A Garden of Vipers (15 page)

“You think that's what happened?” I asked.

“It makes good sense,” Shuttles said. “From what you said about her sneaking in the place.”

“Horseshit,” Logan said, rolling his chair forward so fast Shuttles had to jump back to keep from getting his toes run over. “Look at the fuckin' picture. The woman was a beater, a fem dom. Tying up johns and whipping them, snapping clothespins on their nips, pissing in their mouths while they jerk off. ‘Excuse me, Mistress Sonia, could I have a some more ginger ale?'”

Logan laughed at his little joke. I heard Harry growl. It was about time to git.

“Your point, Logan?” I asked.

“Beaters don't solicit at conventions. They use the Net these days. That's where we got the picture. Why go door-to-door, so to speak, when you can put up a Web site with pictures of titties in leather, get the submissive trade beating a path to your door?”

I turned to Shuttles. “I'd talk to the kitchen folks at the Shrine. See if anyone there knows how she got let in and why.”

“There you go, Tyree,” Logan chuckled, clasping his fingers behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “Ryder's figured out your chore for the afternoon.”

 

Harry and I slumped back to our cube to lash together notes on Dinkins and the Hooleys. I started scratching an outline. Harry stared at the ceiling, as though following Barnes's lead.

“Can I get you some earplugs?” I said. “A tennis ball?”

“What? Oh, sorry. I was zoning out.”

“You thinking about Carole Ann Hibney?”

He nodded, sadness in his eyes. “She was basically pathetic, Cars. Born lost in the woods and nowhere to go but deeper in the forest. But there was a spark in her, a brightness. In her world, strange as it was, she felt she had things figured out. Logical, in a way. She decided she wasn't going to be whipped on by men anymore, that it was her turn to do the whipping. She'd had a couple johns who wanted it that way, and realized they were the easiest to deal with and paid the most. That's when she came up with the Mistress Sonia act. She once told me she picked her johns carefully, thought she was safe.”

“It's a job of illusions,” I said. “Safety is just one of them.”

Taneesha Franklin's visitation arrived the next morning. Harry and I were going because perps sometimes attended the services of victims, a compulsion seeming to border on the erotic.

The day was wide and bright, the sky a blue mirror. The funeral parlor was large, with a wide front lawn, a large primary and smaller secondary parking lot to the side. The parlor was bordered on both sides by small shops, the nearest a small grocery. Knowing Dani would be at the service, I hadn't looked forward to attending, but it was part of my job and my promise to Taneesha. The events with Dani hurt like hell, but every time the sun came up, I was a day farther down the road.

We pushed into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, perhaps two hundred folks. The service had been earlier, family only. Harry and I studied the crowd from the corners. Lincoln Haley stood across the room, black-suited, his face somber. He saw us and headed our way.

“Gentlemen, thanks for coming.”

“It's actually part of the job, Mr. Haley. But from what we've learned about Ms. Franklin, it's what we'd want to do anyway.”

We stood silently for several moments, sharing the uneasiness of grief. A voice came from behind as a male shape moved past my shoulder.

“Mr. Haley? You're Lincoln Haley, sir? I recognized you from your photo on WTSJ's Web site. I'm sorry for the loss. It must be a tremendous blow to everyone at the station.”

I turned to see a guy a bit under my height, paunchy, slope-shouldered. He was dressed in dark pants and a dark sport coat. His short hair was the sort of subdued red favored by folks who want to be edgy, but don't have the type of job permitting blue or green. A silver ring protruded from his eyebrow and there was a soft color to his flesh that was probably makeup. He spoke with a slight lisp.

Haley said, “Thank you, sir. Are you a friend of Taneesha?”

“No, I'm sorry to say. I'm more a friend to WTSJ, my favorite station. I've been listening for years. I remember back when Ms. Franklin started, the midnight-to-six slot. I always tuned in and listened. I wasn't born until 1981, but I always loved the funk and Motown of the sixties and seventies. Otis, Sly, Mahalia, Aretha, James Brown…”

I tuned the conversation out, scanned the crowd while trying to appear nonchalant. I was looking for wild eyes and an aura of menace. Sometimes the crazies walked right into your pocket.

