Open Season (13 page)

I didn’t answer, despite a long opportunity, so he finally gave up with an exaggerated sigh. “The cab driver knocked on my door and said he wasn’t getting any answer from Miss Harris’s apartment. That had happened to me before. Usually people call several cabs and take the first one that comes. That way, they’re sure of not being late. You know, the cabs around here are not famous for being on time.”

“Go on.” We were standing in the entrance tunnel, our hands in our pockets, our mouths and nostrils spewing vapor like chimneys. I wondered why he hadn’t invited me in.

“Well, anyway, I didn’t think that’s what she was doing because she’d never done it before, you know, and she used cabs a lot. So I knew it had to be something else, like maybe she had forgotten or had changed her plans, or maybe was even in the shower.”

“So you went to her door.”

“Right. And I knocked and got no answer. That’s when I noticed through the window that the place was a mess. I called you people first thing. I never even went inside, not until they took the body away a long time later. Even then, it was horrible. I threw up the first time I went in to clean up.”

“Show me the apartment.”

“Oh, I can’t do that. It’s rented.”

“Is anyone there now?”

“No. She’s at work.”

“Then there’s no harm done.”

He looked at me anxiously, torn between caving in and telling me to take a hike. The conflict made him grumpy. “I don’t know if this is right. Anyway, it’s ridiculous.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it. If I was a prospective renter, you’d show me one of your apartments in a flash, wouldn’t you?”

“This isn’t the same.”

I officiously looked at my watch, hoping to hell he wouldn’t ask for a warrant. “You want to get the key, please?”

He reluctantly stepped back through his door and reappeared with a large key ring. “You’d think you people had better things to do.”

I let him grumble. He led the way, stepping awkwardly through the snow he hadn’t yet shoveled. We ended up at the door nearest the brick wall on the first floor.

“I hope you aren’t going to stir this whole thing up again. The publicity last time almost cost me my job, and it took me months to rent this unit out.”

“Don’t worry. I’m just clearing up some details—pure paperwork.”

He paused at the door. “You want in?”

“That was the idea.” I pressed both palms against my eyes for a moment’s relief from the light.

While he pounded on the door to make sure the place was empty, I looked around the corner at a narrow alleyway between the back of the building and the high brick wall. It was more of a slit, really, just a bit wider than the breadth of my shoulders, and barred at the far end by a tall chained gate. A glance across the courtyard showed the same layout for the opposite wing of the building.

I walked down the alleyway, which was fairly free of snow, to a small rectangular window mounted head-high on the wall. The manager appeared at the corner. “No one’s home. I’d appreciate it if we could get this over quickly. I’ve got shoveling to do.”

I nodded to him and cupped my hands around my face to ward off the sunlight as I peered through the window. I was looking straight into the bedroom and the bathroom beyond—a perfect view of the glass-walled shower stall.

“What are you doing, anyway?” Boyers’s voice had a whine to it I was finding increasingly unattractive. I didn’t answer him and retraced my steps to the apartment door.

Lightly scented warm air billowed out as he opened the door and ushered me in. He called, “Hello? Is anyone here?” and then closed the door behind us. The darkness was a pure blessing.

We were standing in a small living room, boxy but pleasant. Nice wall-to-wall, nice furniture, good paint job. There was a short hallway beyond, kitchen on one side, closets on the other. The bed and bathroom I’d seen from the window were at the back. It wasn’t imaginative, but it was clean, tidy, and well maintained.

“Do you rent this furnished?”

“Yes.”

“Did you when Harris lived here?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What did you charge her?”

“Let’s see. I think it was two seventy-five a month, heat included. It was close to that anyway.”

“And now?”

“Three twenty-five. Why, you interested?”

I ignored that. “Who rents it now?”

“A young lady.”

I looked around the bedroom and picked up a framed photograph on the bedside table. A good-looking blonde girl in her twenties, arm-in-arm with some hunk with football on the brain. “Is this her?”

Boyers sidled up and peered around my shoulder. “That’s right.”

“Pretty.”

“Oh, yes. Friendly, too.”

