by Bob Avey
“Then why are we here?”
“Some pharmaceutical company out of Dallas wants to open an office in the area. They wanted to look at the place. I’m here to show it.” After a moment she added, “We specialize in commercial properties.”
Elliot noticed a partially open lateral file drawer. He walked over and glanced inside. Empty. “How does Mr. Wistrom fit in with all of this?”
“He’s a handyman. He cuts lawns, trims bushes, does minor repairs.”
“He told me he worked with computers. Why would he do that? And why would he give me a phony address?”
A slight blush came to Ms. Orwell’s face. She was embarrassed for Wistrom. Elliot couldn’t help but wonder why.
“I don’t know,” she said. “The grass is freshly cut. Maybe it was the last property he worked at.” She paused briefly, seeming to search for the right words. “Douglass might seem a little off-color at first,” she continued, “but he’s very dependable and always does an excellent job. He loves computers. That’s probably why he told you that. It’s what he wishes he did. He’s actually quite intelligent, when it comes to that sort of thing.”
Ms. Orwell rummaged through a leather bag slung over her shoulder. “He’s even published some articles,” she said, pulling two magazines from the bag and holding them out. “Here. I brought these for you.”
Elliot doubted a high-tech computer magazine and a backwoods survival publication could possibly relate to his investigation, but he took them anyway. At the very least, he might gain some insight into Wistrom. “Thanks.”
She nodded, her face taking on a serious tone. “Is Douglass in some kind of trouble?”
Elliot thought about that for a moment then said, “He was seen in the vicinity of a crime scene. We’re questioning everyone whom we suspect might have been there or seen something. Have you ever known him to become violent or enraged?”
She shook her head. “Quite the opposite. He’s quiet, always does what we ask of him, never complains. You couldn’t ask for a better employee. In fact, this is the first time he’s ever missed a day of work.”
Elliot gazed through the windows for a moment then turned back. “How well do you know Douglass Wistrom, Ms. Orwell, and what’s the nature of your relationship?”
The same flash of color Elliot had seen earlier returned to Ms. Orwell’s face, her hand darting upward to fuss with her hair.
“There is no relationship. I can’t even say we’re friends and keep a straight face. I mean I’d be bordering on a lie, wouldn’t I. But he talks to me. He doesn’t do that with just anyone. Hardly anyone would be more accurate.”
Ms. Orwell glanced at the floor and straightened the leather bag she’d slung back over her shoulder. “I hope I’m not talking out of turn here, trying to do your job for you, but there’s a lot more to that man than he lets on.”
Douglass Wistrom had given Elliot the same impression, on the surface a cougar posing as a house cat. But Wistrom wasn’t Little Red Riding Hood’s nemesis, someone pretending to be what he was not. He was more like an actor who dresses as a man on one side and a woman on the other; though his act wasn’t one of gender, but one of character, Don Knotts on one side and Carey Grant on the other, and the line didn’t run down the middle, but swirled like the red and white of a peppermint stick.
Elliot’s phone rang, and he slapped it to his ear. It was Captain Harry Lundsford. Someone had been shot on St. Louis Avenue, just a few hundred feet from Douglass Wistrom’s apartment.
A young woman among the crowd briefly caught Elliot’s attention, moving around the edges of his vision. When he turned for a better look, she was gone, and a brief dizziness threatened his balance, leaving him unsettled and lightheaded. He walked clumsily past the police officers and knelt beside the body, an unnerving sensation sweeping through him, a sort of kinship, even an attraction to this fragile and complex female, as if her spirit had not grasped its fate and still hovered close by, and in its reaching out had touched Elliot in some ethereal and intimate way.
Several of the officers were leaning close together, talking about what they saw, and one of them remarked, “What a waste.”
This angered Elliot more than it should have, and almost before he realized his actions, he rose to his feet and clamped his hand tightly around the officer’s wrist.
Sergeant Conley appeared. He put his hand on Elliot’s shoulder and shook his head. “Take it easy, Elliot.”
