by Rick Murcer
Manny followed Alex’s hand to the place where a small tip of jagged bone pressed just under the purplish-red skin of Morse’s back.
“His neck was broken, postmortem, in several places. The ME will let me know for sure, but see these marks?”
Manny did see them. “Looks like boot or shoe prints.”
“There’s hope for you yet. Yeah, it is. I think the killer did the Watusi on this guy for more than a few steps. There are some other deep marks that I can’t ID yet, but I will when I get back to the lab.”
“So whoever killed this guy was pissed,” said Sophie, “like a crime of passion?”
“Bingo. You win the Kewpie doll.”
“Any shell casings?” Manny asked, already suspecting there wasn’t.
“None, so far.”
Alex scowled, made a small clucking sound in his throat, and removed his gloves. “There is one more thing. There was quite a bit of blood, but not as much as there should be.”
“You mean it was almost a dump site, but maybe not,” said Sophie.
“I don’t know what I mean. It just doesn’t add up, yet.”
“Well, if he was inside, chasing the woman of his dreams, it stands to reason he was killed here,” stated Manny.
“Makes sense,” said Alex.
“All right, boss. Let’s find out if he was here, and who he wanted to make friends with,” said Sophie.
“Okay. But we have one small problem.”
Sophie stared at him, and then began to laugh. “Never been inside one of these places, huh? Come on straight-laced boy. I’ll hold your hand.”
Chapter-4
Manny walked through the gray-tinted, glass door with Sophie at his heels. He noticed the metal detector, but went through it anyway. The siren was loud and immediate and got the attention of the two women behind the long display counter and the two security goons who were hanging out near the DVD section of the store. The larger of the two men, sporting a dirty blond mullet and black, fingerless gloves, rushed them like a bull chasing a red flag. Manny’s police ID stopped him in his tracks. The bruiser gave him a dirty look, but said nothing.
“Good afternoon, folks. Now that we have your attention, we have a few questions. We’ll ask politely, you answer with honesty overflowing from the goodness of your hearts, and we’ll be fine? Capisce?”
The tall blond, wearing little more than a sheer negligee, five-inch stilettos, and koi fish tats above each fleshy breast, stepped calmly to the counter. “Can I help you?”
“What’s your name?”
“Charity. I’m the night manager.”
“Charity? Is that your real name?”
“Real enough for the pervs that come in here. Evelyn Kroll is my legal name.”
“Okay, Evelyn. Were you working last night?”
“Yes. I came in about 6:30 and closed up about 3:30 a.m.”
Manny motioned to Sophie, and she handed him her phone with the freshly downloaded picture of Mitchell Morse on the screen. “Do you recognize this man?”
“Is that the dead guy?” she shivered. “That’s so freaky. Yeah, he came in about 11:00 and went right into the theater.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yeah, just him and his five friends, Rosy Thumb and the Four Finger Sisters.”
Sophie snorted and glanced away. Manny ignored her.
“How long was he here?”
“I’m not sure. We were busy last night, full moon or something. We had a couple of fights and tossed a hooker out on her ass. I do remember seeing him about 1:30 or so.”
“What was he doing?”
He heard Sophie throttle a cackle. He gave her the evil eye.
Evelyn smiled an anxious grin. “He was standing by the door, talking to one of the ladies, and trying to get a paid ride around the world. She told him that was illegal, and that she wasn’t interested.”
“I’ll need that girl’s information.”
Evelyn looked to the ceiling, then back to Manny. “It was me. He was talking to me. Okay? I kicked him out and that’s the last I saw of him . . . until now.”
Sophie had regained her composure. “Scout’s honor? Because we’re going to go over the security tapes, and we don’t want any surprises.”
The tall blonde made eye contact with the other security guard and shifted her feet nervously. Manny didn’t like what he saw.
“There. . . . ah . . . was a problem with the system’s cameras last night, and we didn’t get the whole night on video.”
