Night bait, page 25
Only then did she realize how tired she was. So far, she had been up for about eighteen hours; plus, she hadn't been sleeping well recently. Sleep would come easily now.
After peeling off her blue dress, she stood in front of her mirror and looked herself over, as she had been doing since Wednesday night's battering. Most of the bruises were gone now. The soreness which had inhibited her had vanished, and the scrape on her arm had healed up completely.
She pulled down the curtains and drew the drapes to block out the daylight, then, in the simulated nighttime of her room, she crawled under the covers and fell asleep immediately.
She dreamed that she was standing under a crystal-blue sky, and in the distance, she could see the skeletal outline of the WSDT radio tower and a single black cloud hovering near its peak.
When Dignazio had finished questioning Dante Princeton, the owner and manager of Charing Corner Tobacconists, he drove straight home, where he showered, shaved, and put on a pressed suit. Murder case or not, one thing he couldn't stand was being seen in crumpled clothes. He had been very conscious of his appearance ever since childhood: he just wouldn't feel right if he didn't look right. Perhaps he feared that if he came into work looking like a tent salesman, people wouldn't take him seriously. So many of the other squad captains couldn't care less about their appearances. Usually, they'd come in looking like shit warmed over, like tramps rather than professionals. But Dignazio would have none of that. I may be ruthless, crude, and vulgar, he thought, but I'll be goddamned if I'll have people think I buy my threads at Good Will. No fucking way.
He adjusted his black silk Xandrini tie in the reflection of his rearview mirror. Then he got out of his car and went back up to his office at Metropolitan Police Headquarters. David Elliot was waiting for him.
"Any news on these suspects?" Dignazio asked, knowing full well that the answer was no.
"No," Elliot groaned. "They're all in the clear so far."
"What about that creep who got caught banging corpses in the funeral parlor?"
"We found out that he got married and moved to Maine two years ago."
Dignazio chuckled. "Guess he decided that poking them warm is better than poking them cold...How many more to go?"
"Just those five on your desk. Then that's it."
"Well," Dignazio said, and took his seat behind his desk, "maybe we won't need them. Investigation's running through the puss book with that twinkie who owns the tobacco shop. Maybe he'll be able to pick The Electrocutionist out. We'll run into some luck sooner or later. But in the meantime, we'll just go full steam ahead and try to knock out the rest of these suspects. You know, in a way, I hope that the rest of them come up pink. Then I'll really be able to put the pressure on Mullins. That old corpse just sits upstairs playing with himself, thinking that murder investigation can be done with a fucking computer. But when he sees that all his so-called suspects turned out to be zeros, maybe he'll let me get some legit decoys back on the street." He rested a hand on the dwindling stack of manila folders. "I want the rest of these people checked out by tomorrow, just get the shit out of the way, so we can get some real work done."
Elliot stood up and took the remaining folders. "Me and the boys'll get on it right away."
"Check in with me when you finish up."
"Right." Elliot left the office, leaving the door open a crack.
Only when he was alone did Dignazio sense something strange. He'd often feel this way whenever a homicide case became intense. His palms would perspire slightly, and there would be a faint throbbing at his temples. He could almost feel something churning in the air. An omen perhaps, or a symbol or sign. It was just a sensation, what most people refer to as a detective's hunch, but Dignazio had grown to respect it as something a little more than that. A deadringer. Whenever a given case was going poorly, he would be able to sense it. Likewise, when things were going well, he sensed that, too. And that was the sensation he felt now.
A feeling that the case would soon be solved.
TEN
From where his car idled, the Reflecting Pool in front of Lincoln Memorial glimmered in the fading daylight like a very long sheet of plate glass. The sun was on its way out, and the darkness had crept over the city sky with such speed that it had caught him by complete surprise. He saw now that all of the landmarks and monuments of Washington, D.C. appeared to be more refined in the twilight: the grass of the Mall was greener, the water of the Potomac bluer, the White House whiter. Ahead of him, at the far end of the Mall, the bone-white dome of the Capitol building crouched beneath the stars as though it were a half-buried skull jutting from the earth. To his right, the Washington Monument lanced high into the darkening heavens like a twentieth-century Tower of Babel, attaining such altitude that one might be able to climb its endless spires of stairs to find the gods waiting for him at the top. By day, it looked like a drab, off-white pike of useless architecture, but during the night it proved a spectacular sight. The floodlights planted in the surrounding lawn covered the entire structure with poles of white light, which reached up at its stone surface and illuminated every detail down to the last brick. He could even see the bars over the tiny windows at the monument's pyramid-shaped peak. Someone had told him that until recently there were no bars on the windows; they were just holes, but somebody had thought to put bars over them to prevent suicidals from climbing all the way to the top, and coming back down the fast way. Many people had done that in the past, or so he had heard. Perhaps it was really a monument of death, an attraction for self-execution.
As darkness settled, a bizarre kind of solitude drifted over the city. Of course, it was still early, but judging by the past few nights, he suspected that this stunted atmosphere would remain, if not accelerate. Suppressed fear always had a knack for keeping people off the streets.
