Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (8 page)

"Fifty-six. Same as me. She just celebrated her birthday last week. I won't be fifty-six till Friday. I always kidded her, saying she robbed the cradle." His mouth twisted to the right and then he was sobbing, his face in his hands. Cooper's shoulders heaved and he let out a bellow. Colin couldn't help thinking he sounded like a wounded animal. He wondered if that was how he'd sounded. At a loss as to how to comfort Cooper, he decided to give him privacy. He went over to Hallock and Copin.

"Got a statement, Chief?"

"We don't want to panic the people, Maguire. You know what I mean?"

"I do."

"Good." He ran thumb and forefinger over his long nose. "Let's say it was a suspected burglary."

"But it wasn't?"

"No way. Nothing's gone, not even looked through. Ruth Cooper came here every Sunday after church, somebody knew that. This thing was planned. Got in through the window in back, probably waited for her in her office. Motive? Who the hell knows? Who the hell ever knows with a psycho?"

"You think that's what he is, a psycho?"

"Don't you?"

"It looks that way. You know, Chief, it's one thing not to panic people and another to try and make them cautious."

"You can do one without the other. We don't know enough yet to make any judgments about anything."

"Don't you think you have a serial murderer on your hands?"

Hallock said, "Two killings don't make a serial, Maguire."

"What about the A?"

"What about it?"

"Any ideas?"

"Frankly, no."

"She wasn't raped, was she?" He'd noticed the lower half of Ruth Cooper's clothing hadn't seem disturbed.

"Offhand I'd say no. We'll have to wait for the M.E.'s report to be definite on that."

"What do you think about the M.O. being different?"

"You mean the fact that Danowski was strangled and Cooper's throat was cut?"

Colin nodded.

"Don't know. Got to be the same perpetrator though. The A."

"Could be a copycat killer," Colin offered.

"Maybe. But I don't think so. Too early for that."

The front door opened and Reeves stuck his head in. "Annie Winters is here, says Mister Cooper called her."

"That's right," Colin responded.

Reeves opened the door wider and Annie came in, went right to Cooper, and put an arm around him.

"So you'll be careful what you say, Maguire, okay?" Hallock emphasized.

"Don't worry." He was looking at Annie, watching her tending Cooper. He liked what he saw.

Hallock and Copin left. Colin thought there was nothing more for him to do, but he wanted to speak to Annie. She was helping Cooper up, leading him toward the door. Colin got to it first and opened it for them.

Annie glanced at him. "Thanks," she said.

"Anything I can do?" he asked.

"I don't think so. I'm taking Russ back to the parsonage with me now if anyone needs him."

He watched them go across the street to Annie's Escort, waiting until they drove off before he got into his own car. What he should do now was to interview the Cooper neighbors, get a line on Mrs. Cooper. Maybe she was sleeping with somebody, too. Maybe the A was for Adulteress. Or maybe A stood for the killer's mother's name. Or his wife's. Or any goddamn thing. Hallock was right: When you were dealing with a psycho there was nothing logical to go after.

But it was all absolutely logical to the murderer. Colin knew that whoever he was, cutting an A in his victim's chest made perfect sense to him. At this point the only thing they could rule out was that A stood for one. A. What else could it mean?

And then a stupid ditty from grade school was running through his head. The girls bouncing a ball in time to the words: "A, my name is Alice, my husband's name is Al. We come from Alabama, and we sell apples." It was funny thinking of that after all these years. There was something sad about it, he observed, something making him feel terrible.

He started his car knowing he wasn't going to interview the Coopers' neighbors or write his story; he was going up to the Sound, to sit and think.

He took a left off Bay View's main street, drove up to the north road, and headed back to Seaville. There were several farms along the way. Most of them grew cauliflower and potatoes, he'd been told. The road was four lanes here, and you couldn't see the water until it narrowed. He noticed a barn set back from the highway. A sign for Antiques and Junque swung in the breeze at the entry road. He wondered if this was Jim Drew's place. It was funny he'd never taken it in before. He'd have to concentrate on improving his powers of observation.

