Painted Black, page 18
His blunt words stung, and Jo gritted her teeth. Go ahead, she thought, put me in a bad mood, mister. How would he like to read an article mocking this “revolutionary” sublimation process? But she would remain calm and businesslike.
“Is it true you are an investor in Eternities International, Mr. Quinlan?” She picked up a pen and poised it above a pad of paper. Habit. “And does that company have a financial investment in Sloan and Whiteside’s funeral home?”
“I am President and Chief Financial Officer of Eternities International, Ms. Sullivan.” He sounded offended at being labeled as a mere investor. “And our various subsidiaries and investments are a matter of public record. What possible interest could we be to someone who writes about indigents and runaway juvenile delinquents?”
“Then perhaps you could answer a few questions about Tommy Piper.” Was it her imagination, or was his silence a little longer than called for? She rushed to continue before he could say anything. “Were you aware that a formerly homeless man has been freeze dried and put on display like a favorite attraction at a wax museum? Don’t you find that a little odd, Mr. Quinlan?”
“My interest in Dean Whiteside and his pursuits are merely financial, Ms. Sullivan.” His tone had changed. Still hostile, but not dismissive. For the first time she had his full attention. “If you have something to say that may affect the bottom line in the ledger books, then please continue.”
“I also believe someone from Sloan and Whiteside’s is involved in the disappearance of a young girl.” Jo hoped to provoke an off guard response, but whatever had seemed to grab his attention earlier was gone.
He gave a long and exaggerated sigh. “As I said, Ms. Sullivan—” a deliberate pause before he continued, “my relationship with Sloan and Whiteside’s is strictly business related. I have no interest in the private life of Dean Whiteside.”
“I don’t believe I mentioned him specifically. Why would you make that assumption? I could just as easily be talking about an employee there. Say, for instance, Sidney Cole?”
“Cole? Cole? Oh, yes, him. Yes, I suppose he certainly looks the part of a villain. But again, what is that to me? This Sidney Cole can easily be replaced if he has done something illegal or immoral. That is what you are trying to imply, isn’t it, Ms. Sullivan?”
“I’m not interested in implications, Quinlan.” Jo deliberately used only his last name, hoping it annoyed him as much as “Ms. Sullivan” was beginning to bug her. “I’m trying to find a missing girl who was hired by someone at Sloan and Whiteside’s to engage in immoral and illegal acts. I realize you no longer live in the U.S., but surely you know soliciting sex from a minor is considered a crime in this country, however willing the victim is. It’s not going to look good for the funeral home, or Eternities International by association, to have the place linked to a girl’s disappearance and possible murder. Are you quite sure you don’t have a statement you would like to make to the press?”
“Actually, I do have something to say. And you can quote me. It is my firm belief that reporters who exhibit a prurient preoccupation with scandal are one of the main reasons this country’s morals are going straight to hell. Would you like me to spell prurient for you, Ms. Sullivan?”
After a moment’s fuming silence, Jo answered. “No thank you, I believe I have it. P-e-r-v-e-r-t. It’s in the dictionary followed by a definition I’m sure you’d find familiar. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me. Hopefully I’ll have better luck getting some answers tonight—about Tommy Piper and Lexie Green.” A slight white lie, but she wanted to push all the buttons to see what kind of candy might pop out of the slot. “Should I contact you in the morning to give you a chance to respond to any possible embarrassments my investigation might uncover?”
“If you print,” Quinlan began, his tone no longer haughty and cool but sizzling with menace, “one single word that cannot be backed up by proof in a court of law, you will be an extremely sorry young woman, Ms. Sullivan. I have been a successful businessman for over thirty years. Graduated at the top of my class with a Masters in Business from Harvard. I make and break people like you every single day. And you will not, Ms. Sullivan, find life on the streets so interesting when you are one of the people eating out of dumpsters.”
Jo listened to the hum of the dial tone for a few trembling seconds before she, too, slammed the receiver down. If there was any way to make Quinlan eat mud over this story, she would enjoy hand feeding him every single bite.
