|
Smell of it was the most depressing thing: that
combination of urine and disinfectant and poorly washed convict
that was unique. Jail. Jail again. Good old Cook
County lockup. Ray sat on the edge of his cot and tried to
take some deep breaths without actually breathing in jail air. He
didn't want it inside him, becoming part of him.
He looked down the rows of mostly empty cots in the
infirmary, where they were keeping him away from the general
population. Keeping him separate because he was a cop, but he was
also relieved because-- Could convicts tell that he'd been having
sex with another guy? He didn't think he could really tell,
but could they? Ray didn't want to imagine what would
happen if they could, but his mind kept serving up pictures that
curdled his blood. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Hold
on, Vecchio.
He didn't want any part of this, especially without--
Would Fraser get himself locked up again to help him? Probably
not, since what they really needed was somebody outside, clearing
Ray. But would Fraser think of getting himself locked up, so he
could be with Ray? Did Ray really want him to?
Lights out. Ray swung his feet onto the cot and lay back.
Relax, Vecchio. Your favorite Mountie is working right this
very minute to get you out of here. Relax. This'll just be some
great story you and Fraser can tell your grandkids-- Ray
grinned at the ceiling. Grandkids. No kids with Fraser--too bad,
because he'd make a great father. Don't get weird, Vecchio.
But, kids with Fraser's eyes--
He turned his mind away from the weird thought to the
memory of being booked, reliving the stiff way all the cops at the
station house had acted around this bad cop who'd disgraced them,
the humiliation of being handcuffed and processed in front of his
own, the way Daniella Brown had worked not to smile when Ray had
whispered to her, "Book me, Danno." No bail. No bail because he
was such a wrong guy, a bad cop, a bad guy, a disgrace to the
force, a disgrace to his family, a disgrace to humanity in
general....
Ah, god, Fraser, get me out of here. Ray stretched
every muscle and tried to relax. Fraser would get him out of
there; he could count on Fraser. And then they'd have such a night
that all the bad memories would be burned to a crisp in the heat
of passion. Ray smiled. Being apart just kind of--brought out the
lust in them.
It had happened before. They'd had to be apart for a week,
not long after they'd become an item. That first period of hard
and fast and horny for each other had faded to something slower
and more romantic; it was quickening, again, into an insatiable
hunger for each other just when Welsh loaned Ray to another
precinct for a special stakeout: one of those situations where
Ray'd had to spend twenty-four hours on site for a week, someplace
where too much coming and going would be noticed. Great for a guy
with a need for overtime; lousy for a guy with a hot cock.
First night: okay. Setting up, shooting the breeze with
Derkowitz and Klinghofer and Lane, establishing the schedule had
been enough of a diversion that he hadn't thought about Fraser more
than, oh, say fifty or sixty times instead of the usual five
million.
Second night: tense, but he'd get through it. Twelve
hours on, jawing with Lane for the first six, then six with
Derkowitz when he took over for Lane; snapping at Klinghofer
because he'd been a little late. Tired. Creeping into the bedroom
where Lane had already crashed, and stretching out on the squeaky
cot. But tired enough to fall asleep immediately.
Third night: disaster. Well, not really, but, suddenly,
in the shower, things had gotten out of hand; the hot water
sheeting over Ray's body suddenly became Benny's tongue exploring
all his most secret parts, and before he knew it, Ray was groaning
into the washcloth, hips pumping mindlessly into a fist that was
Fraser's hand or Fraser's mouth or Fraser's ass, milking himself
until he could barely stand.
The rest of the week, he'd been the cleanest guy on
stakeout.
And, homecoming. Ray smiled and turned on the narrow cot.
Homecoming. A stop off at Fraser's apartment before he went home;
and five minutes later he was half across the bed, with the Mountie
gasping in his ear. Didn't even get his coat off. Not much
dressing afterward, either: just unsnarl the tangle of trousers
and briefs and belt around his ankles, neck a little with the
dreamy-eyed Mountie unsnarling his own jeans, and Ray was on his
way. Felt so good, he'd gone back later that evening and timed it
again. Four minutes, that time.
This time, what--three? Ray grinned into the darkness.
Maybe he should just walk in there naked--go for the world record.
Meantime, just keep on holding on, knowing that Fraser was
out there on the case, working to spring him.
. . .
