Agnes Hahn (10 page)

“Mm hmm. Mm hmm. Mm hmm.”

It was the sound Eugenia used to make in his ear when they made love.

The woman was good at her craft, and the spontaneity of the event triggered an early conclusion. Her oral crescendo vibrated the room and probably registered on the local Richter scale.

She pulled on her panties and slacks in a hurry and jumped to her feet. “You might want to get yourself together. This room gets used a lot.”

He felt sluggish, like he was moving in slow motion, and the thought of being caught half-dressed did little to speed his movements. He fastened the last button on the Levi’s and scanned the room for the carnations. The mangled bouquet was in the corner next to the washer. He retrieved it.

“Are those for me?”

“They’re for Ella.” He looked down. “Or, they were.” He picked out the bent and torn flowers, tossing them to the floor. He gripped five of the original dozen in his fist. “She likes carnations.”

“Nobody ever brings me flowers.”

“Maybe if I knew your name, I would.”

She planted a tongue-thrusting kiss on his mouth and pranced to the door, laughing. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We can talk in the lounge.”

He followed her to the door. It opened to an audience; he jumped back a step. The two women from the lounge were joined by a third he’d never seen before, and they gave a rousing ovation. He slinked out, pulled by the hand of Uh huh. She gave a low curtsy and led him down the hall. Her laughter reverberated through the north wing.

The lounge was empty.

“What do you want to know about Ella that’s so important you bring flowers to a woman you don’t even roll with?” A pleasant blush filled her face. There wasn’t a hint of hurt in her expression or her statement.

Anywhere. Anytime. Sex was a game. Just like with Eugenia. Although with her, it had also been a bond. They had done it in so many places, it had become part of their normal relationship. Relationship? He leaned back and focused on the woman. A relationship with this woman? He didn’t even know her name. He shook his head. He needed information about Ella. But what did that make him? He shook the thought from his head.

“I want to get through to her,” he said. “The real her. You said she was lucid sometimes after supper. Is there anything that helps bring her back? Any way to get her attention?”

The woman looked up at the ceiling. “When she gets like that, she always wants to help clean up. Maybe that’s what brings her back. Cleaning up.”

“Do you mention it to her, or does she just snap into it?”

“I don’t do anything.”

No surprise there. “When are you going to bring her down?”

She looked at her watch. “Oh, shit. I was supposed to start getting her ready five minutes ago.” She didn’t move.

He pulled a single flower from his fist and held it out to her.

A smile puckered her cheeks. She gave his crotch a quick squeeze and sauntered down the hall. At the doorway, she spun around, reached into her front pocket, and pulled out two attached, wrapped condoms. She swung them back and forth, winked, then disappeared into the hallway.

Jason looked down at the remaining four carnations and exhaled hard. Uh huh, it was.

Ella looked nice in her blue flowered dress, none the worse for Uh huh’s tardiness. Uh huh wheeled her to the table and gave Jason a sloppy smile before slinking away to a far corner of the room.

“Ella, I’m Jason Powers. We talked the other day.” He held out the bouquet of four carnations.

She cradled them in her arms and inhaled deeply.

“Are you visiting today, dear?”

Jason watched as Ella finished the last mouthful of her dessert. He pushed his dishes closer to hers and adjusted the position of the carnations on the table, trying to shake a little scent from them.

Ella reached for his stack of dishes and pulled them next to hers. Her expression seemed to change. It wasn’t fear he saw, but more like sadness, in stark contrast to her normal jovial disposition. Her shoulders seemed to slump forward. And she aged before his eyes.

“Ella. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, dear. It’s time to clean up.”

“I’m Jason Powers. I’m here to talk to you about Agnes.”

“Is Agnes here? I’d like to see her.”

“She couldn’t make it tonight. But I need to talk to you about her. About her past.”

“Is she in trouble?”

What made her say that? If Agnes was innocent, why would Ella’s first thought be that she was in trouble? “Yes.”

“What’s wrong?” Her sad expression deepened.

He looked across at the dapper gentleman, who leaned forward into the conversation. Jason lowered his voice. “She found out she has a sister.”

“Oh, dear.” The creases surrounding Ella’s eyes turned downward.

He waited for a few seconds. “I need to ask you about her sister, and about Edward Hahn.”

Ella’s entire face tensed, and her eyebrows pinched the bridge of her nose. “Eddie.” She spat out the word and brought her fist down on the table. Her eyes flicked across the table, at the gentleman, then down to her lap.

Jason looked across at the gentleman and frowned. The man didn’t raise his eyes from his plate.

“Please tell me anything you can about Lilin and Edward Hahn. It’s important. For Agnes. Do you know where I can find them?”

Her expression slipped and her eyes glazed. Tears welled. “Family secrets.” Her voice was soft, quiet. “Let them lie.”

“What do you mean, family secrets?”

Tears rolled down Ella’s cheeks, but her face dawned with a startling cheerfulness.

“Are you visiting today, dear? It’s a nice day for a visit.”

O
N AN EMOTIONAL LEVEL, NOTHING ABOUT A MURDER
scene made sense to Bransome. And yet, he was expected to make sense of it. It grated, the way everyone tiptoed around, taking photos, acting as if the body were diseased, toxic. It was a person, someone’s son, maybe someone’s father or brother.

He turned from the motel room doorway and savored his last look at the Pacific before the sun extinguished into the liquid horizon. He’d probably see the light of tomorrow morning before he got home. A small bay to his left was partially hidden by a deep cliff, but he could hear the sound of the waves as they smashed into the rocky shoreline, sending salt spray skyward. The sound soothed him.

