Touching Evil (5 page)

"It went. It's a shop. People touch stuff. We've got about a million
prints, but I doubt there's a usable one. The box..." Artie trailed
off, shaking his head. Giving him plenty of time to protest, Artie
reached for him, grabbing him under the armpits and hauling him up,
plopping him in the chair.

"What was in the box?" His head rolled, surrounded by safety, by family. By Artie. He loved this chair.

"You were right. It was a piece of someone. Your girl, most like.
We're gonna try and ID her. I need something to eat. And maybe a stiff
shot."

"I have your whiskey in the wet bar." He could stand up and cook. He
could. At least he was fairly sure he could. Mostly. "You want eggs and
toast?"

He wouldn't fuck up eggs and toast.

"That sounds good. Real good." Artie sat on the ottoman, elbows on his knees, head down. "Goddamn, I hate this."

He nodded, looking at the different colors in Artie's hair. Some
were almost white, some a real gold. A shiny gold. Funny wasn't it? The
things you focused on? The things you saw?

He reached out, braced himself for the rush of visuals and sounds when his hands stroked through Artie's hair.

Tired. Mainly Artie was just really damned tired. The rest was a
blur. Leah. The pyramid, over and over. A bloody scrap of finger
wrapped in cream paper—gift wrapped. Artie leaned into the touch,
humming.

God, it felt good. Warm. He kept touching, breathing nice and slow.
Eventually the pyramid would go away. It had to. Just relax, Artie. Let
it go away.

"Feels good. I told Leah to call me when she gets home. Not sure
where my phone is." The image faded slowly, but it faded. Then it was
just Leah with a big old belly and swollen ankles and Artie fluttering
around like a nervous hummingbird.

He smiled. Oh, yeah, Artie as hummingbird. Duke wouldn't have any of
that. His touch moved down, working the deltoids gently. If Artie
didn't know, Greg wouldn't either.

"Mmm. Damn." Oh, that helped. He could feel the tight muscles
release, could feel Artie sink down. The old ottoman creaked and
groaned, sliding a little, bringing Artie closer.

He nodded, eyes closing. It had been so long since he'd been able to just touch and not be scared. So long.

Like three thousand five hundred and seventy three days long.

Artie's eyes popped open, searching him. "You're touching me."

"Do you want me to stop?" Greg hoped Artie didn't ask him to stop.
Not yet. Five more minutes and he'd go make eggs. Bacon. Souffle.
Anything.

"No." Those eyes looked like storm clouds. Okay, so that was a cliché from hell, but there it was. "No, it feels good."

"Yes. It does." So Greg kept doing it, letting the wonder and awe of
really and truly touching someone wash the horrors of the night away.
Artie's shoulders were hard, firm, hot under his hands. Not even murder
could supersede this, right here, right now.

There was nothing coming through now but warm. Artie just leaned
against him and let him work away every bit of stiff and worried and
scared.

Oh. For this he would even make omelets. Frittatas. Crepes.

Greg rested his cheek against Artie's head, sighing softly. At peace.

Half turning, Artie put an arm around him, holding him loosely, sitting quiet.

"Do you still want eggs?" His fingers explored Artie's, curious. There was a scar there, a little bump here.

"Hmm?" The cheek against his belly was stubbled and rough, rubbing as Artie turned his head a little more. "Oh, sure. Whatever."

He smiled. Artie didn't want eggs. Artie was happy where he was,
except ... Greg frowned, fingers searching out a sore spot on
Artie’ neck, rubbing. "Better?"

"Uh-huh. Oh, good." They sort of ... oozed. Artie scooted and pulled
and pushed, and the next thing he knew they were both sitting in the
chair, sort of squashed.

He just moaned, drew the quilt over them both. Artie fluttered against him, and he nodded. "You're fine. Stay. This is good."

"Okay. Okay, sure." Artie stayed. Right there. Happy as anything. He could tell that by the smile.

The jazz started up again on the CD player. Artie liked it well enough, for jazz.

"Don't worry. The Celtic stuff you like better is next." Greg closed
his eyes, fingers moving and searching, even after they were both
asleep.

Chapter Three

He's made an impact.

Interesting, to watch the professor walk up and down the stairs in
the back, so careful not to touch the wall, the stairway, anything. So
interesting to see the long fingers wrapped in plastic gloves, taking a
book off a shelf and handing it, so carefully, to a wide-eyed,
stammering customer.

