“Don’t tell me you dragged me out here at the crack of dawn to ask me if I’d ever heard of King Arthur’s?”
“Not exactly. What’d you do last night?”
“I went to the British Embassy.”
“With Bob Poll?”
“As if you didn’t know. Are you following him or me?”
“What’d you two do after you left the embassy?”
“We went back to my house, if you must know.”
“Know where he went when he left you?” Gunner asked.
“I do now…King Arthur’s, right?” Gunner nodded.
“Nancy Sawtelle worked at King Arthur’s as a hostess for eight weeks when she moved to D.C. I have a hunch the guy who did her goes to that club. I’ve been going there on and off, checking out the scene. They don’t know I’m a cop. Last night, your friend Mr. Poll shows up there at two in the morning. And I see it’s not the first time he’s ever been there. They all know him—bouncers, bartenders, waitresses, strippers. He’s treated like King Arthur himself.”
I felt sick. It threw my whole relationship with Bob into question.
“Well, he’s always been rumored to have a dark side. So he’s into strippers. So what?” I said, trying to act nonchalant when in fact I was mortified.
“So I’m already looking at Mr. Poll because I can put him at the Kennedy Center parties with the murdered girls. Last night I see him at King Arthur’s, the club where Nancy Sawtelle worked. You do the math.”
I stopped short. “Whoa! You’re not seriously suggesting that Bob Poll is your serial killer?”
“I don’t know. I’m just saying it’s a coincidence that this one guy happens to go to the two places where every one of the murdered girls either worked or partied. And it’s not like these two places are a natural fit. I mean, we’re not talking about going to the Kennedy Center and the National Gallery or the Phillips Collection. We’re talking about the Kennedy Center and King Arthur’s. High culture and low life. How many people span those worlds?”
I guffawed. “A lot more than you think, trust me.”
“Maybe. But Poll’s the one I’m looking at now.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d fallen for a killer!” I said lightly.
Gunner glared at me. “You think this is funny?”
His intensity scared me a little. “No.”
“Yeah, you do. You think it’s a game. I’m gonna bring you some autopsy pictures so you can see how funny those girls look after this guy’s gotten through with them.”
We walked on.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s funny,” I said after a time. “I just know Bob, that’s all. He may be a serial flirt, but he’s no serial killer.”
“Uh-huh…. You sure about that?”
“Absolutely, positively. He’s not the type.”
“There is no type. Psychopaths can be very charming. How do you think they get their victims—by looking like what they really are? Ted Bundy looked like the all-American boy with a bright future. That’s what made him so goddamn dangerous: no one could believe he was the type.”
“You sound exactly like Violet. She loves Ted. And she thinks there’s a serial killer lurking around every corner.”
“Well, I got news for you. There’s one lurking around here.”
“It’s not Bob.”
“You ever talk to him about these murders?” Gunner asked.
“No.”
“He know about me?”
“No.”
“Make sure he doesn’t find out…. Do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Next time you and Mr. Wrong get together…? Ask him casually about the murder in Montrose Park. See how he reacts.”
“What if he kills me?”
“Then I guess you won’t be getting back to me.”
“Ha. Ha. You know, I’m not sure I like you, Gunner.”
“Yeah. And you wanna know why you don’t like me?”
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m a nice guy. What is it with you girls who only like bad boys? Huh? Can you answer me that? Bob Poll’s a bad boy, Reven. Don’t fall for him.”
I didn’t want to tell him I had already fallen.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Shoot.”
“What did Bob do when he was at the club?”
“Sat down. Had a drink. Talked to a few of the girls.”
“That’s not so bad, is it?”
“You tell me.”
I had to admit, it wasn’t a great sign after our particularly intimate night. We continued on in silence.
“I’m finding out all this stuff I don’t want to know,” I said, after a time.
“Like what?”
“Like Grant Bolton and Cynthia Rinehart are having an affair.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw them going at it on the floor of her house yesterday afternoon.”
“They see you?”
“No, thank God! I got out of there fast. Violet’s my best friend. Last night we were all together at this dinner at the British Embassy. Grant’s making a fool of her, and she doesn’t have a clue. I don’t know what the hell to do. Should I tell her what’s going on or not? What do you think?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Why not?”
“That’s your world, not mine.”
“Cheating husbands are universal, don’t you think? Sometimes I think they make the world go round. I’m just asking you for your advice. If you were in this situation, would you tell a friend if his wife was cheating on him?”
“Probably not.”
“Would you want to know if you were the one being cheated on?”
“I don’t know.”
“By the way, are you married?”
“I was.”
“So why did you get divorced, if I’m not being too personal?”
“I didn’t get divorced. My wife died. And that’s as personal as I’m gonna get. Can we change the subject?”
I felt bad. “I’m sorry…. It’s just that I’m really upset about this situation, and I don’t know what to do. Now you come along and tell me Bob’s into strippers—”
“You better pray that’s all he’s into.”
