Once that was done, Elizabeth Barnett went round to the bedside table that was hers. In the third drawer, underneath the gardening magazines, was her special diary. She loved its white leather and gold tool work. She sat on the bed and opened it, admiring the entries. She had always been so neat and exacting when she wrote. It was a source of great pride to her as it had been to her father.
Elizabeth flipped back through the pages and found the entries she was looking for. Buried in a long text written six weeks before she and Sam left for Paris was the number she was looking for. She dialed it and no one answered. She hung up and went to the entry the night before they left. This number was different and she dialed that but still no one answered. She dialed and listened. Listened and dialed until she was near tears with frustration. Then she realized the futility of it all. Of course he was gone; she knew that.
"Stupid. Stupid. I'm so stupid."
Elizabeth murmured as she put her special book back under the gardening magazines. She threw herself back on the bed and put one arm over her brow.
"Stupid. Stupid."
Elizabeth was so empty, so exhausted from trying her best, so lonely that she rolled over imagining Sam would be there with his arms out to draw her to him. He would kiss her forehead and hold her tight and tell her there was nothing to worry about because he was there. But when she rolled onto her side, it wasn't Sam she saw but a lump under the yellow satin duvet. A lump that looked like a child cuddled in her bed.
Of course she knew that it was nothing more than a lump of curtains, but still it looked like a little person under the covers. Elizabeth, abandoned and isolated, stripped of all the things that mattered to her in the world, couldn't help herself. She moved across the bed and when she was close enough, she laid her head on a crimson throw pillow, raised her hand and placed it gently on the little child-lump of curtains. People would think her a little mad for imagining that lump was anything more than what it was, but people weren't there. Sam wasn't there, so what did it matter if she wanted to imagine this was Alana safe in bed with her or Alexis playing hide-and-seek.
Yes, even though she knew better, even though she knew she was not really insane, even though Elizabeth Barnett understood that under her yellow satin duvet there was nothing more than a pile of curtains, she put her hand upon the lump and whispered:
"Mommy's here."
CHAPTER 33
DAY 7 – AFTERNOON
"What would you do if we had a lot of money?" Medium Man asked.
"I'd get me some clothes."
The boy flipped a playing card toward a pot he had put on the floor and sighed. Medium Man hadn't been out of the house all week, which meant he hadn't been out either. Now when he wanted a paper or food or something, they went together. The boy was getting worried that he was never going to be left alone long enough to run away.
"No, I mean real money," Medium Man pressed. "Enough that you could do anything you wanted in the whole world."
The boy's hand hovered mid-flip. He had played this game in his own head a million times, so he didn't mind playing it with Medium Man. It was better than just sitting there and having the dude look at him.
"I'd get me a car. A really neat one. A Porsche maybe. Black. And them sheep skin seat covers. Then I'd get me some hot clothes so I'd look sharp. I'd drive out to…"
The boy's eyes flicked toward Medium Man and he caught himself just in time. He managed a shaky smile and made his voice all sweet.
"I'd drive out to some fancy place and take you to dinner. We'd have a real steak, know what I mean?"
"Yeah?" Medium Man put his hands together, delighted to be included in the fantasy.
"Yeah, that's what we'd do." The boy lied, of course. If he had that kind of money, he wouldn't be caught dead with a creep like Medium Man.
"What else?" Medium Man purred.
"How much money I got?" the boy asked.
"Enough," the other man said, peeved that the boy asked that question.
"Okay." The boy shrugged, he would play along. "I'd go to Las Vegas first. I'd double my money, and then I'd get me on an airplane and go to the Caribbean. I saw a picture of that place once. It's just a bunch of little islands, and you can go to one then the other in these white boats." The boy drifted away on the warm current of his dream. "There's real blue water. I'd lie on the beach and drink and eat all the time. I'd never be hungry or tired or anything." He shook his head, dispelling the fantasy. "Anyway I'd go there 'cause I hear the sun's good for zits. There ain't no good sun in California anymore." He let the ace of spades sail toward the pot. He missed. "Anyway, that's what I'd do."
