Robert B Parker - Spenser 15 - Crimson Joy

by Crimson Joy(lit)

  "I'll ask Susan to call her," I said.

  "Frank," Quirk said, "go over the crime scene, everything, compare it with the other killings."

  Belson nodded.

  "And we should get a report on the media coverage. See exactly what it's possible to know about Red Rose from the papers. If this isn't a copycat, there will be one later."

  Belson nodded.

  "Newspapers, TV, radio, everything." "Take some time, Lieutenant," Belson said.

  "We got nothing else to do," Quirk said.

  "Other people get killed in this city," Belson said.

  "They wait their turn," Quirk said. "I am going to catch this motherfucker."

  From the intersection below my office window a horn brayed.

  "Spenser," Quirk said, "I want you to backtrack each case. Start with the first murder. Go through it just like it was brand-new. Talk to everyone involved, read the evidence file and the forensic stuff, treat it like no one ever looked at it before."

  "We need a pattern," I said.

  "Black women, over forty, living in racially mixed or fringe neighborhoods. One hooker, one cocktail waitress, one dancer, one singer, one teacher," Belson said.

  "Up the social scale?" Quirk said.

  "If you think singers rank higher than dancers," I said.

  "Or he thinks so."

  "Over forty," I said.

  "Yes," Belson said. "Royette Chambers, the hooker, was forty-one. Chantelle was forty-six. The other three were in between." "That's a fairly tight age-cluster," I said.

  "Especially the hooker," Quirk said. "Forty-one's old for a hooker."

  "So why does he only kill women in their forties?" I said. "Five times, it can't be an accident."

  "Zee muzzer," Quirk said. "We usually look to zee muzzer."

  CHAPTER 9.

  Routine is routine, repetitious details endlessly pursued. I talked with the relatives of the victims, all of whom were bitter and saddened and outraged. All of whom felt that racism had caused their daughter, sister, mother, wife, to die; all of whom had talked before with policemen; and all of whom resented talking with another honkie who was pretending to care while he covered up for the white establishment, which harbored the killer. The bereaved are not necessarily smarter than anyone else.

  In three days of this I learned absolutely nothing that the cops didn't already know.

  "My daughter was a good girl, mister. She didn't do nothin so someone should kill her."

  "Nobody wanted to kill my sister, man. She was a nice lady. She was working regular. She was helping out at home. You got no business trying to say it's her fault."

  The hooker had no bereaved kin that we could find. I talked with her pimp. He was taller than I was and twenty pounds slimmer, with close-cropped hair and a one-inch part scribed in the middle. He had on a white tank top and maroon sweats and black high-top Reeboks. There were five or six small gold earrings in the lobe and up the outer curve of his left ear.

  "I catch the motherfucker, I'll cut his ass in two," the pimp said.

  "You'll have to take a number," I said. "Any thoughts who it might be?"

  "Some kinky white John," the pimp said, staring at me.

  "We were sort of guessing that too," I said. "You have any special kinky white John in mind?"

  The pimp shrugged. "Most of them kinky, man, they down here cruising for hookers." "Any that complained about bondage, stuff like that?"

  "Complain, man? Shit. Hookers don't complain, get slapped upside the fucking head they start complaining. They do what the John wants and afterwards they gimme the money."

  "Works out swell for them, doesn't it."

  "Whores is whores, man. Ain't my doing."

  "You hear any talk," I said, "any stories about guys into bondage, s and m, whatever?"

  "Shit, man, I said all this already. Sure there's Johns everybody knows about. Like handcuffs, gags." "Ropes?" I said.

  "Ropes, man, inner tubes, fucking anchor chains. Guys that like being spanked. Guys that like spanking. Guys that like rubber underwear. What you want, I know Johns do all that shit." "And you told the cops about them?"

  "I give them every name I know, man. I don't like my whores getting clipped, you know. Makes me look bad. Costs me money. I want the motherfucker caught."

  "Everybody wants the motherfucker caught," I said.

  "Yeah, sure. Everybody killing themselves to catch some guy shot a black hooker."

  "And four others."

  "I hoping he does some white broad in shopping from Wellesley Hills, man," the pimp said. "Then we see some action."

  "What do you call this?" I said.

  "This? You here talking with me? Asking me about kinky Johns? That ain't action, man, that's blowing fucking smoke, man. That say, "Hey, we down here looking for who killing you jigaboos, boy. We trying." Shit."

  "You got any suggestions for action?"

  "Not to you, man. We gonna catch the motherfucker one day and we gonna kill the motherfucker."

  "We?"

  "That's right, man, motherfucking we. People of fucking color, man, all right? That's who's gonna give you some action."

  "I hope so." I handed him my card. "If it starts," I said, "I'd like to come watch."

  He watched me get back in my car and pull away. In the rearview mirror I saw him put the card in his pocket.

