The Decoy (26 page)

Now, however, something is bothering Dan. The young assistant Harold has taken on is getting good reports from almost everyone who's had dealings with him. But on the other hand, there have been rather more deaths than usual since he turned up. Particularly of young women. Then there was the breakin at Harold's funeral parlour. And, finally, the matter of the belt.

The belt Alicia hanged herself with was a man's belt. Nothing particularly odd about that — plenty of girls preferred a bigger belt, and she'd been wearing Gap jeans with big, man-sized loops — but, put with all the other things, it's making the policeman uneasy.

Suddenly, as he sorts through the pile of Federal Alerts and BOLOs — Be On Lookout notices — he sees one that makes him stop and whistle through his teeth.

He gets into his car and heads out to Harold's place.

There aren't many people to tell, only Bessie and a few of her friends from the acting group. She hasn't seen Bessie in months. To her surprise, her former roommate is now ensconced in a condo on the Upper East Side, surrounded by Hollywood scripts stamped with the logos of ICM and William Morris. The phone calls that interrupt them are not for auditions but screen tests. Sometime during the interim, her friend has been transformed from an energetic Sheep into a rising star.

'Married?'
Bessie shrieks, aghast. 'Fuck, girl, you've only known this guy a few weeks.'

'It's months now, Bessie. Long enough.'

'For half of which time you thought he'd axed his wife. And what about the age difference?'

'Christian isn't old. He's just older than I am.'

'Well,' Bessie says, 'I sure hope the sex is terrific. Because otherwise I can't see what the hell you're doing this for.'

Claire doesn't answer.

'That good, huh?'

'That good.'

'Do I get to be best girl? Matron of honour, or whatever they call it?'

'Not unless you're prepared to fly to Paris.

We're going to get married there.'

The other girl's eyes narrow. 'Is he rich?'

'I… I guess so. We don't discuss it.'

'That's not why…?'

'Bessie!'

'And he has American citizenship, right? So you get a green card
and
a gold card. What does he do for a living again?'

'He's an academic.'

'Fabulously wealthy, fabulous in bed and smart, too. Sure it wasn't you who bumped off the first wife? Don't answer that, in this country you have the right to take the Fifth Amendment. When's the big day?'

'As soon as term ends. Christian's got lectures, and I want to finish my acting classes.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

When Etheridge gets to the Crossways, he drives round the back of the funeral parlour and knocks on Harold's door. Harold answers the knock himself. Dan notices how tired the mortician looks. Harold's taking it hard, he reflects.

'How are you, Harold,' he says politely.

'The Lord will see us through,' the other man replies. Dan sees that he has a Bible in his hand.

'Harold, I'm sorry to disturb you. It was Mr Furnish I'd like a word with, if he's around.'

'Glenn? He's finished for the day. Finished with … with…' the old man almost breaks down, but recovers and says, 'He's finished with Alicia. Says he's made her look real peaceful. I was just reading the book before I go to spend some time with her.'

'Sure,' Dan says. 'Do you have his address?'

'Must have. It'll be in the office, on the Rolodex. I'll—'

'Don't worry,' Dan says quickly. 'I didn't mean to disturb you, Harold. I'll find it for myself.'

'You'll need the key,' the mortician says, fishing in his waistcoat pocket. 'Here. Glenn locked it when he went. Said we couldn't be too careful, with Alicia and all.'

Etheridge takes the key and goes to the door of the funeral parlour. The office is on his right, and he can see the Rolodex on top of the filing cabinet, but something makes him go and take a quick look in the prep room first.

He walks in and flicks on the lights. The big fluorescents come on overhead, one by one, flickering and filling the room with light. Illuminating the grotesque tableau on the floor.

Etheridge wants to pull the girls' bodies apart, wants to drag them away from each other, but he knows he can't. Not before they've been photographed.

Photographed. Dan remembers the lens cap he found on the floor, and guesses that the crime search people won't be the first to record this scene.

He runs outside, pausing only to grab the Rolodex. Then he locks the funeral parlour door behind him and goes to the house.