The rose was in the trash bin outside the apartment
building, but its scent seemed to have worked its way into Fraser's
soul, flavoring his thoughts. Fraser tensed and relaxed each
muscle in turn. He was sleeping on the floor tonight; the bed
seemed just too big. Floor was hard and familiar. He frowned:
very hard. You're getting soft, Fraser.
Relax. Tomorrow he would start afresh on Ray's case.
Search and interview and solve. And bring Ray home to his bed.
And there, passion would erase the fear and heartsickness of the
last few days.
They'd been kept apart before, for a week not long after
the relationship began, just as it was sliding into a lush, highly
charged phase of deep eroticism. Ray had been put on stakeout at
an undisclosed location where conjugal visits would have
been--inappropriate. The first day and night, Fraser had managed to keep
himself occupied enough that Ray's absence was endurable, an
interlude sweetened by his longing and sweetened further by the
knowledge that it was not permanent.
The second day and night, loneliness had begun to settle
in, along with a jumpiness he'd assuaged with a long run with
Diefenbaker. Ray's return would be all the sweeter, but Fraser
ached for him--quite literally, that next morning, when an erection
occupied his thoughts until he could melt it with an icy shower.
The third night, a longer run with Diefenbaker made little
difference. Nor did opening all the windows in the apartment to
the chill spring breeze. Tossing on the bed, with sounds of a
Chicago night pouring into the apartment, Fraser suddenly realized
that he was no longer in control, his body insisting that the
breeze was Ray's breath on his skin, that the sheet against his
back was Ray's body against his; and before he could stop, he was
on his side with his boxer shorts lost somewhere in the sheets,
gasping a single name into the pillow while his hips pumped into
a fist that was Ray's fist or Ray's buttocks, and passion poured
from him again and again and again, until he'd fallen asleep.
The rest of that week, each night before bed he had
stripped himself for the sweet, hot, insatiable lover in his mind.
And the return. Fraser laughed quietly and turned onto his
back. Oh, that return! Fraser had held himself in check, making
chili just in case Ray was hungry, not daring to plan anything more
than a quick hello and maybe a companionable meal.
One glance of the glowing hazel eyes; one cheery, "Honey,
I'm home!"; and Fraser was on the bed, jeans halfway to his knees,
hips pumping in happy syncopation with Ray's strangled groans of
pleasure. The chili had congealed in the pan sometime after Ray
left for home, sometime before it occured to Fraser to get up off
the floor onto which they had slid while kissing and to continue
his daydream someplace perhaps more comfortable.
Fraser still had not gotten around to putting the chili
into the refrigerator, when Ray returned and Fraser's body again
took command.
Fraser smiled into the darkness. And this time? This
time, don't bother with the chili at all. Just strip and stand
naked at the door, ready and able and, oh, most certainly so very
willing.
Meanwhile, interrogate witnesses, collect evidence, search
out the truth that would bring Ray home. He could do this.
He had to. He simply--he just had to.
"Constable Fraser."
"Yes!" Fraser blinked. Tired. He was just-- A
restless night last night--really, he'd been so cold on the
floor, without Ray's warmth--and so much to do at the Consulate
that he'd come in even though he really wanted to pursue a couple
of leads--
"Constable Fraser?"
"Yes! Yes--yes, Constable Turnbull."
"Inspector Thatcher has--" Oh, Turnbull had that
expression on his face. The puppy one. "Inspector Thatcher has
asked that we drive out to pick up some eggs from a Mr. Lyndon
Buxley--special eggs, apparently, to be served at the brunch for
the Mexican ambassador on Tuesday. She says you'd know where the
farm is."
Oh, yes. Fraser knew. "Yes, Turnbull!" he said, standing.
And, while they were out, they could just take a jaunt to see Ray--
"Constable," Turnbull said, frowning over the wheel of the
van, "do you--understand--Americans?"
Oh, dear. Fraser wasn't sure he was quite up to this.
"Well, they do speak English," he hazarded. "Of a sort."
"Do they?" Turnbull really seemed to have his doubts.
"Er, yes. Why do you ask?"
"Well, Miss Vecchio--"
Fraser closed his eyes. Oh, no.
"--says I asked her out, but I don't seem to
remember doing such a thing."
This sounded very familiar. "So how was your date?"
Fraser asked.