“She had a great voice,” the fan was saying to Haley. “It's a terrible loss. I hope someone pays dearly for what they did.”

Haley said, “You heard her in the middle of the night? That puts you in a select audience of a few hundred. You still listen, Mr….?”

“Lucasian. Jim Lucasian.”

The two shook hands. Lucasian turned to me. “Are you a friend or another devoted listener?”

Haley said, “Detective Ryder is with the MPD. He and his partner are here in a surveillance role.”

I winced. “Uh, Linc?” I said.

Haley's turn to wince. “Oh, sorry.”

Lucasian held up his hand as if making a pledge. “Your secret's safe with me, detective. I hope you nail the SOB.” He sauntered off toward the exit.

I excused myself and wandered to a doorway. I turned the corner as Dani was entering the room. We nearly walked into one another. She stood in the threshold. My breath went shallow. Her fingertips touched my arm.

“Please, Carson, can we talk about—”

“There's nothing to say,” I croaked.

“I just want to explain.”

“Did you lie about going to bed with Kincannon?” I said, appearing more interested in a nearby lamp than Dani.

“No. But I need you to know that it wasn't—”

I said, “No is all I needed to hear. We've got nothing more to talk about, Ms. Danbury. You want to talk to somebody, talk to Buckie-boy.”

Her fingers remained on my arm. I shook them loose and turned away. A few minutes later I saw her leave.

 

Lucas slipped through the tight crowd and out the door. Time to head back to his insecurities firm. Get a nap, surveil the building across the way. He was crossing the funeral parlor lawn when a voice whispered at his shoulder and a hard object rammed his side.

“It's a gun, Lucas. Don't do anything but walk, just like you're doing.”

“Hello, Crandell,” Lucas said, stopping, keeping his voice steady. “My, but we're stealthy as ever.”

“Keep walking, Lucas.”

He didn't move. The other man's hand flashed out, grabbed Lucas's hand. Pain shot up Lucas's arm.

“Keep moving, Luke, and there's no pain. Stop and they break.”

Lucas moved as slowly as possible, but keeping one step ahead of disjointed fingers. The man beside him was six feet tall, dressed in a sculptured gray suit. His physique was boxy and muscular, bowed legs imparting a simian quality. The eyes were small obsidian dots, like button eyes in a doll. Like always, Crandell's hair was perfect: waves of curly blond hair flowing from his temples.

Lucas affected the singsong voice of the old movie actor Peter Lorre. “You saw through my disguise, didn't you, Crandell? I'd forgotten how good you were. My height, right? You were looking at everyone six-one, checking closer? You're amazing, Crandell.”

“You're a funny guy. But a lot of people aren't laughing, Lucas. They're terrified that you're out and doing God knows what. They'll be glad to see you and me together again.”

Lucas switched to his normal voice, soft and modulated. “Big payday for you, right?”

“I always have a big payday when we meet, Lukey-boy.”

“Let's see, Crandell, the last time you and I got together it was four years ago, beneath a microwave tower in a field.” Lucas winked.

“You're a sick boy, Lucas. Delusional. Got anger problems, problems with women. You need help.”

Lucas looked away. Took a deep breath.

“I'm not going back. You'll have to shoot me here. You're a great fixer, Crandell, but how will you fix shooting me in a parking lot?”

“You'll be fine, Lucas. You just have to…resume your normal routine.”

Lucas heard the roar of an engine, and a dark boxy car jumped from the line of cars and pulled in front of him, braking hard. The door swung open. Lucas bent, smiled, looked at the driver.

“Are you in law enforcement, sir? Crandell likes to employ from its ranks.”

Crandell said, “Get in or I'll put you in, Luke. It'll hurt for days.”

Lucas shot a last look at freedom. Or at life. No one near.
Wait.
Over there, a hundred feet away…walking down a line of parked cars like a man deep in thought.

That cop. Detective. What the hell was his name?

I stepped outside to check the lot, happily free of the parlor. I find contemporary funerals stunted and artificial, stage-managed by businesspeople hired to mute death's impact. Quiet reservation is the protocol. We lose our words in whispers and walk softly on silencing carpets. If we avoid dissolving into weeping and wailing and honest emotion, we are lauded for
holding up well
.

