“Who is it?” she asked from behind the door.
“Joe Gunther. The cop who talked to you yesterday.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I came to see how you were.”
“Lousy, thanks to you.”
“I’ve got a peace offering.”
The door was almost ripped off its hinges. Her face, its left side badly bruised, was red with fury. “A peace offering? What the hell do you think this is? A lover’s spat? Your first visit gets me beaten up, this one’ll probably get me killed, and you have a peace offering? You’re a real head case, you know that?”
Her hand was half lifted to strike me, so I filled it with what I was holding. It was an automatic coffee maker. It looked more extravagant than it was; the whole thing had set me back about fifty dollars. That was certainly less than meeting me had cost her.
She stared at it with her mouth open. A gust of wind blew past me and hit her in the face. She grabbed my coat, pulled me inside and slammed the door. “Don’t get any ideas. I just don’t want to catch pneumonia.” Still, she kept the coffee maker.
“What the hell made you choose this?”
“I noticed you didn’t have one.”
She peered at it closely. “You think this cheap piece of crap is going to get you off the hook?”
I didn’t answer.
She gave me a long baleful look. “The bastard hurt me-bad. I asked you for protection.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“That doesn’t do me a hell of lot of good, does iink Ssked you ft? I’m not going to get much business looking like a smashed grapefruit, am I?” I was probably reaching, but I thought some of the heat had gone out of her.
“No.”
“So what gives you the balls to drop by with presents, huh?”
“Nothing. That’s it. I just wanted to see if you were okay. I paid your hospital bill.”
She shook her head and crossed the room to put the machine on the kitchen counter. “Bully for you. You really are a bastard, you know that? I ought to shove this thing down your throat.”
“I won’t stop you.”
She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. She was wearing blue jeans and a sweat shirt of dubious cleanliness. “Where the hell were you, anyway? I thought you cops were supposed to keep in touch with each other.”
“A partner of mine got killed a week ago. His widow got back home from her daughter’s last night, so I went over to keep her company. I thought she might be lonely, her first night back in her own house. I forgot to leave word where I was.”
She didn’t say anything for a few moments, and when she did, her voice had finally softened. “Was that the guy who died in the car crash?”
“Yeah.”
“Gunther… You were the one with him, weren’t you? The one who ended up in the hospital.”
“That’s right.” She flared up again briefly. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that the first time? I might have known what to expect.”
It flashed through my mind that if I told her someone else had killed Frank, she’d probably throw me through the window.
I pretended Ski Mask was the one and only. “I never thought of it. I did warn you, but to be honest, I didn’t think you’d ever set eyes on him. What he did to you was totally out of character.”
“Out of character? What do you know about his character? Katz says the man’s a fucking nut case, and I can swear to it.”
“Katz only knows half of what we know, and we don’t know much. But everything Ski Mask has done has been thought out beforehand, with no visible emotion.”
“My God, he’s killed people. How emotional do you want him to get? And he sure as hell wasn’t cool, calm and collected when I met him.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Considering my prowess to date, any psychological evaluations by me were rightly suspect. “I screwed up. I am sorry.”
She waved her hand at me angrily. “Sorry, sorry. All right, so you’re sorry. I’m sorry I ever set eyes on you, so that makes two of us.” She crossed over to her armchair and sat. “I’ll live.” She reached under the chair for her stash and began filling her tiny pipe. She lit up. “Want a pull?”
I shook my head. “Are you going to be all right?”
She held her smokehel ali for a couple of seconds and exhaled. “You tell me.”
“What did he want?”
She snorted. “Same thing you did. So I told him what he wanted to know-I mean, shit, it was no big secret, right?”
“No.”
“I did what you told me to do, right?”
“Right.”
There was a lull. She smoked some more, stared at the floor, ran her fingers through her hair. When she spoke again, the anger was missing. “He wasn’t just after information. He had something else going, you know? When I told him about some of what Kimberly and I had done together, he kind of flipped out. That’s when the beating started. I mean, I knew I had blown it. I shouldn’t have told him as much as I did. Then he wanted to know everything. I had to tell him positions, whether we’d made it together without a guy in the middle, whether she ever took it up the ass, all kinds of stuff. I mean, he scared the shit out of me. I’m not going to forget him for a long, long time.”
As she talked, her voice as tough as usual, the light from a gap in the curtains caught the tears running down her cheek. “He had real pale eyes, not really blue or anything. They were weird-colorless-and cold. I mean, I knew sure as hell I wasn’t going to live, that he was going to kill me and that it was going to hurt. And he did hurt me bad. Not the face stuff-I’m used to a few punches-but there was other stuff, things he enjoyed. The more it hurt, the more he liked it… Fucking creep.”