A pretty customer.

She's not collectible, but part of him wants to reach out, grab her
perfectly manicured little hand holding a pointless book on love
potions and aphrodisiacs, and slice deep into the skin. Take that wrist
and rub it over the professor's face, drip blood in those eyes, in his
mouth, make him scream and sob and drown in it.

It's a pretty fantasy. The idea of watching the man writhe and
groan, of seeing the stains ruin the pristine white sweater. Such a
pretty thought.

Still, the time isn't right, and he wants to know, needs to know, really. Needs to know how worried he should be.

He slips out of the shop, nodding at the fat woman who always gets
the mail and watches the professor like a hawk, smiling at her, and
waiting patiently for her smile in return. The garbage cans are in the
back and he takes a cloth from his pocket. He'd used it, only this
morning, hand moving furiously as he listened to the tapes he
has—five tapes, four sweet, dear screams, one deep, genteel
cultured voice.

The garbage goes out every night. Every night before the professor
heads up. He slides the cloth over the handle, his thumb swollen and
aching, throbbing as he rubs himself over the galvanized steel. See
what this tells you. See if you can see me.

After all, the collection needs to be protected at all costs.

They didn't say a word about it.

Artie just wasn't sure if he was happy or pissed.

Three days later they still had no leads on the girl, on the
blood—hers or the stuff on the book—and no fucking prints
except for one serial shoplifter Greg could watch out for now.

Greg opened the mail religiously, but nothing new came. Hell, even
Alice knew what to look for. Artie figured the guy must be choosing his
next victim, just out there, on their streets. It chafed like a bad
pair of jeans. Damn it.

"What have you got for me, babe?" Poor Leah. She looked so tired.

There were papers everywhere, scribbled on, drawn on. Every fucking
angle that they could see together. And they didn't have a
motherfucking thing. "Bupkes."

"Shit. There's got to be something, honey." There had to be. He
nodded to a couple of guys that passed by, vice detectives if he
remembered right. "What about all those missing persons files?"

Leah leaned across the desk, tugged the files over. "Okay, stud.
Here goes. There's been thirty-five verified missing persons in the
city so far this year. I got six under twenty-five, blonde runaways.
Three with K names—Kathy Miller, Karen Herschfeld and a ...
Kathleen Boule." Six pretty girls—from scary young to
hard-bitten—stared up at him.

"Okay, so that's something, at least. Do we have any uniforms to do some footwork, or are we on our own?"

She arranged shit like that. He just dug like a terrier.

"Cap gave me Trewwater and Vargas. They're on the families, last
knowns, all that. Aggie's working the finger we got. You know how she
is. She won't give up a single fucking breath until the whole job's
done."

"Yeah, and in the meantime I have a witness who's jumping out of his
skin at every noise." Greg fucking worried him. He was just fading,
like.

"The professor needs a standing ‘scrip for Valium. Nothing
else has come?" Two books—one old one on surgery, one new one
about head injuries and mental illness, both splashed with blood
matching the finger, and stagnant water. The finger, conveniently
missing a print. That was it. Still, he'd bet Greg had stopped sleeping
in the bed. Again.

"Not that I know of. I'm heading over in a bit, just to look around." Look around, check on Greg, maybe play backgammon.

Leah nodded, curls bobbing as she started sorting through papers
again. "I printed a bunch of knife photos and truck makes to show him,
that sort of thing. He's locking his doors, recording phone calls
still?"

"He is." He'd damned well better be. "I'll take them with me."

The last thing he really wanted was to talk to Greg about the case, but they weren't talking on other stuff.

"Oh, that bitch reporter? Uh ... Denice Powers. The one that blew
his cover? She's been sniffing, along with that little blonde one. Uh.
Ginny. Georgette. Something." Leah got that look, sharp and fierce, the
one that he knew meant trouble. "I'm thinking she might have heard from
our guy, to know to be asking questions already."

Nodding, he sat back, his back cracking. "Fuck a duck."

He'd kill her if she got Greg hurt. His brow furrowed. That was a fierce feeling, one he'd tuck away and look at later.

"Could be nothing. Most likely is. Still, it's a reason to poke a
little." Leah pushed her hair back, rubbing her forehead, chewing on
her lips. "Tell me, man. Why now? Why'd he surface? We got no bodies,
we got nothing until he starts playing cat and mouse with the doc.
What's he want?"

