The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (19 page)

"Missy, what? Please . . ."

"What, Carl dear, is that I need you right now
this minute to write me a check for fifteen thousand dollars. It will
help me clear up some nonsense that's happened since my father died
and free me to be close to you when you need me. And you're going to
need me, Carl . . ."

He tired to pull away. "Missy, my cash is tied
up. And I'm not as rich as you think I am anyway. There's a limit—"

But there was no limit to Missy's not so tender
ministrations, and finally, he had no choice but to write her a check
and beg her to bring him relief, which, smiling, she proceeded to do.

"You and your little winkie," she said.
"All better now, lover."

And then she was saying, under her breath, "We're
two of a kind," but she did not mean herself and Carl, she meant
herself and Cynthia Ducroit. Two going for one—Felix. And only one
would be left standing when the final round ended.
 
 

CHAPTER 17

WHEN LAURA looked at herself in the bathroom mirror,
the gray morning light showed a face filled with exhaustion. The
night had been a long and bad one, the two sides of her battling over
the way she'd run out of Felix's apartment. She was brushing her
teeth, the bathroom radio tuned to WMMR's "Morning Zoo,"
when she heard someone downstairs knocking forcefully on her front
door. She tried to ignore it, but the banging wouldn't stop. Probably
the meter man. But why so early? Holding her robe around her, she
went barefoot downstairs to let him in.

Her front door was a blue-and-gray farmhouse door,
the top half panes of glass, but the curtain over them kept her from
seeing who was outside. When she opened it, she got a shock. Waiting
on the steps was a darkly bearded man with aviator-style sunglasses
and wearing a leather jacket. Momentarily . . . it was more than
enough for her already frazzled nerves . . . she thought Terri
DiFranco's killer had come to call. Then she shook off the image and
took in the most welcome if unexpected sight of Felix.

"Good God, I thought you were the meter man . .
. well, uh, come in . . ." She thought she'd never see him again
after the way she'd run out of his place like some hysterical virgin.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he said. "No
meter, but breakfast. Okay?" He jokingly turned it aside.

Laura nodded vigorously. "Yes . . . sure, but
how did you find me? I didn't give you my address—"

"Oh, I did a little detective work. I looked in
the phone book. By the way, keeping your number listed isn't such a
good idea for someone in your line of work, is it?"

"I only used initials," she said lamely.

"Well, I've got coffee and fried eggs and bacon
sandwiches on whole wheat with mayo, horseradish and Louisiana hot
sauce." She looked at him. "Thank you, Felix, I'm really
glad to see you, but I can't eat that stuff. I start off my day with
coffee and a cigarette, never eat before noon—"

He marched to her small kitchen table where he began
opening bags. "I figured as much. That's why I'm here. Someone
has to save you from yourself, and breakfast is as good a place to
start as any." He waved some newspapers at her. "I brought
the papers but forgot the orange juice. You do have orange juice,
don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Now, I think you better put on something
a little less interesting or there's no telling what might happen . .
."

Was he making fun of her? Giving her a bit of
needling for last night? Whatever, she hurried upstairs to her
bedroom and proceeded to fix things as though Felix were right behind
her . . .She picked up her clothes from last night and separated them
into the laundry or dry cleaning bags, straightened the teetering
stack of books on the old steamer trunk that still served as her
bedside table, emptied the ashtray and put last night's beer can into
the wastebasket.

She took her time dressing, staying nude longer than
necessary, knowing that she was half-daring, half-afraid Felix would
open the door. That way she could get it over with, see the look on
his face when he realized that she had only one breast, and she could
finally stop kidding herself . . .

Glancing at the door, she began to dress: first,
panties, silky soft, trimmed with lace. As she slipped them on she
thought that even if her relationship with Felix couldn't go all the
way, there was also no reason why she shouldn't feel as womanly as
possible while she was with him . . . She chose a matching bra, also
lace trimmed, and put it on, fitting her rubber prosthesis—she
privately called it the thing—into it. Before she pulled on her
pantyhose she checked herself in the mirror. Not so bad. She finished
off with a pleated, gray wool skirt, white blouse  with a bulky
sweater vest and boots.

He was at the table, steaming coffee in a styrofoam
cup in front of him, reading the paper.

"You were gone so long I was beginning to think
you'd tied the sheets together and made good your escape."

She started to apologize with the cliché about women
taking a long time to dress, but she stopped herself before it came
out. She smiled sweetly and sat down. "I see the Globe here by
my place, thanks. But what are you reading?"

"The National Enquirer, what else?"

"I don't believe it. Let's see," she said,
reaching across the table for it. "Okay, your tastes are noted,"
but she still took the time to flip through it, feeling his gaze on
her as she did.

"While you were upstairs I read the Globe. That
was a moving piece you wrote about Flora, the old woman, and the
relationship she had with this Terri girl. Like I said at dinner, I
admire the way you think, your involvement, the way things affect
you."

His soft, quiet voice touched her, and in spite of
the tight rein she kept on herself she also felt herself beginning to
relax, open up. She wanted more.

"Keep on doing what you're doing," he said
seriously, looking directly at her, "and I'll be behind you a
hundred percent." He reached across the table to cover her hand
with his own.

"Thank you." It was what she wanted to
hear, but still wasn't able to look at him.

Instead she looked at their hands, liked the feeling
of his on hers, covering, protecting. His palm felt so soft. This was
a hand meant to touch, to stroke, to bring pleasure, and she almost
shivered at the thought of it. But it was not a weak hand. Soft as
the palm was, that was how scarred and broken the back was. Two of
the knuckles had been broken and were misshapen. In the valleys
between them were angry red weals where the skin had been ripped open
and sewn back together. She lightly traced the scars with her finger.
"What happened?"

