Painted Black, page 4
She met his gaze again.
“Shouldn’t you be taking notes? This is for a story, you said. Correct?”
The sound of a clock she hadn’t even noticed before seemed suddenly loud.
“To be honest, Mr. Whiteside. I find the man in that glass coffin a lot more interesting than this robbery that didn’t happen.” She turned in her chair to look directly at the casket. Sculpted curls of cast iron decorated each corner.
The bed within the coffin was black silk. A small pillow, black also, propped up a neatly barbered head with a clipped mustache, closed eyes and rosy shades of life carefully painted on the face. The corpse wore a charcoal gray suit. The shirt was white, the tie a silver blue.
“I know rich men can be eccentric,” she said, “but this Snow White set up is a little disturbing. Why is it in your office?”
Whiteside rubbed his hands together. “Oh, thank you. For mistaking him for someone of consequence, I mean. What a testament to the excellent work we do here. He’s an indigent, Ms. Sullivan. Yes, truly, as little as four months ago this man was living on the streets in filthy, unsanitary conditions. Yet look what we have been able to accomplish.”
He walked over to the coffin as he spoke and laid a hand on the top, smiling down at the man inside.
“I just put him on display today. I thought this was the perfect setting—smaller, more intimate than the public rooms. I believe clients will get a better feel for how personal the sublimation method is as opposed to traditional embalming.”
So many questions crowded her brain. Which one should she ask first?
“Sublimation?”
“Yes, a process that will revolutionize the embalming industry. I guarantee it. Sloan and Whiteside’s is at the forefront of this new technology. We are staking our reputation on its success.”
“So he’s in here as a sort of … an exhibit? This is legal?”
“Of course it’s legal.” The bite in his tone made her press back in her chair. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing, I—”
A deep flush spread up Whiteside’s face from under his collar into the thin, mouse brown hair at the crown of his head. “Do you know what we do to embalm a body, Ms. Sullivan? The intrusive, gruesome invasion of flesh?” He breathed out with a disgusted sound.
Jo stood up and took a step back. Clearly she had pushed one of his “issue” buttons.
“You would cringe, I am sure,” he continued, “if you had to witness the surgical and chemical processes necessary to preserve the dead. This,” he waved his hand toward Tommy, “this is a kindness, and a gentler touch compared to that, I assure you.”
Jo held her hands out in front of her. “Calm down, Mr. Whiteside, I didn’t mean—”
“Perhaps you’d better go, Ms. Sullivan.” He walked around the desk to the exit and paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Whiteside and Sloan’s will not be fodder for some tabloid trash newspaper that wants to entertain bored middle-class housewives.”
It was Jo’s turn to flush. “Winds of Change is not—”
“I said goodbye, Ms. Sullivan.” He opened the door and stood even more rigid than before. His face stretched thin and sharp, his pinstriped jacket falling from bony, upright shoulders.
Jo had to pass close to him as she left. He smelled of aftershave and something more medicinal-like. The crick between her shoulder blades did not ease until he closed the door and left her standing in the alley alone. Then, finally, she took a deep breath of relief.
And promptly noticed the young man staring at her from the mouth of the alley.
Chapter 9
From his second floor window, Sidney watched the woman leave. Dark alley—no, dark hair, shoulder length hair, alive, living, medium height. Young, maybe twenty five. She stopped just outside the door, like she saw something that scared her. Probably that cat he’d seen earlier, or a rat maybe. Nothing to worry about. Whatever the woman was doing here, surely it could have nothing to do with what had happened earlier.
The light slanted into the alley from the street and freeze-framed the moment like a scene from an old movie. A horror movie, with monsters and chainsaws and women who scream.
But that wasn’t real life. In real life, women seldom scream.
Sliding down the brick wall. Blood black as ink. “Why’d you make me do this to you, baby?”