'Harold,' he asks when Harold finally comes to the door. 'Is there another key like this?' He holds up the key he's used to lock the parlour door.

'No, that's the only—'

'Good. Harold, I've locked it. Things aren't right, and I don't want you going in there, you hear? Just stay away for a while. Some other cops may come by to take a look. I'll call you later.' Dan is already running to the car as he says this. He doesn't hear Harold's reply over the noise of the engine.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Glenn downloads his latest pictures and calls up his messages. There are a stack of them. He ignores most of them and opens one from Helios. As he reads it, he nods thoughtfully.

Venus is alive and well and waiting for you in NYC. I have in mind something simple and quite sentimental. Something like 'The Death of Lovers'. Best wishes Helios

Glenn goes to the bookshelf, pulls out his copy of
Les Fleurs du Mal,
and finds 'The Death of Lovers':

There is a bed, with pale sweet-smelling sheets;

cushions soft as earth within a tomb;

exotic flowers on the window ledge,

to block the daylight from this quiet room.

And, like two logs that smoulder in a grate,

which, knocked together, suddenly relight—

catching and roaring in a burst of flame—

so our hearts, pressed together now, ignite.

A cold mysterious fire engulfs us both,

a sudden flash of incandescent white;

a flame that burns and does not burn

but fills the mirrors with its ghostly light.

When in some future age these doors are broached,

they shall find only this: an empty bed,

some charred and blackened bones; a film of ash,

the mirrors broken, and the fire long dead.

He nods slowly. It would be easy enough to do, of course. The charred bodies and the broken mirrors. But that would be a very literal interpretation.

Glenn Furnish prides himself on approaching his subject matter a little more obliquely.

He goes to his own homepage and updates it with a brief mention of his recent pieces. He considers posting some of the
Tranquillity
pictures, then decides not to. It might affect their commercial value. He contents himself with uploading some more of the
Martyr
series. He looks at the hit counter and frowns. The hits from visitors are tailing off. Maybe it's time to mount a spectacular.

His next call is to a tourist site, where he downloads a street map. The connection is slow, and the map takes a little while to come through. While he's waiting, he sits on his bed, crosslegged, and stares at the glowing circle of the Insect-O-Cutor. His eyes glaze over and the violet tube loses focus. Then a housefly flies into it and the crack of the electric current jerks him awake. Carefully, he unplugs the fly killer and lays it on the bed, together with his suitcase. The tin tray is full of dead flies, and he pours them into his palm. They weigh no more than corn chaff. Experimentally, he pours a few into his mouth and crunches them up. They have a faintly bitter taste, not altogether unpleasant.

A sudden noise from the computer reminds him that there isn't much time. He saves the map to his hard drive, then puts the laptop into the suitcase.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Rob Fleming is writing a birthday card to his niece in Ottowa when the ping of his e-mail alert tells him he's got mail. Seeing what it is, he quickly grabs the phone and dials a number.

'Joan? The fly's entered the web.'

A few moments later, a computer at AT&T starts to locate the origin of the phone call by means of which the webmaster of
pictureman.com
is entering his kingdom.

He's only online for a few minutes, then, abruptly, he disconnects.

'Hell, that was quick,' Rob mutters. 'Is that enough to trace him?'

'Should be,' his contact says at the other end of the phone. He hears the clatter as she types some commands into her computer. After a few moments she says, 'Yep, we got that one. Got a pen?'

Rob gets straight onto the other line. 'Frank? We've got an address. It's upstate from you. About two hundred miles.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

The Rolodex gives Furnish's address as 86 Gordons Drive, but as soon as Dan turns into the street he recalls that number 86 is a boarding house. Sure enough, the landlady tells him Furnish moved out weeks ago, as soon as his first pay cheque came in.

'Did he give a forwarding address?'

'He didn't, no.'

Damn, thinks Etheridge, but then the landlady adds, 'I know where he went, though. He's taken the old Kessler property in Craven Road; the realtor is a friend of mine.'

