Cry Baby (29 page)

11.10 PM

Just wait till Cal hears about this, he thinks.

Tommy LeBlanc, lady killer extraordinaire.

To be honest, he expected this to be a washout. He thought coming here was a mistake. He should have gone home and crashed out. But all the stuff Doyle was saying has been preying on his mind all day. Every time another cop looked at him, LeBlanc wondered what opinions were being formed or confirmed.

It shouldn’t bother him – he knows that. These are modern times. A person’s sexual proclivities, or lack thereof, should have no bearing on whether that person is deemed fit to do their job. But at the same time he knows it’s not as simple as that in an organization like the police force.

He’d be less bothered if he were indeed gay. But the situation now, if Doyle is to be believed, is that people have an inaccurate view of him. He’s as straight as they come. He likes girls and they like him. It’s just that he’s put all his energy into his work lately. He’s ambitious. Nothing wrong with that.

So, anyway. This is to prove Doyle wrong. Him and all the other gossip-mongers who think they have a right to put people into fictitious pigeon-holes.

And yourself, Tommy?

What?

I mean, isn’t this a little bit about proving something to yourself too? Confirming what you already know – because this is not news, of course – that you’re definitely one of the guys? That you’re interested in sports and cars and women and that you’re definitely not interested in musicals, even though that performance of Fiddler on the Roof the other night was pretty damn good?

No, it’s not. I don’t need to prove anything to myself. I’m comfortable in my own skin, thank you very much. This is for all the shallow dickheads who will only accept they’re wrong when they see me with a woman on my arm.

Not that she’ll end up on my arm. Or any other part of my anatomy, for that matter (see, guys, what I did there with the smutty testosterone-fueled jokiness? How about that Knicks game, huh?) At the most I’ll get a phone number. Maybe her photo on my cell phone. But that could always lead to other things on another night. And at least I’ll know – I mean, the guys will know. The rumors can be put to bed, even if I don’t get this girl into bed (see, again with the bawdy male wordplay).

She’s nice, this
Erin. Not the kind of girl he expected to meet in a place like this. In a way, that made it easier to approach her. A girl sitting alone on a barstool at the end of the night in a seedy bar, you expect her to be a hooker. Or at least a girl of questionable morals. You expect her to have as much flesh on display as is possible without contravening public decency laws, and to start talking dirty every time she opens her mouth.

LeBlanc doesn’t like that type of girl. I mean, don’t get me wrong and all, they can be great to look at, right? What kind of guy doesn’t like to get his pulse all revved up by the sight of a half-naked woman, huh? Sure. That’s a given, right, fellas?

Maybe it’s the way he was raised, by strictly religious parents. It was drummed into him that modesty is a virtue, and that girls who abandon it are destined for hell – even if they do seem to have an immense amount of fun en route. He has never quite managed to shake off that indoctrination. Girls who make the first moves have always worried him.

Erin
, though, is different. She is pretty. Desirable without the need to be half undressed. In fact, it is surprising how little attempt she has made to appeal to the drifting male clientele. I mean, that’s a big coat she’s wearing. No danger of over-exposure there.

He could go for a girl like this.

But, as the old saying goes, what’s a nice girl like her doing in a place like this?

Well, that’s okay too. No need to doubt her intentions. He has already asked those questions. In a subtle way, of course. She came here to meet a guy. No, don’t get me wrong: not just any guy, but a particular guy. And he stood her up, the bastard. She came all this way to have a drink with a guy who said he might be able to offer her a job, and he stood her up. How do you like that? Some people.

Oh, and she had no idea what this bar was like before she arrived. New in town, you see. Had no idea it was renowned as a pick-up joint. Still, might as well have a drink or two before heading home again, alone and forlorn. Nothing wrong in that. Anyone would do the same.

Yeah, she’s nice.

So maybe he shouldn’t have lied to her.

See, people can be funny when it comes to cops. Sometimes they hate them. Other times, even when they’ve got nothing to hide, they can feel uncomfortable around an officer of the law. He doesn’t want
Erin to feel uncomfortable. So, for tonight at least, he’s a hotel clerk.