She raised her eyes to me, openly crying now, the toughness suddenly gone. She looked like a kid in dirty clothes, her body shaking helplessly. “If you ever catch him, could you blow his balls off for me?”
I knelt and put my arms around her. The embrace was prompted by more than mere sympathy. Through her suffering, Susan Lucey had just illuminated one of the murkier corners of the case. Ski Mask’s reaction to the information she had given him went a long way to connecting him emotionally to Kimberly Harris rather than to Bill Davis. While I still didn’t know specifically what Ski Mask was after, I now felt pretty sure it wasn’t solely to get Davis out of jail. Susan Lucey had paid a large price to get me that information. I was definitely in her debt.
After a short while, she stopped sobbing and pulled back a little. Her hands were clasped in her lap. Her face was flushed and bruised and wet with tears. “Fuck, I probably would have met someone like him sooner or later. I probably will again. It’s the turf.”
She hesitated a moment and then gave me the best-and longest-kiss I’d ever had in my life. It left me misty eyed and breathless. “Thanks for the coffee maker, you creep.” She said it without a smile.
· · ·
Despite the wide scope of our search for Kimberly Harris’s activities during her three-day weekends, none of us really believed we’d hit pay dirt searching train, bus or cut-rate car-rental files, so all of us that morning had taken either travel agencies or the airline. The airline was going to take longer, of course. Its records were not held locally, and we sent one man across New Hn at="0em" ampshire to hunt them down. But in principle, for once we were on the right track.
At the end of a long afternoon plowing through box after box of computer printouts, we found two travel firms that clicked. One of them had handled tickets for a Miss Julie Johnson on seventy percent of the right dates, and another had ticketed a Mr. L. Armstrong for the same dates and destinations.
I found Brandt in his office at about six in the evening. He was sitting in virtual darkness-only his desk lamp on-with his feet on the table and his chair tilted back. His eyes were closed and he was smoking.
“Rough day, huh?”
“Long, yeah.”
“How did the board go?”
“On and on. I gave them more than they had and less than they wanted. They let me know, in their words, that my ‘future hangs in the balance.’ Utter crap, of course; they’re confusing my job with my life. Typical asshole pomposity.”
Unusual words for a usually unflappable man. I was hoping his condemnation wasn’t universal-one of those assholes was a woman for whom I had a particular fondness. “Did they all come down that hard?”
He sighed. “No, not all.” Then he chuckled. “Your own Miss Zigman was her normal levelheaded self, but she was wise enough to lay low in the storm. What have you got?”
“Julie Johnson and Louis Armstrong had a penchant for flying the same airplanes to the same places, at least according to two separate travel agencies.”
“Louis Armstrong?”
“The irreverence of torrid love, I guess. They certainly had an eye for glamour: Vegas, Lake Tahoe, Miami, San Francisco-all the hot spots. We interviewed the agents who booked most of the tickets. It was all done in cash, and it sounds like Kimberly did the arranging for both of them, although she was apparently in disguise-dark glasses, hair hidden, stuff like that. Just enough hocus-pocus to make her impossible to forget. I guess that makes the guy a well-heeled married local, or at least one with access to funds. From what Susan Lucey told me about Kimberly’s taste in men, I would also assume he’s-as they say-mature in years. Either that or a shy-but-precocious fifteen-year-old.” Or, I thought, even Ski Mask himself.
“Good.” He still hadn’t opened his eyes or moved. “Now what?”
“Now I go to Boston. I have a date tonight with a friend at the police department.”
“In search of Pam Stark?”
“Yup.”
“Happy trails. Don’t get mugged.”
I called Gail before I left and congratulated her on surviving the afternoon. She said Brandt had displayed the stoicism of Saint Sebastian and had fared about as well. I apologized for not showing up last night and told her not to expect me tonight either. I had a feeling that what I would find in Boston would keep me out of town for a while. Her reaction was matter-of-fact, with no hint of the emotion she’d shown the day befor thfeeling the. The see-saw was back in balance, thanks to me, and for that, idiotically, I was now sorry.
To me, driving to Boston at night is slipping toward the heart of a gigantic landlocked amoeba, whose thin and ragged outer fringe extends far beyond its inner core. From narrow, unlit New Hampshire farm roads, lights gradually begin to cluster along the sides of the highway. Occasional houses become occasional towns; the towns begin to link first tenuously with filling stations and a restaurant here or there, then with modest “miracle miles”-commercial stretches of small retailers, low-rent discount stores, and fading supermarkets. Finally, still well over an hour from the city, suburbia takes over in an endless chain of lights and malls and parking plazas and increasingly maddened traffic. By the rules known only to these particular urbanites, behavior behind the wheel metamorphoses into animal cunning. Speed limits are ignored, traffic lights are useless; drivers maneuver for room and advantage, speeding and braking, flowing from one side of the road to the other in a ceaseless attempt to get ahead of the other guy. I entered Boston, as always, like a leaf in a torrent, my only thoughts turning on ways to avoid the rocks.