Sweat began to bead on his forehead, trickle past his temple. The woman was gone now. Trembling, he walked across the room and slumped into his chair. He found comfort in the way the seat cushion settled around him, the way the fabric arms had worn to a smooth sheen where his elbows rested.
The girl upstairs hadn’t screamed, either. Just gave a breathless half squeal before she crumpled to the floor.
He could still smell the charred ashes in the ashtray. Absently, he reached out and stirred them again with one finger, then stopped, horrified. What else had he left undone? The photo album was back under the floorboards, the pictures he’d taken all put away. No evidence, none at all. The ashes were just ashes, nothing more, nothing wrong with that.
It had all happened so fast. Thief, he’d heard Mr. Whiteside screech from a distance, but it hadn’t registered, not really. He’d been watching the girl undress, planning the shots he would take, planning the poses.
Then the police sirens had started up. He’d acted instinctively, out of pure panic. Anyone would have done the same.
Afterward, he’d been calm when he went downstairs to talk to the policemen—much calmer than Mr. Whiteside, who looked as pale as Mrs. Engelbrecht had before she went into the chamber. No, he hadn’t heard anything, he told the officers, not until Mr. Whiteside called out. Yes, the formaldehyde seemed to be the only items taken, and they were all accounted for now.
When they asked him why it had taken so long to come downstairs, his explanation had sounded perfectly logical. He’d been sound asleep. He’d heard nothing, seen nothing, was unaware of any information that might prove helpful in catching the boy.
Mr. Whiteside had attempted to give a description of the thief, but Sidney doubted they’d be able to identify anyone based on the vague details provided. There had been no mention of the girl, no one else seemed to know about her.
So everything was all right. Almost all right. Because she had brought the boy with her. That was the only explanation. There was no way to guess how much he knew, or what he would do about it.
“Quinlan should be told.” Sidney said the words out loud to convince himself. The words were true, but it was also true that saying too much would be as big a mistake as saying too little. If told correctly, however, Philip Quinlan would know exactly what to do.
Chapter 10
The boy disappeared as soon as Jo caught sight of him, but she recognized him as the one she had almost run down earlier.
Come back for the goods? Not likely. She hurried to the alley entrance to peer in the direction he’d turned, expecting him to be gone. Instead, he stepped out from under the canopy of a used book store a block or so ahead. Hands in his pockets, he paused, looked her way, then loped into a half sprint. At the corner he turned left.
After she followed him six blocks, she became convinced he was leading her on. He would stop every block or so, then disappear before she could reach him. Like he offered her a carrot—no, he was the carrot, dangling just out of reach.
She lost him on the corner of Belmont and Clark and stopped, tempted to give it up and head back to the car. Despite the late hour, the Dunkin’ Donuts’ parking lot was half full and customers sat inside. In the shadows by a back fence, a girl with long legs in a miniskirt blew a pink bubble through lips as crimson as FD&C Red No. 40. A man with dreadlocks and a gold hoop through one nostril slipped a packet of white powder to a youth leaning in the window of his lime green Caddy.
The door to the donut shop opened and the smell of hot coffee and fresh baking drew her inside. A couple of kids lounged at a table nursing half-empty coffee cups. One guy in a corner booth seemed to be watching her, so she avoided looking directly at him. Through the window Jo could see a man of about 60 or so walk up to the young girl leaning at the back and strike up a conversation. How old did a kid have to be, Jo wondered, before having sex with them was no longer considered child molesting? Sixteen? Seventeen? Should she call Patrick Delaney Sullivan and ask him?
“Stop it,” she muttered. The man in the corner booth still stared. Jo pointedly turned away to order a sugar dusted donut from the skinny kid behind the counter.
“I’m looking for a kid that just came this way,” she said as she pulled out her wallet. “Outside, anyway. He’s got black curly hair that—”
“Nope.” The kid’s Dunkin’ Donut hat sat low on ears that jutted out to catch the brim. He looked directly at her as he repeated: “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Neither did anyone else she asked, in the shop or outside. She didn’t ask the dark-haired man in the corner booth. His stare still made her uncomfortable. For twenty minutes she hung around outside and left her card with anyone who would take one.
