with the display. The sight of it appeared to be making him angrier. Before he could snap, Valerie said, “Go sit down girls. Would anyone like a glass of milk?”
No one answered. “Martin? Milk?”
“No,” he said, sounding like a Neanderthal.
Valerie picked up the pie knife. She had to close her eyes tightly to keep the vivid images of slashing Martin’s throat out of her mind. She did not want to hesitate. He might take the knife from her and serve the pieces himself. “Everyone take a seat,” she said as pleasantly as possible. Veronica watched her mother with such intensity that Valerie worried about the trauma the girls were undergoing.
She cut and served a piece of pie for everyone. The piece Martin had contained the antihistamines in the pie filling. Valerie could sense Martin’s weariness without having had even a taste of the pie. The alcohol was knocking him out. It always did, eventually.
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