Elliot released his grip and stepped away, returning his attention to the body sprawled across the parking lot behind the Full Moon restaurant, just off St. Louis Avenue. He knew who she was: the slender build, the hair, but mostly it was the tattoo on her stomach. He’d sketched a likeness of it as Stella Martin described it to him. When he’d shown it to Stella, she’d nodded vigorously. “That’s it,” she’d said.
Elliot flipped through the notepad until he found the drawing—a square with lines coming from each corner, forming a sort of cross—and when he compared the rough sketch to harsh reality, he unbuttoned his coat, a hot sickness running through him in defiance of the cold outside. This was the woman Stella Martin had seen that night, the last person to have been with their John Doe.
He watched a dog walk past the east side of the lot, keeping away, sensing the trouble and wanting no part of it. “Any witnesses?” Elliot asked.
Sergeant Conley answered, his voice, even though he stood next to Elliot, seeming to come from a distance. “A few people heard the shots, but nobody saw anything.”
“Have you heard from Wistrom yet?” Elliot asked.
As soon as Elliot had gotten the call, he’d expressed his concern over the suspect, noting his unusual behavior, and his proximity to both murders. But Wistrom hadn’t answered his door, and when the manager opened the apartment, he and Conley had found it empty.
Conley shook his head.
The victim wore black denim jeans, which, with the button having come undone during the commotion, were lower on her hips than they should have been. Curls of reddish pubic hair peeked over the edges. She’d been shot once in the torso on the left side, and again in the head, just above the right eye. Ornate silver earrings adorned her ears, and a large Florentine chain, also of silver, hung around her neck, from which dangled a set of keys, the brass collection laying over the name Bob Dylan, which was emblazoned across her T-shirt.
The smell of hamburgers sizzling on the nearby restaurant’s grill turned Elliot’s stomach as he stared at the corpse.
The suspect had slipped away. Douglass Wistrom was nowhere to be found but that wouldn’t last if Elliot could help it.
Elliot glanced at Conley. “Any ID?”
“Her name’s Brighid McAlister,” Conley said. “She lived a few blocks from here over on Trenton.”
Chapter Eleven
Elliot walked along the sidewalk, taking caution so as not to trip over those places where the roots of trees had cracked it, and he paused momentarily to study the bare branches of the massive sycamores. Come spring the foliage would form a canopy over the area, blocking the sun while lending the neighborhood a sleepy and restful ambiance. The leaves were gone now, and those that remained were few and had shriveled into husks, which, even in their best performance, could not hide the dismal gray of the sky that loomed overhead.
After talking with the crime scene crew, Elliot had come to Trenton Avenue to have a look around and talk with the neighbors. He hadn’t had much luck. The residents hardly knew Brighid McAlister, except that she was quiet and never caused any trouble. However, there were several houses to the south that Elliot had yet to try, and it was at one of these, a red brick that reminded him of gingerbread, where he now walked into the yard, approaching a lady who worked at cleaning out a goblet-shaped planter beside the front door.
She saw him coming and stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. About five feet tall, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. “Is there something I can do for you?”
&nbs
p; Elliot reached into his coat and pulled his badge, holding it out where the lady could see it. After identifying himself, he said, “I’d like to ask you some questions about one of your neighbors, Brighid McAlister.”
The lady, who called herself Deborah Thompson, seemed suspicious. She studied Elliot’s badge for several seconds before asking, “Is Brighid in some sort of trouble?”
“You could say that.”
Deborah Thompson sighed, her breath a puff of fog in the cold air. “I wish I could say that surprises me, but it doesn’t.”
Elliot watched her face, looking for a reaction. “Why do you say that?”
Ms. Thompson took off her red stocking cap, which nearly matched the color of her cheeks. “Well, her line of work, of course.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
She smiled uncertainly and chafed her hands. “Would you like to come inside? It’s a bit nippy out here.”