"That sounds nice."
Medium Man got out of the chair. The boy pulled away from the caress he knew was coming. Medium Man didn't notice. He ran his hand down the boy's arm and back up to his face. His fingers caught the boy's chin and forced his face up. The boy's first instinct was to resist, but he felt the tension in Medium Man when he did that, so he gave in and looked the way he was supposed to. He looked like he was happy.
"Would you like me to go with you to that place?" Medium Man asked.
The boy nodded. He should have been an actor. This fool believed everything he said as long as it was what the guy wanted to hear.
"That's so nice. I appreciate that. I really do." Medium Man released his grip. "I think we should plan on doing something just like that. Maybe we'll skip Vegas and go to all them islands straight off. Maybe we will."
Medium Man pirouetted away from the boy. "I'm going down the hall. Comb your hair and meet me by the phone. We're going shopping when I'm finished."
Medium Man went down the hall, digging in his pocket for the right change because his rooming house still had a pay phone. A real antique, Mort called it. But what the heck. It did the job and he was still flush from payday for taking out that nanny so what were a few coins? Still, there were things that happened that made him question a lot of things lately. The pay phone wasn't one of them.
Mort had docked him some for the kids, but that was okay even though it disappointed him some. Then there was the cemetery. That was a close call. Those cops – for that was who he was sure was chasing him – scared him bad. All that got Medium Man to thinking it was time to lay low, given that he and the boy were a family and all. He could get out of the business with just one more really good score and to do that he needed Mort.
Dropping the coin in the pay phone Medium Man dialed, leaned against the wall, and waited. It was Georgia who said hello.
"Can I talk to Mort?"
"Who is this?" Georgia demanded.
Medium Man could hear a television in the background. People were laughing. He had disturbed her. At first he thought to apologize, but he didn't because he was a little upset that Georgia didn't recognize him after all this time. When he had lots of money people would remember him and if they didn't, they would be sorry. Right now, though, she didn't remember him so he said:
"It's his friend who works with him? Please, can I talk to Mort?"
"He's not here right now," she said, and then yelled at one of her kids.
"When can I talk to him?" Medium Man raised his voice so she wouldn't forget he was on the phone.
"I guess tomorrow about seven. He's on the night shift, won't be back 'till then."
"Okay, just tell him I called."
Medium Man hung up wondering why Mort hadn't called if he had a job. Georgia looked at the receiver for a minute wondering how she could tell Mort who called when the guy didn't leave a name. She put the phone down and went back to the tube. They were talking about women whose husbands beat them. The broad they were talking to didn't have anything on Georgia. That woman's husband just pulled her hair and screamed at her.
What a lightweight.
By the second commercial Georgia had forgotten all about the call.
CHAPTER 34
Cori and Finn pulled up in front of an apartment building that looked like a thousand apartment buildings
in a hundred neighborhoods around Los Angeles.
"2B.We are looking for Todd Webster. He goes by Buster because he busted some heads with another guy five years ago. He did ten days on a ninety-day sentence." Cori sighed. "Gotta love early release. Anyway, there are some outstanding warrants for vehicle violations, but nothing heavier than that in the last few years."
"He's not sounding like a boyo who would take out his lady and a couple of kids." Finn made no move to get out of the car. "What was he driving on the warrants?"
"A red Mustang, but things change. He could have sold it or totaled it. He could have two cars," Cori answered. "Need another look at his mug shot?"
The man's face was already seared in Finn's memory and it was a particularly unattractive image. His nose was big, his eyes small, his hair long in the back and nonexistent on top. He was not the man in the car at the morgue or the one Finn chased at the cemetery, of that he was sure. Still, he looked at the picture again just to make Cori happy. He also gave a little thanks to the tech gods who allowed their lab to crack the Nanny's phone and get the number that led them to this man.
"I'm good," he said and motioned that it was time to get to business.
