The Faceless One (18 page)

Jesus
.

The final photo was of Don LaSalle. LaSalle had died last December. He had managed Chase Manhattan before Emery. They had found LaSalle’s remains inside a snowman near his home upstate. That one was still on the books because the science boys said the body looked like one of those mummies that had been frozen in the Andes for several hundred years. LaSalle had gone missing December 5, and had been discovered when a kid on a sled had collided with the jolly figure decked out in top hat and muffler. Snow had fallen from the snowman’s face, pelting the kid with the requisite lumps of coal and the carrot that had comprised the smiling face. There had been another face underneath that one, its blue lips skinned back over long, yellowish teeth, the eyes like frozen lumps of milk. The kid had run home screaming, his prize sled forgotten. Not the merriest of Christmases in the LaSalle home that year. There was a Christmas tree in Slater’s apartment, leading Stan to think he had barricaded himself in the place during the holidays. Coincidence? Not likely.

Stan belched, then ran over the facts, looking for patterns.

Fact: All the victims had been linked to Daniel Slater.

Fact: All of the victims except LaSalle had been mutilated.

Fact: Organic chemicals had been part of two of the killings. He suspected this was also the case with Theresa Feldman, saliva notwithstanding.

Fact: Slater had been barricaded inside his town house. The door and windows had been sealed, food was delivered under tight security, and fetishes had been placed on the windows and door.

Fact: None of Slater’s colleagues or family had known he had taken refuge in his home. All assumed or had been told by Slater that he was out of the country while on his sabbatical.

Chemicals. Chemicals and a chain of grisly murders.

Drugs were an obvious possibility. Maybe Slater had come up with some new drug in his travels. Some sort of powerful high that could be synthesized. Some of the guys who ran meth labs were very smart. Drugs made a lot of money. Perhaps the money had been laundered by the attorneys with help from bank representatives.

It was logical, but seemed too pat. If it was a drug deal gone bad, why had Slater stayed at his place? He had had a prestigious post at NYU. Maybe he had gambled that he could keep both.

What about the fetishes? Some of the drug cartels contained some fairly superstitious men with backgrounds in voodoo or folk beliefs. Maybe the fetishes were a warning, a way to slow them down so Slater could get away.

Theresa Feldman had said that Purcival had gone ballistic because she included some kind of tribal mask in the package to Slater’s brother in California. Purcival had died not long after that freak-out. Something about that mask was important—something important enough that Slater had kept it in a safe-deposit box, and Purcival had died after it disappeared. And then Joey had kicked the bucket after passing the parcel off for the next leg of its journey. Was there money inside it? Drugs? Not enough to die for, not inside a mask.

Key
, Stan thought. There was either a key or map or some kind of information hidden inside. A key to a locker full of money, or drugs. Papers with names and incriminating evidence of the drug ring if that’s what it was.

Slater was an anthropologist. Maybe it had been antiquities, or jewels. Whatever it was, someone was killing people off in horrible ways. This was more than retribution; this was a warning to those who remained in the organization.

The package was the key, to coin a phrase.

Theresa Feldman had sent the package on a five-day delivery schedule to Slater’s brother in California. Steven Slater should receive it next Monday. Stan wasn’t sure he could trust the younger Slater. Why should he? He didn’t know him. He did know that if Steven Slater was in on it, they’d probably never know what was in the package that was so important.

He had to get to it first.

Richie came in with an early dinner. It was a greasy meatball sandwich on an onion roll. Stan’s stomach lurched, especially when he saw that Richie had ordered the mess with
sauerkraut. Sauerkraut and meatballs. Now he was pissing off the Germans and the Italians. No food was sacred to his partner.

Stan picked up the phone.

“What’s up?” Richie asked, wiping tomato sauce from his chin.

“Getting a court order,” Stan said. “We need to search a UPS truck.”

George looked at Jimmy again over his poker hand. Jimmy was studying his cards, then glanced up at George. George could tell he had a whole hand of shit, which was just what he had.