Elliot followed Ms. Thompson inside where they sat in wicker chairs in what had apparently been the front bedroom. It had been brightly painted and converted into a sunroom. After bringing Elliot a cup of hot tea, Ms. Thompson said, “Haven’t done your homework, have you? I really hate to say this, though I suppose the truth is what you’re after. Brighid sells herself for money, Detective. She’s a prostitute.”
“I know about that. Is there anything else you could tell me?”
Ms. Thompson set her teacup on a table beside her chair. “Brighid’s a nice person, really, perhaps a bit lacking in the area of judgment, but as sweet as you’ll ever meet. What has she gotten herself into, Detective? Maybe I could help.”
Elliot studied the lady then set his cup down as well. He hated this part of his job. “Brighid’s dead, Ms. Thompson. She was shot.”
Deborah Thompson’s hand came up, covering her mouth. After a moment, she lowered it to her lap. “Dear God.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”
She shook her head. “She never brought her customers home, at least that’s what she told me. And I’ve never seen anyone hanging around.”
Ms. Thompson paused briefly, then adding, “There is something else you need to know, something rather odd.”
Elliot turned to a fresh page in his notepad. “Go on.”
“Brighid was a bit delusional. Believed she was the descendant of a Celtic goddess, her namesake, I suppose.”
Elliot thought of the strange symbol carved into the table where the John Doe had been found. “Was she a member of a religious group?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m afraid that’s all I know. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Elliot added this to his notes, then folding his notepad, stood, and put on his coat. “Thanks for you help, Ms. Thompson.”
He handed her a card. “If you come up with anything, give me a call.”
After being let out, Elliot walked the short distance to the victim’s address.
The house appeared as steeped in mystery as its owner was. Overgrown shrubs and bushes crowded the small lot, and vines covered the serpentine picket fence that surrounded the yard. The forensic team had arrived. Elliot stood on the porch for a moment, observing empty flowerpots and wooden planters, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went inside the 1920s bungalow on Trenton Avenue. He hoped to find something that might give him an idea as to the victim’s connection with the unidentified body at Windhall. Raymond Clark was there, dusting for prints.
“How you doing, Elliot?”
“Long day,” Elliot said. He felt strange, lightheaded. “I could sleep for a week.”
“Hope you’re not coming down with something,” he said. He went back to his work.
The first bedroom, which was on the south side of the house, just off the living area, had been outfitted for sleeping, but the closet and the dresser were empty and nothing sat atop the furniture but a lamp: a guest room. Elliot took a quick look around the adjoining bath, then went back to the living area.
He picked up a small box sitting on the fireplace mantle and looked inside. It was filled with potpourri. Brighid kept a neat house; the antique furnishings, purposely selected to fit the bungalow’s era, polished and free of dust; the oak floors, covered in places with lush rugs, clean and shiny. He found the same care had been taken in the kitchen. Everything was in its place except for a coffee mug in the sink. A gardening magazine, its open pages displaying pictures of spring flowers, rested on the small table, beneath a window.
Elliot backtracked to the dining area, where the fragrance of cinnamon and apples lingered, which preceded a sensation of presence, that of the young lady who’d lived there, and it tiptoed through Elliot’s imagination as he came to a door along the south wall of the dining room. He opened the door and stepped inside.
Candles dotted the floor around the bed, and posters of curious, mythological creatures hung from the walls: depictions of a beast, half man and half animal, with a rack of horns growing from its head, and a lady who appeared to be facing in three different directions. But it was the bold design painted onto the wall that grabbed Elliot’s attention: a five-pointed star with a circle around it.
Elliot called Robert Arnold in vice to see what he knew about Brighid McAlister. He said he’d look into it, and asked Elliot to meet him for lunch at Goldie’s across from Utica Square. Elliot didn’t have much of an appetite, but a cup of coffee sounded good. He saw Arnold sitting in a booth at the front of the restaurant, near a large window that overlooked 21st Street.
A middle-aged waitress with her hair tied up grabbed a menu as she walked by. “Be with you in a moment, sweetie.”
