Authors: J. A. Kerley
Harry said, “Maybe the writing got him juiced. He had to write.”
“If he’s got the head to hammer his statement into, why make a speech on the body?”
“Good point. Doing a Farley, maybe?”
Farley Traynor was a bitterly angry accountant who cut words into victims he’d never known, telling them how much he hated what they’d done to him. In a curious bit of deranged perception, Traynor figured since the dead were in their bodies looking out, he’d write backward so they could read it easier.
“Just doesn’t click if the head’s where he thinks the personality resides. Did you just hit a pedestrian?”
“Traffic barrel. Maybe it’s a note to us, cops. Whores and rats? Not everybody loves us like we do.”
I couldn’t buy in yet. “But the tiny writing wouldn’t be around long, or at least not visible. Not in this heat. I bet even slight decomposition would obscure it. And if the words are important, scream them: black marker, big letters.”
“You’re overanalyzing, Cars. I hate to agree with Squill, but I think it’s revenge.”
“Revenge is anger. If the killer was angry, he or she’s got anger as tidy as doilies.”
I was balancing my thoughts between fastidious anger and my unimpressive debut with Dr. Davanelle when the car turned hard and bumped upward, pulling into a drive. Harry said, “We’re here, bro. Not what I expected either.”
T
erri Losidor’s apartment complex boasted several Beamers beneath the carports, plus other young-executive-type wheels. The grounds were dappled with crepe myrtles, palmettos, azaleas, here and there a tall loblolly pine. A pool featured several tanned and lounging bodies. Not a child in sight.
“Trailer park to yupster singles ville Harry said. “Darwin at work.”
Terri opened her door without chain intervention or asking for ID, either trusting us or expecting us. She had a broad plain face and green, darting eyes. Moderately overweight, she carried it well and moved lithely, gesturing us to sit on a plump orange couch as she lit a cigarette and sat across from us. She remote-muted one of what Harry calls “chromosomal defect shows,” Springer or whatnot. Despite her calm exterior I detected a nervous undercurrent, not unexpected when cops come a-calling. Her apartment was clean, with inexpensive but matched furniture, and beneath the cigarette smoke smelled of lemon air freshener and a recent shower. There was a cat-box somewhere.
She said, “This is about Jerrold, isn’t it?”
Harry nodded and Terri Losidor picked up a throw pillow and clutched it to her breast. Harry started with easy questions to let her get used to answering. She was thirty-three and worked as an accountant at a local trucking firm. She’d lived at Bayou Verde Apartments for three years. Children weren’t allowed but pets were cool. They used too much chlorine in the pool. This all came out in a nasal twang I knew the drivers made fun of.
Harry shifted to Nelson. While he slow-walked her through memories, I sat quietly and used a year’s worth of detective experience to identify cat hairs on the couch. Long and white.
“How well did you know Mr. Nelson?” Harry said. “I’m talking about his past, his friends, his family, his hobbies, and so forth.”
“Those things weren’t important to Jerrold and me, Detective Nautilus. It was just us and the things we’d do. I didn’t need to know anything else.”
“Didn’t need to know or Jerrold didn’t tell you?” Harry loosened his tie, spun a crick from his neck, relaxed. He works in reverse of many cops by leaning forward to toss mush balls and lying back to throw heat and curves.
Losidor looked away. “I asked a couple of times. He said they weren’t things he liked to talk about; it was painful.”
“So if you didn’t know his friends you probably didn’t know any enemies.”
“Jerrold didn’t have enemies. He was so so friendly. Always laughing and telling jokes.” A sad smile. “One of my friends told me, she said, “Terri, that Jerrold makes my mouth hurt with all his smiling.” No one could be angry at Jerrold, Detective Nautilus.”
Harry locked his fingers behind his head and reclined further. “In May you were angry enough to threaten him with jail. Something about eleven thousand dollars moving from your pocket to his.”
Losidor closed her eyes, sighed, opened them again. “See, he told me he had a one-time chance to get in on a business it would take just fourteen thousand dollars to make at least seventy in a year. All I had was eleven but Jerry said it would still work.”
“What sort of business?”
There was a clang from the back of the apartment, like something falling on the floor. Terri jumped.