She was about to return to the car when her way was barred by someone with broad shoulders in a leather jacket. Her heart jerked as she recognized the stranger from inside the shop. His eyes were hazel, not as dark as she’d thought. The intensity of his expression set off her self defense alarms. She tried to edge around him.
He stepped sideways to block her. “Are you a cop?”
Something in his tone set off a flare that razed Jo’s fear.
“That’s right,” she said. “I’m a cop. A pissed off cop. So I suggest you get the hell out of my—”
“Why have you been following Chris?”
Startled, she looked up at him again, this time actually noticing what he looked like. Younger than thirty-five maybe, but around thirty somewhere, black hair swept back, angular bone structure, dark complexion. The wide span of his shoulders tapered to a trim gut and waist.
“Do you know who he is?” she asked quickly.
“He doesn’t hustle. If you’re looking for a one night thrill …”
She would have laughed if she hadn’t still been pissed.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not buying anything but donuts. You’ll have to sell your stable to somebody else.”
“You think I’m a pimp? You think I look like a pimp?” His laughter had a deep timbre to it, like his voice.
“You look as much like a pimp as I look like a cop or a bored upper class housewife,” she stated, more defensive than frightened by now.
His eyes scrunched up in the corners when he smiled.
“Touché,” he said. “So now that we’ve figured out what we’re not, why don’t we have a cup of coffee and find out who we are?”
He could be a drug dealer, gangster, or any other number of low life degenerates her mother had warned her to stay away from. But he knew something, so she let him guide her into the donut shop. As they stepped inside, however, she pulled her elbow from his grip. He grinned down at her and laughed again.
“Hey, Jack-man,” said a boy that passed them on his way out. “How you holding?”
“Great, Tito,” her companion answered. “See you tomorrow?”
“Maybe, man, you know me.” The kid shrugged his shoulders with a grin. Stepping outside, he bummed a cigarette from a kid at the bus stop.
Jo sat at a table in the far corner while “Jack-man” ordered. In the full light of the fluorescent bulbs overhead, he didn’t look like a pervert or mass murderer. But you never could tell.
He looked over at her from the counter and waved a packet of sugar at her. One eyebrow rose in an unspoken question. Jo held up three fingers. “Three?” she could see him mouth, both eyebrows going up this time. She frowned.
“Want some coffee with your sugar?” he asked when he reached the table and set her cup in front of her. He dropped the sugar packets down on the table.
“Could you be a little more original?” Jo asked. “I hate clichés.”
“Yeah?” He sat in the chair opposite her and picked up his cup of black, unadulterated coffee. “What’s that make you then, an English teacher?”
“I’m a journalist. A reporter for Winds of Change.”
“A reporter?” His smile dipped into a frown. “What could you possibly want with a street kid like Chris?”
Street kid. Not a coincidence, she didn’t believe in coincidences. “Right now, all I want is to talk to him. I’m not here to arrest him, or pry secrets out of him, or pay him to service me. I just want to ask him something.”
“What?”
The lights inside the donut shop glared on the windows surrounding them. The people outside looked almost surreal, like something from an Orson Welles film.
Jo took another swallow of coffee and looked into his intent, hazel eyes. “I guess you didn’t hear me. I said I want to ask him something.”
“What if he doesn’t want to talk to you?”
“Then why did he make sure I couldn’t possibly lose him while following him down here?”
“Did he?” That information sparked interest and questions in Jack-man’s eyes, but he didn’t voice any of it, just studied her speculatively. “All I know is—What’s your name again?”
“Jo,” she answered through tightened lips. “Sullivan.”
“I’m Jack Prescott.” He reached across the table. She surrendered her hand for a quick handshake. “Well, Jo, all I know is he came skidding in here saying somebody was on his tail and could I help him lose you. He told me what you looked like, then slipped out the side door.”