He picked that particular job because he thought it unlikely she would be find it interesting. The last thing he wanted was a shitload of questions
regarding a form of employment about which he knows very little. But in fact the very next thing out of her mouth was a query about which hotel he worked for. So he said the Waldorf. And then she wanted to know if he had met anyone famous there, and so he had to pretend that he had signed a non-disclosure agreement, which sounded so unconvincing it provoked him to change the subject immediately, while bitterly regretting the fact that he had lied in the first place.

But what the hell? This isn’t going anywhere. And even if it does, he’ll fess up. He’ll explain to her that he was so enamored with her that he didn’t want to jeopardize the possibility of a relationship. That’s what he’ll say, and she’ll love that. She’ll appreciate his honesty and the strength of his desire for her, and she’ll tell him how cute she finds it. He’s got it all figured out.

‘So…’ he says as he watches her take a delicate sip of her drink, ‘What are your plans now?’

Good question, he thinks. Puts the ball firmly in her court. Gives her an opportunity to say something like, ‘That’s up to you, lover boy.’ Okay, maybe not that. Maybe something not quite so cheesy. But something that at least hints at a continuation of this togetherness into the small hours.

She takes a look at her watch. He’s noticed she does that a lot. Why does she keep doing that? How is my animal magnetism not enough to stop her obsessing about time?

‘I should be going home soon,’ she says. ‘Long day. And another long one tomorrow. A girl needs her beauty sleep.’

‘Looks like you’ve had plenty of that to me,’ he says, a little too quickly. Shit! Talk about cheesy. What kind of line is that, you freaking idiot?

She turns her gaze away, looking faintly embarrassed. As well she might after receiving such a moronic comment. Okay, Tommy, what are you gonna do now to rescue this situation, you putz?

‘You want, I could give you a ride home,’ he says. ‘My car’s outside.’

A step too far? She hardly knows me. Why would she agree to get in a car with a complete stranger at this time of night, especially since she seems so respectable?

‘I… Well, we’ve only just met, and, well…’

See? Told you. A ridiculous suggestion.

‘That’s okay. No problem. Just thought I’d do the gentlemanly thing.’

She looks him up and down, a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘You know what, I actually think you are a gentleman. You’re a refreshing change. Most guys, coming up to a girl all alone in a bar, well…’

‘I know what you mean,’ he says. ‘Conversely,’ he adds, because ‘conversely’ is a good word, he feels, an intelligent word, ‘most women who sit alone in bars…’

She laughs then, in a way that suggests she has entered into a secret pact of understanding with him. They are now both inside the circle looking out, and that makes all the difference.

She stares at him a bit longer. ‘It’s okay. I can get a cab. It’s probably way off your route, anyhow.’

I would drive to the ends of the earth for you, is the next answer that jumps to mind, but this time he catches the ludicrous statement before it escapes. He decides he needs to stop watching so many old B-movies.

‘Why, where do you live?’ There. Sensible, down-to-earth question. No need for the melodrama.

‘I’m not sure I should tell you. You might have ideas.’ She says this playfully, as though toying with him, and he feels a tugging sensation in his pants. Okay, he thinks. Don’t fuck this up now. Don’t tell her that, actually, you
do
have ideas. Lots of dirty, disgusting, depraved ideas. See, guys? See how I’m just one of the boys?

But before he can think up a better response, she tacks on a question of her own: ‘Where do
you
live?’

‘
Greenwich Village,’ he says without hesitation, because he doesn’t want her to think he has anything to hide. ‘West Thirteenth and Seventh Avenue.’

She blinks. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘No. Why would I be kidding about my address?’

‘I live there! Well, not there exactly, but the next block. On West Fourteenth.’

Now it’s his turn to blink. This is destiny. Has to be. Somebody is trying to tell him something and he needs to listen. The stars are all lining up.

‘Seriously? That is so weird. We’re practically neighbors.’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I guess we are. Howdy, neighbor.’

‘Howdy. So… you still want to turn down my offer of a ride?’

‘Well, now, I think that would just be downright rude, don’t you? I accept your kind gesture, neighbor.’

He smiles. Tonight is working out just fine. Better than fine.

He forgets about what came before. The homicides he has been investigating. If he weren’t so tired and his mind so preoccupied with this woman next to him, he might allow his thoughts to flit back to the events of the day and the realization that there is a murderer still out there somewhere. A female murderer.

But he doesn’t. And even if he did, his mental picture of the killer would be of someone utterly unlike
Erin.