"Delightful. Miss Vecchio is--delightful."
Fraser didn't really want to listen further. He looked
longingly at the other vehicles on the roadway, at all those people
not hearing about the delightful Miss Vecchio and the puzzled
Constable Turnbull. Thank heaven they weren't that far from the
jail.
"Do I look all right?" Turnbull asked.
"Er, yes."
"I don't want to leave a bad impression on Detective
Vecchio. After all, she is his sister."
Oh, dear.
Fraser felt a pang as he and Turnbull were signed in and
taken to see Ray. Ray in jail--
He looked pale and tired, but he smiled when Fraser sat
down on the visitor's side of the glass. Fraser's heart tumbled
over in his chest. He lifted the receiver.
"Hey, Fraze. How's it going?"
"Ah, it's going--well. It's going well, Ray. I--" Fraser
glanced behind him at Turnbull, who was frowning at his Stetson.
"Ray, have you talked to Francesca lately?"
"No. Why?"
Fraser found himself leaning closer to the glass, murmuring
into the receiver in a low voice. "She visited the Consulate last
week and--" Turnbull was brushing invisible lint from his boots.
"Well, Ray, she met Turnbull, and they've-- Well, Francesca seems
to have--" Oh, what was a delicate way to put this?
"You're kidding."
"Ah, no...."
"Jeez, Frannie." Ray looked exasperated, then grinned.
"It's the uniform, Fraser."
"Yes, but--"
Ray sighed. "Frannie, Frannie, Frannie. Let me talk to
Turnbull."
Constable Turnbull took the receiver. Fraser sat where he
was, shamelessly eavesdropping: Ray's voice was just audible
through the glass.
"Hello, Detective Vecchio," Turnbull said, waving at him.
"Hey, Turnbull. What's this with you and my sister?"
"Erm--well, we-- She's very nice."
"Yeah, well, I'm her brother; I'm gonna give you some
brotherly advice. Let me make something really clear here. She's
my sister. I take care of her. You don't hurt her--you hear me?
You break her heart, I break your legs. You got that?"
Turnbull nodded, his expression that of the Labrador
retreiver pup. "Er, yes," he said. "Heart, legs; heart, legs.
Yes. Yes! Understood, Detective Vecchio."
"Good. Let me talk to Fraser."
Turnbull held the receiver out to Fraser. "It's for you,"
he said.
"Thank you kindly," Fraser said automatically. He put the
receiver to his ear, pausing while Turnbull left; then, he turned
when he realized that Turnbull wasn't leaving. Instead, he stood
at parade rest just at Fraser's elbow, gazing placidly at nothing;
he seemed to be--oh, dear--he seemed to be standing sentry.
"Constable Turnbull?" Fraser said.
Turnbull focused on him.
"Perhaps you should--go and--er--well, watch the door."
"Yes, Constable Fraser! At once, Constable Fraser!"
Turnbull pranced--no, Fraser corrected himself, he
strode to the door. And stood sentry there.
"Ray, I'm not sure it's a good idea to encourage this
relationship between Constable Turnbull and Francesca. He's not
all that--all that--" Oh, what was a delicate way to put this?
"--Bright, Fraser?"
"Er--"
"Fraser, Frannie doesn't need bright. Frannie needs loyal;
Frannie needs steady; Frannie needs adoring; but Frannie doesn't
need bright. What Frannie really needs is a Labrador retriever,
but Turnbull'll do."
Well-- Fraser glanced at the tall young Mountie
steadfastly not noticing the stares the jail personnel were giving
him.
"So, what you got, Fraser?"
"Ah. Well." Ray smiled at the gifts Fraser passed to the
guard to give him; his smile vanished at the description of a day
spent in frustration; he began to look uneasy when Fraser mentioned
getting no leads on the young man who'd given him the money. "But
I think perhaps that if I can just interview Alessandra Willson's
lawyers--"
"So you still got bupkis." Ray sounded disbelieving.
"Well, Ray, there are a number of leads that--"
"Fraser, I got Milk Duds, I got chewing gum, I got soap and
a toothbrush and dental floss and a rag to shine my shoes with,
and I got a little plastic chicken; and you still got bupkis."
Fraser's stomach lurched. "I'm actually quite optimistic."
Ray seemed to be clutching his receiver unnecessarily
tightly. "Fraser, I got to get out of here."