I finally beached myself downtown, not far from the city’s government center, and entered the Boston Police Department’s main building on Stuart Street. I found Don Hebard as promised, loitering outside the records division, a plastic coffee mug in hand.
“Welcome to Beantown.”
“You people actually call it that?”
“Sure, sometimes. Especially to tourists.” He led me through a set of double doors and signed in. “How was the traffic?”
“Probably what you’d call normal.”
“Go on red, stop on green?”
“Yeah. Why don’t they do that in New York or anywhere else I’ve been?”
He continued down a hallway and ushered me into a large room jammed with floor-to-ceiling shelf units stuffed with cardboard boxes. There was a counter near the door with a computer monitor on it. “Ever been to Rome or Athens or Cairo?”
I shook my head.
“Well I have-once each. I was on one of those Mediterranean whirlwind tours-real waste of money. It’s my theory that when all of us came over to this great American melting pot, some of us opted to stay in Boston. Now the reason we did that was some cosmic genetic glitch we share with people who ended up in Rome and Athens and Cairo. It’s that gene that makes us all drive the same way.”
I nodded in silence. The less I said the better. I’d forgotten Hebard never took comments about the traffic or the weather as mere icebreakers. To him they were subjects of real merit, comparable to religion and sports.
“What’s the name?”
“Stark, Pamela.”
He entered it on the computer and watched a spume of green letters wash across the screen. “Shit.”
“What?”
He pointed to a seoinv height=ries of numbers. “That means it hasn’t been put in the data banks yet.” He waved at the room beyond the counter. “All that is going on computer, along with everything that comes in now, but we haven’t quite finished. I’m afraid your girl is buried in the stacks.”
He copied the reference number from the screen and led me behind the counter. We walked up and down looming, claustrophobic corridors, checking numbers, until he came to a halt and dropped to his knees. I joined him on the floor.
“I never find these things at waist level, you know? It’s started to make me wonder.”
I helped him pull the box off the bottom shelf. “You didn’t drop by the Cairo Police Department, did you?”
He looked serious and pursed his lips. I took the box from him and stood up, flipping it open. “What’s the last number?”
He rose slowly and gave it to me. I pulled out the appropriate folder and handed the box back. “You got some place I could read this?”
He led me to a table against the far wall and left to get some more coffee, still lost in thought. Hebard was no longer a street cop; he was in administration. It gave him lots of time to wonder about things.
Pamela Stark’s file consisted of some mug shots, a fingerprint card, and a badly typed arrest report, along with all the paperwork attending an overnight stay in the Boston jail.
I compared the picture I had of Kimberly Harris-taken the morning she was found with a belt around her neck-to the shot of a young and sulky Pamela Stark. It was a match. It made me feel odd, seeing her alive for the first time. I’d looked at the other picture so often it had become her real portrait, rather than the face of a muscleless corpse.
I stared at the mug shot for a long time. She wasn’t beautiful in the advertisement sense-no chiseled cheekbones or aristocratic brow. She had the look of an aging teenager whose choices now would determine her appearance. She could either carry her cheerleader softness into gentle maturity, or lose it to bitterness, hardship, and the grind of a hopeless life. From the little I knew of her, she’d opted for the former by dancing near the latter, obviously a shortcut that hadn’t worked out.
According to the report, she’d been busted virtually off the bus while selling her favors to an undercover cop. She claimed she’d been in the city less than twenty-four hours, had no pimp, no family or friends in the area, no lawyer, little money, and no remorse. It was the arresting officer’s opinion that this would not be the last time she and the police would do business. She gave her home address as 24 Stone Creek Road, Westpor t, Connecticut. She also gave her age as nineteen.
Hebard saw me writing down the address. “You know to take that with a grain of salt, I guess.”
“How big a grain?”
He looked at the arresting officer’s report. “She hardly sounds like the virgin-from-Peoria type; stupid maybe, but not impressed by authority. I’d say you could eat the whole salt-shaker. She was above the age of consent and pleaded guilty; there was no reason for us to check the address-or the name, for that matter. Still, you nevetilrleaderr know.”
He reached over my shoulder and picked up the photo. “Pretty girl. Very pretty, in fact.”
“Before and after.” I handed him the picture I’d been carrying around.
He looked at them both. “Kind of gives you a queer feeling, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.”