Fatal Care (9 page)

Freddie quickly tapped the photograph with his index finger. “Yeah. That’s him. I served him in here.”

“When?”

“At least three or four times.”

“Do you remember the last time?”

“Monday night,” Freddie said promptly. “It was late, like after eight.”

“What’d he buy?”

Freddie wrinkled his brow, concentrating. “I don’t remember.”

Farelli asked, “Was he carrying anything?”

“A shoe box,” Freddie recalled. “He always had a damn shoe box under his arm.”

“Did you get a look inside the box?”

“Nah. It had a lid on it.”

“Did he ever take the lid off?”

Freddie thought back. “Once, that I can remember. But he did it by the door. And then he did something real strange.”

“What?” Farelli and Jake asked almost simultaneously.

“He sprayed some breath freshener into the box,” Freddie told them. “I don’t know what that was all about.”

I do
, Jake was thinking. The guy wanted to cover up the smell of formaldehyde that had leaked out into the shoe box. That’s why Joanna couldn’t detect the formaldehyde right away. It was an odor she would ordinarily have picked up instantly. But it was covered over with some sort of breath spray. “Did the guy always pay in cash?”

“As far as I remember.”

“Did he ever use a credit card?”

Freddie shook his head. “He wasn’t the credit card type.”

“Was he a loner?”

“He always came in here alone.”

“Did he ever mention his name?”

“Not to me.”

“Shit,” Jake growled softly. They still didn’t have a name for the victim, and without a name they’d never identify him. His fingerprints had turned up nothing, and no one had inquired about him at Missing Persons. “Did he ever have other packages under his arm? You know, like things he might have bought in the neighborhood?”

“I never saw him with anything like that.”

Jake rubbed at the stubble on his chin, trying to get a handle on the man’s identity. Outside the store, a car was pulling up. An elderly lady was driving. Jake turned back to the cashier. “Did this guy have a car?”

“I don’t think so,” Freddie said, and then added, “I sure as hell hope he wasn’t driving.”

“Why?”

“Because he was always loaded when he came in here.”

Jake leaned forward. “Was he fall-down drunk?”

“No. But he was pretty boozed up. You know, enough to slur his words and stagger some.”

“How many bars are in this neighborhood?” Jake asked at once.

Freddie considered the question at length. “There’s at least a half-dozen. Just about all of them are south of here.”

“What’s the closest?”

“A bar called Sully’s.”

Jake and Farelli left the mini mart. It was seven-thirty, and the night was already pitch-black. Traffic on Lincoln Boulevard was heavy.

“Do you want to take the car?” Farelli asked.

“No,” Jake said. “Let’s walk it, the same way the victim did.”

They headed south, passing a quick-oil-change facility and a used-furniture store. Both were closed. Next they came to a doughnut shop with its door open. A sweet, mouthwatering aroma drifted out to the sidewalk. Inside, customers were lined up. The detectives walked on, coming to a restaurant called Morocco. They peered in the window. The restaurant was small, with all of its cloth-covered tables occupied. Off to the side was an empty bar.

“What do you think?” Farelli asked.

Jake shook his head. “A real boozer is not going to come in here. The drinks would be expensive.”

“Yeah,” Farelli agreed. “But let me check it out, anyway.”

Jake lit a cigarette and waited outside while Farelli went inside to question the bartender. He blew smoke into the night air, again trying to fit the pieces of this strange puzzle together.
A drunk carries around dead babies in bottles so he can bury them. And then he gets his head blown off and his body is dumped into a pit next to the babies. Go figure
. It just didn’t make sense.

Farelli came out of the restaurant. “No luck.”

Jake and Farelli crossed the street in traffic, ignoring the horns and angry shouts of the passing motorists. They strolled down a half block and came to Sully’s. Its neon sign was blinking intermittently. One of the
L
s was dead.

They entered the bar and quickly scanned the clientele before nodding to each other. This was the sort of bar they were looking for. The customers were all blue-collar workers, most of them standing with drinks in their hands and talking too loud. At the bar were the heavy-drinking regulars.

Jake led the way over to the bartender and flashed his shield. “We need some information.”

