Shiver (36 page)

He rewound it again.

“... a camera, a watch, a new coat ...”

Again.

“... a watch ...”

He shut off the tape.

A watch. She’d bought her husband a watch.

Why did that matter? Why was it teasing the nerve endings of whatever intuitive power he possessed? Why was it reminding him of Rebecca Morris?

Rebecca Morris, the second victim. Killed ten weeks later. Killed just as she was beginning to taste the success she wanted. She’d been promoted to vice president of her firm less than a month earlier.

Birthday. Promotion. Two events worth celebrating.

Julia Stern had bought a watch.

Rebecca Morris had bought ... a ring.

The ring that was still on her finger when she lay on a slab in the morgue. The ring that had enabled her roommate to identify the headless body.

Delgado sat up slowly. For a moment no breath stirred in his body.

He was seeing Wendy in the chair again. Wendy, fingering the bandages on her neck as she told him she’d purchased a necklace on her lunch hour. At Crane’s Department Store. The one in Century City.

Watch, ring, necklace.

Crane’s.

He was getting ahead of himself. For all he knew, the other victims had never shopped at Crane’s, had never bought anything there.

Then he remembered.

A smiling woman in a straw hat. The cheerful announcement: “Summer’s On the Way!”

The cover of a catalog on the bureau in Elizabeth Osborn’s bedroom. A catalog from Crane’s Department Store.

His eyes were hot. The room blurred.

He knew.

There was no proof, not yet. But, dammit, he
knew
.

Crane’s was the connection he’d been seeking.

He picked up the phone. Dialed 411. Obtained the number of Crane’s Department Store in Century City. Got the manager, a Mr. Khouri, on the line. A computer search confirmed that, yes, all four women had charge accounts at Crane’s. Delgado asked about Jennifer Kutzlow. No, she wasn’t listed. That was all right. He’d always assumed Jennifer was a victim of circumstance. She didn’t fit the pattern. The Gryphon left no statuette in her hand.

“I recognize the names of these women. Detective.” The manager’s voice was querulous and high-pitched. “They’re all victims of that serial killer.”

“You’re most astute, Mr. Khouri. But I would appreciate it if you would avoid undue speculation.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Would you kindly consult your records and tell me about any recent purchases these women might have made?”

“Certainly. One moment, please.”

Delgado waited. He had no doubt that the store was the link. Still, knowing the common denominator of the crimes was not the same as finding the killer. It was possible the Gryphon simply liked to loiter at Crane’s, probably near the jewelry counter, eyeing female customers till he spotted one he liked. Then he would follow her home to learn her address.

No, wait. That wasn’t right. Because yesterday, after buying the necklace, Wendy returned to her office, then went directly to her dinner date with Jeffrey. When she finally arrived home, the Gryphon was there already, lying in wait.

He hadn’t followed her. He must have learned her address by some other means. Probably through the purchase she’d made. If so, then he was almost certainly an employee.

But what kind of employee? Perhaps someone in the billing department, who would have access to all the customers’ addresses. No, that seemed wrong also. All four women the Gryphon selected were more than ordinarily attractive, a fact that suggested he picked them, at least in part, by their appearance. If so, he would have to be in a position to see the customers.

A sales clerk, then.

Khouri came back on the line. He sounded more frightened than before.

“Detective? All the accounts have been active within the past few months. Mrs. Stern purchased a wristwatch on November twenty-first. Ms. Morris charged a ring to her account on January twenty-third. Ms. Osborn made several purchases on different dates. On December eighteenth, some items from the lingerie department; on January tenth, a coffee maker; and on March third, a bracelet. And Ms. Alden purchased a necklace only yesterday.”

“Are wristwatches sold in the jewelry department?”

“Yes.”

“Then each woman bought something in that department: wristwatch, ring, bracelet, necklace.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Would a clerk ringing up a sale have any means of knowing the customer’s address?”

“In the case of a charge-account purchase, he would. There’s a computer terminal at every counter. The salesperson uses a bar-code scanner to verify the charge card. When he does, information on the account appears on screen. The customer’s home address is part of that information.”

“How many clerks are assigned to the jewelry department?”

“We have two salespeople working two daily shifts, plus two more on the weekends, and on busy days—”

“Do you keep a record of which clerk handled any particular transaction?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me if the same clerk handled those four jewelry purchases.”

“One moment, please.”

Delgado waited.

Could it be this simple? This blessedly, damnably simple?

“Detective.” Panic was jumping in Khouri’s voice. “Yes. It was the same man each time.”

“His name, please.”

“Franklin Rood.”

“Is he there today?”

“Why ... no. He called in sick.”

Bang.

“Did you speak with him when he called?”

“No. He telephoned my office before the start of business and left a message on my answering machine.”

“What was his reason for missing work?”

“Illness. Nothing specific. I have no reason to mistrust him. He’s one of our most reliable people.” Khouri was babbling now. “He’s been with us for over two years. I started him in Audiovisual”—Delgado thought of the cassette recorder and mixing board used to make the tapes—“and then one day we were short-handed in Jewelry, so I transferred him there, only temporarily, you understand.” The mythical gryphon was a guardian of jewels; had Rood thought of that? “But he was so good with the wristwatches, and they make up half our receipts at that counter. You know how small the batteries are, how difficult to work with, yet he pops them in, just like that. He has such big hands, but a delicate touch.” Delicate enough to pick locks. “So I left him there, even though it is perhaps unusual for a male salesperson to be stationed at that counter, but our female customers never minded, because, you see, Mr. Rood is unfailingly courteous, extremely polite... .”

