Hangman (23 page)

“I got up around seven…went to work.” A shrug.

“When do you go to work?”

“Around eight.”

“Go on.”

“I was at work all day. I came home around five. I ordered in a vegetable pizza from Muncher’s. I left to go to Wild Card around eight-thirty.” A pause. “That’s it.”

“Did you call anyone while you were home?”

“I called Greg. I called Garth again, but got no answer. My mother called. Like the usual stuff.”

“On your cell phone or on your landline?”

“I only have a cell.”

“Can I look at those records?”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

Decker said, “How do I say this? It seems to me that you have a lot of casual sex—with Adrianna and now with Crystal Larabee.”

“Why not?” The boy’s face was absolutely guileless.

“You weren’t bothered by screwing Garth’s girlfriend?”

“It was a casual thing…like when Garth wasn’t around…which was a lot. He spent a lot of time in Vegas.”

“Without Adrianna.”

“Yeah, without her, yeah. It was weird.”

“In what way?”

“That she financed his Vegas trips without her. I mean it’s not like she liked it. She complained about it. I asked her why she kept doing it.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said you can’t keep guys pinned down. They get resentful,
which is true…So she did it and then
she’d
get resentful. When we’d have sex, she’d say things like, ‘I wouldn’t do it except that Garth’s away so much.’ She messed around a lot. I know I wasn’t the only one.”

“Who else did she mess around with?”

Aaron realized that he had just put his foot deep down his throat. “I mean she told me she messed around a lot.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Who else did she mess around with? And please don’t bullshit me.”

Aaron threw up his hands. “Yes, she screwed Greg. She loved screwing Garth’s friends. I guess she thought it gave her some kind of revenge.”

“Did Garth know about it?”

“He knew something. He didn’t seem to care.”

“But according to you, he cared enough to cancel his trip and fly out to see her.”

“True that. He freaked when she said she was dumping him. It surprised me.”

“Why?”

“Because he didn’t seem to care that much about her.”

“Maybe he cared because he’d stood to lose his interest-free bank.”

Aaron didn’t talk for a moment. “That might be. He did go to Vegas a lot.”

“Garth goes to Vegas, Garth goes to Reno. Does Garth have a gambling problem?”

“Garth?” Aaron laughed. “He plays two-dollar tables and quarter slots. Sometimes he plays the poker machines. I rib him about it all the time. I once told him that he was the only guy I knew who could make fifty bucks last a weekend.”

“So why does he go to Vegas so much if he really doesn’t gamble?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Decker didn’t answer.

“You know the saying,” Aaron replied. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

“What happens in Vegas?”

“Nothing too spectacular.” But Aaron looked very uncomfortable. “I mean, it’s just that Garth likes women. They’re notches on his belt, you know what I’m saying.”

“What kinds of women?”

“See, that’s the thing. He doesn’t have a certain kind. He likes them all: young, old, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, fat, skinny, blond, brunette, redhead, bald, you name it. He told me it’s his goal in life to screw every kind of female in the world. I told him that was impossible because everyone was different. Then he said that that’s the point; he’d never get it all, so he’d have to keep going.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I dunno. We just laughed or something. C’mon, Lieutenant. We’re guys. That’s what you do when you’re young and single and that’s certainly what you do in Vegas.”

“Do you know if Garth was into kinky?”

“According to Garth, he was always up for anything new.” Aaron pressed his lips together. “Call me old-fashioned, but it turns me on when I get a girl off. Garth didn’t care about that. He told me several times he likes it back door. He told me that with back door, the guy has a grip and doesn’t have to look the girl in the eye. He made a point of saying that with back door, the guy’s always in control.”

M
ANDY KOWALSKI DIDN’T
decorate with heart.

The place appeared staged for max sale, done up in good taste, but very generic. The color scheme was muted. The furniture included a taupe Ultrasuede sofa, a teakwood coffee table, and an armchair and ottoman. Off to the side was a dining table with four upholstered chairs. A freestanding bookcase held paperbacks, DVDs, and professional nursing books. Scattered among the shelves were candles and a half-dozen very well-focused nature photos. A distinct lack of any personality, with nothing to suggest that Mandy had a mother, father, sibs, or friends.