Fraser met his eyes steadily. "I'll do it, Ray. I'm
following several leads. I'll find her. I'll find a witness. We
can do this, Ray." He tried to put into his gaze every bit of the
love he felt.
Ray seemed to see it; his hand relaxed. "Tell Frannie--tell
Frannie I love her," he said finally. "And tell her she can
always count on Mounties. She should trust her Mountie. He won't
let her down." His eyes told Fraser that Ray knew this from
experience.
Fraser's own hand was shaking as he hung up the receiver.
Trust was one thing; being worthy of it could sometimes feel
impossible.
. . .
Ray had the feeling the guy was going to be trouble the
minute he came into the infirmary. Stitches: the guy had cut
himself. Ray was mopping, trying to be invisible, but,
"I know you," the guy said.
Oh, jeez, a perp Ray had put away? The ultimate nightmare:
running into a perp out for revenge.
"Yeah. I know you. You cut me off."
"Huh?"
"On 294. You cut me off. Green '72 Buick Riviera. June
16. Morning. Guy with a weird hat sitting on the passenger's
side. Wolf in the back seat. You cut me off, you--"
Ray felt his eyebrows climb halfway to what was left of his
hairline. Oh, why was this his life? Why was this
always his life? Cut a guy off one time, and-- Ray
focused on his mopping, trying to ignore the cold, hard, psycho
gleam in the guy's eyes, trying to mop the guy out of here.
"You're dead. I mean it. You're dead."
Ray believed him. This was, after all, Chicago in the
'90s. And that perp did not look stable. He clutched the mop
handle tightly after the guy left. Ah, god, he had to get
out of here. Of all people to have after him.... To have a
vengeful perp looking to kill him would at least have some dignity
about it, but some psycho he'd cut off once on 294-- Fraser,
rescue me; rescue me. God, Fraser, rescue me.
. . .
Escape was impossible. He just could not seem to get away
from the Consulate, from Turnbull's unending perplexity, from
Margaret Thatcher's unyielding insistence that Fraser see to every
detail of the upcoming events--
"Are you in, Constable Fraser?"
Oh, not that again. "Yes, Turnbull." He smothered the
urge to smother Turnbull.
It was Detective Phaedra Dewey, looking surprisingly
nonplussed.
"I shouldn't be doing this," she said. "Thank you," she
said, sitting in the chair he held for her.
"I shouldn't be doing this, but you seem such good friends
with him."
Fraser's heart felt like lead.
"IA got a phone call this morning, told them about this
locker key in Vecchio's desk, fit a locker at the train station,
and--well, they found a briefcase there with about twenty thousand
dollars in it. Cash from some bank robberies. And money orders.
About forty thousand worth. Made out to Vecchio's father."
For a moment, her voice seemed to fade. He took a deep
breath. Sleep. He should have slept more last night; he hadn't
slept well since Ray's arrest; he was tired, and everything around
him was fading in and out--
"--I mean, he's a stupid jerk, but, I don't know, I kind
of got used to him. Reminds me of one of my brothers, you know?
Constable Fraser?"
"Yes!" He looked at her. She really had a kind face. A
very kind face. "Thank you, Detective Dewey! I appreciate what
you've done here. Thank you! I--do you think I could accompany
you to the station house? I won't tell anyone of your visit--"
So he got up and left his office and his duties and his
responsibilities. In the middle of the afternoon he simply left
the Consulate without a word to anyone and accompanied Detective
Dewey to the station house. He was still--exhausted: every sight
and sound seemed distant. He really did need to sleep. Get a good
night's sleep.
Leftenant Welsh didn't seem at all surprised to see him.
"Ah, Constable Fraser," he said. "Good of you to drop by. We've
learned of some evidence--"
Piled on a desk, $20,000 looked like more. But even those
drab green bills looked more impressive than the money orders.
"Would you believe he hid the key in the base of that
little Statue of Liberty statue on his desk?" Sullivan said.
"'Bring me your poor.'" He seemed to be quoting something.
"Not much to kill a guy for," said Bailey.
Fraser had to agree.
"Must be more someplace," Bailey went on.
Fraser looked at the two Internal Affairs detectives. They
seemed very happy.
"It's rather curious, however," said Leftenant Welsh, "that
there are no fingerprints whatever on the locker key."
