Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (118 page)

She cleared her throat.

He turned, saw her, and smiled. “Hi. C’mon in. Your timing is perfect. My last patient just left.”

“I thought you were on hiatus?”

“I have a few patients I see once a week, plus a group.” His hand swept the room, indicating a number of chairs in several groupings. “Have a seat.”

Robbi chose one of two club chairs arranged around a sofa.

Jake lifted a manila envelope, came around from behind the massive desk, tugging at his necktie to loosen it, and sat in the other chair. He handed her the envelope.

She looked at him questionably.

“Missing women. Police reports and pictures. There were four in all, but I threw out two for obvious reasons.”

She held the envelope in her hand, staring at the names but not seeing them. She forced her eyes to focus and read: Belinda Sardi and Margaret Winston.

Astonished, Robbi looked at Jake. “Margaret! That’s the one he has now. Maggie. He called her Maggie.” She opened the flap and tentatively pulled out the forms. Two photographs fell into her lap. Robbi lifted them, looking from one to the other. Her heart raced furiously. Breathing deeply, trying to calm herself, she stared at two faces from another dimension.

“Are they the ones?” he asked.

“Yes.” She looked down at the names of next of kin. “If my intuition is correct, I can’t help the Sardis. Belinda’s already dead.”

Jake was silent. He moved to the window, looked out as though reflecting on her words.

“Belinda was your patient. I’m sorry,” she said.

He nodded.

She scanned the other report. “Margaret is the one from the Stardust Lounge. It says here Carl Masser reported her missing. Who is he?”

“Her fiancé.”

“I’ve got to talk to him.”

“Mr. Masser is under suspicion in the disappearance. If she turns up dead, he’ll be a prime suspect.”

“It’s not him. I know it’s not.”

________

Jake followed Roberta to her house, where she parked her car and got into his. As he drove south on Rock Boulevard he glanced over at her. Roberta stared straight ahead, a faraway look in her eyes. On her lap sat the envelope with the police reports and pictures, her fingertips absently playing over the surface. Is she trying to psychically tune into one or both of them, he wondered.

Just looking at her caused something inside him to twist and pull. She was a lovely woman, growing lovelier every day. Although theirs was not a doctor-patient relationship, there were still professional ethics to consider. Roberta was under a certain psychological strain. And try as he might, whenever he thought of Roberta in an intimate sense, another woman had a way of creeping into the picture. Susan—bright, beautiful Susan—utterly psychotic. He still hadn’t completely gotten over her or the tragedy of her death. He doubted he ever would.

On the main street of Sparks’ Victorian Square, Jake pulled up to the construction site of a new casino. Presently in the steel-girder-and-concrete phase of construction, the two-story building would soon sport a Victorian facade in keeping with the town’s overall concept.

Jake parked in the dirt lot behind the building. They left the car, moved across the dusty lot.

“It’s seven o’clock, what time do these guys quit work?” Roberta asked.

“We’re in luck, looks like they’re on overtime.”

Sounds of hammering, sawing, and the
tat
of the concrete and screw guns echoed in the hot July afternoon. They ducked under a suspended scaffold and entered the back entrance, but before getting five feet in, someone yelled.

A man with short legs and a portly belly hurried up to them. “Hey, you can’t go in there without a hardhat,” he said.

“We’re looking for Carl Masser. Is he around?”

“Yeah, he’s the super. Stay out there,” he said, pointing to the way they came in. “I’ll get him.”

Jake and Roberta walked to a shoulder-high stack of sheetrock. Several minutes later a well-built man in his early thirties, wearing tight, dusty 501s, a blue knit tank shirt, brogans, and a shocking yellow hardhat came around another part of the building. He approached, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Carl Masser?” Jake asked.

The man nodded.

Jake introduced Roberta and himself.

“Mr. Masser, do you have a minute to talk?” Jake asked. “It’s about Margaret Winston.”

“Maggie?” Something desperate flashed in his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Let’s get off the site.” He turned, calling out to the man who had stopped them. “Dilly, I’m outta here. Send the men home in an hour.” He removed the hardhat, ran fingers through his thick black hair, then tossed the hat to the man.

Masser led the way to a bar across the street called The Gang Box. If the name didn’t give it away for a construction crew hangout, then the dusty clientele, hardhats since replaced by billed caps with lumberyard and building material logos, did. The dozen or so men openly watched Roberta as she crossed the dim room and took a seat at an empty table. A miniskirted waitress appeared with an icy bottle of Dos Equis and placed it in front of Masser.

“Thanks, Barb,” Masser said to the waitress. He downed half of it in one long pull.

Roberta and Jake declined a drink.

“Either of you related to Maggie?” Masser asked.

“No.”

“You from the cops?”

“No.”

“Then who the hell are you?” Masser looked from Jake to Roberta. “What do you want?”

“We’d like to talk to you about her.”

“Yeah? That’s what you said before. Here I am. So talk.”

“Mr. Masser,” Roberta began, looking at the ceiling, “this is going to sound really bizarre. . .”

He tipped his head, waiting.

“I’ve been having visions…psychic visions, and I think your fiancée is in them.”

Masser stared at her, incredulous.

“I think Maggie’s been kidnapped. That she’s being held captive by a man…a very big man with a beard—”

Masser turned to Jake and asked, “What’da
you
do?”

“Psychiatrist.”

“She your patient?” He jerked his head toward Robbi.