The blue car moved along Constitution Avenue, its path interrupted by periodic traffic lights. Gradually, the scenic brilliance of downtown Washington lapsed behind him, and he drove away from the political nerve center of the country into some of the more sullied regions. Soon, he maneuvered the big sedan through lightless streets cluttered with sporadic pieces of garbage, and amongst infinite ranks of boarded-up tenements packed together like cookie boxes on a grocery store shelf. The city reminded him of pre-Revolutionary Paris, the wealthy heart encircled by the dilapidated homes of the poor. With a sarcastic smile, he wondered when Washington would see its own Bastille Day.
As he came nearer to the glowing sectors of 14th Street, his thoughts wandered from the surroundings and on to things of a far more urgent nature.
The last one had been easy, but a complication had arisen. Somewhere along the line, he had lost his automatic injector, a device which had made his abductions effortless. Usually, by the time they realized what had happened, they were out cold and in no position to put up any resistance at all. Yes, it had made the task of incapacitating his victims incredibly easy, but now he didn't have it anymore. He possessed no others, and trying to obtain another one would be too risky. Sensitive instruments such as that could not be purchased here without a lot of questions, even for a man of his status. His people could get him all the drugs he wanted, and they didn't care what he used them for, but automatic injectors were not accessible to them. Of course, the injector itself was a luxury, not a necessity, and he had already made provisions to do without it in the future. The lead-filled blackjack in his jacket pocket would do the job just as effectively. A quick rap to the head, and they would be unconscious just as fast. He would have to take care not to hit them too hard with it, though. Otherwise, he might kill them right there in the car, and that would spoil everything.
No, losing the convenience-of the automatic injector did not trouble him; it was the possible consequence of the loss that did. Surely, the instrument would have fingerprints on it, and though to the best of his knowledge his prints were not on file, the prospect frightened him. He wasn't exactly sure where he had lost it, but he guessed that it must have dropped out of his jacket at Peace Cross, where he had disposed of the latest girl's body. Though the discovery of the body had been reported in the papers, no mention had been made of the police finding the injector. Misplacing it had been his only mistake so far. He considered going back to Peace Cross to try to recover it, but that would be taking too great a chance. He recalled the old English proverb: the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. Well, he was one criminal who would not. The result could be suicide.
He also thought that maybe he was getting carried away with his blatant disregard for the danger in what he was doing. It had become a joke to him: whenever he felt the need for a girl, all he need do was go out and take his pick. And he had been bold with that last one, too bold. He had gone out of his way to make a complete mockery of the girl; leaving her body at Peace Cross proved the ultimate humiliation, but he had to admit that in doing so, he had left himself wide open to the danger of being seen. He would not let that happen again. The next girl would be left in a safe place, where no one would see him. No more brazen efforts to drop the bodies off in plain view. He would leave the next girl amidst the colossal rubbish heaps at the unfinished subway terminal in South East. That seemed solitary enough. It might not be found for days.
The faraway lights of 14th Street grew more intense as the car lumbered along Vermont Avenue. The sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps made the various buildings which lined the streets appear remote and abandoned. Very few people could be seen now, just as it had been every night for the last week. Most of the streets were totally deserted, when just a few nights before they had flocked with slavering porno-movie addicts, bottomless bar-hoppers, abject thrillseekers, and men of all ages who wished to pay for sex. But now, only a few scattered souls tarried, scarcely more than a handful, walking in their nighttime trance up and down the lanes like sleepwalkers. When he wheeled the car around the block of 14th and L, he noticed only three or four prostitutes, where usually there would be dozens. It seemed that the fruit of the trees was growing scant. He had frightened them all into hiding so that only a bold few remained. He saw now that he would have to consider looking elsewhere once he had depleted the supply of girls here. The idea didn't appeal to him; the girls on the block were just the kind he wanted, and so much easier to talk into the car. But he knew that he was abusing the privilege. Too much of a good thing. He decided that he would take one more girl from the block, then tone down for a while. He could seek others at a multitude of places nearby. Georgetown was still a good prospect; the two he had taken from there had been excellent, but he didn't like operating so close to his home. Some of the pubs in College Park were brimming with supple college girls looking for a one-night-stand. That seemed promising enough. Next week, he would spread his hunting ground to that vicinity and remove some of the pressure off the block, start striking in several areas rather than the same place everytime he felt the urge.
But for one final treat, he would allow himself to take one more prostitute before changing his pattern. Surely, there was no risk in one more.
The only problem was finding one.
He surveyed the barren lane of L Street with disappointment in his eyes. There were none on that street. The car rumbled slowly along, and turned onto the pitch-dark street of Vermont Avenue. Still, nothing.
So far he had only seen three hookers up close. One of them had been old and fat, the other two were black. Unacceptable. She had to be white, and she had to be slim, and she had to be pretty. They were the only kind that excited him. Why he did not know. It was just the way it had to be, a subconscious prerequisite perhaps, something he could not deviate from. All men have their consuming addictions, he admitted, and mine is with that particular type of girl. I will take nothing less, and if there aren't any more here, then I'll go somewhere else.
