The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (31 page)

Laura leaned forward to touch Missy's hand. It was
all Missy could do to keep from burning her with her cigarette but
she sat still.

"Look, Missy, I understand your hurt, but it's
not fair to ruin a man's life over a bad love affair."

Missy only looked at her, then said, "If you
know how he talked about you. I knew he was going to bed with you. I
made him always be open with me. He said your body was old before its
time, that you'd let yourself go, your tits were ugly and sagging. I
felt so sorry for you, that you didn't know how he felt. It was me he
was in love with, me he wanted to marry. It's all so ironic . . ."

Laura couldn't resist. "I've never heard my body
described with such knowing detail." She even allowed herself a
slight smile.

Missy noted the smile, and it bothered her. What did
Laura have to smile about? There was no way she could know what Felix
had said about her.

Laura was talking again. "Irony is not a word
I'd have used to describe this situation. What are you saying?"

"That pregnancy test you mentioned earlier, it
was to check my cycle. The ironic part is that I was fertile when he
raped me. So there's a good chance I am pregnant with his baby."

Laura, nervous, clapped her hands. "How
wonderful for you. In fact the whole story is wonderful. It belongs
in a novel, but in real life it doesn't work——"

"What are you talking about?" Missy said,
now definitely fearful that she had said too much but without a clue
as to what.

"The caviar, the oysters, the champagne. No one
buys Dom Perignon to tell a man to kiss off. You might convince the
police of it but we know better, don't we, dear?"

"No, dear, the reason for the Dom Perignon was a
matter of style. Something I have. Something you could do with a lot
more of."

"Style? Is it style that makes you frame an
innocent man just because he has the good taste not to go to bed with
you?"

Missy had had enough. "This interview," she
said grandly, "is terminated. You print any of it that you like,
but be prepared to hear from my lawyers." Getting to her feet so
that she loomed over the still-seated Laura, she said, "Now I
want you out of my house, and out of my sight. You upset my stomach."

For all her scored points, Laura felt, she hadn't
gotten what she came for. Still, she felt she had rattled Missy some.
But it wasn't enough, damn it . . . She noticed her tape recorder on
the coffee table and decided to leave it behind. It would give her an
excuse to come back and try again . . .

She got up and crossed the living room. At the door
she stopped and took out one of her cards. On the back she wrote her
number and handed it to Missy. "This is my home number. If you
see the light and change your mind and want to talk, call me. I'm not
going to print anything we've said." Then added, "In fact
we're not going to print a word about any of this—your rape,
Felix's arrest, nothing. And neither are any of the other papers in
town. I'll see to that. After all, you're a rape victim and we all
have to protect your rights. Of course, what that will do is leave
you out in the open, since the man who really did it to you won't
know what's happened. Which means he'll have no choice except to come
for you."

She paused, and coldly added, "In the long run,
when that happens, at least the police will know Felix is innocent.
The only bad thing about it is with you gone we'll lose the only lead
that can bring the real killer to justice and maybe he'll never be
found. Your epitaph can read: She proved you can take it with you.
Should look good on a tombstone. Lots of style."

As Laura went out and quietly closed the door behind
her, Missy wadded up the card and threw it on the rug. "You
simple, stupid bitch. You think you're so smart. You haven't even got
the imagination of a sadass bag woman. If you did . . ." The
truth disappeared down her throat in a growl.

Turning back to the table to retrieve her drink for a
refill, she saw the tape recorder. She picked it up, along with her
glass. Passing through the kitchen, she set the glass on the counter
and took the recorder out the back door and into her garage. As she
hit the button to open the automatic door, she was muttering, "So
you think you'll leave this and come back later. Well, it won't
fucking work."

The door opened, and she saw Laura at her car, about
to get in. She took two steps and threw the recorder at her. "Take
this, dear, and shove it up your sad ass."

The throw was wide of the mark, but it wasn't the
throw, or Missy's outburst, that startled Laura. It was what she saw
in the garage.

There, behind Missy, was a silver sportscar with a
Bruce Springsteen bumper sticker.

Missy saw the change in expression on Laura's face.
She did not know what had caused it, not at the moment, but there was
little doubt in her mind that in that instant Laura knew.

And Missy knew what she had to do.

She began to shiver with anticipation . . .
 
 

CHAPTER 28

AS LAURA drove away, the image of what she had just
seen sharpened and refused to be denied: the car in Missy's garage
had to be Peter's. The Bruce Springsteen bumper sticker clinched it,
there was no other explanation. What it was doing there, what Missy
had to do with the killings she couldn't even guess—that was
something between Missy and Sloan. But to be involved in any way . .
. it made her shudder. It also, she realized, gave her new evidence
that should help Felix. Now Sloan would have to listen to her.

An accident on Arch Street had traffic bottled up,
but she was so deep into her thoughts that she didn't notice it until
it was too late either to turn or back up. She waited patiently,
honking her horn like the other drivers around her. Up ahead she
could see the mishap, a minor collision between a taxi and a truck
with Oriental characters on the side, probably a delivery truck bound
for Chinatown. Both drivers were out and arguing as the crowd around
them grew, and not a cop in sight.

She knew she had to hurry. Sloan was her only police
contact, and he had already been on duty all night. lf she didn't get
there soon she would probably miss him. The minutes ticked by; the
traffic got worse; more cars jammed the streets.

She pounded the horn with her hand, holding it down.
The driver in front of her looked in his rearview mirror and gave her
an extended finger. To hell with him. And then, the small distance
from him was just enough to allow her to pull the Jaguar to the curb
and park beside a fire hydrant. She got out, locked the car and
hurried off, her walk breaking into a run.

