Playing God (30 page)

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Kyle breathed, settling back on his heels. "A dirty-minded cop's dreams come true."

The hands undid the bra, dropped it onto the floor, and moved the girl to the bed. The man's head came into view. A big head, graying, distinguished. Dr. Ken Bailey leaned forward and took one of her nipples into his mouth, a gigantic babe being suckled by an earth mother, kneading the other breast with his fingers, his hands an obscene white against the tawny skin. Stan Perry made a low moaning sound, like a warning dog. Burgess looked away.

Kyle took a deep breath and hit the pause button. "Just when you think there are no surprises, along comes a blockbuster." In the dim room, the bluish white light from the screen illuminated the planes of his face, giving him a ghostly look. Dark hair, slumped shoulders in a dark jacket, white skin, white shirt, white walls, a black and white portrait of a weary homicide detective. Above him, Burgess's black and white portraits of empty crime scenes ringed the walls.

"Hold on. I'm out of the loop. Who the hell's that on the tape?" Perry asked. "I recognized Alana Black, America's number one wet dream, but who's the guy?"

"Dr. Kenneth Bailey, senior guy at Pine State Radiology. In the words of Pleasant's wife, 'the closest thing to a boss' her husband had," Burgess explained. He poured himself a third drink, knowing that after a certain point, it was like drinking poison. His father's poison. Held the bottle up. "Terry?"

"Like to, but I'd better not. You think Pleasant set him up?"

"To the extent that you can rape the willing. Let's just say Dr. Bailey was naïve about the level of his partner's deception. It's a common mistake—thinking that a guy who'll cheat on his wife can still be relied on to be your good buddy, because cheating a wife isn't like cheating a friend. No wonder Bailey's angry. He got screwed more ways than one."

"I wonder what kind of car he drives?"

"Shouldn't be hard to find out." Burgess held out his radio. "While you're at it, find out what Ted Shaw drives."

"Shaw?"

"Said he'd bailed his son-in-law out of one financial scrape, cleaned up after some sexual shenanigans. Wanted me to let him know if there was anything else he needed to clean up. Suppose the financial scrape was buying an incriminating video tape?"

Kyle scooped up the radio and moved back into the light, pulling his notebook from his pocket. "Might as well ask about O'Sullivan and the news guy while I'm at it." He hesitated. "Hold on. We might as well look at number six." He put it in. Hit play. Lulu again, with a man none of them recognized. Kyle hit stop and got on the radio.

Burgess took a sip from the glass and leaned back in his chair, letting the hot, sweet liquor roll over his tongue. It would be so easy to lose himself in a bottle. Such a cop cliché. Such a family cliché. If it weren't for the fear of becoming his father, he'd do this more often. Nothing took the edge off better. Nothing was more soothing. Nothing worked better on physical pain, not even Dr. Shorter's pills. And nothing came close, for psychic pain. He loved the feel of Alana Black's hands on his body, perhaps even more, he loved the feel of a thin, slick layer of bourbon between himself and his demons.

Perry had picked up one of the letters and was reading it, tipping it toward the lamp and peering at the words. Beer in one hand, heartbreak in the other. It was the balance they always kept in their lives. Keep your professional distance. Give your all to the job and don't get involved. In a way, they had more in common with Dr. Ken Bailey and the crew over at the Maine Med than those guys gave them credit for. All of them had had to learn professional detachment.

Burgess took another drink and looked at Kyle. "What kind of car?"

"Bailey? Mercedes. 1999. Black. Sedan."

"And Shaw?"

"Lexus. The big one. Dark green."

"The other two?"

Kyle sighed. "Two more Mercedes."

"Joe, did you read any of these?" Perry asked, thrusting a couple at him. "Seriously, we should talk to some of these people."

Burgess picked up the first letter. "That's what Terry said."

"Well, what are we doing tomorrow?"

"You're going to the courthouse, doing financial stuff and I have a drug angle for you to check out. And there's O'Leary's mother. I'm doing phone records. Maybe Terry can do some."

"Hold on, Joe." Perry shook his head, his natural aggression fueled by beer. "Screw financial records. People don't kill about money when they can recover it other ways. Pleasant had a house, a fancy car, a business. People kill for hate. For revenge."

"I'm with Stan on this one," Kyle said.

Burgess shrugged. Two smart cops with the same gut reaction. Who was he to argue? But he liked to follow things to the end, and right now, they were following sex and hookers, videotapes and big, important men. Drugs and money. Did it really make any difference what order they did things in, when there were no clear winners? He sighed. "How many letters we got?"

Perry counted. "Fifteen."

"Gimme those." Kyle took them, scanning quickly through them.

"Fifteen?" Burgess said. "Wouldn't you think a warning flag would have gone up? Maybe all doctors get many complaints, but this sounds like a lot to me." He thought about the letter he hadn't written. Was this the tip of the iceberg? Were there dozens of other people out there, nursing grudges, brooding on their secret hate? He tipped his glass up and swallowed it in one fiery gulp. "Unless something changes in the next twelve hours, it's as good a way as any to spend tomorrow, I guess. Give me my five."

Kyle handed him five letters, and started stacking containers and plates. "Bedtime, boys and girls," he said. "We've got a big day tomorrow. Joe, you gonna get a driver? If I drive, we only cover half as much ground."

"I'll call Vince, get him to find me someone. I could do it."

"Don't push it, Joe, when there's no need." He dangled the car keys. "I'll bring these back to you in the morning, along with your car."