"Prison," he said. Nothing more.

And now she felt an overwhelming desire to protect
him, to cover the broken part of his hand with the softness of her
own. Then, just as at his apartment, when the feeling between them
was created and began to fade, he moved, this time gradually pulling
away, leaving her wishing for more.

When he said, "Should we go?" she decided
he was as uncertain of them as she was.

"Yes," she said, hoping her tone would
convey more than the simple word, that he would press her, take away
her initiative, force her to see him again. She went to him and
touched him, her hand moving lightly down his arm until they were
holding hands again.

"I'm very glad you came," she said. "I
mean it."

"Today is Halloween. What are you doing
tonight?"

"I have to go to Henri David's ball at the
Warwick, for the paper. And you?"

"I have to meet Cyn."

"So we couldn't have been together anyway,"
jealous at the idea of him spending time with his ex-wife, and even
at his nickname for her.

"No, no, it's just for a drink. She called up,
there's something she wants to talk about. I agreed to meet her but
after that I'm free"

"What about Missy? I would have thought she
might figure in your Halloween plans." Wonderful, Laura, play
the jealous shrew. Just what he needed to hear. Cut it out . . .

Felix stopped, took her by the shoulders and turned
her to face him.

"Laura, enough. I don't need you to remind me
about my ex-wife or Missy. I already know what I'm going to do about
them, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep a button on those very
pretty lips of yours. Anyway, jealousy doesn't become you, never mind
that it doesn't apply so far as I'm concerned."

"I'm sorry . . . of course you're right . . ."

"Good. Now, it seems tonight is out. So dinner
tomorrow." It was not put as a question.

She quickly agreed and they sealed it with a kiss,
one that took something for the moment and left more for the future.
At the door they kissed lightly again, almost like old lovers
parting, and she stood on the steps watching until he was out of
sight.

Before she could go back inside, Jean, her heavyset
next-door neighbor, came out all red-faced and upset.

"What's wrong?" Laura said.

"I just got a call from one of the girls over on
Mifflin. A cop making his rounds cruised by the old depot and noticed
a window was open. He checked it out. There was another body inside.
They think it's Terri's girl friend. Marie . . ."

Laura felt sick. Not Marie. No. She turned and began
to run toward the depot, hoping against hope that this time the
neighborhood grapevine was wrong, but in her gut afraid they were
right—and that her articles had caused it.
 
 

CHAPTER 18

WHEN THINGS were under control at the depot Sloan
left the cleanup work to Rafferty and the rest of the squad and
headed back to headquarters. He felt lousy, and from more than his
cold. The case was falling apart in his hands, and he was responsible
for at least some of it.

Up to now he hadn't admitted it to himself, but, face
it, he'd brought Laura in on it not just because he liked her—which
he did—but also as a bit of grandstand play. It looked simple and
harmless enough at the time. Take over the missing-persons files,
canvas the neighborhood for information about Peter and make the
arrest. All to the tune of some very positive headlines for Seven
Squad and the department, and himself. He never imagined that no one
in a tight-knit neighborhood like South Philly would have seen this
character. The guy was linked with three separate girls. But, it
seemed, no one had. No one except one teenage girl, and now she was
dead, too.

He'd also lost his cool at the depot. Laura had shown
up again, and he had all but accused her of causing Marie's death
with her stories, which she was already blaming herself for. But it
wasn't her fault. It was his—for not nailing this Peter by now.
Kane let him know how off-base he was with Laura, and that was when
he decided to leave the cleanup to the squad and get away from it for
a while.

A nightmare. They'd had no substantive breaks since
the Lagniappe matchbook. The costumers check gave them nothing. 
For a moment there he'd thought Justin Fortier looked good for it,
but that went down the tubes when the accusing ex-employee, Spivak
reported, turned out to be a thief and her own friend the victim. And
Fortier didn't own a Datsun 300ZX. Evans and Rafferty had actually
come up with the two sex offenders who owned 300ZX's. Likewise a
dead-end—one was the wrong color, black, and the other was dead
from a heart attack. Now he was back to square one, only this time he
had a second body. Marie—his only eyewitness. He parked in the lot
and had started for the Roundhouse when he heard someone call to him,
the voice coming from a black Corvette parked across the street.

"Hey sailor . .

He wasn't in the mood for games, but walked across
the street to find at the wheel of the Corvette Delores Inverso, the
daughter of mobster Nicholas Inverso. She was looking punk as ever,
but somehow even with the streaked red hair and fingerless gloves she
seemed somehow easier to take than at their last meeting. He shook
his head. Too much down time. He'd been without a woman too long if
he found a mob leader's daughter a prospect.

Next to her in the passenger seat was a Catholic
priest. Sloan couldn't see him too well, but well enough to make him
out as Oriental. Sort of strange.

"How goes it, Delores?"

His hand was resting on her windowsill, and she
covered it with hers. Her fingers felt warm. "I'm good, you look
terrible."

She didn't move her hand from his. "Today's
Father Nguyen's market day. You know Father Nguyen, don't you? He's
from Sacred Heart."

"Hello, Father"

"Bless you, my son," which somehow sounded
odd coming from this face and accent. He had grown up on priests that
sounded like Barry Fitzgerald. He almost smiled. Years ago Bob Dylan
had said a mouthful: "The times they are a-changin'."

"I bring him down here every week so he can shop
in Chinatown. He says you can't get good rice in South Philly."

"Makes sense, I guess. Pasta, yes. Rice, no."

"Anyway, Sloan, Dad heard about the second body
and he wasn't too thrilled. People know he asked you to wrap this up
in a hurry, and he's starting to look bad. Especially with the
second body."