The north road became a double lane, and the houses more expensive. Some were old, turn of the century; others, big modern structures. Lilacs were abundant, their lavender blooms splashing color indiscriminately along the way. The purples, pinks, and whites of azalea bushes bordered paths and porches. Finally Colin left the greens of grass and hedges behind as sand became the front lawns of the beach houses.

Flashes of blue caught his eye as the water became visible. Soon he passed the public beach, empty except for a lone fisherman. He crossed the invisible line between Bay View and Seaville, and the houses immediately became less opulent. A few minutes later, Colin slowed near Orlowski's, the big farm stand, and turned left onto Pointy Rock Road.

At the end of the street, he parked his car. Sarah Griffing had shown him Snapper Cove a few days after he'd arrived in Seaville. She'd taken him to various spots, driving her own car with Colin following in his. It was amazing how understanding she was about his problem. But women were like that. It was men who couldn't deal with it, didn't want to talk about it. Like Mark. "No need to go into a bunch of details," he'd said when Colin tried to explain, then looked away as if he might catch something if his eyes met Colin's.

Snapper Cove was in East Haven, the town on the other side of Seaville. Nobody lived on the cove, it was just a high point on the Fork where you could park and look at the view. Looking down at the big boulders on the pebbly beach gave him the feeling he was gazing at the Mediterranean. The water had a greenish cast to it, and the wind created small waves.

There were no other cars today. Sarah had told him that he'd never be alone there or anywhere else once the season started. More than twenty thousand people swelled the Fork from Memorial Day to Labor Day. Colin didn't look forward to it.

"A, my name is Annie..." The child's ditty started again. "A, my name is Annie, my husband's name is..." He'd meant to ask Mark what her status was, but had forgotten. The sadness he'd felt earlier pushed up into his chest. What was it? And then he remembered.

The schoolyard of Our Lady of Sorrows, and Sister Mary Agnes grabbing him by the collar, pulling him away from Patti Ellen Fagan, whom he'd been teasing mercilessly because she couldn't get past "A, my name is Audrey, my husband's name is Arthur." She couldn't think of a place starting with A because Patti Ellen Fagan wasn't your brightest and all the kids knew it.

"All right, Colin Maguire, that's enough now. You leave Patti Ellen alone."

"I was just foolin', Sister."

"You were just a fool, is what you mean. Oh, Colin, I don't know what's gonna become of you. Someday if I read in the paper that you've been arrested for murder I won't be surprised."

Jesus, he thought, what a thing to say to a kid. He remembered feeling terrible when she'd said that to him, and he felt terrible now. Funny how you could feel the same thing twenty-seven years later, just from recalling a ditty, not even knowing the connection right away.

But he knew it wasn't childhood rhymes, or Patti Ellen Fagan, or demented nuns that were bothering him. It was the murders, ugly and unsolved. He was wondering again.

What if someone here, other than the Griffings, found out? What would happen then? But no one was going to rake up the whole thing and bring it to the attention of the people in Seaville. As long as he kept his cool, didn't pass out every time a body turned up, he'd be all right. No one would ever have to know that his wife and two children had been murdered and their killer never found. No one ever had to know that.

TEN

Colin was twenty-six when he met Nancy Michelle. She was twenty- four and studying for her Ph.D. in mathematics at the University of Chicago. Colin had been on the crime beat for a year. At first, each of them had thought the other was just another date. He had always been attracted to tall, slim blondes, and Nancy was short and dark. But he liked her and asked her out again.

They dated for over a year before they realized that they were in love. Another year passed before they married. By then Nancy was teaching at the university, and their combined salaries made them feel rich. And then Todd was born and Nancy left her job. Money got a little tighter, but they managed. Nancy wanted to be at home with her child and said she would go back to work when Todd went to school. But Alicia was born two years later, and Colin and Nancy could see that it would be another five years before she'd be working again. It was rough, money-wise. Still, they loved each other and the children, had a good life—most of the time.

The fights about money were frequent. It was almost impossible for Nancy to budget. She'd grown up in a wealthy family and worrying about money was new to her. She tried, but if she wanted steak for dinner she'd buy it, or a new sweater, or some trinket for the kids, a book for Colin. She'd forget that these things weren't on the budget and give in to impulse.

It had been one of those impulses that had started the fight that last night.

Colin said, "Jesus Christ, Nan, you just don't get it, do you?"