“About what?” the bartender asked as he continued to dry a glass with a dirty towel.

Jake showed him the Polaroid snapshot. “You know this guy?”

The bartender glanced at the photo briefly. “Sure. That’s the Russian.”

“Did he come in often?”

The bartender nodded. “Maybe two or three times a week.”

“Was he a longtime customer?”

“Nope. He just started coming in about a month ago.”

Jake did some rapid calculations in his head. Two to three visits a week for a month came to a total of eight to twelve visits. That averaged out to ten visits and that’s how many dead fetuses were found so far. “You know the guy’s name?”

The bartender shook his head. “He never mentioned it.”

Jake could sense the eyes of the customers on him. He looked over at them. They quickly looked away. Jake came back to the bartender. “Did he ever drink with the guys?”

“No,” the bartender said definitely. “He was always at the bar.”

“Along with his goddamn shoe box,” croaked an old woman with too much makeup on her face.

Jake turned to the woman. “Did you ever look in the shoe box?”

“I tried once, but he grabbed my wrist so hard he damn near broke it. I dropped the lid back on the box real quick.”

“Did you smell it?”

The woman looked at Jake oddly. “Did I
what
?”

Jake rephrased the question. “Did you ever detect a funny smell coming from the box?”

“No.”

“I did once,” an old man next to the woman said. “It kind of smelled like bad vinegar.”

“Did he ever tell you his name?”

“I never asked,” the old man said, and went back to his drink.

The old woman said, “I called him Doubles.”

“Why?” Jake asked.

“Because that’s what he drank.”

The old man looked up from his bourbon once again. “You know, once I think he called himself Blahdie. He was getting ready to leave one night, and he said something like, ‘That’s enough for old Blahdie.” ’

“Spell it for me,” Jake requested.

The old man shrugged. “Shit! I can hardly say it.”

Jake made a mental note to return to the bar at an earlier time in the evening when the old man wouldn’t be boozed up. Maybe he’d remember more about the Russian’s name.
Blah-dee
, Jake thought phonetically, wondering if it was a nickname.

Jake turned back to the bartender. “When was the last time you saw the Russian?”

The bartender thought for a moment. “Monday night, I guess.”

“What time?”

“His usual time. He came in about seven-thirty and left around nine.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?”

“Nope.”

“So he just drank and kept pretty much to himself, huh?”

“Right.”

“Don’t forget the blonde,” the old woman chimed in.

Jake quickly looked back and forth between the old woman and the bartender. “What blonde?”

“Oh, yeah,” the bartender said, nodding, now remembering. “This broad comes in about eight-thirty. Blonde. High class. Looks like money. She sits at the bar and orders a white wine, which she doesn’t drink. Then she makes a play for the Russian. She buys him a couple of rounds. They talk real low, but everybody knows what’s happening.” The bartender picked up an olive from a tray and chewed on it. “She was looking for some action.”

Jake leaned in closer. “Was she a hooker?”

“I don’t think so,” the bartender said at once. “She was more like the Beverly Hills type. And besides, hookers don’t buy their johns drinks.”

“So,” Jake concluded, “you figure she was out looking for some excitement. Maybe a quick bang; then she goes home to her husband.”

“That’s how I figured it.”

“Can you describe her?”

The bartender stared up at the ceiling, thinking back. “Long blond hair. Thin. Attractive, but nothing special.”

“Anything unusual about her facial features?”

“Naw. Of course, I was real busy so I didn’t get that good of a look.”

“Had she ever been in here before?”

“No.”

Jake tapped his finger on the bar, digesting and assimilating the new information. “Did the Russian and the blonde leave together?”

“Yes and no.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Jake snapped.

“It means he left first,” the bartender explained. “A minute later she went to the phone and made a call, all the while peeping out the window. Then she hurries back to the bar, plunks down a twenty for a twelve-dollar tab, and hauls her little ass out of here.”

Jake nodded. “You think he was waiting for her outside?”

“That’s what I figure.”

“And they left separately for appearance’s sake?”

“I guess.”

“But you don’t know?”

“Sure, I do,” the bartender said, and smiled thinly. “I heard them set the price. A hundred and twenty-five bucks.”