Chapter 42
Sidney had never seen Mr. Whiteside so upset. He sat behind his desk, wringing his hands as he so often did. When he spoke, his voice was pitched almost as high as a squeal. Sidney winced.
“Oh dear, oh dear, this can’t be good. I just know it can’t.”
Sweat trickled down Sidney’s back despite the chilly air in the office. Still, he managed to speak in the soothing voice he used for mourning family members. “As he explained it, since he’s in Chicago anyway, it makes sense to talk over a few business matters.”
“Business matters.” Mr. Whiteside threw his hands in the air and stood up, pacing two steps one way, two steps back. “He will pull the funding, Sidney, I’m sure of it. Why, oh, why has overhead been so high lately? I’ve tried, I’ve really tried.” He sighed. “You’re sure you tested all the variables we spoke about last month?”
Yes, you whining bitch. Not fair, Sidney told himself, not fair at all. Quinlan always set Mr. Whiteside on edge. He understood that, he did. His head throbbed. He gingerly touched the lump hidden in his hair thanks to that interfering slut’s blow. He shifted in his chair, forced his fists to relax, palms on his thighs.
“All of them, sir.” Better. He’d always been able to reassure the man before; it came from long practice. “Plus a few more I thought of along the way. Nothing has worked well. All we’ve done is shave a few days off the processing time, but even then the increased expense of materials keeps costs about the same.”
“It’s ridiculous.” Mr. Whiteside flopped back into his chair, shoulders slumped. “Impossible. His expectations are so—”
“Unreasonable?” came a voice from the doorway.
Dean Whiteside screamed like a woman and turned to the speaker. Sidney stood and turned also, but more slowly. Medium height, thin mousy hair, nose resembling an eagle’s beak, Philip Quinlan did not present the picture of someone who could make two grown men quake. Yet Sidney suddenly felt twelve years old again. A shiver ran through him, half shudder, half—something else? Why did the man’s presence always remind him of the night he cowered on the fire escape, a young boy fascinated and repelled at the same time?
“No, no, of course not,” Mr. Whiteside hurried to say. He had risen from his chair and stood ramrod straight, hands clasped together but at least still. “You misunderstand me completely. Your expectations are so, so … admirable, that we are eager to meet your expectations. Yet … we are so … unworthy, and humble, yes, humble, at being given an opportunity such as this. We can only hope to live up to such admirable expectations.”
He smiled, convinced he had done well. Moving away from the desk, he offered that chair to his partner. “How was your flight, Philip?”
“My flight was three days ago, Whiteside.” Philip Quinlan sat in the chair and took the accounting ledgers out of the bottom right hand drawer. “Have you converted these yet to the software I asked you to use?”
First and foremost, Philip Quinlan was a businessman. “The bottom line, son,” he had told Sidney once. “We must keep our eyes on the bottom line at all costs.” Son, though Sidney had turned thirty last year.
“No, I—I mean, yes, we did buy the program. That young man from the computer store came to install it—so rude and he talked so fast, who could understand what he was saying. It will all be moved over soon, I assure you. Marjorie has been working hard to learn the program.”
“You need to learn it as well. You understand that, don’t you? You can’t rely on an employee to be as dedicated and conscientious as you and I are.”
He did not look at Sidney as he spoke, but the droplets of sweat down Sidney’s back had turned into a sheen that made his shirt stick. And beads of it now broke out on his forehead. He moved a little away from the other two men, watching them closely. Waiting for his turn under those icy eyes.
Quinlan had told Mr. Whiteside over six months ago to transfer all the manual ledgers to an accounting software so he would be able to download the data remotely. Late night calls had so far allowed Quinlan to reconcile his set of books with the official records kept in the office, but Sidney could tell he hated it. Power and control, those were the things that drove Philip Quinlan, usually right over the people he used to get what he wanted.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. Whiteside answered, “it’s just been … two funerals a week, I tell you. At the very least. Three or more sometimes. Busy, busy, so busy these days. So much going on, I—”
“Yes, I know. Sidney told me about the robbery. Robberies, I should say.”