We stopped in front of an old stone mausoleum with the name HOLLIS chiseled in big bold letters above the entrance. It was a big, dank tomb with eight crypts lining the interior, four on the bottom, four on top. Whoever designed it had thoughtfully provided a low stone bench to the left of the entrance where mourners could sit down and take a rest. The iron grille door was ajar. A heavy chain lay on the ground beside a broken padlock. Vandals had gotten in and sprayed white paint swirls over a couple of the crypts.
Gunner closed the door and wound the heavy chain around the bars, fastening it with the broken padlock, trying to make it appear secure.
“No respect,” he said.
“No,” I agreed. And I wasn’t just talking about the mausoleum either. We sat down on the bench. I finally said, “Okay, I’ll ask Bob about Miss Montrose.”
“Thanks. I’m curious to hear what he has to say.”
Gunner looked around and decided this was a good place for us to meet. It was off the main path, isolated under a stand of trees. He said we needed a code name so we could text each other in one word if either of us wanted to come here and talk. I suggested “Usherville” because the dank tomb could have been a stage set for “The Fall of the House of Usher.”
“We’ll make Usherville our little place, shall we?” I said as a joke.
Gunner shook his head. “I wish I had your innocence.”
Chapter 15
When I got back home from the cemetery, I couldn’t stop thinking about Bob going to that strip club. Violet called to ask if I wanted to go for a jog. Well, she didn’t exactly ask. She said she’d be over to pick me up in ten minutes. Under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed a nice run with her so we c
ould rehash the previous night’s dinner, assessing the new ambassador and his wife and their entertaining style, as well as poking fun at Marge Horner and a couple of other barnacles at the party. But today I was afraid to see my old friend—afraid of what I might or might not say. I still hadn’t made up my mind whether or not to tell her about Grant.
“You look exhausted,” Violet said when I opened the door.
“Big night,” I said. “Let’s get going.”
As we jogged up Thirty-first Street, I told her about my watershed moment with Bob and the early-morning meeting with Gunner.
“Ewww. Bob went to a strip club after that?” she said with distaste.
“I know. I’m ill. I feel like I should break up with him right now.”
Violet stopped dead. “Don’t you dare! He probably just went there for a drink, to unwind.”
“You think so? Really?”
“Look, you’re having a great time with this man. He obviously cares about you. He just told you he loved you, for heaven’s sakes. Are you going to let this one little incident that you’re not even supposed to know about color the whole relationship? Give the poor guy a break, for heaven’s sakes.”
Violet’s words calmed me down. That’s the power of friendship. She could have taken a totally different tack that morning. If she had, who knows? I might have broken up with Bob right then. But I think Violet understood that deep down I wanted to be convinced his behavior wasn’t all that terrible, just a “guy thing,” as she put it. She told me to forget about it. That was easier said than done. But I was falling in love with the guy and when you fall in love you can easily make excuses for really dicey behavior.
“Well, there’s another little matter too,” I said. I told her Gunner’s theory.
She burst out laughing. “Talk about good news, bad news. Good news is you finally find a guy. Bad news is he’s a serial killer! How TV movie of the week is that?! You can sell your story to the networks!” Violet said with great glee in her voice.
“I didn’t say that! I just said Gunner’s interested in the fact that Bob could have been in the vicinity of all five girls, that’s all. He’s not accusing Bob of being the killer.”
“Well, we always heard Mr. Poll had a dark side,” Violet said.
“My question to you is: Do I tell Bob about Gunner or not?”
I thought this was a rather clever way of asking Violet what she would do if she were in possession of a sensitive secret.
She slowed down. “Seriously? The key question is, Do you think Bob could possibly be involved in these murders? Because if you do, then you can’t tell him about Gunner. And you certainly shouldn’t be going out with him. Do you think he’s involved?”
I may have answered a little too quickly when I replied, “No! It’s ridiculous!” The instant I said this, I felt hesitant. “Still, that visit to the strip club gives me pause. Not the fact that he went there, but the fact that he went there last night—after we’d had such an intimate time together.”
“I told you to forget about that. It’s probably an old haunt and the only place he could think of that was open at that hour,” Violet said. “You promised Gunner you wouldn’t tell anyone about him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. But I told you.”
“Oh, that doesn’t count. I’m your best friend. Anyway, if Gunner’s such a great detective, I’m sure he suspects you’ve told me about him. He’s gotta know you well enough by now to know you can’t keep your mouth shut.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Okay, so ask yourself this: Is there any advantage in telling Bob?”
“Not really. But keeping a secret from somebody can ruin a relationship if they find out later on that you’ve been hiding something from them.”
I studied her closely to see how she’d react.
“I think some secrets are better kept,” she said.
“You do? Are there things you’d rather not know?”
She hesitated. “Let’s put it this way…there are probably some things we’re all better off not knowing. I know there are things I’d rather not tell,” she said dramatically.
“Such as?”
She paused. “I cheated at golf the other day with Rainy.”
“You didn’t!”
“She always cheats with me. I thought, Today it’s my turn.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, well, I almost cheated. I thought about it, then I chickened out…. Did I ever tell you I was a spy and that I did things for my country that I can never ever talk about?” she said.