Silence fell.
"He wiped them off," said Sullivan.
"Odd, given that the key would be so obviously linked to
Detective Vecchio, it being hidden on his desk."
"We got him dead to rights."
Leftenant Welsh merely looked at him.
"We have him," Bailey said. "We got all we really
need to convict him."
And, watching the Internal Affairs men put the bagged and
labelled evidence into a box, Fraser had the heart-stopping sense
that he was right.
Fraser took a deep breath. He would prove Detective Bailey
wrong. He took his leave of the leftenant and clattered down the
stairs to the sidewalk. Alessandra's lawyers. Perhaps they had
another address--
They didn't. Most were those terribly overworked public
defenders who didn't remember her and had to have someone look her
up; and then the address she had given them turned out to be one
Fraser already had; and with each dead end and every minute lost
to waiting, Fraser found it more and more difficult to wrench his
mind from Ray and what Ray was feeling and doing. And from a sense
that they would never be together again, and that Fraser would have
to commit some crime more serious than stealing Milk Duds just to
be with him--
He rubbed his eyes as he emerged from the last lawyer's
office. Eat. Rest. His mind was going in circles because he was
exhausted. Ray was in jail, but killing himself with exhaustion
wouldn't help him.
So he ate some food that could have been nourishing sawdust
for all he tasted it, and he took a refreshing stroll down
Stratmore, automatically checking each face that passed him for
the young man who'd helped set up Ray.
That key. No man would be so intelligent as to wipe his
fingerprints from an important key, and so stupid as to hide the
key on his own desk. That key would unravel the plot. A key to
a train locker filled with money, hidden in an object connected
with Ray was just a coincidence; it didn't mean that anyone in
particular had done it; it was just a coincidence. Coincidences
happened.
The scent of the rose when he opened door to his apartment
was-- He stepped back out into the hallway to escape it, to quell
a sudden nausea. Something he'd eaten disagreeing with him.
Diefenbaker was growling: that constant rumbling so low
that it was almost inaudible. Suddenly, it struck Fraser how often
lately the wolf had done this. Someone had been coming regularly
into the apartment--some stranger. Or someone Diefenbaker didn't
trust. Someone who may have hurt him in the past, shot him,
perhaps--
Fraser took a deep breath and strode into the apartment.
The rose lay on the bed; he snatched it up. Petals soft
as a woman's cheek. As Victoria's cheek--
He watched his hand close on the flower, crushing it,
crushing, also, the memory of the scent of her skin, which suddenly
threatened to overwhelm him. The crushed petals released their own
fragrance. But, no good--destroying the rose was no good; he just
had to get down on his knees and pick up the scattered petals, all
of them, every piece of all of them, and throw them away properly.
When Fraser had done so, he suddenly felt restless.
Really, he wasn't the least bit tired; if he went to bed right now,
he'd just toss and turn. He had a lead that could be followed up
only at night; he should do it, get out into the fresh air, away
from the smells of the apartment.
So, clothes changed, a half-hour later Fraser was at the
alley on Stratmore, where the air was only marginally fresher.
He'd washed his hands over and over, but the scent of the crushed
rose still seemed to linger....
Fraser straightened his spine and tried to look casual,
just another man propping up a building. Silly, really, to allow
himself to become so preoccupied with a flower. It was startling,
but it meant nothing--certainly nothing sinister. Just a
flower someone had left in the apartment; when a man had no locks
on his doors, people felt free to wander in and leave things.
Adam, for instance, had once left Fraser a picture of a Mountie--very
well drawn, too. Just a flower.
Fraser peered down the alley. He had two targets tonight:
the young man who'd given Ray the incriminating money, and Weird
Waldo, who might give Fraser a clue. The trouble was, two targets
meant that Fraser had to keep an eye on two locations at once.
Sillier, still, to let a flower remind him of something
long dead, long in the past. Remind him of her. Fraser turned his
head at a sound from the alley--just some paper blowing.
Ray, of course, might have put a different spin on the
rose. That suspicious mind would have turned it into some
diabolical clue. Sometimes, however, a rose was just--a rose.
Fraser had gotten roses before, not always from Ray, but there'd
been roses. For instance, when he'd come back to work after a
blissful week spent in his apartment with Victoria Metcalfe--
Was that a shadow? He listened, then relaxed. No one.