The club had committed one too many violations to suit the city and, as a condition of keeping the doors open, was required to keep sixty days of security tape, inside and out, in archive. Although the outside cameras didn’t cover the area of the parking lot by the trash bin, Manny thought there could have been information that might help.
“That could be grounds to shut you down, you know that, right?” asked Manny.
“I know. I know. And they were working fine until just before he left. Then we got this snowy screen, like interference or something, and they just stopped recording, but they came back on like nothing ever happened right before we closed up. The camera company said they couldn’t find anything wrong and that sometimes the system just gets bottled up.” She looked at Manny, then Sophie. “Scout’s honor.”
“We’ll need the tape anyway, statements from all of the employees who worked last night, and a complete list of all employees.”
She nodded and folded her arms over her ample breasts, causing the tats to change shape.
“Did you notice anyone unusual or out of the ordinary?”
Evelyn stared at Manny. “No, not in here. Our clientele is the salt of the earth. Cops, firemen, preachers, social workers, you know, all pillars of the community.”
“Okay, smartass. You know what I mean. But maybe you could concentrate better down at the station.”
“Sorry. Really. I get like this when I’m nervous. We’ve had some stuff go on in here, but nothing like that junk outside.”
She looked at the counter, and then Manny watched her eyes grow big.
“Wait. There was this one chick. At least I think it was a chick. Tall, thin, wearing all black, face covered with a hoodie. The real weird part was the black gloves. I couldn’t see the hands. People walk in here hoping no one will recognize them; she made sure.”
“Good girl. What time?”
“Right after my dinner break, so just about 1:00 or so, I think. She might be on the video before it crashed.”
“That could be helpful. One more question. Do you own a gun?”
Evelyn blinked her eyes, looked at the floor, then back to Manny and Sophie. “Yes. I have a permitted handgun, Smith and Wesson .38. But I keep it in the bedroom at my apartment.”
“We may want to see it, but I think we’re done, for now. We’ll set up interview times for your people. Make sure they show up, okay?”
“Okay.”
Manny watched a small smile form on Evelyn’s face, and her blue eyes began to twinkle.
“Now I have a question for you, Detective Williams.”
“Fire away.”
“It takes a big gun to set off that metal detector. Just how big is your . . . weapon?”
Sophie released a belly laugh that caused Manny’s face to turn an even deeper shade of red. But he grinned anyway.
“Cute. It’s still not too late to shut this place down.”
“Yes sir. I don’t get good-looking cops in here very often and—”
“Just get us what we asked for and don’t dink around.” He grabbed Sophie’s arm and ushered her out the door.
“Was that your doing?” he steamed.
“No, no. I think she likes you, and she’s the kind of woman who doesn’t beat around the bush. Sometimes, you slay me. You’re the best detective I’ve ever seen, but when it comes to most women, you’re clueless. Really.”
“Not one word to any—”
Manny’s cell rang. He pull
ed it out of his pocket and cocked his head. Eric Hayes. The call seemed to carry a sense of urgency that made Manny uncomfortable. He answered.
“Manny Williams here.”
No response.
“Eric, is that you?”
There was another moment of silence, and then hell came calling.
“Detective Williams. How lovely to hear your voice.”
He froze in mid-stride, unable to speak. Argyle was on Eric’s cell phone.
Chapter-5
Mitchell Morse’s killer sat, her legs crossed, at the oak table in the breakfast nook located at the south end of the house. The late afternoon sun was bright and cheerful, forcing the room to glow with a special comfort. The last of her summer roses gave the room an unmatchable aroma. The sun warmed the enigmatic area of her heart that turned cold when thoughts of murder evolved into the real thing.
Evolved or . . . snapped?
The term “snapped” was always just out of reach, at least for her, when it came to understanding what people do and why. It was simply a convenient phrase to explain the actions of someone who had truly decided, voluntarily or not, that living in the realm of psychoticism was preferable to any other reality. Fair enough.