Polite. The same word Wendy had used to describe the man who tossed a loop of steel wire around her neck. A man careful to address his victims as Miss or Mrs. while he tightened that wire to choke off their lives.

“Mr. Khouri,” Delgado interrupted, “would you kindly give me Mr. Rood’s home address?” Khouri did so. Delgado scribbled down a number and street in West L.A., near the intersection of Bundy Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard. “Very good. Thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch with you again shortly. In the meantime, please do not discuss this matter with anyone.”

“You ... you think he’s the one, don’t you?”

“I haven’t said that.”

“I can see how it must look to you. But let me assure you, Mr. Rood cannot possibly be responsible. He’s not a killer, not the type at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s considerate of everyone. Always punctual. Very neat. You should see him, every morning before the start of business, dusting the display case, whistling and ... and ...” Khouri gasped. “Oh, God in heaven. God in heaven.”

“Mr. Khouri? Are you all right?”

“The display case. Detective.” There was horror in his voice now. “The display case.”

“What about it?”

“It’s full of ... of heads. Styrofoam heads with black velvet skin. They’re all around him every day, and he dusts them off, dear God, and he whistles. Rows and rows of women’s heads.”

28

Wendy stepped into the trailer warily, the way she would have entered a house choked with gas fumes or a cellar smelling of rot. There were no windows, and the only light came from the doorway at her back, the brittle translucent light of the desert. Then the door closed, shutting out the sun, and she experienced a sudden sensation of falling, which came from the wordless certainty that she would never see daylight again.

She felt a hand close over her arm with a tender, affectionate squeeze. The Gryphon guided her forward, into the middle of the room, navigating around obstacles she couldn’t see. She heard him unshoulder the drawstring bag and deposit it heavily on something soft and yielding, perhaps a bed.

Metal clicked. A jet of flame sprang from the cigarette lighter in his hand. She watched, motionless, still holding the two shopping bags from the trunk of the car, as he lit the candles scattered throughout the trailer’s interior.

The narrow tunnellike space was a single room, forty feet long, eight feet wide, nine feet high. It was no more than a shell of steel, like a storage shed, with no bathroom or kitchen, no built-in amenities of any kind. Gray short-nap carpet covered the floor. Sheets of corkboard lined the walls and ceiling. Cork, Wendy knew, was often used for soundproofing. What went on within these walls that the Gryphon didn’t want passersby to hear? Too many possibilities occurred to her, none good.

A futon was stretched along one wall. Near it stood a bookcase, the kind made of pressed wood with simulated grain, put together from a do-it-yourself kit. The shelves were stocked, not with books, but with boxes of Ritz crackers, bags of Doritos and Lay’s potato chips, and bottles of soda pop and mineral water. Beyond the bookcase was a table piled high with picnic plates, Styrofoam cups, paper napkins, and plastic utensils, as well as more food: jars of Skippy peanut butter, bags of Oreo cookies, a loaf of Wonder Bread, and a litter of candy bars.

On another table, against the opposite wall, three boombox-style cassette players were displayed. The speakers had been detached; the speaker wires ran along the floor, crawled up the side of the large storage cabinet next to the table, and disappeared under the lumpy white sheet that draped the cabinet as if it were a body in a morgue.

Not far from where she stood, four metal folding chairs were arranged around a card table dressed in a red-and-white-checkered vinyl tablecloth. Two candles in silver holders flanked a plastic floral centerpiece. The Gryphon lit those candles last.

She looked around at the trailer that had become her prison. The candles’ flickering glow rippled over the walls and ceiling like rain shadows.

“So what do you think?” the Gryphon asked.

“It’s very nice. Very ... homey.”

“I know you’re going to be happy here, Wendy.”

Her name sounded obscene sliding out of his mouth, filthy and slimy, a pale mucid earthworm emerging from its hole.

She forced a smile. “I’m sure I will.”

The twenty-five-minute drive from the gas station to the trailer, most of which had passed in silence, had given her time to think. She’d decided her best hope of survival was to agree with everything he said. If she could mollify him, humor him, go along with whatever he wanted, then maybe he wouldn’t kill her. Maybe.

She was pretty sure he’d been serious when he claimed to feel something like love for her. Of course it wasn’t love in any terms a normal person would understand. He seemed to regard her not as a human being but as a toy, a plaything, like ... like one of those life-size inflatable dolls sold as masturbatory aids.

“Penny for your thoughts, Wendy.”

She realized he was watching her face. “Oh, nothing,” she answered lightly.

“No, no. When I say, ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ you have to tell me what you’re thinking. It’s a rule, see? A rule for lovers.”

“I see. Well, I was just thinking that ...” Make it good. “That, as nice as this hideaway of yours is, it sure could use a woman’s touch.”

“Which is precisely why you’re here. To make my special place even more special.” He grinned. “You can put those bags down now. Gently, please.”

She’d forgotten she was holding them. She placed both shopping bags carefully on the floor near the card table.

When she looked up, she saw the Gryphon slip his sunglasses into his pocket, then put on an ordinary pair of glasses, which he hadn’t worn before. Thick-lensed glasses with heavy black frames. They struck a chord of memory in her.

Gazing at him in the alley, she’d had the feeling his face was familiar; now she was certain of it. She’d seen this man before. And when she had, he’d been wearing those black-framed glasses—yes—glasses that had caught the amber glow of a computer terminal’s display screen.

The clerk at Crane’s. That was who he was.

“You,” she whispered.

He smiled at her. “Recognition at last.”