The kitchen was small and spotless—clean sink, clean counters. Oliver opened the fridge. “There’s a salad bag in the crisper.” He took it out and regarded the greens. “Still good.” He took down a carton of milk. “This still has a week to go.”

“Anything else in there?” Marge asked while checking cupboards.

“Coffee, condiments, a package of baloney.” He closed the door. “Not a whole lot to make a meal. Maybe she ate at the hospital.”

“From what we’ve been told, she spent a lot of time there. Did you call the hospital again to make sure she hasn’t shown up?”

“Yes, I called, and no, she hasn’t clocked in for work.” Oliver leaned against the fridge. “She’s only been gone for a little over a day. Can’t really call it a missing person case. No one called it in.”

Marge thought a moment. “Mandy was way down on our suspect list until she lied to us. And there’s the video. What was she doing on the emergency vehicle dock?”

“Is it her?”

“I think so, but I’m not proof-positive.” Marge shrugged. “We have a few good reasons for wanting to talk to her. So even if no one’s reporting her missing, we still need to find her.”

“Well, wherever she is, we’re not getting any answers in the apartment.”

“We’ve still got the bathroom and bedroom.” Marge stepped into the only lavatory in the condo. It, like the rest of the living quarters, was tidy and clean. No unusual drugs in the medicine cabinet—Advil, Tylenol, bandages, Neosporin, one percent corticosteroid cream, toothpaste, dental floss, and a nail file. The one thing that Marge did notice was that almost everything in the cabinet was sample-size packets instead of retail bottles. One of the perks of working in a hospital: free drugs. The towels were hung neatly, the bathtub and toilet were clean.

Mandy’s bedroom was large, with a big picture window and a door leading to a small balcony that overlooked some rooftops. Her bed was made and her nightstand tops were clear except for a phone charger and a clock. Her closets were organized by color. Marge searched through her hanging clothes, then went on to the dresser drawers, which were as orderly as the closet. “If she took off, it doesn’t look like she packed a lot of clothes. There’s lots of stuff left behind.”

Oliver got up off his knees after looking under the bed. “I haven’t found any luggage. The head nurse said Mandy was planning a vacation of sorts. Maybe she decided to extend her trip.”

“And not call in to her boss?”

“Yeah, she hasn’t been portrayed as the spontaneous sort.”

“Maybe she has a dark side.” Marge started talking to herself. “Okay, dark side, if I were you, where would I hide? If I were into drugs, maybe I’d hide in the freezer or in the toilet tank.”

“I’ll give it the old college try,” Oliver said. But he returned a few minutes later empty-handed. “We’re wasting our time. I could request a warrant for phone records, but since she hasn’t been reported missing, I don’t know if I could get it.”

“Does she have a MySpace or a Facebook? Sometimes they post things that may help us out.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m too old for that nonsense.”

“You mean you don’t want a thousand Facebook friends?”

“
Au contraire
, I’d love to lose a few that I already have. Call the Loo and let’s get our next move.”

But Marge wasn’t ready to leave. She went back into Mandy’s closet, checking the walls and floors.

“What are you looking for?” Oliver asked.

“Maybe a safe…” She sighed. “One more shot, Scotty, just for the heck of it.”

“Sure, why not. I’ll go over the living room—again.”

Marge started rummaging through Mandy’s clothes a second time. The dresser was just low enough to hurt her back. And if she dropped to her knees, she couldn’t look into the top drawer properly. She decided to take the entire drawer out and put it on the bed, going through the items while seated, starting with the bottom drawer filled with bulky sweaters and sweatshirts. Mandy was neurotically meticulous, tucking tissue paper inside every sweatshirt and sweater to keep each article from wrinkling. The clothes crackled static as Marge went through them, piece by piece by piece, unfolding them, and then folding them back up. When she got to a thick green cable knit, she felt something a little more solid between the front and back of the sweater.

Inside was a double-ply plastic bag.

“And what is this?” She regarded the contents. Then her eyes widened. “Oliver?” No answer. “Yo, Scott.”