"I thought you'd like it," she said, hurt.

"Like it or not liking it is beside the point. We can't afford it."

"Well, why don't you ask for a raise, then?"

This pissed him off. He knew asking for a raise was a matter of timing and the time was not right. "I'll ask for a raise when I think it's right."

"Oh, the hell you will."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"No, come on, what's that mean, the hell I will?"

"I think you're afraid to, that's all."

Colin stared at her, wanting to slap her silly. He'd never touched Nancy in anger, never even felt like it before. But this really made him mad. It was the first time she'd accused him of being cowardly. Usually she'd just hold him up against her father. He wondered when that would come, how long would she take before throwing Alex Michelle in his face. He decided not to wait. "Not like dear old Dad, huh?"

"Leave my father out of this."

"Why? You never do."

"Well, why should I? When he and Mother were our ages they already owned a house and had plenty in the bank."

"Your fucking father was not a newspaperman, Nancy. He was a business man. There's a difference."

"You bet there is," she shot back.

"Oh, that's terrific. Just great. I suppose you think I should give up writing and join the great Square C Company of Philadelphia, huh?"

"You've always acted as if my father offering you a good job in his company was some kind of insult."

"It was. I'm a writer, goddammit. You don't go offering a writer a job selling spark plugs or whatever the fuck he makes."

"A writer, a writer," she mocked. "You'd think you were Hemingway or something."

"Hemingway or someone," he corrected.

"Oh, who cares?"

"I care."

"Well, hell, Colin, maybe you should start caring about other things besides proper English."

"Like what?"

"Like providing for your family."

"Since when haven't I provided for my family?"

"Since always. I haven't been able to buy a new dress for myself without a fight since I quit working. Do you know how damn guilty I feel if I buy the kids a toy or myself a new lipstick?"

"I haven't noticed your guilt stopping you." He picked up the record she'd presented to him minutes ago. "It didn't stop you from buying this."

"You love Judy Collins. I thought you'd be pleased." She started to cry.

"Oh, shit, don't start that."

"I can't help it. I'm stuck home here with two kids and a husband who's a goddamn gutless wonder and can't even ask for a raise."

That did it. He'd snapped, and suddenly his open hand was connecting with her cheek. She screamed, and first Alicia woke crying, then Todd. And the gutless wonder couldn't face it, none of it. He'd grabbed his jacket and slammed out, Nancy yelling behind him not to come back, he shouting don't worry.

Downstairs, in front of the apartment house, shaking with rage, he wondered what to do, where to go. He combed his pockets for a cigarette and found nothing. At the end of the block was Maxie's, a bar he'd never been in. He knew it was a local hangout, seedy, for hard-core drinkers, and when he started toward it the only thing in his mind was to buy a pack of Marlboros.

Once inside, the idea of having a drink suddenly appealed to him. He'd never been much of a drinker, a few beers with the guys on the paper, but it didn't interest him. He liked feeling straight, hated losing control. But tonight , he was eager to try anything that might change the awful feelings he had about having slapped Nancy.

With his open pack of cigarettes he took a stool at the end of the bar. Several men occupied places near him, and they were all joking around, razzing the bartender, yelling things at the baseball game on the fuzzy black-and-white television above them. Something about the atmosphere, the camaraderie of the men, made him feel good, comfortable, and he heard himself ordering a boilermaker, a drink he'd never had but remembered his uncles drinking.

It wasn't long before he was in conversation with the others and then they were all leaving, going to a strip joint on South State Street, Colin among them.

He remembered the place: lots of smoke, girls with tassels, more boilermakers. He remembered going to the men's room. But that was it.

When he awoke in his car he was stunned. It was six-thirty in the morning and the sun was beating in through the windshield. The taste in his mouth was sour, like old socks. He'd been crumpled up under the steering wheel and when he tried to straighten, everything hurt, as if he'd been in a fight. It was then that he saw the blood. The front of his shirt was stained and there was some on his pants. In the rearview mirror he saw that although he looked like hell, there were no cuts or scrapes. So he must have been in a fight, and the blood was from the other guy. But what other guy? He couldn't remember. The last thing he could clearly recall was going into that men's room at the strip joint.