Roses in a box delivered to an office already filled with flowers
from well-wishers. It had been pleasant to know that so many
people seemed so fond of him, but embarrassing that he hadn't
actually been ill that week: that he'd simply called in sick--
That was definitely a sound. He listened. Paper. Paper
blowing down the street. Golden week-- His heart twisted in his
chest. Golden week of every sense sated, every dream fulfilled.
Memories washed through him. His heart tried to rebuff them, but
his mind wouldn't let it. Look at it; it had been a sham. Look
at it; it was over. He had Ray now, Ray's love.
The fire of passion that had broken from him; the sense of
his own strength reined in by her soft fragility; heady feeling
that in his ecstasy he was sweeping through the days smoothly as
a skater on ice. Dark eyes lost behind a fragrant curtain of dark
curls, rosebud mouth breathing his name over and over, taper
fingers trailing over his skin, setting him ablaze--
Fraser shook himself. Dark eyes hard as obsidian as she
revealed herself for who she was, rosebud mouth kissing him before
shoving him from the automobile when he refused her, taper fingers
curved around the gun she aimed at his face, the gun she'd already
used to kill: she was no dream fulfilled. His love had been the
reins she had used to control him; his love had been the whip she
had used to punish him. She had systematically twisted what he
was, turning his strength back on him, using his giddy ecstasy to
confuse him, using his love of her to ensure his protection from
her former accomplice, using his friendship for Ray to panic him
into helping her; she had twisted what they meant to each other,
staging a meeting in that sex shop that made a mockery of their
love, demanding again and again that he prove he wouldn't betray
her; she had made him a liar and a thief. A soft loveliness beyond
roses, but a diamond-hard heart.
That could not bring itself to kill him. She had stopped
herself, twice, from killing him. Send him into danger, yes, but
be there to help him when the money launderers tried to kill him.
Threaten him with a gun, yes, but fail to use it at the last
minute. Behind the hard heart, behind the flat eyes was a woman
who loved so intensely it had transmuted to hate. He thought of
that moment when he had tried to follow her after she'd lost
everything but him, of the glow in the rose-tinged cheeks, the
diamond brightness in those night-black eyes. Reaching, smiling,
more beautiful than the snow under the moon--then, horror.
Fraser jerked. It was dark in the alley, not even a light
above the theater exit. He peered into the dark. Was something
stirring--? Shake off the memory of love turned to bile. Remember
who you're here for. Ray, who is trusting you. Ray, who is
counting on you for his life. Besides, she's nothing to you now.
You are over her, bucko.
He started down the alley. Yes, definitely someone there,
in Weird Waldo's nest. Finally.
"Waldo?" he called out.
The figure didn't seem to hear him at first, then it
straightened. "Sleepin' 'roun' here," it said.
Fraser came closer. The stench of cheap wine and unwashed
human was almost overpowering. He labeled it, filed it, and then
ignored it as best he could.
"My name is Benton Fraser; I'm attempting to find out what
happened here last week--"
"Tryin' to sleep. Just tryin' to sleep."
"Yes, but I hoped you'd seen something you could--"
"Sle-e-ep! A man tryin' to sle-e-ep around here!"
His voice was getting louder. He was waving his arms.
"If you could just--"
The bottle sailed past his head and shattered on the wall
behind him. Diefenbaker growled. "People tryin'a sleep
around here--sleepin'!" Waldo bent for another bottle.
"Diefenbaker!" Fraser ordered. The wolf stopped on
his way to stop Waldo, stared at him, then sulkily sat.
Then jumped aside as another bottle shattered on the
pavement at his paws.
"Tryin'a sle-e-e-ep!" Waldo shrieked.
"I can see that!" Fraser assured him. He began to back
away. "I--I'm sorry to have bothered you. Good night; I--good
night!" By the time Fraser reached the street, the man seemed to
have settled in his nest.
Fraser stopped to regain his composure. As a witness, the
man was--unsound. Anything he might have experienced that night
would remain locked in his mind, useless for Ray's purposes. He
looked at Diefenbaker, examining him for splintered glass, fussing
over him for a minute. "I'm sorry," he said to the wolf. "Thank
you for defending me, but he was-- I'm sorry." The wolf nuzzled
Fraser's cheek in forgiveness.
