Grist 06 - The Bone Polisher (29 page)

“And why is that? Why do you think he
might
? He knows someone has his tags, he’s gotta figure he’s already being traced.”

“You’re assuming they lead to him,” Schultz said.

“A phone call might tell us,” I interjected, just to keep the issue alive.

“But that’s not the
point
.” I’d forgotten Schultz’s perpetual assurance that he was the only one who understood the point of anything. “The tags are probably magical objects. Ritual objects. They’re part of who he is. Look, you have a man here who’s devoting his life to killing people. He doesn’t
have
a life, in the way you and I do.” He passed a palm over his forehead, snagging his cigarette in what remained of his hair. I could smell it all the way across the room, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Everything normal, all the ordinary routines and attachments, are held in abeyance, everything is arranged to allow him to go out on his killing trips. We are what we do, to a much greater extent than most people imagine. Once he gets started, he’s practically a robot. He does what’s imprinted on his circuits. The tags are part of the circuitry, part of this
rite
that he performs whenever he can or whenever he feels he has to, whenever the conditions are right.”

“The conditions,” I said. It was the third or fourth time something had thumped its knuckles on the wall Eleanor had described. There was definitely something on the other side of that wall.

“Exactly.” Once he’d gained momentum, Schultz wasn’t easily derailed. “When the conditions are there, he almost
has
to act. Whoever he was to begin with, there’s not much left of him now. He’s a ball of energy that gathers itself in the dark until it’s time to come out and explode. The same cycle, over and over again. Find someone appropriate. Flirt with him, mislead him, make him fall in love. Betray him. Stomp him, cut him, reveal his sexuality back home, where it matters most. Then it’s back to the cupboard until the next time. He probably would have been caught months ago if the cops had been really interested, if the victims were straight.”

“You’re saying he’s stupid,” Hammond said, disregarding the slur on the police. “Stupid enough to show up at this—”

“Not stupid, not smart.” Schultz sounded impatient. “Cats aren’t particularly smart, but they’re very good at being cats. Efficient, ruthless, streamlined. You can’t teach a cat not to kill. You can teach it not to kill while you’re
watching
, but when it’s outside, the birds had better keep their eyes open. Like I said, this man probably doesn’t have much left of himself except the killing. The tags are an inextricable part of the act. He’s already risked his life to get them back. How often does the murderer really return to the scene of the crime?”

“It happens,” Hammond said. Sonia said something interrogative, and Hammond said, “Killer return to the scene of the crime.” I heard Sonia’s voice again, and Hammond said grudgingly, “But not much.”

“If we could hear him thinking,” Schultz said, “I’m pretty sure we’d hear two voices: the voice of the original human being, urging caution and common sense, and the voice of, oh, I don’t know, the cat, arguing every point. Something like, ‘I’d better get out of here.’ ” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “
‘But everyone will be wearing a costume.’
‘It’s got to be a trap.’
‘I’ll have to cover my hair.’
‘Should I take a chance on an airplane, or take the bus?’
‘I could dye it and leave it exposed.’
‘I’d never get my hands on the tags anyway.’
‘I’ll never know unless I go. If I don’t go, I’ll never see them again.’
‘I’ll never get away with it.’
‘Of course I will, I’ll just be one more faggot in a costume.’
Sorry about the, um, terminology,” Schultz said in his normal voice. “I’m projecting here.”

“Short answer,” Hammond said, “he’ll be there.”

Schultz tightened the knot in his legs, hiking his trousers to expose a stretch of bony white calf with little ginger-colored hairs scattered irregularly over it, an unfortunate afterthought in the design. “He’ll come,” he said, rocking back in the chair. “He may take one look around and hop a cab to LAX, but he’ll come.”

“You
think
,” Hammond said.

“Of course I think.” Schultz, stranded by his enthusiasm, was blinking distress semaphores. “I don’t have a pipeline to the man’s soul.”

“Wish I could be there.” Hammond said something muffled to Sonia.

“Sheriffs territory, Al,” I reminded him.

“Look who’s talking,” Hammond said. “I’d be unofficial, of course. I’m on my honeymoon.”

“I’m sure you’ll fit right in. You hardly look like a cop at all.”

“Might be hard to explain,” Hammond mused. “Me and the little woman—
ow
—me and Sonia, I mean, at a fruit’s—sorry, a homosexual’s—wake.”