A man in a khaki uniform stepped forward, pulling Bransome’s attention back to the room. The officer looked like he had graduated from the academy within the last week. He stopped and stood there, silent.

“Detective Art Bransome, from Mendocino.” Bransome offered his hand.

“Officer Frank Tatum. I thought Ukiah handled the county stuff. How’d you end up down here on this one?”

Bransome tugged at his belt, but it slipped back down, under his belly. Cocky little rookie, probably his first assignment. He thought of a good way to cut him down to size, but that wouldn’t make the job any easier. Besides, green or grizzled, the uniforms stood for a member of the fraternity, the good guys. “I get the major cases along the coast. Ukiah picks up all the inland stuff.” Besides, this job would tear the rookie a new one soon enough.

“Lucky you,” Tatum said. He swept his arm in a wide arc. “It’s all yours. Mind if I watch? This might be number four. I’ve given it a quick look.”

Bransome felt a twitch in his temple, followed by another in time with his heartbeat. “If you’re right, she’s moving up the coast. I hope she’s not after anyone in Mendocino.” He stepped close to the body. “Did you get the directive on what to look for?”

“They read it over the radio after I called this in. Nothing this big’s ever happened around here before.”

Bransome swung around. “A murder isn’t an opportunity. It’s not a blessing for a bored town.” Or for a rookie officer, he thought.

Tatum stepped sideways. “Sorry, sir. That’s not what I meant.”

Bransome turned back to the body. The room was tidy, like it hadn’t been occupied for more than a few minutes. Both lamps on either side of the bed were on, bathing the bed and the corpse in a bright wash of light. The bed was turned down on one side, but apparently not slept in, and the victim’s pants were folded on an adjacent chair, his shirt draped around the chair back, and his shoes and socks lined up on the floor, like the chair was a sitting human caricature.

“Let’s do a check-off to see if you’re right,” Bransome said. He leaned in over the bed. “Clean cut across the neck. Towels to prevent blood spray. What’s that tell you, Tatum?”

Tatum’s lips parted. “Um. I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

Bransome glanced over his shoulder, then back at the body. “If someone took the time to press towels against a slit throat, the victim was either on the way to death or somehow incapacitated.” He glanced back again. “Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything tell you which it might have been?”

“No signs of a struggle. The vic’s clothing is folded on the chair.” Tatum stepped around and pointed at the victim’s chest. “And, two bruises, with small cuts in the middle.” He pointed to the right side of the victim’s midsection.

“Did you look at his shirt?”

“No, sir. Why?”

Bransome snapped a photo of the clothed chair and jotted a few words in his notebook. “Hand it to me.”

Bransome pulled on a pair of latex gloves and clicked the nearside lamp to the high beam. He held the shirt up in front of it. “See on the right, where the bruises would be? No holes. What’s that tell you?”

Tatum smiled and nodded his head. “It happened after he was naked.”

Bransome grinned back. “Or, at least after he had his shirt off.” He enjoyed working with young officers, as long as they didn’t get too enthusiastic. As close as he was to retirement, his job included as much teaching as crime scene workups. And Tatum seemed like a nice kid. “Here. Hold it up to the light. Please.” He clicked two more pictures.

“So far, so good,” Bransome said. He took a step back, and Tatum followed suit. “What do you make of the penis?” He pointed to the severed organ, lying in the center of the victim’s chest.

Tatum chuckled. “I don’t know. It’s not where it should be, I’ll tell you that.”

Bransome let him have his laugh. “Let’s keep to the list. The cut is clean. Very little bleeding at the site. Tell you anything important?”

Tatum nodded. “The neck was cut first. He bled out, then … the other cut.”

Bransome spun around and nearly knocked into Tatum. “Did anyone use the sink?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“It’s on the list.”

Tatum shrugged and stepped around so he could see into the bathroom. “It’s not wet, so no one used it recently. They didn’t read me anything about the sink.”

Bransome waved Tatum back over. He wanted to keep his voice down. “If it’s like the others, the killer washed the organ before using it, so the blood on it won’t be the victim’s, it’ll be hers.”

“Her blood?” Tatum looked like he was going to throw up. “They didn’t read that part, sir.”

Bransome turned to face Tatum. “Are you okay?”

Tatum took a deep breath. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “But one thing bothers me.”

“Only one thing?” It was Bransome’s turn to chuckle.

“Yes, sir. If the killer uses the … um … thing for pleasure, after she cuts it off … How? It’d be all floppy.”

“Are you married, Tatum?”

“No, sir.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yes, sir. For a little over two months now.”

Bransome held back an all-out laugh. “I’m going to do you a favor here. Ask your girlfriend to explain that part to you. You can’t give her any of the other information on the list, that’s for police eyes only. But I give you permission to reveal this one thing to her. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tatum’s vacant stare told Bransome to get back to the evidence. A loud rap on the open door startled him.

“Hey, Art. Is the party in here?”

Bransome’s partner, Quint Saroyan, filled the doorway.

Saroyan stepped into the room, and Bransome saw Officer Tatum move back a step. It was fun to watch people’s reactions to Saroyan when the quarters were tight. He was a shade over six-foot-five, with a bespectacled face that screamed pocket protectors and a belt-holstered cell phone. Below the neck, he could pass for a World Wrestling Federation bad boy. He was the rankler of midthirties men everywhere. Rather than a spreading waistline, he still sported a twenty-nine-inch waist that ballooned to thighs that challenged the fabric of even the baggiest of pant legs, and a V-shaped torso that defeated the back pleats of every button-up shirt.