“Please, Vi, I’m not in the mood today,” I said.
Violet made up for being such a straight arrow by inventing all kinds of glamorous personas for herself.
We trotted into Montrose Park, down the wide paved road leading into the woods. People had been warned not to go too deep into the park until they caught the killer.
“We should turn around,” I said.
Violet didn’t reply. A devilish look came over her face. I knew that look from boarding school. She got it whenever we were about to do something illegal, like smoke a cigarette or sneak off campus to grab a sandwich at the local deli.
She picked up the pace and beckoned me to follow her.
“Come back! It’s not safe!” I cried.
“Chicken!” she called out and kept on running.
I certainly wasn’t going to let her go into the woods alone—not with a killer on the loose. I ran after her, very aware that no one else was around.
“Where the hell are you going?” I yelled.
“You’ll see!” She veered off onto a narrow trail.
I followed her along the path to a clearing, where strips of tattered yellow crime scene tape dangled from thin metal rods planted in the earth. We stopped short, panting from the run, staring out at the bleak ground. I immediately understood where we were.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
“This is where they found Miss Montrose. She was right over there,” Violet said, pointing ahead. Her mischievous glee had evaporated. She looked pale and solemn.
“Jesus, I thought it was over in the other direction, near White-haven.”
Violet shook her head. “No. It was here.”
We stared at the scene for a long moment. I imagined Nancy Sawtelle, lying facedown in the dirt—violated, soiled, and bloody. The leaves rustled. The tapes fluttered in the breeze. I felt a chill of evil. Violet and I looked at each other. I knew she felt it too. We both turned at the same time and ran away as fast as we could.
When we were walking home, I asked her how she knew the exact spot. She told me the police and forensic teams had been there for days, combing the whole area.
“I snuck up there a couple of times to watch them,” she said.
In order to diffuse the grimness we both felt, Violet made a joke, as was her wont.
“Here’s the thing: serial killers never get up in the morning and think, What shall I do today? They get up and say, ‘Who shall I do today?’ You kind of have to admire their sense of purpose.”
I smiled in spite of myself. But then a terrible image flashed through my mind. I saw Bob standing over a girl in a field with his arm raised and a club in his hand. In one swift and mighty blow, he cracked her skull open. When she turned her bloody head, it was me.
Chapter 16
The next night, Bob took me to a black-tie opening at the National Gallery. Maxwell called for me as usual, and we drove to Bob’s office. I was nervous about seeing Bob. Gunner’s unwelcome revelation about the strip club had taken the whole day to really sink in, but sink in it had. I wanted to know why he’d gone there. Was it just to relax? Or was there someone special there he wanted to see? I couldn’t very well ask him without betraying my relationship with Gunner. But it was very much on my mind when Bob got into the car and gave me an affectionate kiss hello.
“How’s my girl?” he said, settling into the back seat.
“Fine.�
�
“This should be a fun evening.”
“I thought last night was a fun evening,” I said, throwing a little chum in the water.
“Parts of it were, anyway,” he said.
“Guess what Violet and I did today?”
“Let me see…. You planned an invasion.”
“We went jogging in Montrose Park. She took me up to see where that poor woman was murdered.”
“What poor woman is that?”
“Don’t you remember that woman who was murdered in the park a couple of months ago? The one they think was the victim of the serial killer.”
Bob shrugged. “They think everyone’s the victim of a serial killer. Frankly, if there were that many serial killers around, we’d all be dead.”
“Don’t you believe they exist?”
“In Hollywood more than anywhere else. They’re on the major villains list: Nazis, terrorists, the CIA, rich white guys, and serial killers. Where would movies be without them?”
His amused nonchalance was no great relief to me. On the contrary, it made me wonder if I’d had suspicions about him that I wasn’t admitting to myself.
“I can’t believe you didn’t read about it. It was all over the papers.”
“I probably did, but you know what? I try to put that kind of story out of my mind. It’s mental pollution.”
I stared out the window at the passing night, trying to make up my mind whether to ask him the next question. Finally, I turned and asked him, “Did you mean what you said last night?”
“I don’t know. What did I say?”
“That you loved me.”
He feigned surprise. “Did I say that?”
I didn’t answer. I just nodded. I didn’t much care for his coyness.
“Then I must have meant it,” he said, pulling me in close. “You mustn’t be so insecure, Reven. Let things take their course. Don’t worry so much.”
I laid my head on his shoulder, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. As we pulled up in front of the East Wing at the National Gallery, I realized that the partition in the car was down and that Maxwell could hear everything I’d said. I was a little embarrassed. That was the thing about Maxwell. He was like a fixture you forgot was there. I wondered if he’d been paying any attention, or if he just tuned out and drove. As he gave me his hand to help me out of the car, I thought I detected a sympathetic smile on his large round face and a look of compassion in his eyes. He’d surely been listening, and I think he felt a little sorry for me. This was the first time I got the sense that Maxwell wasn’t just a fireplug with a hat, but a person who took more of an interest in his boss’s life than he let on.
Mortal Friends Page 11