They had called the Old Fart for an impromptu game, hoping to raise enough cash for two tickets to Los Angeles. Between the two of them they had enough for a motel for a few days, food, and a rental car. But they needed at least $300 more for the flight. Jimmy had told George they needed to leave right away, and the urgency in his manner had frightened George just a little.

George wasn’t sure he believed all the things Jimmy had told him. He didn’t believe in monsters, and the only God he believed in was Jehovah. And Jesus Christ, of course. Jimmy had asked him if he believed in the Holy Ghost. George had said he guessed he did. “That’s three gods you believe in,” Jimmy had said. George had tried to explain about the Holy Trinity, about how three Gods were actually one. Jimmy told him that sounded like the kind of mumbo jumbo white men had used to write treaties.

That had stung a bit. Jimmy hadn’t apologized, and George had guessed he had deserved that for doubting the man’s religious beliefs. Most men clung to three things: family, religion, and politics. By the time you got to Golden Summer, your family and the politicians figured you were too old to matter. That left God (or gods, he corrected), and people either turned away from religion or embraced the Good Book until the chariot swung low.

In the end, George had decided that he would help Jimmy. If this Faceless One turned out to be a load of bullcrap, then they’d have an adventure to talk about in the days ahead. If it was real … But Lord, he didn’t want to think about that now.

It was time to lay the cards on the table, and damned if the Old Fart didn’t have a full house. That cleaned out Jimmy, and he was down to twenty of what he had allotted for the game. Any more, and they would never get out of there. Maybe they could use the motel and food money for the plane tickets. There were missions and halfway houses where they could get a bed and a meal. It wasn’t first class, George thought, but this was sort of a holy crusade, and you were supposed to do without on those, weren’t you?

Jimmy pushed back from the table, signifying he was through. The Old Fart grinned like a goddamned Cheshire cat who had eaten a whole shitload of canaries and asked George if he’d
like a chance to recoup his losses.

“No, Fred, it’s getting kinda late. I believe you have enough of my money for tonight.”

Fred, ever the gracious winner, laughed as he raked the chips into his baseball cap. The cap had been sent by his son the director. It was emblazoned with the logo for
Trace Elements
. George thought the Old Fart looked like an idiot when he wore it. Of course, his own kids hadn’t sent him so much as a postcard since Christmas, so maybe he was a bit jealous.

George got up, and he and Jimmy shook hands with the Old Fart, who promised he’d be by in a half hour to collect his winnings if the coast was clear. George wondered what the likelihood was of the Old Fart’s falling down a flight of stairs before he could collect. Probably not very good odds, the way his luck was running.

In low spirits, George and Jimmy headed back to his room for a nightcap. They were getting low on booze, but this was a special occasion.

George actually brought out the Chivas, which Jimmy noted without a word. Neither of them wanted to discuss the fact that Jimmy believed he would not return from Los Angeles. George poured the drinks into the Holiday Inn glasses.

“To winnin’ horses, fine brown wimmen, and bein’ regular,” George toasted.

Jimmy smiled and drank. It was very good, Chivas Regal. He wondered if he’d ever have another taste of it.

They put the cash for the Old Fart, fifty dollars they could ill afford, on the bed in an envelope. The Old Fart’s knock came ten minutes later, like some goddamned dependable clock.

George let him in and tried not to show his disdain. The Old Fart was still wearing that stupid hat.

“Hello, George. Hello, Jimmy,” the Old Fart said, removing his hat as he entered.

“Hello, Fred,” Jimmy said, raising his glass.

“Come in, come in,” George said impatiently, “you’re letting all the heat out.” It was a bad joke. The temperature that day had been in the eighties, with high humidity.

Fred nodded and came in. He noted the glasses, now empty.

“What are you boys drinking?”

“Chivas, for your information,” George said, “and we’re fresh out.”

The Old Fart looked at the glasses with longing. “I have some Beefeater’s stashed in my room,” he said.

George motioned to the money. “Well, with that you can buy some Chivas … or some vermouth and olives and make yourself a shitload of martinis.”

The Old Fart nodded and picked up the envelope. George opened the door and motioned theatrically for him to be on his way. The Old Fart started for the door and stopped.

