He
watched Sam move, wishing he could get inside her head. He’d brought her back
to the house, stayed beside her while they searched. All the while, she
wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t talk to him. She deserved to be angry, but what
could he do? She’d have made it a mess if he’d told her about the flashlight.
How did he know that they were going to serve a goddamn warrant. He’d have lost
his job. Plus, they wouldn’t have had tonight. Maybe he was just a selfish son
of a bitch.
“It
doesn’t fit,” she said after a period of silence.
“What
do you mean?”
“I
mean, Martin Herman doesn’t fit. It’s not right.”
“Why
not?”
She
shook her head and pulled her legs into her lap, effectively tucking herself up
into a closed ball.
He
tried to keep from reading anything into the gesture, but he still found
himself thinking that she hated his guts.
“He’s
male, more than one child. Has a boy and a girl.”
Nick
thought about it a moment and shrugged. “So, maybe the killer ran out of single
moms.”
Sam
looked up at him. “Maybe, but I don’t think it fits.” With that, she stood up
and left the room.
Derek
had locked himself in his room and refused to answer any requests to talk to
him. There was nothing Nick could say to Sam to alleviate the pain. The whole
thing was a nightmare.
Nick
found Rob in his room, lying on his back, tossing his ball up into the air and
catching it in his glove. Obviously, his arm was feeling better. “You going to
be okay?”
He
continued to throw the ball. “Are they going to arrest Aunt Sam?”
Nick
snatched the ball out of the air and ran his thumb across the red stitching.
“No. It’s just a big mess up right now, bud. They’ll figure it out. I’ve got to
run.” He tossed the ball back and then pulled a card from his wallet and wrote
his cell phone number on it. “Call me if you need me, okay? And tell Derek,
too.”
Rob
nodded and went back to throwing the ball.
The
city of Martinez was amazingly busy at four-fifty in the morning. Women stood
beneath lampposts in short skirts and high boots in pink and red, or tight
black pants and platform sandals. Cars slowed as they drove past or rocked from
side to side when stopped at stoplights. Some cars were easily twenty years
old, with purple lights shining from the undersides and gold crowns in the back
window. Others were painted bright yellow with fins, as though the
ornamentation would cause the onlooker to overlook the original price of the
auto the way some thought the cut of a suit could make up for cheap fabric.
Nick
glanced at the empty seat beside him. He just wished that things were still the
way they’d been eight hours earlier. How could the department be so stupid? He
slapped his hand on the steering wheel.
Nick
concentrated on what he knew about the new case. The victim was found by his
wife, Betty Herman. Mrs. Herman had been out, visiting her sister with their
two kids. Someone had already called and checked her alibi with the sister. The
sister, Dolores, confirmed that Betty left at one-fifteen. The call came in at
one-forty. Dolores lived in San Ramon, about a twenty-five-minute drive. It all
fit together so far.
He
wondered why Betty was at her sister’s house so late with two young kids, but
apparently Dolores’ husband had passed away recently, so Betty had been staying
there a lot to comfort her. Tonight was the two-month anniversary of her
brother-in-law’s death, and it had been a particularly rough day for Dolores.
So
why not just stay the night? Martin was coming home from business in Sacramento
tonight, but if Dolores was having such a hard time, it would’ve been easier
just to stay. He’d have to pursue that angle.
According
to Betty, she arrived at home with both kids asleep in the back of the car.
Instead of waking them right away, she carried in her purse and a duffel bag.
That was when she found him. She called 911 and went back to the car until the
guys arrived. Last Nick heard, the kids were still asleep in the car.
Had
Betty called home to tell Martin she was running late? Had she stopped anywhere
on the drive home? Things like phone records and sightings by convenience store
clerks could be checked. The kids were young, both under five. Too young to
provide good testimony about what had happened.
His
mind kept coming back to the notion of a male victim. The serial killers he’d
tracked had all chosen female victims. It didn’t mean it didn’t happen—there
was Manson, of course, and Son of Sam, although his first intended victim was
always the woman. It just wasn’t common. Though Martin Herman did fit the bill
in terms of abuse. He was a known offender—one Sam had prosecuted. And like the
others, he’d never been convicted.
