Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (117 page)

Jake squeezed her arm reassuringly. “What, Roberta?”

“This is it,” she whispered.

Robbi glanced toward the corner. A man and woman, both blond, sat at a video table, playing. An old woman shuffled into the room from the dark hallway and climbed onto a barstool. Robbi had seen her playing the jukebox the night of the abduction. The bartender mopped the bar in front of them, waited.

Robbi ordered white wine, Jake a beer. He pulled a stool out for her.

“The bartender and that woman at the bar were both here that night,” she said under her breath.

A moment later the bartender was putting drinks down on paper disks. Red-eyed dragon tattoos on his arms twisted and squirmed.

The old woman lifted her beer and drank. “We need some mood, Chappy. Plug the box in, why don’tcha?”

The bartender ignored her.

Jake struck up a conversation with him. They discussed the merits of the As and Giants. Finally the bartender said, “You folks new to the Stardust? Don’t remember seeing you in here.”

“We’re looking for someone. Maybe you can help.”

“Maybe.”

“Pour one for yourself,” Jake said to the bartender, pushing two tens toward him.

The bartender grinned, showing purple gums. He poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s, then popped the cap on a Coors. The money disappeared.

“Name’s Chappy. Who you looking for?”

“A woman with long blond hair. Pretty. Early twenties,” Jake said. “She was in here a week or two ago.”

“You asking about the one the cops been asking about?”

Robbi and Jake exchanged looks. Jake nodded.

Chappy tossed back the shot, gulped at the beer, then stifled a belch. “Came in after work with friends once in a while.”

“Her name?”

Chappy shook his head. “Don’t usually bother with names. Put the face and the drink together, that’s all that counts.”

“What did she drink?” Roberta asked.

“Wild Turkey. Neat. Could hold her liquor too. There’s not many a woman can down straight shots like that and not fall on her butt.”

Roberta’s heart was beating hard. In her mind’s eye she saw the woman sipping from a shot glass at this bar, sitting in the same seat where the old woman now sat. Roberta lifted her gaze and met the hard stare of the old woman.

“Did she work around here?” Jake asked.

“Wore black and whites. That says casino. Dealer, that’d be my guess.”

“Which club?”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t real social. In fact, I was surprised to see her in here after her not coming in for so long. She was down in the dumps that night. A fight with the old man probably. Been crying, looked like. I learned long ago to stay clear of the crying ones. They latch onto a sympathetic ear and, man, you can’t shut off the waterworks.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yeah. Some guy tried to pick her up, but she wasn’t having any.”

Robbi’s fingers dug into Jake’s arm.

“Wasn’t her type, huh?”

Chappy shrugged. “She was way outta his league, that much I know.”

“In what way?”

“Lowlife. Creepy. ‘Member Charles Manson?” Robbi and Jake nodded. “Don’t need to say more.”

“He looked like Charles Manson?”

“Well, no, but he had that
look.
That Ramirez guy in L.A.—the Night Stalker—same thing. That ‘devil made me do it’ look. Ultra weird.”

“Can you describe him?”

Chappy stared at the floor and pulled on his long nose, thinking. “Average size, I’d say. Hey, man, I can’t put features to the face. I remember what he drank though. It was well whiskey. Drank it neat, like her.”

Roberta wasn’t satisfied with his answers. The man in her visions was big, very big, that much she knew, and he had been drinking beer.

“Chappy, you’re so full of shit,” the old woman said. She turned to Robbi and Jake. “He was a big bruiser. A giant, pert near. Hair all over the place. And he drank Miller draft, same as you and me, son.”

“You talking about that guy in the corner? He never hit on her,” Chappy said.

“Sure he did. You was too busy watching
Rockford.”

“A drink for the lady,” Jake said, laying more money on the bar. “Make it a double.”

The woman saluted him with her empty glass.

“And how would you know,” Chappy responded sarcastically, “you was passed out cold, I remember that.”

Jake and Roberta left the bar when the argument between the two began to get heated. Outside, Robbi paused, staring across the one-way street to a building on the corner. The courthouse. Police cars lined the curb. She shook her head incredulously.
Did this man fear nothing?

“I don’t know whether to feel good or bad,” Roberta said.

“Feel good. Your mind’s a window, and as long as you can see through it to this man, she has a chance.” Jake stared at the courthouse. “Tomorrow I’ll do some checking. Find out who she is.”

Jake offered her dinner, but Roberta was exhausted and wanted to go home. After making certain she was safely inside her house, he promised to call the following day, then he drove away.

At twilight, in her nightgown, Robbi sat on the edge of the bed holding the receiver to her chest. She debated whether or not to call Donald. It would be close to midnight in New York. She felt an overwhelming need to talk to him, to make contact. She dialed. The line rang five times before it was picked up. A woman’s voice, low, sleep-filled, mumbled a hello.