Erin
is just too darned nice.

11.17 PM

When he first steps into the apartment, it all seems so normal. A home like any other. No signs of anything untoward.

But then Doyle starts to search. He looks in the bedrooms. He looks in the bathroom. And gradually it starts to become apparent to him that something is very wrong here. This is not normal at all. This is a place of disturbance, of derangement, of extreme unhappiness. This is a place where bad things have happened. A place to send chills up the spine.

Doyle takes his time. Searching and searching. Putting the pieces together. Trying to understand.

Some of it he gets. But not all. Not the whole picture. There are things that still need to be explained, and there is only one person who can do that.

When he believes he has done all he can here, he starts to head toward the apartment door. He needs to radio in, make some calls. He opens the door, but turns to take one last look at the apartment that has so much of a story to tell.

That’s when he sees it.

The tiny keyhole. Set into the wood-paneled wall on his left.

He walks back to it. Taps on the wall. Hears the hollowness that betrays the closet space behind.

It takes him a few minutes to find the key, placed on a shelf in the kitchen area.

He inserts the key into the hole and turns it. Swings the door open, wincing as it creaks eerily.

It is a simple utility cupboard.

It contains a vacuum cleaner, cleaning products, cans of paint, a rolled-up rug, some framed paintings, spare light-bulbs, an ironing board…

Oh, and a body.

A dead body.

Freed from its confines, it rolls and flops into the room, staring up at Doyle as if demanding to know who would dare disturb its peace. Doyle recognizes the face. He knows exactly who this is. Another piece of the puzzle slots into place, but still leaves many questions unanswered.

‘Oh my God.’

The words are not Doyle’s. He spins to confront their source, standing there in the open doorway.

‘Who are you?’ Doyle asks.

The old man cannot take his eyes from the corpse as he speaks. ‘My name,’ he says, ‘is Samuel Wiseman.’

11.34 PM

‘You can’t back out now, Erin.’

She knows this. She doesn’t need reminding. It’s getting close to midnight. There isn’t enough time to get rid of this guy and find somebody else. Not without rushing it and making mistakes that will get her caught.

But…

A cop, goddamnit!

Why did he have to be a cop?

She didn’t know this before. He told her he was a hotel clerk, and she didn’t question it. Why would she? Who goes around saying they’re hotel clerks when they’re not?

Cops, that’s who. Dirty sneaky cops who are out to prevent me from keeping my baby alive.

A few minutes ago she had told him to pull over at a random building on West Fourteenth, saying it was her apartment. She told him she’d love to invite him for a coffee – a coffee, you understand; nothing more – but her mother was staying over. And then, surprise, surprise, he suggested going back to his place instead, only a block away. Again, you understand, just for coffee, nothing more, just coffee.

Well, she had said, I guess I could risk a coffee, and off they had driven. Here, to this apartment building, outside of which this man called Tommy had hesitated before getting out of the car because he had something to tell her. A confession, if you will.

So she asked what it was, and he told her what it was. Which was that, erm, actually he had lied about being a hotel clerk, and that he was in fact a detective in the NYPD.

A detective. In the NY-fucking-PD.

Aaaargh! How more unwelcome could that revelation be?

She did her best not to panic. Oh, she said in her best unruffled voice, you’re a cop, so why didn’t you tell me that? And he said he hadn’t wanted to frighten her off. To which she could easily have responded,
Frighten me off? You’ve just made me crap my pants, you prick! Is that any way to deal with a murderer?
But she didn’t. She said all the things she was expected to say, about what a silly fool he was, and about how sweet his attitude toward her was, and all the while laughing coquettishly like a character in a Jane Austen novel.

She thought about calling it off. Cops are a no-no. You can kill vagrants and hookers and drug dealers and street scum – they’re all fair game. But not cops. That’s when you turn the full machinery of the state against you. They will not rest until they find you, and when they find you they will throw the book at you. You will be history.
Georgia will be history.

But the time…

She had glanced at the clock on the car’s dashboard. Saw how late it was. She was Cinderella, and after midnight the gig was over. No opportunity to find another Prince Charmless in the time available.

So here she is. In his apartment. A cop’s apartment. Which, actually, is not the scummy den of iniquity she expected it to be. It’s tidy and it’s clean and it has modern, expensive furniture – not like a typical bachelor’s crib at all. She also sees now why he owned up to his true employment: if he hadn’t, the various photographs of him in uniform would have given it away.