“But you told me she wasn’t a hooker.”

“She wasn’t,” the bartender said. “She was going to pay
him
.”

“The whole world is fucked up,” the old woman complained. “Now girls are paying guys for it. Jesus Christ!” She held up her glass. “Hit me again.”

Jake watched the bartender pour and asked, “Which way did they go when they left?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they went to the doughnut shop across the street,” the old man suggested. “I seen the Russian in there a lot.”

Jake handed the bartender his card. “If that blonde comes back in, you call me pronto.”

Outside, the night was becoming misty and colder. Traffic was less heavy on the boulevard. Jake lit a cigarette and tried to fit the pieces of information together. “Assuming the two met after they left, why did the Russian go to the mini mart to buy a candy bar? Remember, he left the bar around nine and bought the candy bar at nine-o-five. A man who’s about to get laid and get paid a hundred and twenty-five dollars for it doesn’t go to buy a candy bar first, does he? And if by chance he does, where the hell is the blonde?”

“Maybe they were going to meet at the store,” Farelli theorized.

“Are you saying he first strolled down a dark street, nibbling on a candy bar and heading for an excavation site where he’s going to bury a baby?” Jake asked, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. That doesn’t work. He’d bang her first, get his money, then take care of his other business. Keep in mind, he’s not in any hurry to bury the baby.”

“And she’s not going to follow him down a dark street like that, either,” Farelli said. “Even if she was in her car.”

“And he wouldn’t want her to,” Jake picked up the scenario. “He doesn’t want her to see him kick a hole in the fence and go down into the excavation site.” He shook his head in disgust. “None of this shit fits.”

“Maybe the blonde chickened out and decided to go home after she left the bar.”

“That’s a possibility,” Jake said, but he didn’t think so. She’d gone to too much trouble to set it up, and she’d handled it like someone who had done it before. “Let’s check the doughnut shop before we call it a night.”

They crossed the street and entered the small, empty doughnut shop. A middle-aged Asian American woman bowed to them politely. “May I help you?”

Jake showed the woman his shield and then the photograph of the Russian. “Do you know this man?”

“Oh, yes,” the woman said at once. “He comes in often for chocolate doughnuts.”

“And I’ll bet he comes in two or three times a week.”

“Exactly.”

“For the past month or so. Right?”

“Oh, no,” the woman told him. “He has been a valued customer for over a year.”

Bingo
! Jake nodded to himself. The man lived or worked in the neighborhood. “Do you remember his name?”

“He never told me.”

“Do you have any idea where he lives?”

The woman thought for a moment before saying, “Not too far away, I think. On several occasions I have seen him carrying a large bag of groceries.”

“At night?”

“Usually,” the woman replied. “But sometimes in the afternoon.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“It’s been almost a week now, which is very unusual for him.”

“Thanks for your help.”

Walking back to their car, Jake told Farelli, “He lived in the neighborhood. That’s for damn sure.”

“Yeah,” Farelli agreed. “With him carrying a big bag of groceries home, I’d bet he didn’t live more than five or six blocks away.”

“Could be as much as eight blocks,” Jake said thoughtfully. “He was a big, strong guy.”

Farelli jotted down a reminder in his notepad to check out every house and apartment within an eight-block radius. And if nobody could ID the victim, they’d have to extend the radius to ten blocks. A shitload of work that would take weeks to complete.

“Don’t forget to check the grocery stores and any other places he might have used a credit card.”

“Right,” Farelli said, still writing.

“And we’ve got to look into all the bars to see if the blonde made any pickups elsewhere,” Jake went on. “And we have to talk to all the motel managers in the area, too.”

Farelli looked up. “You figure the blonde is important here?”

Jake nodded slowly. “If our thinking is correct, she may have been the last person to have seen the Russian alive.”

“And she might know his name.”

“That, too.”

“Are you certain about the histology of these tumors?” asked Wallace Hoddings, the director of the Biogenetics Institute at Memorial.

“There’s no doubt,” Joanna told him. “One is a rhabdomyosarcoma of the heart, the other an astroblastoma of the brain.”