Fraser sighed. Another dead end. He trudged down the
street, sketch clutched in one hand, and started another round of
trying to find someone who recognized the young man who'd helped
put Ray into jail.
It was cold tonight; it felt like snow. Did it snow in
Chicago in October? He looked up at the sky. Nothing.
But he seemed to smell snow, and the scent followed him,
into store after store as he pursued his quest.
. . .
That psycho seemed to be the unluckiest guy alive; or maybe
he was deliberately hurting himself to get into the infirmary and
rattle Ray. Because there he was again, clutching his stomach and
staring at Ray with the dead eyes of a shark.
Ray looked at the bulging muscles of his forearms, the
scarred knuckles of his ham-sized hands. There was some tattoo
work there, on the backs of his fingers. Four-letter words. What
the-- "MAMA"? "PAPA"? Ray had heard of guys who'd tattooed
"HATE" and "LOVE" and "LIFE" and "DETH"--yes, "DETH"--but to see
"MAMA" about to connect with your face? This was some serious
psycho.
He was glad when the guard came to get him to see some
visitor.
He was gladder when he saw who the visitor was. "Aless!"
he cried into the receiver. "Damn, am I glad to see you! Why
didn't you show that night? We been looking for you! You got to
go to the precinct, tell them why I was there that night. Aless?"
This wasn't the butt-wiggling Aless he usually brought in
on something or other; this wasn't the informant trying to grope
him--or steal his wallet. She still looked the same: Vampirella
dolled up for the big Halloween bash. But she just sat there,
listening on the handset, staring at him with betrayed eyes.
"Aless?" he said. "Are you okay? You got to tell them
that Rache really did call me that night. You got to talk to
them--tell them what's going on so I can get out of here. You're gonna
do that, right? I know now Brendan didn't shoot at me, but you're
gonna help them find out who did, right? I'm real sorry he's dead,
Aless--sorrier than you know. But you're gonna help me, aren't
you? We'll get whoever did this if you help me. Aless?
Aless?"
Because she had hung up and just walked away, leaving him
there yelling through the glass until the guard stopped him, giving
him no signal whether she was going to help him or help him fry.
. . .
There was no help there. Fraser realized it before the
interview had gone on more than five minutes. Alessandra Willson
would be no help. She hadn't called Ray; she didn't know if Rache
had called Ray. She didn't know where Rache was; Rache had a habit
of disappearing for months at a time. She hadn't been in touch
with Brendan; in fact, she hadn't even known he was in Chicago.
He'd been in Austin, Texas, going to college there--at least that's
what he'd told her. Gotten a good job, taken classes at night.
He'd been sending her money, a lot of it. And that was all she
knew.
It was. Watching her for the telltale signs that she was
lying as she printed her answers to their questions, Fraser knew
with a heart-sinking feeling that she was telling the truth. Aless
had been as shocked as anyone when Brendan had been shot. She knew
of no associates in Chicago who were not in prison or a grave. She
was devastated. She'd liked Brendan, had looked up to him. When
he'd been killed by the one police detective she trusted, Aless had
fled. To Wisconsin. Milwaukee. She'd gone there because-- She
couldn't remember. Maybe it hadn't even been Milwaukee. She
couldn't remember.
Fraser left the station house and then was at the alley off
Stratmore with no memory of how he'd gotten there. He felt as if
someone had pummeled him--a combination of poor sleep last night
and the disappointment of Aless's testimony hard on the heels of
exhiliration that she'd shown up at the station. Well, search the
alley again--thoroughly. Ignore the fact that even when the crime
scene was fresh the alley was so heavily traveled that one trail
would be difficult to follow. Do it anyway. Canvass the
neighborhood. He'd missed something somewhere. An informant was
no substitute for good police work. Nobody said this would be
easy. He tried to press away the headache that was threatening to
close in.
He had combed half the alley when a pair of boots stopped
in front of him. He looked up.
"Special Agent Chapin!" What was an agent from the Federal
Bureau of Investigation doing here? Had she heard--
She smiled at him. "Um--Fraser? Constable Fraser?"
"Yes!" That warm smile; that cool, intelligent gaze. No
wonder Ray had fallen into infatuation so quickly. "Can I--can I
help you?"
She looked around the alley. "I just wanted a look at the
scene. I was keeping an eye on Brendan Willson--illegal arms.
