Icarus. (48 page)

Easier than the stripper in her bathtub and even easier than that whacked-out junkie, tripping and helpless and moaning in her bed.

This one was waiting, waiting for her own death. She was smiling, welcoming, reaching out with open arms. How could it be any easier than that?

It couldn't.

Her skin ripped right open and she didn't make a sound. She was supposed to be so ferocious, so strong, but she tore as easily as a piece of cheap paper. Her throat and then her chest, open and exposed, sliced and severed. She crumpled and fell like a rag doll and lay still on the floor of her bedroom.

Easy, easy, easy.

The surprise was the man, when he came charging in. She had said they were alone, so it was confusing when the door opened and that angry roar filled the room. It was a surprise, all right, but it didn't change anything. The man was strong but flabby. Old and out of shape. He was easy, too. He died as quickly as all the others.

That was the thing about death, wasn't it?

For something that lasted forever, it happened so quickly.

Life was long and hard. So, so hard.

But death was quick. And so, so easy.

Sergeant Patience McCoy spread the photographs across her desk. She knew this wasn't the only place she was going to see them, either. By tomorrow morning, they'd be plastered all over the tabs, from the Enquirer to the New York Post. She didn't know how the hell those papers got crime-scene photos but they always seemed to manage. And this was definitely worthy of the front page.

Joe and Eva Migliarini stabbed to death in their own home.

In their own bedroom.

Christ. How does the head of one of New York's mob families get suckered in his own suburban bedroom?

She could feel the headache coming on. Double Christ. Just what she needed was a migraine.

McCoy had spent the day trying to find Grace Childress. No luck. The woman had disappeared. She didn't like the fact that, when she and her latest partner went to the woman's apartment, it had turned out to be a sublet. It indicated rootlessness, never a good sign. They'd gotten a judge to immediately give them a warrant to enter the apartment but McCoy's search turned up little except that it appeared that a good deal of Grace's clothes were gone. It looked like Kid's Rookie/Destination had packed up and flown the coop. McCoy had a lot of people out looking for her but they didn't have a hell of a lot to go on. Her neighbors barely knew her. The sublet had been arranged through an agency; the apartment owner had met her for all of thirty seconds. The doormen didn't know her well, she hadn't been there that long.

McCoy picked up the phone, dialed a two-digit extension. "Lewis," she said, picturing the pasty-faced nerdy cop at the other end. Lewis looked like he'd never seen fresh air before. Like he lived in the precinct, which he easily could have done because the only things he liked to do were go through files and study statistics. "I just had an idea for once in my damn life. I want you to look up any records we've got on Jack Keller."

"That's the one, his wife was killed, right?"

"That's the one," she said.

"What kind of records you looking for?"

"Break-ins, burglaries, harassment, arrests, anything. Go back as far as you can go. There's a connection here somewhere and I'm gonna find it if it's the last goddamn thing I do." She hung up, harder than she intended to.

McCoy didn't like what was happening. She didn't like what they'd found in the computer about Grace Childress, either.

What she didn't like the most, however, was that Jack Keller had disappeared, too.

The Entertainer dead. Samsonite dead. Now the Mortician. Dead.

The Murderess – invisible. Nonexistent.

Grace Childress gone. Whether she was the Rookie or the Destination or both, she was gone. And Jack Keller was just as gone.

The sergeant had ordered a DNA test on the vaginal secretions found in Kid Demeter's bed and wondered why the hell it wasn't back already. She wanted to compare it with Grace Childress's DNA, which was already on record.

Patience McCoy wondered if Jack knew what she now knew about Kid's favorite team member. She wondered if Jack knew that Grace Childress had, once upon a time, committed murder.

She sure as hell hoped so.

– "-"-"JACK NEEDED THE entire three-and-a-half-hour drive to compose himself. And by the time he saw the first sign announcing he'd reached Charlottesville, he had succeeded. Or, at least, he now knew exactly what he needed to do. He decided he'd settle for that.

He was hungry, wanted a quick lunch, but decided to skirt the center of town. He was not so composed that he was ready to go anywhere near Jack's yet. He knew that he might have to face that soon, but not yet. Not first. So he kept driving, went straight to the university, parked, and, after wandering a bit, found someone who could direct him to the athletic department. When he asked for Coach Kampman, he was then directed across the campus to the football stadium. The security guard at the door checked his list to see if Jack's name was there – it was – then let him pass. He walked through the arena's maze of concrete tunnels before emerging on the field, coming through the entrance behind one end zone. He stood for a moment, watching the team practice in the summer heat and humidity, then moved up the sideline, stood as patiently as he could until one of the coaches whistled for a break. That same coach, with tousled white-blond hair and a boyish face that was craggy and lined by the sun, now turned and spotted Jack. He walked over, extended his hand, and said, "Bobby Kampman." Jack introduced himself and thanked the coach for seeing him. He said he didn't realize that practice began so early in the year, wasn't it still summer vacation, but the coach told him that football at VSU was a year-round game. Then Kampman, perfectly polite but obviously anxious to get back on schedule, skipped any further pleasantries and got right to business.

"I got the photo you scanned," he told Jack. "Or, rather, my secretary did. I couldn't have pulled it out of the computer if I had a hundred years to work on it. But I got it. And I distributed it to all my boys before we started the workout this morning. A lot of the kids were on the team two years ago, maybe twenty. A lot of them knew Haywood and Neufield, those were the two who fought in your restaurant. A lot of my boys were their friends. But none of them knew anyone named Kid Demeter."