  CHAPTER 10.

  Susan had her home and office in a big old house on Linnaean Street with a slate mansard roof and a wide front porch. She lived on the second floor, her office and waiting room occupying the half of the first floor to the left of the center entrance hall. I was drinking a bottle of Sam Adams in her living room while she got supper ready.

  Getting supper ready in Susan's case meant getting gourmet take-out from Rudi's in Charles Square and reheating as required. She sipped a Diet Coke while she put two chicken breasts with apricot and pistachio stuffing into a red casserole dish to heat in the oven.

  She had just finished running two seven-minute miles on the treadmill at her health club and she still wore her black sweat pants and pale blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and the neckline lowered. Her running shoes were Nikes with a purple swoosh.

  "I talked with that family counselor today," Susan said.

  "Rebecca Stimpson, MSW?"

  "Yes. She had been doing some marriage counseling with the Washburns and it was sort of delicate because of confidentiality. But, phrased just right, it's pretty clear that Ms. Stimpson, MSW, did not feel that the Washburns were on the road to reconciliation."

  "She have any views on Ray's potential for violence?"

  "Not really. She couldn't rule it out, but, as you know, predicting behavior is nearly impossible. Also, in truth Ms. Stimpson doesn't seem like a therapeutic heavyweight."

  "She has a master's in social work," I said.

  "Yes, and I believe in the value of fuller and more specialized training; but it's not her academic credentials; there are people with PhDs in psychology and M.D. psychiatrists who aren't therapeutic heavyweights either. It's temperament and, for lack of a better word, simple intelligence. Ms. Stimpson isn't very smart."

  "You trust her opinion on Washburn?"

  Susan sipped some more Diet Coke. She was tossing a salad composed of endive, julienne of red and yellow peppers, and arugula.

  "It's hard to see how she could have been totally misled. She saw them together once a week for several months." "So if she's not misled, then Ray was lying," I said.

  "Not necessarily," Susan said. "Some clients simply want something so badly, they believe it despite everything."

  "And if they are forced to see the truth?" I said.

  Susan shook her head. "Need is a powerhouse," she said.

  "So if the therapist is right..." I said.

  "Counselor," Susan said. "Not therapist. She wasn't doing therapy."

  I grinned. "Correct, just a test to see if you were listening. So if the counselor is right, Raymond is somewhat ob
sessed, or he is lying. Or the counselor is wrong and it's another Red Rose killing, or both. Or neither, and something we haven't any idea about is going on."

  "Fascinating work," Susan said.

  "Not unlike your own," I said.

  Susan put a loaf of fresh French bread on the table and the salad, served on two glass salad plates.

  "Metaphors for life," she said. "Your profession and mine."

  I sat at the table beside her.

  "You be Simone de Beauvoir," I said, "and I'll be Sartre and we'll consider defining life by living."

  Susan smiled and patted my hand with hers. She was still wearing the twisted bandana that she used to hold her hair back when she worked out. On most people I thought it hokey. It looked exactly right on her.

  "Eat your fucking salad," she said.

  We ate dinner and cleaned up and Susan settled in on the couch beside me to read the American Journal of Therapeutics. I watched the Braves and the Reds on cable.

  "It's Skip Carey and John Sterling," I said to Susan.

  "So?"

  "They have a four-man broadcast crew and they do radio and television and they rotate the crew so that the same two guys are never together, and I'm trying to figure out the pattern."

  Susan put her magazine down and looked at me silently.

  "Really?" she said.

  "And," I said, "there's a pattern within the patter in that each guy does some play-by-play and some color on both radio and television."

  Susan looked at me some more and breathed deeply and exhaled slowly and went back to her magazine.

  By the time the ball game ended Susan had fallen asleep with her magazine still open before her. I bent over and picked her up and carried her to bed and put her down on it. It woke her up and she gazed up at me with her big eyes.

  "What made you think I was sleepy?" she said.

  "I'm a trained investigator," I said.

  She smiled and made a kissing motion with her mouth. I bent over and kissed her goodnight and headed home. As I started down the stairs I heard the front door shut softly. I froze, listening. The front door should have been locked. I felt the adrenaline surge and I went down the stairs in a rush. The front door had been jimmied. I pulled it open. There was the hint of movement past one of the big shrubs in Susan's yard. I went over the porch railing and landed five feet below, next to the shrub. Something, probably a fist, hit me in the forehead. It wasn't a major league punch but it jarred me, and a figure burst from behind the bush and headed up Linnaean Street, toward Mass. Ave. I went after him with my chimes still ringing. I had run five miles a day for the last twenty years and planned to run him down. In a block, I hadn't closed the gap. He hurdled a waist-high fence on the corner of Aggassiz Street and cut across the lawn and turned up Aggassiz. I went over the fence after him and trailed my left leg and the fence caught it and I sprawled onto the lawn. He was up the little hill and rounding the corner on Lancaster by the time I got running again, and by the time I got to Lancaster, he was out of sight. I ran down to Mass. Ave., but I ran without enthusiasm because I knew he was gone. Mass. Ave. leading into Porter Square in Cambridge is busy in the evening, full of street life and traffic. The sprinter had disappeared into the crowd. He'd been dressed in dark clothing and had looked to be a little shorter than I. He was probably white. He was male. And he could jump a higher fence than I could. I walked back to Susan's place with the sweat trickling down my backbone and my pulse slowing. Probably the gun had slowed me down. It was a Colt Python and it probably weighed two or three pounds with a full load. Otherwise I'd have soared over the fence.