When I die, I don't want people holding up well, I want folks shivering and shaking and dropping to the ground like an old-time revival meeting. I want floor-rolling, tongue-speaking, moon-ranting. I want poetry spoken, songs sung, hands clapped. I want people who never met me to hold the hands of those who did.

I want truths told, balanced by beautiful lies.

“Detective Ryder!”

I turned to see the red-haired fan of funk who'd been talking with Haley, waving my direction. He stood beside another man, whose square build and tight-curled blond hair seemed oddly familiar. Angled to the curb behind them was a dark sedan, Buick maybe. I turned and walked that way, hands in my pockets. There was a bright smile on Funk Fan's face, but the other man's face looked somewhere between fight and flight. When I was a half dozen steps distant, Funky sashayed sideways.

I said, “Whatcha need, bud?”

The driver of the vehicle laid on the horn, a piercing blast. I grimaced. Funky laughed and backpedaled faster. I looked into the face of the curly-haired man and immediately knew him from somewhere. He recognized me at the same split-second. I saw motion at his waist, the grip of an automatic in his left hand, the hand beneath his jacket. The gun had a pig snout, a suppressor. The hand began to move. The gun emerged.

He's going to shoot you!
my mind screamed as the gun arced upward. My weapon was shoulder-holstered under my left arm. Useless. I had one motion: Go for his legs. I dove, hands outstretched, saw legs scrabbling away as I rolled, grabbing at air, at nothing. A door slammed, tires screeched. The stink of burned rubber filled the air. No shot was fired.

Then Harry was beside me, kneeling.

“What the hell's going on, Carson?”

“That guy. In the car. He had a gun. With a damn suppressor.” The words were in a voice not mine, a trembling voice.

Harry helped me to my feet. My knees wouldn't hold and I sat back down.

“Who the hell was he?”

I spun my head, looking for Funky.

“The other guy, Harry, where'd he go?”

“I didn't see any other guy. I was inside and heard a car horn blare, came out to check. I see you laying on the ground, a blue sedan smoking its tires down the street, a guy pulling the door shut.”

“The other guy was a funk fan, talked to Haley earlier. Haley didn't know him. The guy was talking about Taneesha, the station. I was checking cars. Funk Fan yells my name and I see him standing by a hard-looking guy with curly blond hair. I walk over as Funky splits, and I see Curly's got a suppressed pistol in his hand. I think he was debating whether to crank off a round. The horn blew, like the driver was saying,
Screw it, let's run
. I jumped for the gunman, ended up eating grass.”

“I didn't see any of that. Just you on the ground and the peeling-out vehicle.”

“Funky used me,” I said. “I was diversion for his escape.”

An older woman walked by on the sidewalk and shot us a nervous glance, a big black guy kneeling beside a slender white guy reclining on the lawn of a funeral parlor. I stood on improving legs. Harry and I followed the path Funky had taken. We turned a corner and saw a pillow in the middle of the sidewalk.

“This Funky,” Harry said. “A chubby guy, right?”

“Not anymore, obviously.”

We returned the way we came, tossed the pillow in the cruiser. It had a cotton case, soft, not a fingerprint surface.

I ran the scene through my head again, came to one conclusion.

“Funky's our boy, Harry. Taneesha's killer. He came in disguise. And he's got someone else after him.”

“Could you ID him again if you saw him?”

I shrugged. “It's the gun-toting guy that's bothering me, bro. I knew him. And I'm sure he knew me. Problem is, I got no name, no place. I just know the face from somewhere.”

Harry said, “We're never far from a surveillance camera anymore. Whole goddamn world is growing eyes. Let's go see if any were watching.”

 

The parlor had security cams, but not out front. There was a service station a half block down the street. The chances its security cams saw anything usable from this distance were nil. Still, it had to be verified. We walked down the street toward the station, passing a ten-foot-wide storefront grocery flanking the parlor's lot. Harry grabbed my arm, pointed at the grocery's window.

“Looky there, Carson.”

