Heart of the Witch (3 page)

Local residents claimed the building on the eastern outskirts of Oklahoma City was haunted. It had once been a nightclub, but business quickly declined following the after-hours rape and murder of one of the barmaids back in the sixties, right in the center of the dance floor. The bar closed within the month. Through the years other companies had taken over, but none stayed for long.

The building sat vacant for close to ten years before Nick Lassiter bought it at an outrageously reasonable price. He purchased it with the lump payout he'd received when he "amicably" severed all ties to the police force. The space was converted into two offices. Nick leased one to an accountant named Marvin. Nick's side held a scarred desk and a black vinyl chair. His PI certification and an autographed photo of Pete Rose hung on the wall. On top of the desk were an ashtray, a notepad, a pen, a bottle of whiskey and a phone with a blinking message light.

Nick ignored the light, reaching instead for the whiskey. A force inside his head pushed against his temples like the beating wings of an eagle struggling to be set free. He unscrewed the lid from the bottle of Old Crow and lifted it to his lips.

The cheap whiskey didn't burn the way it once did, which showed a man could get used to about anything. There was a time when it would have been Crown Royal. Of course, back then he wouldn't have been drinking it at the office. Definitely not at ten o'clock in the morning.

Hell, give yourself some credit. It's been a while since you've made it
in
by ten in the morning
.

His stomach protested the whiskey's assault. Acid rolled deep in his gut, working its way up his throat. He took another swallow. "Hair of the dog, you know." As he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, a golden retriever lifted its head and stared at him.

"I wasn't talking to you, Dog. And don't look at me like that. The only reason you're even here is 'cause it's raining and I didn't want to leave your whiny ass outside all day."

The mutt had wandered into Nick's yard last year. Nick supposed the dog belonged to him now, since no one had come looking for it.

"Maybe I should give you a name," Nick told the beast. But he knew he wouldn't. He'd been saying that for months, and he still just called the dog Dog.

Nick took another drink from the bottle. The pungent smell of the whiskey temporarily overpowered the odors of wet canine and stale cigarette smoke. His stomach was starting to accept the liquor a little better. Today might not be so bad after all.

Dog stood and ambled to the door, wagging his tail and looking mournfully at his master. Nick got up and let him out into the hallway. There was a doggie door in the front lobby. The mutt would go back out into the rain, get soaked all over again and stink the office up even more. Perfect.

Nick returned to his desk and punched the play button on the answering machine.

"Hey, Nick. It's me, Phil Bodinski. Listen, I was wondering if you had anything for me." Phil's voice trembled with the next words. "I know I just called yesterday, and I don't mean to bother you, but…" Phil cleared his throat, trying to choke back the tears before he continued.

Hell, did the guy think he was the only one in the world whose wife had died? Yeah, sure. Phil's wife was killed by
somebody
. He had someone to blame. He wanted Nick to find the Tin Man. Wanted him to find a serial killer who had managed to elude the police for two years. At least Phil had someone to punish. The only person Nick had to punish was himself. Not for his wife's death, but because of where he'd been when it happened.

"Anyway." Phil regained his composure and his voice came back through the speaker. "Give me a call. Even if you don't have anything. You know, just to check in. Well… bye."

Nick took another pull from the bottle of whiskey. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke dance into the light fixture above his head.

Mentally he reviewed the evidence on the Tin Man case. There wasn't a lot. Five victims. The fourth one was Phil's wife—twenty-eight years old, a good-looking blonde, taken as she left work one evening. Missing four days before her body was found along I-35. Nude, tortured and stabbed, with burn marks all over the corpse. Forensics concluded the burns were more than likely made by the heated blade of a knife. The words Tin Man were written in blood down her legs, virtually the only place on her body unmarked enough for the psycho's signature.

There had been no identifiable DNA, no fingerprints, no witnesses. The police were baffled. Nick was baffled, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. Yeah, sure, he wanted the murdering bastard stopped. Wanted him to pay with his worthless life. But not enough to really
do
anything about it. Even if he could. Which Nick couldn't.

So, that left him taking Phil's money for nothing. Giving the guy half-assed reports a few times a week that amounted to not a goddamned thing. When Nick was on the force, it had been a different story. Back then he cared. Back then he thought he could make a difference.

Back then he'd had Annie.

He tilted his chair back and closed his eyes. What time had he gone to sleep last night? He couldn't remember, but he knew it was more like this morning than last night. Maybe he should have stayed in bed.

The phone rang, the noise piercing the silence of the office. Nick's body jerked and he nearly tumbled from the chair. He smelled something burning. What the… ? Shit. He must've dozed. His cigarette was on the carpet, starting a fresh hole among the older ones.

He stood and stomped on the smoldering butt as he picked up the receiver. "Lassiter Investigations," he answered automatically.

"Nick? Hey, Phil Bodinski here." The man's voice was filled with excitement. Nick started to tell him he didn't need to use his full name when he identified himself. It wasn't necessary, since ol' Phil was his only client.

"Did you hear?" Phil asked.

"Hear what?" Nick was only half-listening. His foot rubbed at the burn even as he lit another cigarette.

"There's a survivor."

"A what?"

"One of the Tin Man's victims got away."

Nick's foot stopped. He stubbed out his fresh cigarette, this time in the ashtray, and plopped down in his chair.

"No kidding?"

"Yeah. Joe called me this morning."

Joe Smothers was a retired lieutenant Nick had once worked with. Joe and Phil played golf together. Joe had sent Phil to Nick, God only knew why. Phil should try solving this thing himself. He seemed to know a hell of a lot more details of the case than Nick did.

"What happened?" Nick was curious in spite of himself. A shot of adrenaline buzzed through him, something he hadn't felt since he'd turned in his badge.

"Can I come in? I have her name and everything."

"How'd you get her name?" Joe wouldn't have given Phil that even if he'd known it.

"This reporter friend of mine. He said they weren't allowed to print it, but he told me."

"Shit." Phil was an attorney. He'd made a lot of "friends" along the way and gotten a shitload of people out of trouble. Now he was collecting on old favors.

"You know, there's usually a reason they keep that stuff confidential. It's really not a good idea for you to be snooping around a case like that."

"Yeah, I know. You're the one who should be getting the information."

Ouch. Okay, Phil had him there. Nick wasn't exactly doing an ace job, but what the fuck? If the cops couldn't find the guy, how the hell was he supposed to? Nick lit another cigarette and absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his chin. The bottle of Old Crow sat on the desk, staring at him. Enticing him. If he scheduled Phil later this afternoon, he could have a few more drinks and still disguise the smell before the guy got here.

"Can you come in at two?"

"How about now?" Phil's usual passive demeanor had changed. He was like a barracuda with a goldfish.

Nick looked longingly at the bottle, then sighed. "Fine. Come on in."

"Be there in half an hour."

After he hung up, Nick put the bottle of whiskey in the drawer, rinsed his mouth out with Scope and shrugged a brown corduroy jacket on over his tattered, once-white T-shirt. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, thinking he should have shaved this morning. Or at least this week. He sat down and swiveled his chair around, looking out the window as he smoked and waited for Phil.

Sheets of rain slapped against the glass. It had rained like this five years ago on the day they'd buried Annie. At least, he assumed it had, since rain always made him think of Annie's death. He didn't remember much about that day. He'd gotten pretty drunk at the start of it and had stayed that way for over a week.

The overcast sky and the downpour blocked his normal view of the convenience store across the street. The window was like a mirror. The image that stared back at him revealed dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes. Nick turned away, telling himself the dampness he saw in them was just a reflection of the rain.