“I don’t know. It might lead to some interesting invitations.”

“Anyway,” Hammond said, retreating, “we’re in Hawaii.”

“And having a wonderful time, from the sound of it.”

“It’s okay,” Hammond said fondly. “I’m with my little love-turtle.” Sonia squealed in protest.

“Oh, Al,” I said, “that’s so sweet. Wait’ll I tell—”

“You tend to refer to your wife in diminutives,” Schultz said, a faceful of liquid nitrogen. “That’s interesting.”

“What do you call yours?” Hammond snapped. “ ‘Boss’?”

“We’re sort of straying here,” I said. “I want to call Sergeant McCarvey.”

“Hold on. Let me talk to Sonia.” The two of them conferred as I watched Schultz try, without success, to get his foot out of the armrest. He was taking off his shoe when Hammond came back on the line.

“I didn’t say this to you. No cop said this to you.”

“Got it. You’re in Hawaii.”

“If this balls up the investigation, you’re going to be unemployed, as in no license. Just don’t turn it into a felony. Use your real name. Tell the truth as much as you can. Don’t even hint that you’re a police officer, or you’ll be looking at Spurrier up real close. Better still, don’t make the call.”

“I’m doing it. They’re my goddamn dog tags.”

“Okay. A bonehead’s a bonehead. But you got the rules, right?”

“Right. Thanks.” Schultz had twisted his left foot into a position that would have startled a yogi. “What are you going to do now?”

“Me?” Hammond was all innocence. “I’m going to roll my little love-turtle on her back and see what happens. Hey, Norbert, you want to listen in? You might learn something.”

“Whoops,” Schultz said, grabbing the edge of the metal desk.

“He’s busy,” I said. “Have fun.”

“Sonia, I can’t
believe
this is legal,” Hammond said. He hung up.

Schultz was balanced on one wheel, most of his left leg protruding through the armrest, as though he’d decided to slide out that way. I got him back to earth and helped him work his leg free while he sputtered and protested and hung on to the desk. The moment he had both feet on the ground, he lit up.

“Hard to see you two as friends,” he said from the center of a cumulus cloud of smoke.

“What
do
you call your wife?” I asked.

“Evelyn,” he said with dignity.

“Well, she’s a lucky woman,” I said. “Having a man who steers clear of diminutives and all.”

“And you,” he said with the air of a man used to having the last word, “steer clear of intimate relationships.”

“You’re right, I do. And I’m thinking about it. Should I use the speakerphone?”

He was putting his shoe back on, trying to see his foot through the fumes. “For what?”

“For McCarvey.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said promptly.

“All brains and no guts.” I punched the button on top of the speaker to shut it off, picked up the phone, and dialed.

The recording told me in a chipper tone that the number I had dialed had been changed. The new number followed, spliced together to create a mechanically musical effect, like Chinese spoken by an android. I wrote it on my palm with Schultz’s ballpoint, which said PROPERTY OF ARLO’S HAPPY LIQUORS on the side.

“New number,” I explained, holding up my hand. Schultz, radiating disapproval, closed his eyes and puffed away.

Four rings, then: “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, low, slow, and possibly drunk.

“Is Sergeant McCarvey there?”

A long pause. “Who is this?” She sounded like she’d been snakebit on the tongue.

Tell the truth. “My name is Simeon Grist. I’m in the office of Dr. Norbert Schultz, in Los Angeles.” Schultz’s eyes flew open but, hell, it was true.

“And you want to talk to Jace?”

“Well,” I said, choosing words, “we know that Sergeant McCarvey was under VA care for a while. This is just an informational call.”

The woman laughed. It sounded like her very first. “Fucking government,” she said.

Spurrier, wearing his latex gloves, breathed down the back of my neck. “This isn’t actually official government business—”

“My husband’s dead. He’s been dead two years and four months. Typical.” She laughed again, getting the knack, dark and loose and slurred. “You jackass,” she said.

“I’m sorry. Was his death service-related?” At the word “death,” Schultz got up and started to pace the room, trailing smoke like the little engine that could.

“Go to hell,” Mrs. McCarvey said. “Fucking bureaucrats. Jace was murdered. Eight years he gave you clowns, and you don’t even talk to each other.”