Etheridge thanks her and hits the road again. He's already called the city cops and told them to search the funeral parlour. He hears them talking to each other on their radios as their cars bring them closer.

The Kessler property is a clapboard house, small but pretty. Etheridge notes that there are no close neighbours. There's no car in the driveway, but Dan draws his firearm for the first time in several years as he approaches the door.

The door swings open to his touch. The air smells fetid, an aroma of rotting fish mixed with something sweeter. Dan pulls out a handkerchief and puts it to his nose. Then he edges inside.

There's no-one there. Only a few pictures stacked against the wall beside the front door, as if Glenn Furnish had been packing and had suddenly decided to travel light.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Half an hour later Frank is back on the line. 'Rob, I'm here with Mike Positano. We're going to the speakerphone, OK?'

'Fine.'

A second later Rob Fleming hears the detective's voice again. 'The local guys have already called that address in, Rob. Seems the bird has flown. We're going to keep some people back here in the city in the hope you'll be able to trace him the next time he stops.'

'You'll be in the right place, then,' Rob says.

'What do you mean?'

'After he left pictureman.com, we followed him to a map site. He downloaded a street map of New York City.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

As Glenn drives south in the gathering dusk, he gradually becomes aware of hollowed-out pumpkins flickering in windows and groups of children assembling in ghost suits and fright masks. He laughs aloud. Of course; Hallowe'en. He couldn't have picked a more appropriate date.

His eye is caught by an older child, a teenage girl to judge from the shape of her body, dressed in a costume on which a skeleton has been painted in glowing, luminous paint. It's a standard Hallowe'en outfit, and Glenn barely glimpses it as he drives past, but something about it lingers in his mind.

For perhaps twenty miles he turns the image over in his mind. He tries to push it away but, like a fly buzzing around a piece of meat, it keeps coming back to nag at him. Eventually, seeing a store with a sign advertising Hallowe'en costumes, he makes an abrupt turning off the highway.

===OO=OOO=OO===

They wait. For hours they wait.

Forensic Crime Search takes Furnish's rented house and the funeral parlour apart. Lieutenant Lowell flies out by helicopter to supervise.

At nine, Frank sends out for sushi. At midnight, he heads to a hotel to take a shower and get some rest.

He's under water when he hears the phone ring. Cursing, he runs for it, still flecked with suds. The receiver is slippery in his hand, and it takes a moment to get it to his ear.

It's Fleming. The technician sounds excited.

'You're not going to believe this. The bastard's just used his laptop in a motel.'

'Where?'

'Westchester. The Marin Road Motel. And Frank? Just for good measure, we've got his credit card details. He paid for his room in advance, with Visa.'

Frank thinks. 'That doesn't make sense,' he objects. 'He must suspect by now that we're after him.'

'Right. But this isn't his card. It's registered to a Harold J. Hopkins. Want me to report it stolen?'

'No. It's better for us if he's using it. Tell Positano and Weeks I'll meet them in the station house in fifteen minutes.'

A few minutes later he's in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other pressing shower water out of his ear, when his cellphone rings. This time it's Positano.

'Everything's ready this end. One thing you should know. The same credit card's just been used again. He's booked himself a hooker.'

'Shit. Are we sure about this?'

'One hundred per cent. The transaction has just been processed by the A1 Escort Agency.'

'Phone them. Tell them not to send her out.'

'We have. We're too late, Frank. She's already gone.'

He thinks for a moment. Weeks' voice says in his ear, 'Want me to phone the motel? The desk clerk could maybe intercept her and stop her going in.'

'No. No, don't do that. If it's him, we can't risk the desk clerk acting suspiciously. Get the team into the cars. I'll wait for you by the ramp into the tunnel.'

The man in the motel room unpacks his case carefully, taking out all the things he has brought with him and double-checking them before putting them back in the case and pushing it under the bed. He glances at the clock in the headboard. A little after nine. She's late, but not by much. He feels the excitement welling up in him, an unruly emotion, and forces it away. He must remain calm. Control is everything.

When the knock comes at the door, he crosses quickly to unfasten the chain. 'Who is it?' he says quietly.