Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (35 page)

"Okay, Maguire," Schufeldt said, "this is it. Let's go, boys." He stepped into the doorway, two hands on his gun, and began shooting. Charlie Copin and A1 Wiggins were behind him, but only Schufeldt's gun flashed. The report of each shot spiraled upwards to where Colin, hugging the tree, observed the action in horror.

"Jesus," he said out loud. But no one heard.

"Hold your fire!" Schufeldt yelled. He reached inside the door and snapped on the overhead light. Crouching, he entered the room, the others behind him. Then they were gone from Colin's line of vision.

A strong wind swept through the tree. Colin's branch swayed, pulling him downward. He clung fiercely to the branch as it flipped back up, but his feet slipped and he slid down, crashing into the crotch, sending a jolting pain up through his body. He cried out, but the rain covered his yelp. Trying to regain his hold he tilted sideways; his gun fell from his belt down through the tree, hitting the ground with a splat.

Liz Wood heard the sound and turned. Taking a few steps toward the tree, she put a hand to her eyes under the brim of her orange rain hat. Then, seeing nothing, she moved back to the side of the door.

"The fucker's not here," Schufeldt shouted.

Liz moved into the open door. "He was here. I'm telling you, that man was here."

"Who'd you say Maguire phoned?"

"He called her Annie."

Wiggins said, "I think Maguire was seeing Annie Winters."

"Who's that?" Schufeldt asked.

"She's that lady preacher they got at that church that don't believe in Our Lord Jesus. And somebody named Mark was there," Liz added.

"Did Maguire say he was going there?"

"Nope. Just told her to leave the house. Said she should get away from this Mark person."

"Probably Mark Griffing," Charlie Copin said.

"The newspaper guy?"

"Yeah."

Wiggins said, "Frank got a call said he thought was Maguire. Called in with a possible ten-five in progress. Frank said the address was the Unitarian Church."

"That's right," Liz said, "that was the second call he made."

"Well, fuck it, why didn't somebody say so?" Schufeldt shouted. "Let's get the hell outta here." He ran toward the car, Wiggins and Copin following.

Go, Colin wanted to shout, move it! At least they might save Annie.

Liz Wood yelled, "Hey, wait up there! You shot his room all to pieces. Who's gonna pay for that? Huh?"

The doors of the cruiser slammed shut. Wiggins backed it up and, turning around with a squeal of tires, drove up the hill.

"Hey, you bums, you wrecked this room here!" Liz continued to shout. "Somebody's gotta pay and it ain't gonna be me. Goddamn bums." She switched off the light and slapped shut the door; then, mumbling to herself, made her way up the hill toward the office.

In his tree, Colin couldn't help smiling. It served her right, he thought. When she was gone he climbed down. He found his gun, then went to Hallock's room and tried the door. It was unlocked.

Positive Liz wouldn't be back tonight, he nevertheless took a precaution and shut himself into the bathroom to wait for Hallock.

LOOKING BACK
—50 YEARS AGO

John Williams, a well-known barber shop proprietor in Seaville, is very familiar with the expression "a close shave," as it is a term used by his customers. Last Saturday, while Williams was busy cutting the hair of his last customer, Louis Stauber, an employee, attacked Mr. Williams with a hair clipper which he waved before Williams' face. Then Stauber picked up a pair of scissors and threatened to give Williams "a close shave."

THIRTY-FIVE

Mark said, "So? Where is he?"

Annie wasn't sure what it was, perhaps the subtle change in his eyes when she'd agreed to tell him Colin's whereabouts. Or maybe the set of his shoulders. She didn't really know. But there was a change. It could have been as simple as Mark's competitive personality, the fact that he'd won her over. And then again it might have been because as soon as he knew—he'd kill her. She was back to believing Colin. It was absurd to think he was a killer.

"Did you hear me, Annie?" He started toward her.

"I heard." Her back was against the stove; she could feel the heat from the kettle.

"Well, then?"

"I don't know where he is," she responded.

"Bullshit!" His face contorted, anger flared in his eyes. Grabbing her by the arm, he shouted, "You'd better tell me, Annie!"