“And you ran interference.” Jo sipped her coffee, thinking. “Chris knew you would be here tonight, didn’t he?”
“Probably. This is my night to be on the streets.”
“Your night to be on the streets? What is that supposed to mean?”
“I work with Night Moves Youth Services. We provide—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Pleasantly surprised, Jo relaxed a little. “Well then, try this on for size. I think he wanted you to stop me and talk to me. He deliberately let me catch sight of him every once in a while, looking over his shoulder like he wanted to make sure I was still back there.”
Jack had finished his coffee and now threw the scraps of Jo’s sugar packets into his cup, pushing them down with a forefinger. “Okay,” he conceded. “That makes sense. It also makes sense that you should let me know what you want to ask him. Then I can tell him and he can decide whether or not he wants to answer.”
“What is it you’re protecting him from?” Jo asked. Her forehead tightened. “What did he tell you?”
Jack leaned forward as he answered, his voice low, earnest, honest. “Anything Chris told me, he told me in confidence. If you want answers to any of your questions, they’re going to have to come from him, not me. I’ll deliver a message if you want, but I won’t betray him.”
Jo found herself almost envious that this homeless kid had such a staunch protector. She’d been housed and fed, yet alone all her life, it seemed. “You have an awful lot of trust in this Chris. I hope it’s justified.” She sighed, then gave in. She handed him her business card to give to Chris. “Tell him I’m worried about Lexie.”
“Lexie?”
“That’s right. I’m willing to bet he knows who I mean. And if he doesn’t, then we have nothing to talk about.”
It was Jack’s turn to measure her merit. He stared at her for what seemed a long time before he gave a decisive nod and reached his hand across the table again.
“Deal. Why don’t we set up a meeting for tomorrow?”
“Here?” Ignoring his hand, Jo looked around her.
“No. Somewhere a little less colorful. How about the Planetarium, north side, on the sidewalk edging the lake? We’ll meet you there at six o’clock?”
“We?” Jo asked.
He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave my clichés at home.”
“In that case—” she finally took his hand “—you’re on.”
Chapter 11
Chris followed the woman back to the car, watched her get in, and made sure she drove away before he went back to talk to Jack. When he got to Dunkin Donuts, he nodded to Avril, who was just getting dropped off again in her spot at the back of the parking lot. She straightened her mini-skirt, pulled another stick of bubble gum out of her purse, and started scoping for her next customer.
“You seen Lexie tonight?” Chris asked her. As usual, his eyes were drawn to her prominent Adam’s Apple. He never could get why some guys didn’t see the clear picture until after she revealed the surprise under her skirt.
“No, but Sheree might have—the two of them was s’posed to work it over by Melrose tonight. Course, when my date drove me by there just now I only saw Sheree. Why? What up?”
“Just asking is all.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t go over there asking Sheree. Johnny’s out to wipe his ass with you. He see you talking to her, he say he gonna blow you away. Don’t know why’s he in such a titty fit for.”
“He thinks I got a free one off her last week. All’s I did was swipe a box of pussy plugs for her. Hell, he don’t even take good care of his girls. Don’t know why she stays with the prick.”
“We all do what we gotta, Cry, that’s all. You know that.”
“Well, how I’m gonna ask her about Lexie then?”
Avril blew a huge bubble till it popped. The pink gum smeared the fire red lipstick as she sucked it back in to keep chewing. “You know where’s Dick’s Prick? That leather bar up Halsted?”
Sure he knew, but he hoped Avril didn’t know why. He’d let a guy take him there once so he could get piss-assed drunk on cheap rum. Then had to put up with a few finger strokes to his crotch and a wet spot on his thigh.
“You hang around their back door later,” Avril said, “and I’ll see if I can’t get the word to her to meet you there. Johnny too homophobe to hang long in Boystown.”
Lounging around Boystown this late on a Friday could be asking for more trouble then he wanted, but what choice did he have? Unless Jack had something to offer.
