The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (24 page)

"What's so important that would make you get
waxed twice in such a short time?" Kelly asked.

Missy smiled. How different her reasons were this
time. The waxing, not her legs, she'd always had that done, but her
pubes, had begun when Peter began to prowl. Knowing police lab work
as she did, she also knew that a stray pubic hair of hers found at
the scene could, in the hands of an inquisitive lab technician, prove
incriminating. But this time she was doing it for Felix, to be
smooth, clean and ready for him.

"It's because I'm getting married."

Kelly looked at her with surprise, said nothing as
she piled a couple of handfuls of strips of white cloth near at hand
and tilted the chair back so Missy was almost horizontal. Working
methodically and efficiently from the feet up, she began to spatula
on the hot wax over a small area, press a strip of cloth onto it and
immediately rip it off like a Band-aid, taking the embedded hair with
it.

As she worked Kelly said, "Tell me all about
him. Is he gorgeous?"

"Oh, yes, also rich."

"Good, you'll still be able to afford to come to
me and you'll still be able to bring your little gifts. What does he
do?"

"He's a real estate developer from New Orleans
who's doing a project here in town. But that's all I can tell you. We
want to keep it a secret until we see if I'm pregnant."

"Are you?"

"No, not yet, but I expect I will be after
tonight."

"So that's why you're here."

"That's right. I didn't want him to find any
five o'clock shadow."

"How did you figure out your time? Did you take
your temperature?" Kelly asked, still spreading on wax, pressing
cloth into it and ripping it off as she worked her way up Missy's
legs.

"No, I used one of those kits. 'Essence,' it's
called."

"I've seen them in the drugstore. Do they really
work?"

"Oh, yes, they measure the amount of luteinizing
hormone in your morning urine. That's one way to tell when you're
fertile."

"That's right, you're in the lab business. You'd
know that sort of thing . . . What does your fiancé think of all
this. I mean, these days men don't seem to like the idea of a woman
getting pregnant—"

"He wants me to get pregnant."

"Does that mean if you don't he won't marry
you?"

"No, he's old-fashioned. He wants to marry me
either way, but unless I'm pregnant we might as well live together.
Don't you agree?"

Kelly nodded, finishing with Missy's legs. As she
bent to apply the hot wax to Missy's mons veneris, she abruptly
stopped, and stared.

"What in the world happened to you? You're all
bruised down here," she said.

Missy, of course, knew that the bruises were from the
chain between her legs, securing the dildo and rubbing against her
labia, and she smiled as her thoughts drifted to her final moments
with Cynthia . . . how she had managed to break through Cynthia's
reserve and bring her along . . . how as Cynthia's time came near, in
her own voice she had said aloud, "Cynthia, darling, you should
see the lovely dress l've picked for your funeral." The shock
had been complete. Cynthia's eyes had opened wide at the sound of her
voice and she had desperately tried to turn and look. Missy had
allowed her one long look, and then had pulled the chain tight around
Cynthia's neck . . .

"They were from my lover," she said now in
a soft voice, and Kelly did not notice that she had used the past
tense.
 
 

CHAPTER 22

THE NEWSROOM was busy. Telephones were ringing,
keyboards clattering. Laura took no notice of them. Her whole
attention seemed focused on the bottom of her styrofoam coffee cup as
if whatever dregs remained were tea leaves that could predict her
future.

Wearing jeans, she leaned back in the chair, feet on
the desk. In the hand holding the cup was a freshly lit cigarette,
and the ashtray nearby was already starting to fill with butts. She
knew it was bad for her but right now she was too frazzled to care.
Yesterday had begun on a high note, filled with a bit of promise when
she'd discovered Felix on her doorstep with breakfast. All that had
ended abruptly with the news of Marie's death. The run, the
neighbors, the depot were all the grisly
deja
vu
very bad dreams are made of. Only this
time it was real, Marie was the victim, and as soon as Laura saw the
body she was convinced that somehow she was to blame, that if she
hadn't written the articles Marie would still be alive. It was as if
the killer had left a personal message on the wind, a laughing, nasty
whisper only she could hear, absolving himself of the guilt and
putting it on her.

Sloan had been cool and distant and accusing,
apparently sharing her own feelings that she was responsible for
Marie's death. The certainty that her actions had caused this awful
thing hit her harder than anything since the dark days of her
operation.

The rest of the day she'd moved zombielike through
her chores, staying at Henri David's Halloween ball only long enough
to gather the necessary information for the article, then returning
to the paper to write it. Later at home, though exhausted, sleep was
out of the question. Several times she almost picked up the phone to
call Felix and ask if he would talk to her for a while, but she
didn't . . .

Now her funk was interrupted by Gene, another
features reporter, waving the phone receiver at her from his desk.

"Laura, Lieutenant Sloan on line five for you."

Sitting up a bit straighter in her chair, she reached
for the phone. "George?"

What she heard was not good news. Sloan was all
business on his end, and Laura's only response was, "Yes, I know
Cynthia Ducroit," before he broke the news. When she heard about
Cynthia's death her expression changed to unbelieving shock. To say
that she and Cynthia were close friends would have been wrong, but as
she sat there trying to absorb the news, images of lunches and walks,
of talks and trivial confidences bombarded her. And echoing over it
all were Sloan's words about her death.

Gene, the other features reporter, noted the change
in Laura's face and came over to her desk. "What's wrong?"
he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up at him. "Cynthia Ducroit has just
been found, raped and murdered by the same creep who killed Terri and
Marie in South Philly . . ." Her words sounded faraway, like
someone else was saying them.