I turned to the window and saw a sign proclaiming,
HAM HOCKS
$1.89/
POUND
.

“You're hungry?”

“Look inside. Right up there.”

I looked past the sign. Mounted behind the window in a corner was a small security camera pointing out to the street.

“Odd direction for a camera,” Harry said. “Let's check it out.”

A bell jingled our arrival. Behind the counter a tall and slender black man in a white apron was cutting slices from a wheel of cheese. He shot us a glance. I put him in his late fifties, a touch of gray in his short natural. Another camera behind the counter watched over the twin rows of shelves running back into the store.

Harry flashed his badge over the counter. “You the owner, sir?”

The guy concentrated on slicing. “Naw, I'm the floor show. The owner don't get here for another hour.”

Harry waited it out. Finally the guy turned to us, rolled his eyes.

“Hell yes, I'm the owner, Oliver Tapley. Who else gonna be stupid enough to work here?”

“That camera by the window, Mr. Tapley. Odd placement.”

Tapley showed us his back again and continued sawing cheese.

“Mr. Tapley?” Harry prompted.

Two more cheese slices fell. Tapley said, “I talk better when interruptions turn into customers.”

Harry pulled his wallet. “Give us two ham and cheese on rye. Hot peppers on both, brown mustard on one.”

Tapley lifted a baked ham from the cooler and set it on the counter. “I got two parking spaces out front. Designated just for this store, sign on the pole says so. People run in, get what they need, run out.”

Harry said, “But other people use the spots, right?”

Tapley scowled. “Funeral people, mostly. Fifty-six goddamn spaces in the parlor's lot, and where do people park? On the street in front of my store.”

“So you keep an eye out front as well as in the store…”

“If they ain't coming in here, I give 'em a cussin' until they move.”

“Does the camera out there record?”

Tapley studied the ham like there was something fascinating on its surface. Harry sighed. “I guess we need some drinks, Mr. Tapley; a root beer and a Dr Pepper.”

Tapley whittled at the ham and assembled sandwiches. He nodded to a monitor beside the register. We had to lean over the counter to see it: a split screen, half showing the store interior, half Tapley's prized parking slots. The cameras were a cheap setup with low image quality, like the lenses were covered with gray cheesecloth. The image didn't extend to the area where the incident happened.

“You shoo anyone out of your spots in the last couple hours?” Harry asked.

Tapley wrapped paper around the sandwiches, set them on the counter.

“Maybe an hour back. A big-ass car pulled into my spot like it pays the rent on this place instead of me. I chased the bastard off.”

“Do you recall what kind of car it was?” Harry asked.

“A blue box, Detroit iron, I think; Buick? Olds?”

“You keep the tapes, Mr. Tapley?” Harry asked, barely concealing the excitement in his voice. Tapley turned away and pulled a jar of pickles from the case. He inspected it carefully, turning it round and round.

Harry spun to a shelf at his back, grabbed an armload of items at random, threw them beside the register.

“We'll take this stuff, too.”

Tapley went to the rear and returned with a videocassette. He racked the tape to the approximate time frame, handed us the control, then wandered off to fetch items for an elderly woman. I thumbed fast-forward. On the in-store side of the screen, customers came and went in comedic jitters. Outside the spaces stood empty, vehicles blurring by in the traffic lane.

“There,” Harry yelled. “Pause it.”

I stopped, rewound. Hit play. Empty spaces in front of the store, an occasional car passing. The blue sedan, a Buick, glided in dead center, hogging both spaces. Nothing to see, the Buick's windows opaque with tint.

We held our breaths as the passenger door opened. Curly slid out, finger-brushed his hair back, walked toward the parlor. He was in frame two seconds, one and a half with his hand between the lens and his face. The image was grainy, blurred.

“Way too brief,” I said. “But he's so familiar, it's agonizing.”

We gave Tapley a receipt for the tape, headed outside, me carrying the cassette and sandwiches, Harry lugging a paper bag. He reached into the bag and produced one of the items grabbed haphazardly from the shelf, a purse-size pack of tampons. According to the package they were “Scented For That Springtime Feel!”

“Lawd,” was all he could manage.