They got out of the car and took a look around to get their bearings. The quiet street was lined with cars at both curbs and apartment buildings, none of which looked any different than the one Todd Webster called home. There was trash in the gutters, cracks in the sidewalk and potholes in the street. When Finn moved, Cori did too. They went up a concrete path that led to a staircase that would take them to the second floor. They looked for escape routes, children's toys, open windows and doors. A few plants were dying in parched flowerbeds. Windows were covered with bed sheets and curtains. Except for Todd 'Buster' Webster's window. His window was plastered over with tin foil.
"Think we should have called for back-up?" Cori lowered her voice a notch as they approached the apartment door.
"A fellow who doesn't pay for his own drinks doesn't seem a particular challenge," Finn said and then he announced himself with a knock. When no one came to the door, Finn threw another chit into the pot: "Mr. Webster. Detective O'Brien, LAPD. Mr. Webster?"
He knocked again. Again, no one came to the door nor did he or Cori sense any movement inside. Finn took hold of the knob. It was locked. Cori said:
"I'll get the manager."
While she was gone, Finn looked out over the architecturally vague buildings. Behind each window was the final resting place for the painfully marginalized folks of this big city. He counted himself a lucky man not to have ended up like this, or worse, behind bars framed for murder. Bev might be gone, but he had his work and he had Cori who was coming back up the stairs followed by a woman of immense proportions.
"This is Mrs. Feinstein. Mrs. Feinstein, this is Detective O'Brien."
Mrs. Feinstein pulled herself up the last few steps. She managed a nod in greeting. Finn nodded back, feeling the woman's pain. Her eyes were almost obliterated by the rolls of flesh on her face; her chin had been gobbled up by a neck that draped from her bottom lip to her breastbone. She was hooked up to a portable oxygen tank.
"Mrs. Feinstein, we have a warrant to search the premises inhabited by Todd Webster. We would appreciate it if you would open the door to his apartment, ma'am."
"That one told me already. Let me see." She shifted her portable tank and put out a hand the size of a ham. He gave her the warrant. She looked at it and then gave it back to Finn.
"I don't like doing this. Webster seems okay to me," she grumbled.
"Still, we will need you to open the door, missus," Finn said.
Mrs. Feinstein fiddled with a huge bunch of keys, huffing and puffing, pursing her lips to let the air out, pulling them back against her teeth to draw a breath in while the plastic tubing hung from her nose. Her arms were permanently horizontal, held up by a chest that had spread sideways with age, gravity, and caloric intake. Cori was exhausted just watching the woman labor. Finally, the key was found, the door unlocked and Mrs. Feinstein began her arduous journey back down the stairs.
"Mrs. Feinstein, you can come in and watch if you like," Finn offered before she got too far.
"I don't put my nose where it don't belong. Lock the door when you're done."
Cori and Finn peered into the dark apartment. Though he was sure the place was empty, Finn extended an arm and eased Cori behind him. Cori accepted the gesture without objection. She, after all, had Amber and Tucker to worry about; Finn had no one any longer. Still, she was on his heels and when he gave her the thumbs up, she threw the light switch.
"Oh my, my, my," she clucked when she got her first gander at Webster's digs.
Finn went to do a quick check of the other rooms. By the time he came back, Cori had looked behind the kitchen counter and in a small closet to be sure Todd Webster wasn't hiding himself away.
"It looks like good old Todd has given up busting heads," Finn said.
They stood side-by-side looking at the mattress on the living room floor. The sheets thrown over it were red satin and in need of a wash. There was no other furniture in the living room but there were plenty of other things the detectives found interesting: a box of dildos which proved that human hope and imagination knew no bounds, latex toys for girls and boys, a rolling rack of clothes, some light and airy, others dark and studded, all of them crotchless. There were piles of pillows, a cage with a little swing in it, a case of stage make-up, and wigs. There were lights, a camera, and, Finn imagined, plenty of action.