She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. Panicky, she wondered if these were her last moments on earth. "Is that a threat?"

He ignored her question. "You said you knew where he was. I want you to tell me. Someone's life might be at stake.

Yes, mine, she thought. Not looking, she reached behind her, picked up the kettle, and swung around, crashing it into the side of Mark's head. He screamed, let go of her arm, and fell to the floor. She dropped the kettle and some of the hot water splashed on him. He screamed again.

Annie, her ankle throbbing, hurriedly limped to the kitchen door and grabbed her purse from the table. Outside the rain was hammering the ground, killing flowers. Wind roared through the trees and buffeted her as she hobbled toward the car. She began to whimper when blades of pain shot up her leg. As she opened the car door, she saw Mark stagger from the house. Throwing herself inside, she slammed the door, locked it, and reached in her bag for her keys. Unable to find them, she screamed in frustration. Then she saw them in the ignition and laughed.

The car sprang to life on the first try. There was no way to know where Mark was or how close he might be. Switching on the headlights, she saw him in front of her, his arms raised above his head, signaling for her to stop. She pressed the horn and drove directly toward him, frightened she would hit him but unwilling to stop, her only desire to get away. At the last moment he jumped to one side, and without stopping she sped into the main road, praying that no one was coming. She was lucky.

The rain crashed against her windshield, the wipers moaning like wounded cows. Her foot, aching and swollen, barely touched the accelerator. Creeping along, she thought about driving to the motel, to Colin, but was afraid Mark might follow. It was better to go to the Moffats'; Mark wouldn't dare come there. But it was almost impossible to see. How would she ever find their street?

A sense of coming apart, losing touch, overwhelmed her. If only Bob were here, she thought. She began to cry. Then, "No, dammit!" she yelled, banging the steering wheel with the side of her fist. "I don't need him, I have myself. Oh, God, please, please, help me," she cried.

And then she realized if she stayed on the main road she would eventually come to Center Street and the Seaville Police Station. It wouldn't matter if Mark followed her there. She was elated by her decision but then she felt it—something cold against the side of her neck. She sucked in air, gasping. Thoughts flew through her mind, colliding, then falling away like boulders down a mountain. Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw his face, the knife against her throat. "It's you," she cried.

"Yes. Me."

She felt a sense of guilt at what she'd done to Mark, but it was immediately diminished as she realized the irony of her situation: She'd been safe and run straight into danger. Shocked at her own calm she asked, "What do you want?"

"You," he responded.

"Why?"

"I thought you'd know."

"I don't. Tell me."

"Razzamatazz," he whispered, and then he laughed.

----

Hallock had gotten out and walked around the front end. Fortunately, the car had stopped just inches from the mud that would have trapped him for the night. Back in the car he'd turned the key; the motor fluttered, then died. He'd tried again and that time it caught, coughing and choking like an old man with flu. He'd eased the car off the shoulder, onto the road.

And now he was approaching the U. U. Church. When he slowed to turn he saw the police car in the lot, the red light whirling. Continuing past the church, he caught a glimpse of Mark Griffing, standing in the rain, frantically gesturing to Schufeldt. He guessed that Maguire wasn't there, maybe hadn't ever been there. He'd have to get his keys from the motel, try the Gazette building himself.

The floor was cool. Colin sat on it, resting his back against the toilet. His gun was in his right hand. All he could think about was how he would have been killed had he remained in the room, hiding. Schufeldt was a maniac.

Even so, he hoped the guy had gotten to Annie before Mark could do anything. By now she was either safe or... He couldn't let himself think about it, forcing his mind instead onto food, then cigarettes. The few he had left were lined up on the floor, drying. He touched one. Still wet. Maybe he should quit.

The sound of a key in the door brought Colin to his feet. He leaned against the doorframe, peering through the narrow opening, there was a real possibility that Mark had forced Annie to tell him where he was. His gun was ready if he needed it. He had never killed anyone, but now he had no reservations about killing Mark.

The door opened and Hallock stepped into the room. Colin waited to make sure he was alone. When the chief closed the door Colin felt his shoulders relax, as if he were deflating. So he wouldn't frighten him, he eased open the door. "Waldo," he said. "It's me, Colin."