“Did Harris pay her rent on time?”

“Every month like clockwork.”

“How?”

“With a check. Vermont National.”

“How do you think she was set financially? Well off? Scraping by?”

“Well, she wasn’t scraping by, I know that. There are cheaper places to rent than this, and for most of her stay here, she didn’t seem to have a job.”

“What did she do with her spare time?”

“I don’t know everything, of course. In fact, all I can say is that every time the sun came out, she was tanning by the pool. She had beautiful skin.”

“What kind of swimsuit did she wear?”

He glanced at me, quickly and nervously. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess it was a bikini.”

“You don’t know if it was a bikini?”

“Well, I imagine it was, if that’s still what they call it.”

“In other words, she didn’t wear much of anything.”

His face reddened. “It was a small suit.”

“Tell me about Davis.”

He straightened his back—safer ground. “That was a mistake.”

“What was?”

“My hiring him. I felt sorry for him—a Vietnam vet down on his luck. He said he’d come here to get away from the stink of the city. Instead, he brought it with him.”

“Where did he live?”

“Across the courtyard. It’s the match of this apartment, in fact, on the ground floor, but it’s an efficiency to allow for the laundry and utility rooms.”

“Did you ever notice Harris and Davis having anything to do with one another?”

“No. They’d be out by the pool together on sunny days, but only when he was working out there. And of course there were usually other people too—you know, other tenants. I never saw them even speaking to each other.”

“Did Davis mix with anyone here that you know?”

“No, never. He came and went and minded his own business, so it seemed. Of course, God only knows what he was doing during his time off in other parts of town.”

“Did you ever see him drunk or doped up?”

“Oh, no. I would have fired him if I had.”

“No friends ever dropped by to see him?”

“Not that I ever saw.”

“How about Harris? Any friends there?”

“You know, I never did see anyone. That’s strange, but I guess they both were loners. I’d never thought of that before.”

I walked over to the bedroom window. The light was pretty dim because of the brick wall.

“Isn’t that a shame? There used to be a pretty view out that window years ago. But they built that mess out there—that storage rental place. That’s when people started trespassing to use the pool late at night; there were some ugly incidents, as I’m sure some of your people would remember. That’s why they built the wall. The view was ruined anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

I drew the curtains. Something blocked them from closing all the way, leaving a two-inch gap. I tugged at the curtain cord several times without success.

“What are you doing?” The nervousness was back in his voice.

“The curtains don’t close all the way,” I pulled at them with my hands and finally reached up to feel for the mechanism along the top, searching for what was blocking it.

“I’ll be a little angry if you break that, you know. You’re only here because I was nice enough to let you in. I’ll get someone in to fix that later.”

I found what I was looking for and worked it loose. It was a paper clip, bent over to form a bumper between the two ends of the curtain mechanism. I pulled the cord again and the gap disappeared.

“I’ve got work to do. Are you finished here?”

I leaned against the wall, twirling the paper clip between my fingers. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Not quite. Do you have a proprietary interest in this?” I stopped the twirling and held it up before him.

“What do you mean?”

“Is this yours?”

He let out a short laugh. “What do you mean? You just found it there. It can’t be mine.”

“Unless you put it there to keep the curtains apart.” He didn’t answer.

“Is that what you did?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s a simple thing to verify if the tenants of this particular apartment have always been attractive young single women, at least while you’ve been here.”

“That’s not true.”

“You want me to find out?”

He backtracked. “Even if it was—so what?”

“You’re a peeper, Mr. Boyers.”

“That’s a lie. You can’t prove that.” His face was no picture of righteous indignation. He looked more like an actor mouthing lines without meaning.

“Your bosses won’t ask for proof if I give them a call about you. Nor will your wife, for that matter. I am a cop, after all.”

He stared at me; I watched him. I thought I’d let him stew a little just for the hell of it. He finally sat down on the edge of the bed. “What are you going to do?”

“Do you admit to being a peeper?” He nodded.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.” The voice was a whisper. “For how long?”

“A long time.”

“Are there other apartments, or is this one it?”