“I’ll be joining the gentleman in the corner. Could you bring some coffee, please?”
She stuck a pencil in her hair, just above her ear. “Sure thing.”
Elliot walked over and slid into the booth, then looked across the table at Arnold. He’d already started on a hamburger. He put it down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Glad you could make it.”
The waitress brought Elliot’s coffee and set it in front of him, and he was just getting settled in when he looked through the window and saw Cyndi Bannister. It took a moment for the recognition to register, and it seemed bilateral, this feeling of surprise. Once again he found himself staring, mesmerized by the face of Michael Cunningham’s girlfriend. Her path indicated she had intended to come inside but had changed her mind upon seeing Elliot.
She turned and walked away, her pace quickening as she headed east. She triggered the light at the corner, then crossed the street, disappearing behind the trees and shrubs that lined that part of Yorktown Avenue.
Arnold turned to see what Elliot was looking at, but Cyndi was already gone. “So what are you doing, working vice now?”
Elliot took a moment to clear his head, get back to the work at hand. “Not exactly. This one’s dead. Turned her last trick today.”
“Disgusting business we’re in, ain’t it?” Arnold’s throaty voice slid under the murmur of conversation coming from the other booths.
“Yeah. What have you got?”
Arnold wiped his mouth again, then shook his head. “I couldn’t find anything on her. If she was working, she was doing it independently. Probably had a select clientele.”
“How select?”
“You know, a high-priced piece, only worked conventions or something.”
Elliot slumped. “It’s hard to keep track of girls like that.”
Arnold took another bite of burger. “It is if they’re careful, don’t get busted, especially if they ain’t connected, don’t have a pimp.”
Elliot thought about his own nightmares and suddenly it was difficult for him to imagine Arnold with a family, being able to turn it off at the end of the day, and almost before he realized what he was saying, the question came out: “How’s Karen?”
Arnold set his half-eaten burger on the plate and took a dr
ink of soda. “She’s good. Started back to school, sociology classes, something she’s been thinking about for years.” He paused and nodded. “It’s good to see her happy again. And, hey, Jeremy made the team this year, even got a little playing time. Went to his head, though. You know, big time Union football player. He’s all right, though. He’s a good kid.”
This time Arnold changed the direction, shifted it back. “I did get something for you. It’s the tattoo. Hamilton remembered seeing a girl like that. Couldn’t remember exactly where, but he thought it was downtown somewhere. Said he figured her for a hooker, the way she was dressed and all, but she didn’t seem to be hustling, so he left her alone.” He shook his head. “It’s weak but it’s all I got.”
Elliot pulled a twenty and laid it on the table. “I appreciate it, Robert. Let me get the tab. I have another question. Have you ever run across a john named Douglass Wistrom?”
“Wistrom,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. He stared through the window for a moment, then turned back. “Maybe. I’ll check it out and get back with you.”
Chapter Twelve
Elliot left Robert Arnold at the restaurant and went to the office. Once there, he called Patricia Orwell with Business Solutions.
“Detective Elliot. Have you heard from Wistrom?”
She hesitated, then said, “He called right after you left, saying he wouldn’t be in for a few days.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“At home, I expect. He didn’t really say.”
Elliot hung up the phone. He’d figured Wistrom for a lowlife, albeit one intelligent enough to be a good freelance writer, but the role of murderer still didn’t fit, though his running had definitely tipped the scales in that direction.
Elliot heard someone tapping on the filing cabinet near the entrance to his cube and turned to see Detective Dombrowski.
“Got a few minutes?”
Elliot sat forward. “Sure. What’s up?”
It took Dombrowski a while to answer, his eyes studying Elliot during the silence. “Looks like you were right about Enrique Savage. We found the murder weapon from the Susan Lancaster case, just like you thought we would, down by the river, in the bushes close to the jogging trail. A hunting knife. Had his fingerprints all over it.” He paused and shook his head. “How did you know?”