Robbi paused. “Karen?” she asked softly.

“Ummm … yeah, whozis?”

Roberta heard Don’s muffled voice in the background. She pressed the disconnect lever, then gently cradled the receiver.

She turned off the light and, feeling as if she were swimming underwater, crossed the room and cracked the window. A light went on in the house across the street, outlining the silhouette of a cat sitting on the sill. Maybe she should get a cat. A low-maintenance pet. They were quiet, ate very little, and were fiercely independent. Cats were companions. Before Donald had left, their relationship seemed to have mellowed to companionship. They had been pulling apart gradually for a long time. She thought of a piece of taffy, stretched to a thin strand, never quite breaking apart but no longer able to come together again.

It was she who had encouraged him to move to New York. Within just six months he was achieving his goal of success, had made new friends, and had adopted a new and more exciting life-style. Would she have fit in, she wondered.

She returned to bed, threw off all the covers, and crawled beneath the crisp sheet.

She fell asleep reflecting on the boy in college whose bracing aftershave made her think of Jake. Or was it the other way around? Since she couldn’t remember what the college boy looked like, the two men melded, became one.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Outside the room, with his ear pressed to the door, he could hear her speaking softly, “Oh God, Sonny, please find me.”

Eckker turned the key in the lock and twisted the knob. The door opened. The overhead light burned. A surge of anger shot through him. He’d asked her not to turn it on unless it was absolutely necessary. Power was generated from large surplus batteries charged by a diesel generator. The generator was noisy and he used it only sparingly. He’d given her a flashlight for auxiliary light. Why didn’t she do what he said?

She sat on the edge of the cot in a white dress, staring at her bare feet. The dress had come from the makeshift closet in the main room. An assortment of women’s clothes, some stolen from clotheslines and some left behind by previous companions, were now hers. The black skirt and white blouse she’d worn when she came to live with him hung on a hook in the closet. She seemed to like the white dress best.

He had also gotten her the female toiletries she’d asked for; some were new, some not. He refused to get her cigarettes.

“I have a surprise.”

Without lifting her head she glared up at him.

“Come.”

“Why do you lock the door?” she said woodenly. “You say you want me to be happy, but you treat me like a prisoner.”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“I want to go home. My friends and family must be worried sick about me.”

“This is your home. You’re not trying.” He grinned. “Come. The surprise.”

She slowly stood.

Eckker took the flashlight from the floor and flipped it on. He reached up, took hold of the burning light bulb and twisted it, scarcely feeling the searing heat.

He led the way out through the closed-in stairwell to the main room.

The items sat on the floor in the middle of the room. He had stolen a yellow floral bed sheet from a clothesline in Truckee. The little phonograph player he’d had hidden away just for this purpose. Women loved music. A shoebox held over a hundred records from Sinatra to the Beatles. He hated that hard rock stuff, it made his head hurt. There was a hand mirror and vanity set. He’d washed the brush and comb. They looked like new.

She approached slowly, knelt. With a stiff forefinger she poked at the objects as if they were full of cooties.

“A bed sheet,” she said sourly.

“To make curtains … for the windows.” He pointed to the narrow window toward the ceiling.

“And how will I do that?”

“1 have thread…needles.”

She tossed the sheet aside. “I don’t sew.”

He bit down on the inside of his mouth. His vision blurred slightly.

Lethargically, she sorted through the 45s. “Some of these aren’t too bad,” she said without enthusiasm.

He smiled. He plugged the record player into the extension cord, then turned it on.

She made a selection, then put it on the turntable.

He recognized the singer instantly. Johnny Cash. She’d chosen a slow one. He preferred the fast to the slow. “Folsom Prison Blues.” Why’d she pick that one? It had bad memories. He didn’t need a reminder.

Halfway through the song he looked at Maggie. On her knees, her arms hanging listlessly at her sides, she stared blankly at the bare wall as tears streamed unchecked down her face.

He chewed the inside of his cheek until a sharp, coppery taste filled his mouth. His huge hands balled into fists. The light in the room seemed to dim, turn sanguine.

He heard her sob.

He leapt up. A hand shot out to the record player. The stylus screeched across the 45 as he grabbed it from the spinning turntable. Using both hands, he twisted the record until it was nothing more than a distorted black lump. Then he savagely threw the warped record across the room. He snatched up the shoebox of 45s and hurled them against the wall.

Red flashes danced before his eyes.

She just wasn’t trying.

CHAPTER TWENTY

At six p.m., Robbi stepped off the elevator on the sixth floor of the Medical Plaza and crossed the wide corridor to the Truckee Meadows Medical Group. Jake Reynolds, M.D., was the third name down.

She opened the door and entered. The receptionist desk sat vacant. Robbi crossed the rich blush-tinted carpet to the open door of an office and looked in. Jake stood at the window, staring out at the city.