Sidney almost felt guilty about Whiteside’s hurt look. The man had given him a job when he was a sixteen year old dropout, had encouraged him to get his GED and take college classes. Eventually he had entrusted Sidney with full control of the sublimation program.
The man deserved better than what he was getting, really, he did. Yet …. The bottom line. You have to keep your eye on the bottom line.
Across the room, the drone of discussion about the robberies and the costs and expenses went on.
“We tried all the methods we discussed at our last meeting,” Mr. Whiteside was saying. He had pulled a chair up to the side of the desk and leaned over the books, watching Quinlan over the rim of his glasses. “All the trials have failed. We’ve been waiting and waiting to hear from Dr. Rosenkrantz in Germany. As you know he is moving in this same direction—but not a word so far. Worse yet, we now have difficulties getting more test subjects. My contact at the morgue absolutely refuses to help anymore. He almost lost his job over the last one.”
For a second, Sidney’s eyes locked with Philip Quinlan’s, and something in them brought back his full attention. Sidney went cool suddenly, and calm, like a chalkboard wiped clean. He waited.
Quinlan put the ledgers back in their drawer. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Perhaps Sloan and Whiteside’s has reached an insurmountable obstacle. If so, then we need to consider alternatives.”
He took a cigar out of his pocket, bit the tip off and spit it into the cylindrical wastebasket, then leaned forward to light it from the flame of the unicorn-shaped desk lighter Mr. Whiteside offered. He exhaled a fragrant cloud.
“Grovenor’s from Memphis has contacted me, saying they would be interested in pursuing a partnership with Eternities International. Maybe now is the time to—”
“No!” Mr. Whiteside startled himself with the intensity of his own tone. It took him a few seconds to recover. “Th-that’s n-n-not necessary. Something will turn up. Truly, it will. I know it.” He looked at Sidney with panic in his eyes
“Don’t worry, Mr. Quinlan.” Sidney said the words automatically. Big block letters written by rote on the board. “I’m sure we’re on the right track.”
“Let’s hope so.” Philip Quinlan pulled out his pocket watch. “I have to be back at the hotel in 30 minutes, but I have time for a brief tour of the facility to see what changes have been made.”
Mr. Whiteside’s eyes widened in alarm.
Sidney interrupted, as both men expected him to. “I believe the Harmon family is due to arrive soon to choose a coffin for their father,” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Whiteside should stay here to take care of them and I could take you over.”
Both men nodded their agreement and said farewells. Shaking hands, they made arrangements for a conference call in two weeks.
Once they were finally alone in the workroom, Philip Quinlan expressed his true opinion. “That man will ruin us yet, son. Unfortunately, the qualities that made him an excellent partner in the beginning could jeopardize what is turning into a promising future.”
The next five minutes adhered strictly to business, Quinlan’s mantra. Glad he’d had sense enough to put the black whore in the far chamber, Sidney showed Quinlan Mrs. Engelbrecht. They discussed the clothes that needed to be purchased. One thing about Philip Quinlan, he had a good eye for matching size to subject.
“Keep a close eye on this one,” Quinlan said as Sidney rolled the woman back into her chamber. “Engelbrecht is the combination to a bank vault, I’m telling you. He is a man with very deliberate and exacting standards.” He leaned one elbow against the chamber, puffing away on his cigar and grinning. “In fact, he has presented me with a rather lengthy order, to be filled as soon as possible.”
“But Mr. Whiteside explained,” Sidney objected. “We need to find another source of materials. Until then, how—“
Grin gone, Quinlan leaned his hardened face close enough for Sidney to smell the tobacco-scented breath.
“Getting started won’t be much of a problem at all, Sidney. Because you already know someone who fits the bill.”
He knew what was coming. God, he knew. But he waited, unable to speak, hoping he was wrong.
“You think I don’t know you killed the girl? I figured it out, then came here to check before our meeting in the office.” He nodded toward the chamber the girl rested in. “I can unlock anything, remember?” He pulled keys out of his pocket and dangled them between them. The jingling sounded loud, louder than it should have over the subtle background of well-oiled fans.