It seemed strange that Vermont Avenue was so dark, while 14th Street glowed like an inferno. Between L and Κ Streets, there were absolutely no streetlights, save for one on the corner, and that appeared to be the only source of light for as many blocks down as he could see. The darkness on this side of the block was so thick, so complete that the illumination from his headlamps cut great cones of spectral light out into the black expanse ahead of him. Even if there were any hookers on this side, they would be difficult to see standing amongst the vast shadow of the sidewalk. At the same intersection of the solitary streetlight, he could also see a traffic light. It was green now, but as the car neared the corner, it changed to yellow, then to red. The car came to a stop, and as it idled at the line of the junction, he thought how ridiculous it was to have traffic lights operating when there was no traffic. Like waiting for a line of invisible commuters.
That's when he noticed her.
He had been sitting there for several seconds without even knowing she was there. To his direct left, under the meager light cast from the streetlamp on the opposite corner, a hooker stood, totally motionless, and looking right at the car. His mouth hung slack as he examined her.
She was perfect.
It crossed his mind that the girl he was looking at could be the most attractive prostitute he had ever seen. She wore a shiny black dress, its hem stirring lightly in the evening breeze; and her hair, a flawless soft-brown, danced at her shoulders like willows in the wind. Long, slender legs sprouted out from under her, forming an imperial V where she stood, and the low-cut top of her dress exposed the sleek white skin of her chest and the mounds of her breasts, small, firm, and sensuous. Her face could only be described as regal, and she looked over at him with sparkling-huge eyes, that telltale sign of lascivious hunger written all over her. She stood there like a monument to beauty in its most profuse form, a symbol of what he wanted more than anything. And she was slim, oh so slim. The sight of her made him dizzy.
Though he knew she could not see his face through the dark, polarized windshield, it was obvious that she was aware of him, almost as much as he was aware of her. She will be the one, he thought in a blur. I must have her, only her, only her.
But not tonight.
He didn't know how much time had passed since the traffic light had turned green. Probably just a few seconds, but it seemed he had been staring at her for much longer than that. He realized that this girl was special; something about her set her apart from all the rest, and taking her now might thwart some of the ecstasy. He would force himself to dwell on her, save her for another night when the time would be perfect. What was that other English proverb? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? Yes, now he knew exactly what that meant.
He looked at her for one last time, his heart thumping away, with that wretched longing in his eyes. Then he pushed the accelerator down and cruised through the intersection.
Yes, my dear, he thought, I will come for you soon.
Maybe tomorrow.
There was a ringing sound, like a fire alarm—sharp, infernal, horribly loud. It seemed to come in salvos, a long pause between each shrill, and he thought it would never stop. For a moment, after he first became aware of that god-awful ringing, he lay frozen, unable to move. He opened and closed his eyes repeatedly, but noticed no divergence, as if he were in a cinderblock room with no door or windows, nothing which would admit light. He didn't know where he was, and for a time, he didn't even know who he was. The bell-like buzzing continued hammering into his ears, disrupting his concentration.
Then, in a single crashing second, it all came to him, and he laughed out loud at himself for being so scared and disoriented about something so simple.
It's only the fucking telephone, you asshole, he thought.
His arm reached over and flicked on the small light on the nightstand, and he propped himself up in bed. The green hands of his Baby Ben alarm clock read: 4:44 A.M. He winced when the phone rang again, and he picked it up immediately.
"Dignazio."
The far-removed voice on the other end of the line belonged to David Elliot, who was calling from Dignazio's office downtown. The weak chatter filtered into the homicide captain's mind like sand through a sifter; he was too tired to pay attention to anything but essentials. But as Elliot's words continued to flow, Dignazio's sentience gradually surfaced to a state of razor-sharp awareness. "Yeah, yeah... You haven't checked him out yet? Good.. .. What?" There was a long pause as Dignazio held the phone to his ear and listened attentively. "Holy shit, holy fucking shit. Sit tight, Dave. I'll be at the office in about forty minutes."
He dropped the phone back on the hook, got dressed, and left for the office.
"I'm glad it didn't rain last night," Vickie said to Chet over coffee at seven o'clock Monday morning. "Time usually passes slowly anyway, but last night zoomed by."
"Yeah, I know," said Chet, as he poured his second packet of Sweet 'n Low into his cup. "It's strange, because time drags when nothing happens. Last night was the deadest I've ever seen."
"I didn't see a single John, unless that guy in the blue car was looking."
"He was probably just passing through."
"Yeah, but he sat there for so long. The traffic light changed twice before he moved on. I couldn't see his face, but I knew he was staring at me. I could sense it. Gave me the creeps."
"His tag light was out too, couldn't get his number.
He was probably just a looker—" Chet's words were cut off by a high-pitched beeping sound coming from his coat. It startled Vickie so much that she flinched in her seat. "What the hell is that?"
Chet smiled and pulled out a black box, slightly smaller than a pack of cigarettes. There was a red light flashing on it, and she saw the name MOTOROLA printed on its side. "It's my beeper," Chet explained, and pressed a button on the box which cut off the beep noise. "The Captain wants me to landline him. I'll be right back." He walked over to the pay phone at the back of the diner, fumbled for some change, then punched the buttons on the phone and started talking.