When
Nick arrived at the scene, he found one officer standing beside Betty Herman’s
car. Through the windshield, he could just make out the shape of the two
sleeping children. The smaller of the two officers, a Hispanic man with a thin
mustache, stepped forward. Nick recognized him from the station—Lorenzo.
“Dispatch called the coroner. Their guy’s on his way.”
“Crime
scene team?”
The
officer looked at his watch. “Should be here.”
Nick
nodded. “Send them in when they show.” He headed into the house.
Nick
recognized the female officer sitting beside a woman at a small yellow Formica
kitchen table. Nick assumed she was Betty Herman. She had a tiny frame, frizzy
bleached-blond hair, and the dark, splotchy skin that identified lifelong
sun-worshiping smokers. She wore a turtleneck, the top pulled almost over her
chin.
Unlike
Sam, who dressed in turtlenecks to stay warm, Betty, he was sure, was wearing
it to cover war wounds. As she turned to look up at him, Nick could see the
purplish shadow of a bruise under her left ear.
“Who
are
you
?” she asked in a raspy smoker’s voice.
Nick
noticed another officer, a wiry man with round glasses, leaning against the
kitchen wall. His name badge said R. Auger. Nick stepped forward and sat down
at the table. “Mrs. Herman, I’m Detective Thomas. I am going to look around,
and then I’m going to need to ask you some questions. Okay?”
Betty
nodded.
Nick
spoke in low tones to the officer at the table about the location of the
victim. Officer Karen Mann pointed to the next room, and Nick made his way
toward the body.
Martin
Herman was sprawled out on the living room floor. Unlike the other victims,
he’d been shot. The tie around his neck was loose, and he still wore his coat.
Over each ear was a small twig of eucalyptus.
An
inexpensive suitcase was on its side next to the body. Blood had soaked into
the cheap yellow carpet. Without a medical examination of what was left of his
crooked teeth and heavy jowls, it would be impossible for someone who had known
him in life to recognize what was left. He’d caught a bullet right between the
eyes, and his face was destroyed. Nick diverted his gaze and noted the way the
body had landed.
From
the line of the body, it looked like the shooter was already in the house when
Mr. Herman got home.
“Mann,”
Nick called to the kitchen. The officer poked her head in the room. “Take
Lorenzo and go ask the neighbors if and when they heard gunfire.”
“Sure
thing,” she said.
“And
track down the damn crime scene team,” Nick called after her.
Nick
stepped closer to the twigs and let his breath out. He would’ve loved to
connect this murder to the two before it. Sam had an alibi for this one.
But
someone other than their perp had killed Martin Herman. Nick knew because the
twigs, although eucalyptus, were much too big to match the others—ten to twelve
leaves, at least, not six. That was the one detail the media hadn’t gotten hold
of, not even in the Sloan case. Nick dropped his head in his hands and muttered
a low curse.
Gerry
had noticed the new cars coming down his street lately and he was getting
nervous. He hadn’t seen Sam Chase in the cars yet. He had hoped she would be
the one to come, but they were all men. Sitting in the bathtub, he thought
about Whitney. He hadn’t seen her in almost two days. He’d tried, but the old
lady downstairs had taken her car and hadn’t been back. The more he thought
about prison, the less sure he was that he wanted to go back there. He was
starting to like it out here. He at least needed to see Whitney again before he
went.
Tonight,
he needed to go get some groceries, but all the cars on the street made him
nervous and he wanted to wait until it was dark. He found himself replaying the
scene at the funeral the other day. He had been very bad, he told himself. But
he hadn’t done any harm. He was there to protect the children, right? He was
like Sam Chase. He would keep them from harm, from the terrible mothers who hurt
them.
He
just needed someone to talk to. He had a parole officer who was supposed to
come by, but he hadn’t seen her since the picketers started. Maybe she couldn’t
get through. Or maybe she got busy with other parolees. He thought about Wally
in prison, and that made him smile. But then he wished he were still there.