“Snapped” also doubled as an excuse to disguise uncontrolled rage aimed at a cheating spouse, a crooked partner, or a BFF who had stabbed you in the back.
But what of her killing of Morse? Had she snapped or made a rational decision? Perverts like him would never stop doing what they did. Morse’s third trip to prison had only been three years. Is that all raping and sodomizing his “dates” was worth? Shouldn’t someone do something? Didn’t three strikes mean you were out? Way out? Enough was enough.
“Losing it” didn’t apply here, not to Morse or the rest of the deviates who did what he did. Ridding society of men like these sick bastards was the right thing to do, and if the justice system couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do it, then well . . .
And if the system had worked, she’d still be here, laughing and joking, singing that stupid song, and causing everyone to laugh. Cheering up rooms and lives—like only she could.
It was more than awful to miss the little things, maybe worse than having her actually gone.
But paybacks were a bitch for some, and she was going to start with Siggie Ashcroft.
She ran a long finger over the black-and-white picture of Ashcroft she’d printed from his online sex offender file. He’d raped and terrorized four women and only served five years in prison.
What a deal for him.
Ashford was released yesterday and would need a day to get settled into his new state- sponsored domicile before the piece of shit began the hunt for his next good time. That was okay. One day wasn’t a long time, and patience was a virtue. She was living proof.
Chapter-6
“What do you want, you sick prick?” asked Manny, in a low, controlled voice that hid his anger, his dread.
“Now, now, now. Is that any way to speak to a long-lost friend? I thought we cared for each other, Detective Williams. No?” Argyle laughed that familiar laugh that said he was still sleeping with insanity.
By now, Sophie had walked back to him with a curious look on her face.
He mouthed Argyle’s name.
Her eyes grew hard, and she grabbed Manny’s arm. “GPS trace?”
He shook his head. There was no reason to try to trace the call. Argyle would be done in a few moments, and it would be an afterthought. The real questions had to do with Eric and what Argyle had done to him. He was pretty sure Eric hadn’t lent his phone to Argyle because his car was broken down and he needed a wrecker.
Manny remembered the earlier e-mail sent from Eric’s address and felt his insides turn inside out.
What was in that attachment?
“We’re not friends. We’ll never be friends. You and I don’t think the same way. For instance, I think you should be fried in the hottest electric chair ever created or eaten alive by hungry piranha. I bet you don’t think that way. Right?”
The quiet was more than ominous, and Manny felt the man fighting for control. He had pissed off the Good Doctor. Too bad.
“You keep saying things you’ll regret, detective, and you call me arrogant. I called to make sure you got my e-mail and see if you had any questions.”
“About what?”
“About the message or the . . . pictures. I so love the pictures. I fancy myself as an artist, and they are very good.”
“Where is Hayes?”
“Oh, he’s very near, but I don’t think he’ll be writing any more disparaging columns of pure bullshit about me or anyone else. I think he’s learned his lesson.”
What has Argyle done?
Intimacies with the bizarre and cruel were not unusual for Argyle; in fact, it was his way of life. He had invented tortures to make medieval dungeons proud. Manny’s angst for Eric escalated to a different level—the one that said his wife was a widow.
“Detective Williams? The cat got your tongue? Where is that smartass mouth now?”
“I’m here. I’m going to take you and your perverted logic down, you know that?”
“I don’t think so. But we will meet again, when I decide the time is right. Meanwhile, know that you have inspired me. And I would appreciate your critique of my work when you see the pictures. Stunning, if I say so myself.”
There was empty air as the connection went dead. Manny squeezed his phone, then smashed it on the parking lot’s surface, pieces flying in every direction like black dirt in the wind.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah, I’m already on it. I called the paper. Apparently, there was a staff cruise set up for the Post’s employees. I have the itinerary right here. They’re on the Ocean Empress, one of Carousel’s ships, and they’re docked in St. Thomas.”