Cori nudged food wrappers tossed into one corner of the room. "Someone has a thing for Twinkies."
"The equipment's solid. These props aren't cheap. Webster knows what he's doing."
"Maybe Rachel was his star," Cori suggested.
"Let's see what we can see," Finn said.
Cori went to the bedroom; Finn went over the living room/dining room/kitchen. He found shooting schedules, headshots and test shots of men on women, women on women, men on men. All were well endowed, not a one was beautiful. Taped on the walls was a gallery of headshots. All adults. No kids, thank God. Bottom line, Rachel and Buster weren't pimping; they were recruiting talent.
"Bingo!" Cori called just before she stuck her head into the living room. "Come on in and take a gander."
Finn went into the hall that was really nothing more than a five foot square from which three rooms radiated. In one room there was a treadmill, to the left was a bathroom, behind the third door was a real bedroom where Cori was dealing pictures onto the bed and making noises like she had a full house.
"Rachel Gerber in the altogether," she said as Finn came to check out the snapshots.
Finn could only shake his head at the pitiful images. Rachel Gerber was an attractive, slightly overweight woman who looked naturally at ease in the beach picture Finn carried of her. What he was looking at was a grotesque caricature of that woman. Sparkling violet shadow colored her eyes top and bottom. Her lips were painted red and slicked over with glitter gloss. Her hair was teased into a mass of tangles that he supposed was meant to make her look sexy but instead made her look like a lunatic. Her chubby arms were crossed and pushed her breasts up so that they looked unnaturally high and flat, in another they hung free, large breasts shaped like torpedoes. She wore a thong. The bikini had been a breach of good taste; the thong was a sin.
"She looks like ten miles of bad road," Cori mused. "Think that's why he killed her?"
"No." Finn strode out of the bedroom, Cori was right behind him.
"Maybe he didn't want her to work for him anymore and she put up a fuss," she insisted.
"She wasn't one of his girls," Finn said. "Buster's got a bunch of snapshots of her. Everybody else has eight by tens. Besides, I doubt he pays real well. Even if he did, Rachel Gerber naked just isn't worth thirty big ones."
Finn stood in the middle of the living room knowing he had missed something. He walked over to a small desk, opened the top drawer and heard a familiar clun
k. He tipped the drawer to show his partner.
"A twenty-two," Cori said, delighted with the find. "Anything else?"
Finn opened three drawers. All of them were empty except for a broken pen and a Bruce Springsteen CD.
"He travels light. Nothing other than clothes in the other room and the Bluetooth speakers," Cori added up the inventory.
Finn listened while he took a spin around, nudging the mattress with the toe of his shoe, reopening kitchen drawers. He pulled out a knife or two: they were neither long bladed nor nicked at the tip. He put them back.
"Did you find any drugs?" he asked.
Cori shook her head and said: "So what do we do now?"
"The warrant's specific for the gun so let's bag it," Finn said.
"Then what?"
"Then we wait until Webster comes home."
Cori and Finn ate two-for-ninety-nine-cent burgers and drank Gatorade they got from the gas station a few blocks over. They watched the street and waited for a man who was probably not a killer but might lead them to one. They talked about small things and big things; they made plans for work. The sun sailed across the sky, disappeared behind the bank of buildings and still Todd 'Buster' Webster didn't come home. Cori's head got heavy, her eyes closed, and she went quiet leaving Finn to watch over her. She pushed herself upright twenty minutes later and asked:
"I slept, didn't I?"
"A wee bit," Finn said.
"Sorry. I'm really too old to have a baby in the house."
Finn tipped his lips but made no comment. Babies kept people up at night. Growing up with five brothers and sisters taught him that. He and Bev never got around to finding out first hand but not for lack of trying. At one time that was a huge regret; now it seemed like a blessing. He would want no child of his shuttled between divorced parents, and if he and Bev were together he would want to be home with the family and not in a car waiting for an evil man to show himself.
Severed Relations Page 20