Jake tensed. “Look, Mister—”

Then Masser laughed, cutting Jake off.
“Bizarre,
she says? That’s fucking crazy.” His eyes were hard as he turned back to stare at Roberta. “You took me away from an overtime job for this? You think this is funny? You don’t honestly expect me to believe this crock of shit?”

Jake stood, took hold of Robbi’s arm, and said, “Come on, let’s go.”

She put her hand over Jake’s, stalling. “He’s keeping her somewhere in the mountains.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, with the entire Sierra Nevada range at our back door, she should be a cinch to find.”

“Roberta…” Jake said, urging her up.

“She was taken from an alley near the Stardust Lounge. I don’t care if you believe me or not, I saw it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Masser said, shaking his head, his expression unreadable.

Roberta was halfway to her feet when Masser stopped them.

“Hey, wait,” he said quickly. “What you just said about the Stardust—look, give a sec to digest this, okay? You come waltzing in telling me my girl’s been snatched by some big, bearded dude and your proof is a—what did you call it—a vision? I’m a wreck. I’m trying to cope with Maggie’s disappearance, I’m on overtime with the club, and the cops are leaning on me. I can’t sleep or eat. I’m running on caffeine, booze, and sheer tension. Then two complete strangers pop up out of the blue and throw stories of the strange and unexplained at me—now, how the hell am I supposed to react?”

“I know,” Roberta said. “I don’t understand any of this myself, Mr. Masser.”

“Carl. It’s Carl.” He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “Shit, I don’t believe in this psychic mumbo jumbo, but I’ll tell you something—at this point, if it gets me closer to Maggie, or sheds some light on what happened to her, I’d believe in flying saucers. So far the cops haven’t come up with a damn thing. I—I don’t know what to do. I’m going outta my fuck—oh, hey, I’m sorry, Miss Paxton. Excuse my language, I’m not thinking straight.” He pointed to her chair. “Talk to me. Please.”

Jake and Roberta sat again.

“Do you know the Stardust Lounge?” Jake asked.

“The bar on Sierra? Sure. Before we met, Maggie used to stop there after work sometimes.” Carl turned to stare at Roberta. “What was she wearing that night?”

“A white blouse and black skirt. She was smoking one of those long, thin cigarettes that are popular now. She drank whiskey neat.”

“You weren’t in the bar that night? And you didn’t know her before she disappeared?”

“I never laid eyes on her. I was a patient in the hospital the night she disappeared.”

“Washoe Med,” Jake added. “She’d had a serious accident and was recovering from it.”

Carl seemed paler. He stared at Roberta, his face an intricate pattern of emotions. “What the hell’s going on here? Why you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What can I do? Tell me what I can do to help,” Carl said, leaning forward.

“Did she say anything to you about someone watching her, following her? A big man in particular?” Jake asked. “Did she give you any indication that she was afraid?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She works swing shift at the Golden Club five days a week. Eight to two. Blackjack dealer. Came straight home. We didn’t get to see a helluva lot of each other. I have to be up at five. I’d usually try to listen for her, y’know, to make sure she got in okay.”

“You live together?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she come home that night?”

“Obviously not. Damn,” Masser said, clunking down the bottle, “there’s nothing I can tell you that I haven’t already told the cops.”

“Is there anyone we can contact?” Jake asked. “Friends, relatives?”

“Sure, I can get you names and numbers.” Masser turned to Robbi. “Tell me what you see. Tell me everything.”

“Carl, I can’t tell you much more than what I’ve already said. It’s not clear to me exactly what’s happening.”

“Has she asked for me?” he said softly.

Robbi glanced at Jake, then looked down and shook her head. “But,” she said quickly, “that doesn’t mean she hasn’t. I don’t see and hear everything. Bits and pieces.”

A frown veed Masser’s brow. “What’s he doing to her? Tell me what he’s doing to her.”

Robbi blanched. This was one reason Jake had been reluctant to let her talk with Masser. He’d anticipated the questions, knowing the difficulty Roberta would have responding to them.

“Carl,” Jake began, “Roberta’s under a great deal of stress. This is very hard on her. You understand she can’t answer questions like that…here…now.”

“Okay. Okay.” Masser pulled a red grease pencil from his back pocket, tore a cocktail napkin in half and scribbled a phone number on it. He pushed it across the table to Robbi and handed her the pencil and the other half of the napkin. “Could I have yours? Please.”

“I think—” Jake began.

“It’s all right, Jake.” She wrote out her home number.

Masser signaled the waitress for another drink.

Robbi stood.

Jake and Masser rose.

“I have a vested interest in this,” Masser said. “The missing woman happens to be my fiancée, remember? We were supposed to get married at the end of the job. I’m about to go outta my mind with worry. The cops are doing nothing.” He turned to Roberta. “You’re my only link to her. You can’t pop into my life, tell me Maggie’s been kidnapped, then just say adios.”

Roberta looked up into Masser’s strong-boned face, a face that now looked about to crumble. “I wouldn’t do that. We’ll talk. Soon.”

They left Masser in the bar and stood outside on B Street, the setting sun burning into their eyes. Jake put on his mirrored sunglasses and Robbi held a hand to her forehead, screening the bright rays.

“You don’t know a damn thing about him,” Jake said, his voice sounding tight. “Be careful, all right?”

Roberta faced him, a strange, enigmatic expression on her face. “I don’t want to go home yet. Can we talk?”