For one throat-stopping moment, Sidney thought he meant something else. Thought his inner sanctum upstairs had been violated by this cold, vulgar man with pig-like eyes. Rage and fear deafened him so that it took a few words before he could tune in to what was being said.
“… needs a woman about 27 years old, five foot seven inches with shoulder length brown hair. He was quite easy to convince what should be added to his collection next. You see what I’m saying, don’t you?” Again, Sidney could smell the tobacco-scented breath. “If you want to save your ass from the electric chair, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to.”
Dark alley, blond hair. No, dark hair this time, dark. Watching her from above as she walks away down the alley, wondering what she knows, what she will do. Why was she making him do this to her?
“The woman first,” Quinlan continued, “and quickly because she is the biggest threat. Then I’m quite convinced Mr. Engelbrecht will also discover an immediate need for a young man, a teenager, with long dark curls and a nasty habit of sticking his nose in places where he is very likely to get it cut off.”
He chuckled and ground the glowing end of his cigar in the draining basin. Pulling out his watch again, he moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Not literally, of course, at least I don’t think so.” He laughed. “I suggest you keep his nose right where it is until we see what Mr. Engelbrecht wants. I’ll be contacting you soon with the specific adjustments that will need to be made, to noses and all other parts. In the meantime, I suggest you lay plans and prepare equipment.” He opened the door and winked at Sidney. “You’re going to be a very busy man for the next few days.”
See the poor soul, Siddy? Cheek still warm with blood. The pigeon’s wings so soft, even after the body turned cold. Pulling out the shoebox from under the bed, reaching in for comfort, stroking the silky feathers.
Fingers molding clay, digging into flesh. We all die sometime, don’t we, Siddy? We all do.
Chapter 43
Chris tore a sheet out of the notebook and tossed it across Jo’s front room. He was no Goddamn writer. Only thing he could ever do was draw. He flipped back through the pages to look at some of the sketches he’d already done.
The television played some stupid talk show but mostly he just had it on for the sound. Something to fill up his head so the rest of his thoughts couldn’t push in too close. He’d pulled a few books off the shelves, but she didn’t seem to read people like Stephen King or anybody good. The photo albums had been interesting. He probably shouldn’t have been looking through those, but it gave him some sketching practice and time always flew when he was drawing or painting.
Some of her pictures looked like family, but it was hard to tell. One guy—the picture had been taken a long time ago—might even be her father she’d told him about. A man and woman, a little girl in front of a brick house. But why would she keep a picture of him? Maybe not.
Many of the albums were filled with news articles. Stuff she’d written, some from the college she went to, the paper getting yellow and the clear plastic covering them starting to curl at the edges. He got the feeling she didn’t have much family. Kind of like him that way.
He’d glanced at her phone off and on, but didn’t have anyone to call. He had Jack’s number, but he really didn’t want to talk to Jack after what happened last night. Not for a while anyway.
He picked the phone up, looked at it for a sec, then started dialing without even thinking about it. The phone rang three times before a woman answered it. He took a deep breath.
“It’s me, Ma,” he said. “Chris.”
She sounded tired; her voice had that nervy edge it always did after a double shift. Chris could hear Josey yelling in the background and somebody was watching Bugs Bunny. “Th-th-th-that’s all, folks!”
He had a job, he told her this time, painting houses. The pay was lousy, but …. Better take care of that cold, Ma, or the baby’ll catch it. I gotta go now Ma, don’t want to run up the bill. Bye, Ma, bye. Say bye to—
The buzz in his ear sounded like a giant mosquito. He swatted it by slamming down the phone. Yeah, Ma, I’m fine. I’m doing great, just great. Thanks for asking, you know, just …
“… fucking thanks for asking.”
The notebook was still in his lap. The pen ripped the paper as he scratched out the ugly, angry words she’d never see, and he’d never say. Then he threw pen, notebook and couch cushions across the floor. He jumped up and started pacing. Stopped.