If
he went back to prison, Wally would be disappointed in him. Wally had told him
to straighten up and survive on the outside, but he needed a job. And he needed
to control himself better than he had at the cemetery. He could do that,
couldn’t he? He thought about little Whitney and he grew hard again. Angry at
his own reaction, he jabbed himself in the nuts and doubled over in pain. Stay
in control.
When
the pain stopped, he concentrated on what he needed from the store. Since the
refrigerator didn’t work anymore, he had to buy things that didn’t spoil, but
he longed for some milk. He longed for a lot of things—like a ham-and-cheese
sandwich with American cheese and mustard and mayonnaise. But he didn’t have
the money for that.
Seven
dollars and twelve cents was it. It would last another week, if he stretched
it. He hadn’t found any more money. He reminded himself to look through the old
lady’s car next time. Or maybe he’d be able to get into her house and get to
her purse.
Pulling
himself up from the bathtub, he ran his hand across his scratchy beard and
smoothed his hair down. He gave himself a quick glance in the mirror, thinking
he’d never looked so bad. Who would want an employee who looked like him?
At
least he’d be safe in jail. He wouldn’t do any more bad things there. How
desperately he wanted to be in the library filing books with Wally. When he was
feeling down, Wally would pull a book off the shelf and hand it to him. “You
should read this one.” Then he’d add, “It’ll pick up your spirits.” Without
another word, Wally would push his book cart on down the aisle and be on his
way.
The
last book Wally gave him was Hemingway’s
A Farewell to Arms
. When that
Catherine Barkley died, Gerry went back to the beginning and read it again.
“She
died,” he’d said to Wally the next day. “How come she died?”
“Didn’t
matter she was dead,” Wally said, pressing his hand against the book. “True
love is everlasting. She would live through Lieutenant Henry forever. Read it
again.”
So
he did. He read it three times. He didn’t understand it like Wally did. Still,
he had cried each time he read about Catherine in the hospital, dying. And the
weird thing was, Wally was right. The book did make him feel better.
Thinking
about Wally, he wished he had a good book. He looked around the dark room. No
books there. He thought about how expensive books were to buy. He could go to a
library. Didn’t cost to join, either. His chin lifted a bit as he thought about
it. Long as the library wasn’t at a school, of course. And he’d have to stay
clear of the children’s sections. But that was okay. He could do that as long
as he kept his eyes on the floor.
Tomorrow
he’d go to the library during the day. Then, at night, he’d go see Whitney, his
Cherry Princess, again. That old lady better bring that car back soon.
He
looked around the room. He would have to pick up another candle at the grocery
store tonight, so he could read. His was almost burned to the end.
He
bundled up and headed out, surprised that the outdoors was almost warmer than
the inside had been. He had his seven dollars tucked carefully in his shirt
pocket beneath his sweater and coat as he started down the street toward the
convenience store.
It
was quiet and he breathed deeply, sucking in the clear night air. Night air was
something he’d never experienced in prison and he enjoyed the sounds and smells
of nighttime.
Turning
the corner, he saw the old lady’s car. With a quick look around, he ran toward
it and tested the door. It was unlocked. He opened the door and found the keys.
He felt more excited than he had in days.
He
started the car and drove toward Sam Chase’s house. It was too late to see
Whitney, but maybe Sam was home. He loved to drive, and he stayed in the slow
lane and followed the rules carefully. The longer he was out, the more he
remembered all the things he couldn’t do in prison.
He
drove past Sam’s house, but it looked dark. He looked at his watch. Maybe she
was still at work. He checked the gas gauge—it was full. But he still had to
pay two dollars for the bridge toll. He only had seven, so two seemed like an
awful lot.
He
turned down the next street and made a U-turn. He saw something slide across
the floor and reached for it. It was thin and dark against the dark floor, and
only when he had it in his hand did he realize it was a wallet. Checking for
anyone watching him, Gerry made sure the coast was clear before tearing the
wallet open and looking inside. He gasped at what he saw. He pulled the bills
out and thought he’d gone to heaven. He counted twice, but got different
numbers. Still, the wallet had more than eighty dollars plus two credit cards.
He could definitely afford to go to Sam’s office now.