“What do you need the money for?” he asked.

“What are you talkin’ about?” George demanded.

The Old Fart looked at them. “Every Tuesday, we play poker. You let me win a few hands by making a ridiculous number of cards wild, then you clean me out.”

Jimmy and George looked at him in shock.

“Now you call an impromptu game on Wednesday. You go straight for my throat, and I have no choice but to clean
you
out.”

“You knew, all this time?” Jimmy asked.

“I may be old, but I’m not stupid,” the Old Fart bristled. “I ran a three card monty game on the Santa Monica pier when you two were still pooping your diapers.”

“If that’s so, how come you let us take you?” George asked.

“Because, despite the fact that you take me at cards—and you’re very bad at it, by the way—and despite the fact that you call me the Old Fart behind my back—” He waited to see their shocked and guilty faces. When the expressions they registered satisfied him, he continued. “I think of you two as my friends. The only real friends I have here.”

George and Jimmy looked at one another. Friendship was a rare commodity at their age. Each of them felt a sting of shame at the realization that the Old Fart actually thought of them as friends.

“We didn’t know, Fred.”

“Well, now you do.” He wagged a finger at them. “And I don’t want you changing your ways at the table. I could clean you out anytime. Let’s just keep the game friendly.”

They both nodded in dumb agreement.

“So I ask again, what do you need the money for?”

“We need to go to California,” Jimmy said.

The Old Fart nodded. “How much do you need?” he asked.

“Don’t you want to know why?” George asked.

The Old Fart shook his head. “Not really my business. I don’t care if you’re going out there to stalk a movie star or get a lap dance. How much?”

“Three hundred dollars.”

The Old Fart whistled. “You two were going to try and take me for that much in one sitting after all our pots tallied up to about fifty? You boys are rank amateurs.”

George bristled, but Jimmy spoke first.

“It’s very important, Fred.”

The Old Fart nodded. He laid the envelope back down on the bed. Then he took out a worn eelskin wallet and counted out five hundred-dollar bills.

“This should help with your meals. Just pick me up a bottle of Chivas, and we’ll split it when you come back.”

They both nodded, shocked at this sudden and magnificent gesture.

“I’ll make up a story if one of the nurses asks about you,” the Old Fart said. He wagged a finger at them again. “You two better come back safe. Tuesdays wouldn’t be the same without you. Now, who wants a drink?”

Both Jimmy and George nodded. The Old Fart, whom they would call Fred from then on, started out of the room.

“Fred,” George said. Fred turned. “How come you stay here if you’ve got that kind of money?”

“I like it here. Nobody hassles me, and I have friends.” Fred looked at them like this should have been self-evident, then went to fetch his bottle of Beefeater’s.

Jimmy and George looked at the money, then at each other. They both burst out laughing.

While Bobby slept, Steven told Liz about the story in the
Post
. She listened quietly until he hesitated about the condition of Daniel’s body. She squeezed his hand gently.

“Go on,” she insisted.

He looked at her. This was the woman who, armed only with a plastic spatula, had run a bear off from their campsite when they were first dating. She had then calmly wiped the spatula off, given him a knowing wink, and gone back to flipping hotcakes. It had been only when she poured her syrup that she had gone wide-eyed and looked at him with the words “Oh, fuck” frozen on her lips. He told her what he had read, all of it, and she looked at him with compassion and mounting horror.

“Who would do such a thing?” she asked, stealing a nervous glance at Bobby.

“The press suspects a serial killer, but the cops say they don’t have any real leads.”

“Sometimes they say that to throw off the killers,” she said. Liz’s knowledge of police work and strategy was, like his, largely derived from books, movies, and television.

He nodded, but both of them knew that this was probably not the case.

She squeezed his hand, her eyes welling with tears. She had loved Daniel almost as much as he did and had called him Mr. Science, which amused Daniel.

Steven hugged her tight. He was glad now they had made love the night before. Things could get so hectic when they went cross-country, especially with Bobby in tow. She felt warm against him, strong but yielding. He was so glad to have her and Bobby with him. This was not a time he wanted to be alone.