“What?” he yelled from the other room.

“You need to come here now,” Marge said. “We’ve found her dark side.”

He came bolting in as Marge spread the photographs on top of the bed. In several snapshots, Mandy was on all fours, garbed in black fishnets, garter belt, and a leather bustier. A spiked dog collar was pulled against her neck by a taut leash. The man who was restraining her was masked and shirtless, with ripped muscles and a six-pack. Even though his facial features were obscured, he had plenty of identifying tattoos. Didn’t look like Aaron Otis’s ink work, but she’d definitely have a look at the young man’s arms again.

Both she and Oliver had seen lots of pictures of this sort of thing. Mostly the photos looked like silly sex games. Not this time. The pose was menacing enough, but there was something about Mandy’s expression that told her it wasn’t a joke. The cat-o’-nine-tails that the man was gripping in his right hand sealed the deal.

“Quick question,” Marge said.

“Tell me.”

“The pictures look pretty well focused, no?” Marge said.

“Yeah, you can make out detail. Why?”

“They don’t look like they were shot with a timed camera on a tripod. So my question is—who took the pictures?”

A KNOCK ON
the interview-room door, then Wanda Bontemps came inside. “Sergeant Dunn on line three. She says it’s important.”

Decker nodded and stood up. “Excuse me for a moment, Aaron. Would you like something to drink? Some coffee or soda?”

“Water would be great.”

“I’ll get it for him,” Wanda volunteered.

Decker closed the door behind him and took the call in his office. “What’s up?”

“Did Aaron Otis ever come in?”

“I was just finishing up with him. What’s up?”

“Can you take some snapshots of his arms?” Marge explained why. “I don’t think it’s him, but I’d like to make sure.”

“I can hold him here for another twenty minutes or so. If you bring in the photographs, maybe he can identify the tattoos.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he was there, Rabbi. The photographs looked staged and that means someone snapped the poses. If Garth and Aaron were swapping girls, why not Mandy?”

“Good point. Aaron just confessed to me that Garth likes to do it from the back because he likes to be in control.”

Marge squatted down and slid the bottom drawer back into the shelf. “I would say with a hundred percent certainty that the guy in the photograph likes to be in control.”

“Get here as soon as you can with those pictures.”

“And what’s our justification for taking personal stuff from Mandy’s apartment?”

“We have two brutal homicides and we can’t find Mandy Kowalski anywhere. Then we see these pictures, so now we’re really worried about Mandy’s safety. It’s imminent danger. And that’s no lie.”

ALL HE WANTED
to do was fade into the woodwork.

Instead, as he sat in the doctor’s office, he realized he was a supreme pain in the ass.

“My hand’s fine, Mrs. Decker. This isn’t necessary.”

“Call me Rina, and how do you know what’s necessary?” She took in her charge. Gabe was neatly dressed in a clean white shirt and jeans. Athletic shoes housed big feet. His face looked tired, his eyes dragging behind his glasses. He had broken out all over his forehead. His hair was hanging into his eyes and brushing the top of his shoulders. Nice hair—thick and shiny.

Gabe wiggled his fingers. “Nothing’s broken.”

“You have nerves and tendons, right. I’d be derelict if I didn’t check it out.”

“Why would you be derelict? You don’t owe me anything.”

Rina gave him a stern look. “I’m not your mother. I’m not your
father. I’m not even your legal guardian. I barely know you. But for some reason, providence has dropped you into my lap. And I shall take care of you until otherwise directed.”

The boy said, “My dad’s around somewhere. I’m sure he’d sign papers for me to go to a boarding school next year.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I dunno.” A pause. “It’s a little late in the year to start applying, but I’m sure I could get in anywhere. Talent trumps all.”

“Any specific school in mind?”

“Doesn’t matter. I told the lieutenant that I could get into Juilliard when I’m sixteen, so I guess all I have to do is hang in for a little over a year. As far as a high school, they’re all the same.” Gabe made a face. “It would be helpful to find a piano teacher.”

“Where would I find the kind of teacher you need?”

“There are two really good ones at USC. I’d have to audition. Probably should wait until my hand is a hundred percent.”