His eyes moved to hers, and she turned away. This was too familiar, too close to home, for both of them. To take this ride down memory lane and focus on what had happened on the Ocean Duchess wasn’t where either one of them wanted to go. But psychopaths like Argyle got off on his previous “accomplishments” and had no intentions of letting them forget. Why would he? It made his world go round. Manny could feel the self-absorbed bastard laughing.
Manny flexed his shoulder and picked up what was left of his cell phone. “I think I’m going to need that new phone after all.”
Sophie smiled. “I’ll take care of it. Good arm, though.”
Chapter-7
Gavin Crosby, Manny’s boss and Lansing’s police chief, stood behind Manny’s desk, looking over his shoulder, along with Sophie and the LPD’s computer forensic expert, Buzzy Dancer. Manny sat in front of the twenty-two-inch widescreen computer monitor, opened his e-mail account, then highlighted the message from Argyle. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for what was inside the cyber message from hell, but there was only one way to find out.
Buzzy rolled up Sophie’s chair and sat close to Manny, flashing him a quick smile. He smiled back and noticed how her red horn-rimmed glasses clashed with her bright-blue eyes and pink hair. She was pretty, about twenty-five, a few pounds underweight, loved wearing anything pink, and would probably win the title of office drama queen. She had also earned a reputation for being incredibly bright, which translated into incredibly useful.
“There’s probably not anything you’ll need me for, but if Argyle got clever, I might be able to see it,” she said, snapping her gum.
“Okay. Are we ready?” asked Gavin.
Manny could still hear the sadness in his old partner’s voice. Argyle had savagely murdered Gavin’s new daughter-in-law, Lexy, on that ill-fated cruise three months ago, and the chief was still living it. His wife, Stella, seemed to be doing better than her spouse, but that wasn’t saying much. Gavin said the pain of losing Lexy had invaded like a fever and simply wouldn’t leave. Manny knew it would get better, but there was no timetable. Each death harbored a grieving life of its own, maybe even an agenda. He hoped it would com
e sooner rather than later for the Crosbys.
Their son Mike, Lexy’s widower, hadn’t come back to work at the police force yet, and Manny was glad because he wasn’t sure if Mike would, or should. Who could blame him? Cop or not, getting over what he had gone through—especially with losing your wife of four days—wasn’t going to happen overnight, if ever. Seeing her like that, ravaged beyond recognition, had sent Mike nearly insane and into intense therapy with the department’s shrink: a path all of the passengers on that cruise followed, to varying degrees. It was mandatory protocol for LPD staff, but that didn’t mean the healing was mandatory. He knew that game, too.
“Ready. Wait,” begged Buzzy. “You’re sure this isn’t just a joke or porn or something?”
“How did you guess?” smiled Manny.
“Well . . . I’ve never really . . . okay, I get it. Sorry.”
“Let’s see what’s what.” Manny clicked the e-mail and the JPEG attachment exploded into life.
The first picture set Manny back in his chair and Buzzy rolling away, covering her mouth, stifling the yell that came as an involuntary reflex.
The close-up of Eric’s face showed his bulging, brown eyes, stained duct tape sealing his mouth, and a jet of blood flashing to the right of his chin. The Power Point show switched to the next shot that came from farther back. Gray duct tape had Eric bound to a chair, but Manny’s eye was quickly drawn to the gleam dancing off the tip of the knife protruding through the side of Eric’s neck. The angle of the sun reflecting off the gleaming blade made it impossible not to focus there. Clever work. Manny was helpless not to dwell on Argyle’s claim of artistry.
“Shit,” swore Sophie.
But that wasn’t the worst. The slide show displayed four more pictures and ended with something conceived only in Hollywood, designed to totally shock its audience.
Eric’s severed head rested on the small table of the cruise ship suite. His body was still taped to the chair, sitting a few feet behind the head in a strategic position. The horrible look on his face told a tale that Eric took to his grave. On the bottom of the picture, in front of his chin, was a two-word epitaph: “I’m sorry.” It was written in blood.