Harry sat up, wary. “Are we alone here?”
“Oh, yes. Just us,” Losidor said, reaching for a cigarette. “That’s Mr. Puff, my kitty. He’s clumsy, always knocking things off the sills and shelves. Crazy cat.”
Harry and I listened for a moment. Nothing. Harry settled back into the couch.
“What sort of business did Jerrold say your money was going for?”
“Something to do with computers and how they’re hooked together. He explained one office might have one kind of computer and another office had another and the computers couldn’t understand each other. He had a friend who’d invented a better way to make them talk. It made sense, since at my office the computers are always messing up like that.”
“You ever get to meet his friend? Or hear his name?”
“I just trusted Jerry, you know.”
Harry spent one year with Bunco, and this was a familiar conversation. “Once you gave him the money Jerrold stopped coming by as much, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know he got busy with things … ” Her eyes dropped to the carpet. “Yes.”
“Then the business went sour.”
Terri sighed. “He said some other company came out with the same thing first. Intel. I asked the guy who fixes the computers at our office about it. He’d never heard about Intel having anything like that; it wasn’t what they did. That’s when I filed.” Terri sniffled and plucked a pink wad of tissue from her pocket to dab her eyes.
“But a week later you dropped the charges.”
“He finally told me the truth,” Terri said, sniffling.
“Which was?”
“He used it to buy a share of some cocaine being flown into the county it’s like a stock deal. You buy shares. Jerry didn’t tell me because he knew I’d never approve. He stopped seeing me because he was ashamed.”
“A … stock deal?”
“You remember that little plane that crashed up by Saraland? That was the plane all the cocaine burned up and we lost our money.”
I recalled the incident; a Mercedes dealer in a Cessna 180 miscalculated his fuel by about a half gallon and dropped into the trees. There was nothing about drugs to it. Either Nelson was a world-class liar or Losidor was born for plucking. Or both.
Unless, of course, Terri was spinning us a story.
“One more thing, Miss Losidor,” Harry said. “How did you and Mr. Nelson meet?”
She paused for a moment. “At the Game Club, by the airport.”
The Game Club is a singles bar with a fox-hunting motif: bugles and English saddles on the wall, servers in livery and gravy-bowl hats. I’d awakened to a couple of unsettling mornings that began in the Game Club, but that was months ago, before I’d matured.
Harry noted her hesitation. “Are you sure?”
“I always forget the name of the place.”
“Who initiated the contact?”
“Do what?”
“Who hit on who first?”
“I was sitting with a couple of friends. Jerry was standing at the bar. I kinda glanced over at him and he winked, y’know.”
Harry finished his questions, and we stood to leave. She followed us to the door. “We were real close before the money thing,” she said, dabbing a tear with a tissue. “We were in love. Je-Jerrold said I made him feel like he’d never felt before.”
Desultory images floated behind my eyes; Nelson atop Terri Losidor, grinding away like he’s milling wheat, she thinking she’s inspired her lover to dizzying feats of virility. Nelson is simply bored with everything but the chance of money. He pumps himself weary, then, dreaming of flying, empties joylessly, falling asleep on a sweat-damp mattress beginning to smell.
We were turning around in the far end of the lot when Harry slammed on the brakes.
“Looky there, Carson,” he said, pointing to a cat scratching at Terri Losidor’s front door, a fluffy white longhair with a pink collar. The door opened a crack and the cat flipped its tail and scooted inside.
I looked at Harry. “Mr. Puff, I presume.”
“Wonder who was that clumsy-ass cat jumping on her sill?” he said.
Harry dropped me off at the station. We’d meet later at Flanagan’s for some chow and a brainstorm session. He was going to gather copies of interviews in connection with the case, and I headed to the morgue to see if the prelim was ready.
The report sat at the front desk, a few pages detailing basic and unofficial findings. I didn’t expect any revelations at this point. Since I was already here, I figured to brighten Clair’s day by interrupting it. I also wondered if the chronically morose Dr. Davanelle had tattled, maybe telling Clair I’d spent my observation time nattering like an auctioneer and singing ribald sea chanties. Even Clair Peltier, the sultaness of strict, allowed a little light conversation during an autopsy.