Hallock's hand automatically went to his gun, then slid down as Colin appeared. "Jesus Christ, Maguire, what the hell you doing in there?"

"It's a long story."

Hallock looked around the damaged room. "What, for Christ's sake, happened here?"

"That's a longer story. We've got to get out of here."

"Where to?"

"Mark's got Annie."

He looked at Colin quizzically. "What do you mean, 'Mark's got Annie'?"

"I think Mark's the killer." It felt strange saying it out loud, as if someone else were speaking.

Hallock looked at him, said nothing, then took off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. "I gotta get out of these wet clothes."

Colin put a hand on his arm. "We don't have time for that. Don't you understand what I'm saying? Mark's alone with Annie."

"I don't think so. I passed her place and Griffing and Schufeldt were in the parking lot."

"Doing what?"

"Talking, it looked like. I couldn't see that good with the rain and all. What makes you think Griffing's the killer?"

"Lots of things."

Hallock dropped his wet trousers to the floor and kicked them across the room. "Tell me what you've come up with."

Colin pulled the gun from under his shirt.

Hallock held up a hand, palm out like a traffic cop. "Hey, boy."

"I took this from Mark. He had it trained on me this morning." Tossing it on the bed, Colin quickly filled him in on the last twenty-four hours. Hallock listened while he put on dry clothes.

When Colin finished Hallock said, "I think you're right. But where's your proof?"

"I don't have proof, but last Friday Mark left his house at six- thirty in the morning. Nobody knows where he was until nine-thirty. He told me he was with Amy, you know, his old girlfriend."

Hallock nodded, then pulled a brown turtleneck over his head.

"He wasn't with her, Waldo. I checked."

Hallock's head popped through the opening of the turtleneck, his hair mashed down on either side. "So where was he?"

"I think he was killing Joe Carroll."

"Thing is, Maguire, you haven't given me a motive."

Colin threw up his hands in defeat. "I haven't got one."

"I do."

"What is it?" he asked excitedly.

"Open that drawer, get some paper out. Pencil, too." He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of jeans."

Colin did as Hallock asked.

"I want you to make the swastika just like our killer did."

"Why?"

"Just do it, Maguire, and stop being a goddamn pain in the butt."

"Okay, okay." He drew the swastika then held it out to Hallock.

"Now take it apart."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Just uncross the two parts. What do you get?"

Colin studied his drawing. "I don't know. One Z and maybe a weird-looking N?"

"Turn the weird-looking N around."

"I get another Z."

"Right. And the other symbols were A's, remember. Fact is, you spotted it first at Gildersleeve's that day."

"I don't get it. What's this supposed to be? Two Z's and three A's. What's that?"

"You remember how we were looking for a common denominator? I found it."

"Well, what is it?"

"About twenty-five years ago we had a bad fire here and a lot of people were—"

"Omigod!"

"What?"

"The fire. Was it a nightclub?"

"Yeah. You know about it?"

"I was reading about it this morning when Mark came in with the gun. What's this got to do with the Z's and A's?"

"I guess you didn't get very far in the story. The name of the club was Razzamatazz."

"Razzamatazz," Colin repeated, as the letters started to fall into place, one after another, like plums in a slot machine.

"Gloria Danowski's parents were in that fire. And Ruth and Russ Cooper. Mary Beth Higbee's grandparents, and Ted and Mary Carroll, too. Don't know about Babe yet."

"Jesus, Waldo, do you think the killer is planning to spell out the whole name?"

"Three A's and four Z's so far. Yeah, I think he is."

They were silent a few moments contemplating that horrible possibility. Then Hallock said, "Griffing's family were summer residents twenty-five years ago. You know anything about them?"

"He had a stepmother. His mother died when he was a kid. I don't think he ever said how. Oh, Jesus, Waldo. Annie's father was in the band that played there when the place went up."

"He alive?"

"Yeah."

"What's her number?"

Colin told him.

Hallock dialed, looking grim. After ten rings he replaced the receiver. "Not there."

"What should we do?" An icy sweat dotted Colin's body like measles.