See, Erin, he’s not a nice guy at all. He lied to you, and he abandoned his deception only when he was left with no alternative. He is after one thing, and will do whatever it takes to get it. That’s why he was in that sleazy bar. Did he have the excuse that he was using it merely as a rendezvous point? No, he did not. Was he ignorant of the nature of that bar? No, he was not. He knew exactly what he was doing, and what he was seeking. He’s a predator, and he deserves all that’s coming to him.

As these thoughts pass through her mind, she is also dimly aware that she is repeating a process she has executed many times today. Seeking justification – that’s what she is doing. Arguing herself into a state of mind that will make it easier to do what is necessary.

It’s coming. It will happen soon. Georgia, are you listening? You’re coming back to me real soon. There are only minutes separating us now. Minutes, that’s all. We can last that long.

And so she chats to this cop, and she accepts his offer of a gin and tonic, even though she has no intention of drinking it – because wasn’t this supposed to be about coffee and not something that could get her drunk and defenseless? – and she rests her arm on her lap with her sleeve pushed up slightly so that she can see her watch, and she counts away those minutes that are the only thing separating her from her baby, and she waits for her moment to end this ordeal, waits for that sweet, sweet time when she can declare this day, this nightmare, officially over.

He talks to her as usual. The man in her ear, not the cop, although he is speaking too. He goes through his same tired routine:
Kill him… What are you waiting for? … This is the last one, Erin. Number six… You’ll soon have your baby back in your arms again… yadda yadda
. But she’s not really listening, to him or the cop. They are both just noise. Her entire focus is on finding an opportunity, an opening. Her purse is on the floor, next to her foot. Within easy reaching distance. She could reach in and grab a weapon in one swift motion. Lunge at this guy before he knew what was happening. But the timing has to be right. Yes, he is unsuspecting, and yes, his reactions must have been dulled by the alcohol he has consumed. But still, he’s a cop. He must have been in physical confrontations lots of times. He has been trained to deal with such situations. Get it wrong, and he will break her arm, take the weapon off her and shove it up her ass.

She decides that it has to be the knife this time. It will do the most damage. Even if she can’t kill him with the first stab, he will see the blood gushing out of him and he will panic and she will have the advantage. She can always get cleaned up in his bathroom before she leaves. Yes, it has to be the knife. Bruce’s knife, in fact – the one she took from his apartment because he made her drop her own in that derelict tenement.

So clinical. Selecting the most appropriate murder weapon. Like she’s some kind of professional assassin. It should sicken her, but it doesn’t. Not anymore. Five victims or six – it really doesn’t make a huge difference. In such a compressed time period they kind of all blend into one, anyway. They become an amalgam: one huge mass of blood-soaked flesh. She has lost the ability to see them as individuals with feelings and thoughts. She won’t refrain from killing this handsome blond cop. All she needs is the opportunity.

She thinks she gets one when he stands up and turns away from her, still blathering on about something or other. She starts to reach into her purse, her eyes fixed on his back. Jump up quickly, she thinks. Push the knife into his ribcage, where his vital organs are. Now. Do it now.

But then he shuffles off his jacket and she sees it. The gun, on his hip. A big dark cannon of a thing. It puts her own armament to shame. Her puny hammer and tiny knife wilt in comparison. She cannot take her eyes off that weapon.

He glances at her, and seems to detect her unease. ‘Tool of the trade,’ he says by way of apology. And then he unhooks it from his belt and places it on top of a bookcase. Which, she notices, houses some surprising reading. Classics rather than cheap trash.

So he’s cultured. What of it? Doesn’t make him a good guy. Hitler liked opera music, didn’t he?

She breathes a sigh of relief when he moves toward her again. Denuded of his gun, he is hers now. His big ugly friend on the bookcase is out of reach. It’s just her and him and what’s left of the night. Tick-tock.

He stops in mid-stride when his cellphone rings. Erin’s heart jumps, first in alarm, but then in realization that this could be it. This could be the perfect opportunity.

He smiles at her and shrugs – another gesture of apology – then goes back to where he left his jacket folded over a chair. He reaches into the pocket, takes out his cell and answers the call.

Erin watches.

And waits.