"Can I help?"

"No, they want to see me, but thanks."

On the drive to Pine Street she tried to will herself
not to cry, knowing she would be doing it as much for herself as for
Terri or Marie or Cynthia. This was not the time for tears. This was
the time to be counted. She owed them—especially Marie. She'd be
damned if she'd dissolve in self-pity.

Police cars and vans jammed up the street, and she
had to park near Eleventh and walk back. There were uniformed
officers securing the premises outside, but unlike South Philly there
were no crowds of spectators.

She gave her name to one of the officers, and waited.
In a few moments Sloan came to the door. "Come on in,"
offering his hand as he said it. It was more the gesture of a funeral
director. She stopped just inside the door, not sure that she could
take seeing Cynthia's body.

The store was buzzing with policemen. Lab men were
dusting for prints. In the rear of the store behind the counter
detectives were talking to a young woman with curly blonde hair.

Although Laura could not hear what was being said,
the young woman, dressed in a long white shirt belted at the waist,
an oversized vest, and tights, seemed quite shaken. On the other side
of the store, another team of detectives was talking to an elderly
black man who also was obviously upset.

Sloan waited for Laura to talk, and when she didn't
he started.

"You said on the phone that you knew her—"

"Yes . . . what happened?"

When he said, "For publication?" she winced
slightly at the unspoken reference to her article on Marie. Sloan
didn't belabor it and filled her in on the cleaning man finding the
body and keeping up CPR for over an hour until the clerk arrived.
Laura said, "CPR for over an hour on a dead person? My God, that
must have been awful—"

"Yeah, it was, I'm sure. He has a bad back to
boot, but if there'd been a spark left in her he would have saved
her."

"Are you sure it's the same one that killed
Terri and Marie?"

"Yes. The body was in a kneeling position—well,
not actually kneeling but the old fellow tells us she was bent over
the table with her skirt up and her panties down, positioned for a
rear entry like the other two—the hands were cuffed behind the back
with the same type of handcuffs, and she was strangled with the same
type of chain. Plus, like the others, the blood type of the sperm
matches, there were no extra public hairs found and the victim's
vagina was not brutalized. It's the same guy, all right, only now
he's decided to work Center City as well as South Philly."

"Why? Why the move to Center City?"

When Sloan hesitated, Laura understood there was
still a strain between them.

"George," she said, "I know I was
wrong when I wrote the article about Marie. It's all I've been
thinking about since her body was found, and I know you hate me for
it. I wish you would yell at me, call me names. Do something,
anything if it will make things better between us. But we need to
work together. Maybe my help isn't the most important in the world
but I need to give it, and it just might be worth something down the
line. Tell me to drop dead, but don't shut me out, please. I owe
them."

Sloan didn't acknowledge it, instead said, "Fill
me in on the lunch you had with Cynthia Ducroit."

"What do you want to know? It was just two
people, well, three, having lunch."

"Who was the third?"

"Carl Laredo, an artist. We were having lunch in
the Reading Terminal Market. He was there doing some shopping and saw
us and joined us."

At her mention of Carl's name Sloan did a mild double
take, quickly said, "Was it a friendly lunch?"

Laura was trying to think what there could be about
the lunch that interested Sloan. Could he suspect Carl? Hardly seemed
likely. If he did, wouldn't he have had him under surveillance and
know about the lunch?

"Yes, it was very friendly," she said. "I
hadn't seen Cynthia for some time, and Carl is always . . .
pleasant."

"Who set up the lunch?"

"I called her. I was doing an article on her
ex-husband, Felix, and I wanted to interview her about him."

"I don't remember seeing it. And why a piece on
him?"

"He's a real estate developer doing a big
project here in town. He's not from here, so the paper thought it
would be a good feature piece with a business slant."

"Why an interview with the ex-wife before you do
a piece on him? You're not People magazine."

Laura was beginning to feel annoyed and a little
intimidated.

"I had met him before and found him very
reserved. I thought if I had a chat with Cynthia she could at least
give me some back-ground that would make the actual interview go
easier."

"What did she have to say about him?"

And Laura suddenly had the distinctly uneasy feeling
where Sloan's questioning was leading. "Wait a minute, you don't
think Felix had anything to do with this . . . ?"

Sloan was looking at her more closely, and Laura
realized that her tone had revealed more than professional feelings
for Felix. She covered it as best she could. "I mean, earlier
you said it had to be the same one who killed Terri and Marie—"

He didn't respond to that, instead said, "You
were starting to tell me about what his ex said at lunch."

"Damn little," Laura said, trying now to
appease him with the minimum. "Mainly, she talked about their
divorce. They split up over children. He wanted them and she didn't.
She also talked about the ups and downs of being married to a
wheeler-dealer, what it was like to be rich one day and broke the
next."

She didn't feel guilty skipping details because she
was sure Sloan was on the wrong track. Felix couldn't have had
anything to do with it. He hadn't even seen—and then suddenly she
remembered his date with Cynthia for cocktails. Was that only
yesterday? But so what? What possible motive could he have? And
besides, he was new in town and—

"I thought you wanted to help."

"I do. What makes you think I don't?"

"You're not exactly a poker-face. You look like
someone just stepped on your grave."

He was right, why was she acting defensive? Felix was
innocent and like they said, an innocent man had nothing to fear. She
had no reason to hold anything back. Her obligation was to help find
the real killer. Still, it just made no sense to suspect Felix. "He's
only been in town some three months. Girls have been disappearing a
lot longer than that . .