"I don't know, babe, but it's pissing me off. You need to go home.
Get some rest." She needed to sit and get off her fucking feet. Let Tim
give her a massage. Get away from all this death and blood. It couldn't
be good for the baby.

Leah nodded, handed him a sheaf of papers. "I know you don't want to
hear it, but it's only a matter of time before we have to dig on the
professor's background, just to see who could hold this kind of focus,
who wants to screw him."

Artie sighed. "I know, babe. I know." Hoisting up out of his chair, he grabbed his jacket. "Come on. I'll walk you out."

She buttoned up, grabbed her own work from the desk.

Rick passed by, winking at him, mischief written all over the man's
face. "Man, our favorite lady's getting puffy. I'm thinking she'll be
cute as all hell in a little pink polka-dotted maternity dress."

"Suck my swollen ass, Garcia. Give me three minutes on the training
mat with you and you'll be begging to wear the dress." She made a fake
swipe for Rick's nuts and the man hooted, heading down to the Captain's
office with a pile of reports. Oh. Blah. Fucking reports. Typing.
Printing. He'd rather gargle razor blades.

"Hello? Studmuffin? Artie?" Leah popped his arm, shaking her head.
"You're getting as bad as the professor. We're going to Chi-Chi's
tonight. Come with us. Have guacamole and a beer or two. Duke can wait
for his tuna."

"Thanks, honey, but you and Tim go ahead. He's getting grumpier
about me encroaching on your time." He frowned. "And no beer for you."

"Spoilsport." Leah stuck her tongue out, punched the button for the elevator. "Tell the doc hey for me and to take it easy."

"I will." She smelled like baby powder and hot tea as he bent to kiss her cheek. "And you enjoy. See you tomorrow."

Duke could wait for his tuna for sure. He was an independent
thinker. Hell, Artie figured Duke could open tuna cans on his own; he
just liked for Artie to feel useful. Greg was more important.

His cell rang as he got the key in the door of his Camaro, jiggling
it to make the damn thing pop the lock. Not that she wasn't worth a
little shake and jiggle, but once in a while it'd be nice to ... "Yeah."

"Detective? I'm sorry to bother you." It took him a second to follow
along with the soft, gentle voice on the other end of the line.
"...wife said this would be the number to contact you on. It's on the
store rolodex."

"Yeah." Uh ... Mark. Mork. Mitch! "What's up, Mitch?" Goddamned fucking lock. There. He hopped in, his gut clenching up.

"Alice asked me to call. You see. Well, Greg seems to have, well ...
taken a walk." Which would be perfectly normal for every person on
Earth but Dr. Greg Please No Crowds who never left home.

"Taken a..." The engine roared as he gunned it out. "He's not on the roof?"

As many God-forsaken plants as the man grew up there, it wasn't inconceivable that Greg could be hiding up there.

"I've been up there twice and in the storage on the third floor. I
even looked in the tool shed. Alice is out searching for him in the few
places he's been known to go—that little florists, the coffee
shop on the corner that knows him. She's not back yet. Oh, wait. Did
you?"

He heard a rustle, then Alice's voice was on the line, brassy and
loud and tinged with worry. "He went to put the trash out. The trash
bag's on the ground. The lid's off. He took his jacket. You know how he
is, Artie. He's on the trail again."

"I'll be right there."

Jesus Christ. He hung up with Alice without another word, dialing Greg's cell. He was one of three people who had the number.

It rang and rang, and just before the voice mail picked up, Greg did. "Hello?"

"Hey." Breathing deep to calm himself, Artie hung a right, heading for the shop. "Where are ya?"

"Wandering. Walking. Avoiding raindrops and crowds. Trying to find
where he was standing. He walked and walked and then he did something,
something confusing. It's not working." No. No, he didn't imagine it
was. Not with that so-fake calm tone in Greg's voice. "Are you still on
duty?"

"No. I was on my way to see you. Mitch called. Where are you, man?
I'll get you." Greg on a trail could be like a hound on a scent.

Not knowing how to get home.

"Mitch? I told them I'd be out for the evening. At least I thought I
did. You'd think I wasn't a grown man." Greg sighed, the sound
frustrated. "I know I'm close to something. I just know, you know?
There's got to be something around here."