She was soon badly winded but she kept on running,
covering the blocks to the Roundhouse. She caught an elevator and
headed up. Sloan was not in his office. One of the men, said, "You
just missed him. He headed home to get some sleep—"

"When?" she was gasping, totally winded.

"A couple of minutes ago."

"Then I can still catch him—"

"Yeah, maybe, if you hurry."

She got aboard a down elevator and ran out when it
hit bottom, hoping Sloan had been tired enough to be taking it slow.
Success . . . she caught sight of his balding head just as he was
ready to get into a car.

"George, wait."

He looked around and saw her waving.

She rushed up to him. "George, I've got some
news——"

Sloan seemed nearly out on his feet but told her
wearily to get in and tell him about it and make it good.

"I've found it, the car you're looking for . . .
the silver Datsun with the Springsteen bumper sticker. It's Missy
Wakefields car, or at least it's in her garage . . ."

It took a moment for it to register on Sloan. "Come
on, that can't be," he said, rubbing his hand wearily across his
face.

"But it is. I've just come from her house and I
saw it. It's the same car Marie described to me."

Tugging on his arm, she said,

"Don't you see, this proves Felix is innocent—"

"Does it? Run it by me again, first tell me what
you were doing there."

"You know damn well. I went to see her because I
couldn't let her get away with framing Felix."

Sloan looked at her, shook his head. "Okay,
hawkshaw, let's hear."

"I talked to her; I put it to her; I told her I
knew all about her trying to get pregnant, and when Felix wouldn't do
it, framing him with this rape—"

"And—?"

"And what do you think? . . . she was her usual
hateful self, only more so. I tried to reason with her, even to scare
her by reminding her that the real killer was still on the loose and
she was in danger because she was the only person who could identify
him, but she pretty much stonewalled."

"Laura, how does this tie in to the car?"

"It was when she was throwing my tape recorder
at me, that's when I saw it."

"You're a hell of a reporter, you know. But
getting a story out of you is like pulling teeth. Slow the hell down
and tell me what happened. Start from the beginning."

And she did, told him everything starting with her
hurry-up drive to Cape May and ending with the driveway scene at
Missy's, intercutting her exchange with Missy with her talks with
Felix in an effort to further demonstrate his innocence. Sloan
listened quietly until she finished, then said, "When we boil
all this down, all you have is a visual of a car with a Springsteen
bumper sticker in the lady's garage. Correct?"

"Yes and no. At least now we know that Missy is
somehow involved in these killings—"

"Involved?" said Sloan, thinking about how
Laura's feelings for Felix and hatred of Missy weren't exactly
irrelevant here.

"Well, maybe not directly involved . . . we know
from Marie that she wasn't at Terri's murder. But she must know who's
doing it. Please, just look at the facts, Sloan. We find Terri's
body, a missing South Philly teenager. I write the story without once
mentioning Marie's name, but Marie is killed. Same neighborhood, best
friends, and the whole pattern of missing girls down there. It fits."

Sloan said nothing, waited.

"But all of a sudden the pattern changes. The
same killer murders a Center City businesswoman. There's no doubt
that it's the same person, but this is a dramatic shift. Why? Then,
not weeks apart like in the past but within a couple of days, he
strikes again, only this time the victim lives and when I go to see
her I find the killer's car in the garage."

"And therefore . . . ?"

"And therefore, how about blackmail. I mean,
Missy blackmailing the killer, and he comes after her. She knows what
the killer has been up to. She's even loaned him her car to do it.
Who knows why? She's one strange lady. She's probably getting some
sort of perverted charge out of it, getting off on having him tell
her about it. But now she decides that Cynthia is a problem. Why, I'm
not sure, but I do know Cynthia wanted to get back with Felix. Maybe
she and Missy met; maybe they argued. Anyway, Missy turns to her
friend the killer and voild, Cynthia is stone cold dead. But it
doesn't do any good. Felix still leaves her, and as we all know, hell
hath no fury, and so forth. She turns to her friend again. This time
to frame Felix, the man who had the good sense, and bad luck, to
reject her. How could he, after she'd gone to the trouble of
relieving him of his ex-wife . . ."

"That's quite a scenario, Laura, but also full
of leaps of conjecture that wouldn't stand up in court—"

"All right, damn it, but at least go check out
the car. See for yourself. It is Peter's, but you convince yourself
I'm wrong. You owe me—yourself—that much."

Sloan was silent for a moment.

"Please, George."

"All right. We'll check it out."

She impulsively kissed him on the cheek. Front page
stuff: Reporter Kisses Cop. "Thanks, George, can I wait upstairs
in your office?"

"No. This is going to take some time. Why don't
you go to your office and do some of your work for a change, or go
home or . . . just get out of my hair."

"And lovely hair it is," she said, getting
out of the car.

"Jesus," he said, but a slight smile had
broken through.

"I'll be at the
paper."

* * *

 
This time she walked instead of ran.
Things around Arch Street had settled down, too. Gone were the
Oriental truck and the taxi, and gone was the traffic jam. Everything
seemed to have more harmony, more order, until she arrived at the
place where she'd parked the car, and discovered it was gone.

Her first sensation was panic. It was a Jaguar. With
the way car prices were that could only mean a minimum of about
thirty thousand dollars, probably more. And if some bastard stole it,
she'd never get it back. Hands on hips, she looked around, maybe she
was at the wrong spot, but the car was nowhere to be seen. Then she
noticed the sign, which clearly marked the area near the fire hydrant
as a towaway zone. Some cop had it towed while they were breaking up
that damn traffic jam.