I walked the wide hall to Clair’s office. The door was slightly ajar and I heard her talking. I thought I’d stick my head in and say hi, but my hand froze on the knob when I heard the tone in her voice.
“This is ridiculous, absolutely unacceptable,” she said, her words sharp as thorns, acid dripped into syllables. “I can’t even read your writing on these reports. They look like they were scribbled by a chimpanzee.”
I heard a low response, hushed, apologetic.
Clair said, “No! I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care how little time you had to get them out. I did three posts a day in my first position and still managed to make my paperwork legible.”
Another muffled response.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. This work is simply unacceptable. I need to see some goddamn improvement.”
I’ve never enjoyed hearing someone getting tongue-lashed; it dredges up too many childhood memories. I felt as stricken as if the words were for me. Clair’s voice continued as I backed slowly from the door.
“Then there’s the matter of sick days. How many are you planning on taking this year? Six? Eight? Two dozen? It’s inconsiderate at best. When you’re not here or when you’re late, more often than not, it seems it throws my scheduling on its ass. No, I don’t want to hear lame excuses, I just want you to …”
I heard the sound of dismissal in Clair’s voice. Footsteps approached the door from within. I tiptoed a dozen feet down the hall. The only refuge was Willet Lindy’s office; his lights were off and I figured he was gone for the day. He often arrived before six a.m.” left by three. I leapt into the office.
Lindy had a wide window to the hall, the blinds three-quarters open. I flattened against the wall and heard the footsteps approach. I watched Ava Davanelle stop in front of the window and push tears from her eyes with trembling fingers. Her face was gray. She squeezed her hands into white-knuckle fists and held them beside her temples. Her body began to shake as if her soul were being shredded by white-hot pincers. I watched, transfixed by the depth of her agony. She shook until a ragged sob wrenched from her throat and she grabbed her stomach and ran to the ladies’ room.
The door slammed like a shotgun blast.
Ava Davanelle’s misery left me breathless. I stared into the empty hall for a dozen heartbeats, as if anguish had been painted across the air, and I could not believe the intensity of its coloration. I crept breathless from my hidey-hole, escaping toward the front entrance, and passed Clair’s half-open door.
“Ryder? Is that you?” she called. I turned around, affected nonchalance, and stuck my head through her door as I’d done a dozen times in the past.
She said, “What are you doing here?” No venom in her voice, it was her usual no-nonsense tone. I smiled awkwardly and held up the report.
She nodded. “The prelim. I forgot. It’s been one of those days.” Clair paused, thought. “Was this your first procedure with Dr. Davanelle?”
I nodded. “My maiden voyage.”
She slipped on her lanyarded reading glasses and peered into a file on her desk, frowning at some errant tidbit of information. “Davanelle’s good,” Clair said, nodding to herself. “Got a couple areas that need improvement. But she knows her stuff, a keeper. Have a good day, Ryder. Stay out of trouble.”
T
hree stacks of photographs rested on his green Formica table-top: one large, one modest, one small. The only other items on the table were chrome shears and a magnifying glass. The air was hot and windless but he didn’t feel it. Nor did he hear the roar of trucks a quarter mile distant on I 10, or the whine of jets approaching or departing Mobile’s airport. He was working with the pictures and they demanded relentless attention.
They would change the universe.
The largest stack, pushed to the table’s farthest edge, were the Culls, upside down so he didn’t have to look at them. Emaciated twigs or fat as hogs, matted with hair, or puckered with scars. The Culls were disgusting liars and he always washed his hands after touching their pictures.
Why had they applied for the position? Couldn’t the Culls read? His instructions, sixty-seven words drafted over three weeks, had been exceptionally precise.
Centering the table was a smaller stack of photos, the Potentials. Chests broad and pink. Hillocks of bicep, globes of shoulder. Stomachs flat as skim boards But all had minor flaws: a strident navel, or puckered nipples. One had distractingly large hands. The Potentials were second-stringers on the sideline benches, there if needed, but hopefully kept from the field.
He swiped his hands on his khakis to blot sweat and reached for the closest stack of photos. There were five in all: the Absolutes, the chosen ones. From the seventy-seven photos he’d received, five had survived the most intense scrutiny. He arrayed the Absolutes before him like supplicants and studied them from chin to kneecaps.