  Susan's front door was still ajar when I got there. I stepped into the front hall and closed it behind me. The house was silent. I turned on the hall light. On the hall table was a long, narrow white box. I opened it. Inside, cradled in green tissue paper, was a single long-stemmed red rose.

  "Jesus Christ," I said aloud in the empty hallway.

  CHAPTER 11.

  When Susan woke up in the morning I was lying in bed beside her with my gun unholstered on the night table. She rolled over and looked at me silently.

  "I thought I heard you in the night," she said. Her eyes rested for a moment on the gun.

  "On my way out last night I almost caught someone who had broken into your front hallway and left a single red rose for you. I chased him but he got away." I saw no reason to discuss how I fell on my kisser trying to jump the fence. We were lying face-to-face on the bed, Susan's eyes wide and still a little unfocused from sleep.

  "You have a bruise on your forehead," she said.

  "He hit me from behind a bush," I said.

  "Could you identify him?"

  "No. It was dark, I only saw him from behind, and he was receding fast."

  "You know it was a man."

  "Yes. Pretty sure he was white, almost my height. Medium build, tending toward slender, I think."

  Susan stared at me some more without moving. Her eyes were focused now, the pupils shrinking as they adjusted to the morning.

  "So you came back and spent the night," she said.

  "Yes."

  "There are several explanations," Susan said.

  "True," I said. "It could be someone of your patients, for whatever his reasons."

  "It could be someone with a grudge against me," Susan said.

  "It could be the Red Rose killer, which could be a variation on number one, above," I said.

  "The Red Rose killer could be a patient of mine?"

  "Sure. He claims to be a cop. Cops are sort of your specialty." "Or," Susan said, "it could be directed at you. He knows you're working on this. He must therefore know that you and I are an item."

  "Or it could be someone with a grudge against me," I said.

  "Or it could be a copycat acting at random," Susan said.

  "Long shot," I said. "To hit you at random on a case I'm involved in."

  Susan nodded, and looked past me at the alarm clock.

  "My God," she said. "I've got my first appointment in an hour and a half." "That's too soon?" I said.

  She was up out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

  "Much," she said. And was into the bathroom. The door closed. I heard the shower go on. I got up, put my pants on, buckled my belt, put my gun in its holster, and went to the kitchen. I washed my face and hands and torso at the kitchen sink. Then I started water for coffee.

  I was drinking my second cup when Susan appeared in the kitchen, her hair in curlers and some makeup on. She poured hot water over a bag of herbal tea in her cup and let it sit for a minute, looking impatiently at it while it steeped.

  I said, "I know that it is nearly impossible to talk while you are performing the morning ablutions, but we have to think about your safety."

  Susan snatched the tea bag from the partially steeped tea. "I can't think about that now. I'm in my speeded-up movie mode, and you know what I'm like in that mode." "Yes," I said.

  She took her tea and went back to the bathroom. I sat at the glass brick counter in her kitchen and made two phone calls. One was to Henry Cimoli with a message for Hawk. The second one was to Martin Quirk.

  "Someone broke into Susan's front hall and left a single rose in a box, with tissue paper," I said. "I chased him and couldn't catch him. I didn't get a good look at him."

  "You got the box?"

  "Yeah, and the rose and the paper. I'll bet there's no prints on it."

  "I'll bet you're right," Quirk said. "But we'll try. Can you bring it over?" "No," I said. "I'm not leaving her alone."

  "May be just one of the fruitcakes she treats," Quirk said.

  "Still not leaving her alone," I said.

  "Yeah. Okay, I'll send somebody over. If it's one of her fruitcakes, there might be prints."

  I hung up and sipped my second cup. Instant coffee has much less caffeine than ground coffee; two cups of instant was practically none. I put the water on to heat for a third cup.

  Susan's phone rang. It w
as separate from the office phone. I picked it up and said, "Hello." Hawk's voice said, "Susan?" I said, "Nobody likes a minority smart-ass."

  "True," Hawk said. "What you need?" I told him about the rose intruder.

  Hawk said, "And he punched you in the head and you chased him and he got away? Was he a brother?"