Stan picked up the remaining 6-pack and his five letters. "Thanks for a lovely evening," he said. "And good hunting."

"Drive carefully," Kyle said. "Real carefully. We need you at work tomorrow."

"Yes, Dad. I know. Otherwise I won't get the car this weekend, right? And I'll have to wash the dog?"

"Otherwise, you might find yourself over at the jailhouse, singing the blues."

"I can't sing."

"Then I hope you can drive."

Kyle watched until Stan's car had pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the street. "Not too bad," he said. "And he doesn't have far to go."

Burgess was standing by the counter, reading one of his letters. "Jesus, Terry. Talking to these people is going to be like picking scabs off their wounds."

"Like we've never done that before? Picking at scabs is what we do for a living. You going to be okay getting undressed without your nurse?"

"That's not funny, Ter. She doesn't keep her mouth shut, I could lose my job."

Kyle gave him a look. "I'm not sure about leaving you alone, Joe."

"Think I can't handle it?"

"Oh, I think you can get your jammies on and brush your teeth. I'm more worried about what happens when you close your eyes. About that crazy fucker look you've been wearing, the one that just got turned up a couple degrees. Get a grip, Joe. She's a hooker."

He didn't want to get into this. There was enough crap floating around already. "Maybe I just won't close 'em."

"Do me a favor," Kyle said, and held out his hand. Burgess wouldn't have done this for anyone else, but Kyle understood what could happen to a crazy fucker alone in the dark with Kristin Marks. He gave Kyle his gun. "Thanks," Kyle said. "See you in the morning. Oh, one more thing."

Burgess gave him the bourbon, bowing slightly. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"I sure hope not." Kyle paused, using silence for emphasis. "Call if you need me, okay?"

"Okay." He watched Kyle's stooped shoulders disappear through the door, heard the thump of feet on the stairs. Then the downstairs door opened with a creak and shut with a bang, and he was alone.

He left a message for Melia that he'd need a driver in the morning. Then he considered what to do. There was more bourbon in the cupboard, but he wasn't in the mood to drink it. There was another gun, too. But that was down in the basement, in a locked box, and the key was in the attic. Games detectives play. Especially ones who are prone to depression.

He turned on the bedroom light, opened the closet, and stared at the dozens of pictures of Kristin Marks, dead and alive. In the center was the newspaper photo of her casket being carried out of the church, so small and white, carried by six men bent low by the burden of their grief, her parents coming behind it. The black and white picture didn't show all the vivid ugliness of the day. Kristin's father, Daniel, a huge, gentle man, walking with a Frankenstein stiffness that reflected his stunned state. Beside him, held up by her two sisters, Kristin's mother, Anna, her face swollen with weeping.

Burgess was right behind them, a burly cop in uniform with his head bent. He had to keep his head bent. He couldn't keep his rage off his face. A rarity for him. Cops learn early on how to manage their faces. But this case had been different. In all his years of police work, hers was the only autopsy he ever left to throw up. Not because of the autopsy itself, but because of the information the ME was giving about her violation, and the details his own experience provided about how she'd suffered. One of his nieces had been nine at the time. Every time he looked at her, he felt his stomach roll.

He closed the closet door and looked at the stark black and white picture of the empty landfill at dawn. Maybe he should sleep. He was so tired he felt dizzy, and the alcohol hadn't helped. It had been a long time since his last pill and he hurt, but he didn't feel like medicine. It made the dreams worse and tonight there was already enough stuff stirring. He didn't want to take it with him into sleep. A warm bath might ease the aches without the dullness, and was a good way to lull himself to sleep. He filled the tub and put Emmylou Harris into his portable CD player.

He put the headphones on, and slid into the water, steeping like a human tea bag. He couldn't hear the phone, or someone knocking at the door, or the explosion signaling the end of the world. Gradually, the heat penetrated his muscles, loosening the tension in his back and in his neck. Consciously, he monitored his breathing, practiced relaxing, willing the demons to loosen their little claws, fly away and leave him in peace. Alone with Emmylou. In the end, they did.

Chapter 24

Morning came too soon, an indeterminate day with a light gray sky promising sun and threatening showers. The radio announcer gave the odds of precipitation at 30%, the temperature at 34. Burgess woke without a headache, enough to warrant a mild celebration, though his swollen arm felt worse than ever. Win a few, lose a few. Struggling into his clothes, he could have used the services of his nurse, if not the complications, and he blessed the folks at L.L.Bean who had thoughtfully made boots with zippers.

He fixed a pot of coffee and contemplated the choices: left over Chinese, left over pizza, or a bagel and cream cheese. The bagel won. While it was toasting, he picked up the letters. Last night's hasty division had seemed random, but it wasn't. Kyle had given him ones that were geographically coherent. No surprise. Kyle was a fast processor and efficient at allocating resources. Burgess got out his Maine Guide and Atlas, mapped the route, then picked up the phone and called the letter writers. He wasn't traveling to Bath and Boothbay Harbor unless he had someone to see.

Maybe it was his lucky day—he wouldn't know until later—but he found four out of five of the letter writers, and they agreed to see him. He asked for directions, made notes, and snapped his notebook shut. Following protocol, he called the local police departments, telling them who he was going to see and why and that he didn't need to bother them for a local escort.

He felt like a man recovering from the flu, more tired and lethargic than sick, without much enthusiasm for the day's activities. This would pass. He'd never been able to resist the excitement of the chase. Hour by hour it might wear him down, but he loved the adrenaline and the challenge of pitting himself against the bad guys. And Kyle's certainty that today would bring results was contagious.