“Okay. Let’s get you healed up and we’ll take it from there.”

Gabe flicked hair out of his eyes. “I really appreciate you letting me stay with you.” A pause. “I do like my aunt. She’s a real nice person but she’s immature and very sloppy. I get physically ill when I’m in messy surroundings.”

Rina laughed. “My sons’ room has never looked so neat. Can I sic you on my daughter’s room?”

“I can’t go in there,” Gabe said. “It makes me nervous.”

The boy was dead serious. The nurse called his name. As he stood up, the nurse said to Rina, “You can come in with him if you want?”

Rina shrugged. “Up to you.”

Gabe said, “I don’t care. It’s just my hand.”

The two of them were seated in an examining room. Twenty minutes later, Matt Birenbaum came in: a short man in his fifties with wiry gray hair styled in a bad comb-over. Rina stood up from the chair.

“Sit, sit. I’m fine. How’s the family? What’s the Loo been up to?”

“The usual mayhem. How are the boys, Matt?”

“Josh is starting Penn Med School in the fall.”

“Mazel tov. He must have liked what he grew up with.”

“Tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.” Birenbaum looked up from the chart that Gabe had filled out in the waiting room. “Rina tells me you’re a pianist?”

“On my exceptionally good days.”

“And you hurt your hand in a fight?” The doctor looked disapproving.

Rina said, “He was attacked by a mugger.”

Birenbaum looked up. “Wow. That’s scary. Did he hurt you in places other than your hand?”

“No, just my hand. And that was from punching him. I think I overdid it.”

“Well, thank goodness it was fists and not a gun.” Gabe didn’t bother to correct him. “No other health problems?”

“I’m in good health except for my zits. I like had this major breakout attack.”

The doctor regarded his forehead. “It would help if you cut your hair.”

“Probably.”

“I can give you a scrip for a cream.” He put down the file. “I’m just going to do a quick exam.”

He took Gabe’s blood pressure and his heart rate, listened to his chest, checked out the eyes and the ears and the throat. Rina was impressed by his thoroughness. Birenbaum said, “All right, young man, let me see the damage.”

Gabe gave him his left hand. The doctor regarded the flesh. “Big hands. How tall are you?”

“Six feet.”

“And how old are you?”

“Almost fifteen.”

“So you still have some growing to do.” He flipped the hand over and then over again. “A little bruised, that’s for certain.” He flexed the fingers and rotated the wrist. “Nothing’s broken.” He pressed and pulled, trying to find tender spots, noting when the boy made a face. “Any numbness?”

“No.”

“Any pain when you stretch your arm or fingers?”

“No.”

“Have you tried playing the piano?”

“Not since I hurt my hand.” He paused. “I really haven’t touched the keyboard in five days unless you count accompanying the school choir, and I don’t count that.”

Birenbaum smiled. “I specialize in professional musicians. I have an instrument room including a piano with electronic hookups. When the musicians play, the readout gives me an idea about their hands and fingers, the deficits and strengths. If you are a serious musician, I’d like to monitor your hands as you play.”

“Sure.”

The doctor brought them down the hall and into a soundproof room. On the walls were a violin, a cello, a guitar, an oboe, a sax, and a trumpet. The piano stood in the middle of the room. It was a Steinway, but the white keys had colored patches on them: the C’s had red, the D’s were blue, the E’s were green, and so on up the spectrum. Birenbaum said, “I also use the piano for a lot of my patients who don’t play. That’s why the keys are colored. If you can tolerate the distraction, I’m going behind the window, where I have all my equipment, and listen to you play. Don’t start until I tell you, okay?”

“Sure.”

He took Rina into a booth that looked like an engineer’s studio. Sitting on one of the chairs was a man in his sixties, bald except for a gray ponytail. He was of medium height with a round face and dark intense eyes. Birenbaum introduced him as Nicholas Mark. The man stood up and offered Rina his chair.

“I’m fine,” Rina said.

“Please, sit.”

Rina sat down. Birenbaum fiddled with a few of his controls. He talked through a microphone. “Can you hear me, Gabe?”