Now--" She combed her fingers through her hair. "Well, before I
closed the file permanently, I wanted to see where it happened.
Strange that Detective Vecchio should be the one to--close the
file."
"Have you seen him?"
She flashed him an unreadable look. "No. I have his
statement. He--might not want me to see him in--jail."
"No. You're right; he wouldn't." But she did want to see
Ray; Fraser could tell.
Did Fraser want Ray to see her? He watched her moving
through the crime scene, standing where Willson had stood, where
Ray had stood. She was beautiful, intelligent, competent. Did
Fraser want Ray to see her again? What would happen if he did?
Would Ray want to-- Don't be silly, Fraser; Ray is yours, now.
No need to feel jealous. Don't be so ridiculous.
"He says he aimed at the flash," Special Agent Chapin said.
"Well, just to the right of it. But he hit Willson about the
middle of his back."
Just where he'd hit Fraser-- "We think there was an
accomplice, someone who shot at Ray. Kneeling right about here."
She moved to the spot and knelt, to become the shooter.
"So you're Willson, standing right--" Fraser took the position.
"And I look up and see Vecchio, and I aim and fire and--"
"And I turn, because I didn't expect you to shoot, and Ray
shoots me--shoots me in the back." Just as he had--
"But I don't stick around to help you. I pick up the shell
casing, and I get out of here." She rose to her feet and look
around. "But where do I go?"
"Behind you. Detective Vecchio is the other way; you run
away from him."
"But if I just run, he'll see me going down the alley, or
at least hear my footsteps. And the cops were pretty quick about
blocking the other end. I have to-- Was this here that night?"
She put her hand on the garbage bin.
"In about that position, yes."
"So I just whisk around in back of it, and he can't see me.
And I--"
"You follow the side of the alley, disturbing the trash at
the edge." Of course; why hadn't he realized it sooner? He
followed as she did just that. "Brushing the wall." She came to
Weird Waldo's nest. "Disturbing a homeless man trying to sleep.
Eventually coming to--" The theater door looked unopenable from
the outside.
Special Agent Chapin looked at it. "I bet I came out
through here and wedged it open just enough to get back through it.
I bet I bought a ticket to one of the shows and fixed the door from
the inside. And then I came out and met Willson and made sure he
got shot and came right back through this door and was sitting
innocently in the audience when the cops were searching the alley."
What audience there was, Fraser mused when his eyes
adjusted to the darkness inside the theater. Only one other
customer, sleeping through the invasion of the Earth. Silly movie;
Ray had insisted they see it. Just silly.
"Probably not many more that night," Special Agent Chapin
said. "This movie's about to come out on video. Probably run its
course here. In fact, might want to check to see if this is a
legal copy."
Searching the theater was almost pointless, but
thoroughness demanded it. On the theater screen, people shouted
and monumental objects exploded and technologically gifted alien
creatures were fooled with a simple Trojan horse. Fraser tried not
to think too much about what he was finding on the sticky floor or
under the lumpy seats. No gun, no shell casing. No sound of an
alarm on the fire exit when Special Agent Chapin opened it. They
exited.
"So our perp wedged open the door, and nobody noticed,"
said Special Agent Chapin. "And he or she took the gun and the
casing and didn't conveniently drop either in the theater.
Helpful."
"The spent bullet," Fraser said. "I can't figure out what
happened to the spent bullet."
"The perp couldn't have pocketed that."
They went back to the site of the shooting.
"No stray bullets in cars parked on the street," Special
Agent Chapin said. Apparently, she had read the reports quite
thoroughly. "No stray bullets in the street itself." Yes,
quite thoroughly. Because Ray was involved? Did the reason
matter, as long as she helped?
"Actually, the street was pretty much blocked off," said
Fraser. "They were moving--" It struck him then, with the force
of a hammer blow. Oh, why hadn't he thought of it before?
"They were moving what?"
"They had taken apart the used parade floats, from the
Columbus Day parade, and were moving them to the landfill." Oh,
where had his brains been?
"Taking them right down the street behind Vecchio. Nice,
big surfaces for a bullet to lodge in."
Fraser felt exhiliration sweep through him. The landfill.
The bullet was at the landfill. The landfill was very large and
very full; but Fraser would dig through it with his bare hands, if
necessary.
On to part eight
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