“This is very embarrassing,” I said. “Did they catch his, um, his murderer?” Schultz pushed the button on the speaker in time to hear her snort.

“Fat chance. Cops are no better than you are. Hey, wait a minute. You got anything to do with pensions?”

“Pensions?” Schultz waved his hand at me, trying for my attention.

“My pension. Jace’s pension. You listening, or what? Can you help me get it? I’ve been down there more times ’n I can count. I’ve sent letters—”

“I’m sure,” I said, looking at Schultz, “that if you’ve got all of Sergeant McCarvey’s papers—” Schultz nodded encouragingly.

“Course I got ’em. Jesus. Who else would have them?”

I covered the mouthpiece and drew a breath. So did Schultz. “And his dog tags,” I said. “They might want to see his dog tags.”

Silence. No, not quite. I could hear her breathing, and a television made meaningless happy noise in the background.

“Mrs. McCarvey?” I said.

“Don’t you dare come around here, Darryl,” she said at last. “Don’t you dare. I’ll cut your fucking head off.”

She hung up.

Schultz was staring at the speaker as though he expected Mrs. McCarvey to burst through it, knife in hand. “She thought you were
him
,” he said.

“And,” I said, “she knows who he is. Darryl.”

Schultz straightened the speaker on the desk and dropped into his chair. “You’re going to have to—”

“I know,” I said. I picked up the phone and called Ike Spurrier.

That night I stopped at the Paragon Ballroom on the way home. The only work in progress was being done by a very old man with an electric floor polisher who was buffing the hardwood in long slow straight sweeps, like someone cutting furrows into garden soil. The old man wore a loose, drab gray workshirt and baggy checked trousers, and he was bent forward in a position that looked painfully permanent, his shoulders hunched forward, rounded as a drawn bow. He never took his eyes from the floor.

Mickey Snell, who apparently never went home and never stopped talking, followed several steps behind, downloading information about the grain of the wood and the hardwood pegs that held the floor in place. The old man ignored him, wrapped in a cone of concentration and the hum of his machine.

The bar was in place against the wall, dark wood gleaming. Brass spigots spouted from its surface. On the other side of the room stood a gaudy vertical arrangement of three large glass seashells above a white porcelain basin: Ferris’s fountain for the holy water, dry for now, and surrounded by dozens of spiky orchid plants.

When I stepped further into the room, the bandstand sparkled. Foil stars had been pinned to the deep blue drape, and more stars, made out of cut glass and silver wire, hung overhead from lengths of nylon filament. Clouds of cotton blossomed above the stars. High above it all was a pale crescent moon of old-fashioned milk glass, lighted from within. Max’s heaven.

With the hum of the old man’s buffer and the squeak of Mickey’s voice for company, I walked through the building. The kitchen was, as Henry had promised, dire, but it was spacious and I couldn’t see the food handlers having any problems, and the ovens were too small for anyone to hide in. The bathrooms had been scrubbed until some of the tiles had fallen out. A room beyond the bathrooms was locked, and I figured it had to be Mickey Snell’s office. The rear door was made of iron and was bolted shut. It would be open for the wake, but we’d have a man outside.

The conversation with Spurrier had been loud and long, and neither he nor Schultz had been happy when I put it on the speaker to give myself a witness. I’d handed Spurrier Mrs. McCarvey’s phone number and told him how the dog tags had led me to her, but I hadn’t given him the news that Henry and I had been the ones who found the Farm Boy’s apartment. He’d figure it out sooner or later anyway.

It had taken some doing, but I’d declined an invitation to the Sheriffs’ substation to discuss matters further. If Spurrier wanted to talk to me in person, I told him, he could do it tomorrow night, at the wake. Like Hammond, Spurrier had discounted the possibility that the Farm Boy would show, but we agreed to some commonsense rules that would allow him to put himself and three men on the scene without attracting attention. Spurrier was too experienced a public servant to risk missing the action if anything actually happened.

I sat on the edge of the stage and watched the old man work as Mickey chattered. He looked like one of Millet’s potato farmers, like someone who hadn’t lifted his eyes from the ground in years. Still, I thought, he’d managed to get old. That was more than most of the Farm Boy’s victims had done. Getting old may be no bargain, as my father never tired of saying, but all in all I thought I’d prefer it to the alternative.