“This is it. It’s the only one with a window like that.”

“So what’s your preference? When they’re taking showers? Going to bed? Making love? What is it?”

He covered his face with his hands. His glasses fell off and bounced on the rug. “Come on, Mr. Boyers, let’s not drag this out.”

“I watched whenever I could. If they kept to a routine, it made it easier.”

“Did you watch Kimberly Harris?”

“Yes. I watched them all.”

“On the night she was killed?”

“No. My wife wasn’t well that week, so I didn’t go out.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

He took his hands away and looked up at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You spent hours studying a woman dress and undress, bathe herself, go to the bathroom, put on a nightgown. Surely you formed an opinion about her. What kind of woman do you think she was?”

He picked his glasses back up and slowly put them on, meditatively. “She was the most beautiful. She knew it, too. The one who’s in here now, she’s just a grown up high-school girl—pretty, but normal. Kimberly was special. Watching her was like watching a dirty movie almost. She caressed herself—when she showered, when she put on baby powder. She wore dainty things underneath that no one else could appreciate, lace panties, sheer nightgowns. When she went to bed, it was as if she was expecting someone, she was so sexy, but no one ever came—they weren’t supposed to. She did all those things for herself. She was the only one I ever watched who masturbated.

“Lying on the bed… It was something she prepared for, sometimes oiling herself. Sex was like some kind of special thing with her, something private she did for herself. She was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

“But always alone.”

He turned his head toward me as if I’d just stepped into the room. “Yes. I never saw her with anyone.” He sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a moment. “So what happens now?”

“Do you have any vacancies?”

“A couple.”

“Tell what’s-her-name here that you need to work on the apartment—something major enough that she has to move to another unit permanently. Then have this window bricked up or have frosted blocks put in. It also wouldn’t hurt if you got a little counseling. What you do for a pastime isn’t only sick, it could get you into some real trouble.”

He stood up. I noticed he was shaking slightly. “And that’s it? You’re not going to tell anyone?”

“Not this time. But you better not give me any reason to regret it. If you ever get caught, I’ll make damn sure you end up in very hot water. You’re in my debt. Don’t forget it.”

I left him with a look of stunned disbelief on his face.

I DROVE INTO THE DUNKIN' DONUTS
parking lot before showing up at the office. Dunkin’ Donuts is not my usual breakfast fare, but I was feeling flattened enough that a high-voltage sugar fix seemed the only way to go. It never works, of course—it just makes your system do back flips, especially on top of an aspirin appetizer. But at this point the mere act of chewing was the only way I had of showing the world I was still awake, or alive. I bought three cream-filled twists and a coffee. Back flips or not, they tasted great going down.

As things turned out, I shouldn’t have worried about staying awake. As soon as I walked in, Max handed me a note from Murphy. It said, “Right now.” She’d read it too, of course, so instead of waving as usual, she blew me a kiss. Small comfort.

Murphy was typing when I showed up at his door. It was not something he did with any skill or grace and was guaranteed to make a bad mood worse. “Sit down.”

I sat. He picked up the phone, dialed an interoffice number, said, “he’s here,” and threw a newspaper across the room into my lap. “Have a read.”

The front page headline had the wholesome flavor of a big city tabloid: MASKED MAN ON RAMPAGE. Maybe some of the old rural values were indeed going by the wayside. POLICE BAFFLED BY SERIES OF ATTACKS. The byline, no surprise, was Stanley Katz.

The
Reformer
has uncovered a link between several recent but seemingly unconnected crimes in Brattleboro, beginning with the shotgun killing of Mr. James Phillips by Mrs. Thelma Reitz, both of Brattleboro, reported in this paper two days ago. Over the last 48 hours, several crimes have been committed involving the same unidentified man wearing a ski mask. According to the
Reformer
’s anonymous sources, one case each of animal theft, obscene telephoning, assault on a police officer, car theft, and sexual assault have been connected to the same masked man who arranged the fatal meeting between Phillips and Reitz at Reitz’s home. At this point, the police are at a loss to explain the motives of the mysterious man.