"Maybe under a different name – is that possible?"

"I don't think so. They didn't recognize the photo. Not one of them." When Jack didn't respond, the coach said, "We can try to reach the rest of the kids who were on the team at that time, we can probably find most of them, but I don't think it'll do you any good, Mr. Keller. If these kids don't recognize him, I don't think the others will either."

"Maybe they were afraid to come forward. Maybe-"

"Not my kids." Kampman shook his head vigorously. "Believe me. They know how important this is and I guarantee none of them are holding anything back."

Jack was speechless. He was positive he'd find a connection between Kid and the two players who'd fought in the restaurant and later been shot to death. It had seemed so right. The failure was a little bit like walking headfirst into a brick wall. He was stunned and he wasn't sure in which direction he should now step.

"I'm sorry, sir," the coach was saying now. "We all felt for your tragedy. And I wish there was some way we could help. If you can think of anything else…"

Jack couldn't. He thanked the coach, shook his head, and left the stadium. Still rattled by his lack of success, he stood in the parking lot and used his cell phone to make a call and confirm the next stop on his agenda. He got in the car and drove for thirty minutes. When he stepped out, he found himself in a familiar pebbled driveway, staring up at Caroline's childhood home.

– "-"-"I BEEN WORKING for the Hales for thirty-eight years," Louise Trotty was saying.

"And for me, thirty-three," her husband added.

"I know that," Jack told them.

"I loved that girl since she was seven years old," Louise said.

"I've loved her since she was twenty. Nothing you tell me is going to change what any of us felt for her. Feel for her. And I promise you," Jack said, "nothing you say can hurt her. Not now."

The black couple stayed silent and unmoving as Jack slid the photograph of Kid in front of them on the brightly tiled kitchen counter.

"Did you ever see him?" Jack asked.

No movement at all from the Trottys. Then John C. Trotty nodded, the barest of nods, at his wife.

"Yes," she said. "He been here at the house."

Jack had known it, had known it as absolutely as it could be known, but when his knowledge was verified, he felt as if all the air in his body had been released. But along with the blow to his gut also came a strange kind of relief. As painful as it might now be, there was a breakthrough. The connection was made. He didn't know where it would lead, but the unraveling had, at long last, begun.

"Tell me," he said to them.

And they told. Kid had indeed been to this house. Many times. He had first appeared about a month into Caroline's start-up of the restaurant. The Trottys remembered Caroline bringing him there – he hadn't appeared on his own, so she had met him somewhere else; Jack guessed that he had heard about the restaurant and probably surprised her there. They seemed intimate, Louise Trotty said. Very close. He doted on her, complimented her, did everything he could to please her. He spent the night there, they said, slept in the house quite often. Not in the same room as Caroline, Louise was quick to point out. In one of the guest rooms.

"Were they lovers?" Jack asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

Louise took a long time before answering. So long that Jack didn't need to hear the answer. He already knew it.

Keeping his voice steady, he asked about conversations they might have overheard. Louise did not have much more information to offer. John recalled one thing very clearly.

"It was two days before the opening. Two days before she was…" John stopped himself, didn't finish that sentence. There was no need to. "He was here. That boy. I served them coffee out on the porch. Reason I remember is that Miss Susanna was here. We was all a bit surprised 'cause she don't come around much. But I remember that she and Miss Caroline had a big fight. I don't know exactly why. Something to do with that boy, though, I believe. Miss Susanna left and Miss Caroline was very upset. She and… her young man friend, they went into the den, that room right off the dining room there. And she closed the door, talked for quite a long time. When they came out, he was very upset. So was Miss Caroline. They sat on the porch a long while after that" – he hesitated, then plunged ahead – "holding hands, I remember that, too. And Mr. Jack, what I remember is that she said she would take care of him. She would make sure he had a place to live and a job. I remember she said he would have a good job. She told him not to be afraid, that nothing would happen, and that she would make sure he was all right."

"Do you remember what he was afraid would happen?" Jack asked quietly.

"No, sir, I don't," John said. "But it was something bad, because that boy was scared to death."

They all heard the noise of a car pulling up in the driveway now. Louise went to look out the window and, with a catch in her throat, said, "That's Miss Susanna's car."

"Yes," Jack told them. "I asked her to come over."

"Mr. Jack," Louise said. "I don't like to say nothin' bad about nobody. But you watch out. Miss Susanna, she's a mean one."

"Yes, I know," Jack said. "That's why I want to see her."

– "-"-"I NEVER LIKED my sister," Susanna Rae Hale said to Jack Keller.

"You made that fairly clear over the years," Jack told her.

"I don't much believe in hiding my feelings."

Jack nodded. "That was pretty clear, too. Your feelings were not very well hidden."

"That whole 'blood is thicker than water' thing…" Susanna Rae shook her head disapprovingly. "I just don't cotton to that."

"Tell me about your sister," Jack said. "Tell me about my wife."

"What is it you want me to tell you?" she asked.

"The truth."

"About what, in particular? Her childhood? Her popularity? Her perfect skin and her perfect legs and all about how she was the absolutely perfect person?"

"Tell me about Kid Demeter," Jack said. "Tell me what you two fought about a few days before she died."

Susanna Rae lit up a cigarette. "I'm not gonna ask if it's all right for me to smoke," she said. "'Cause I don't give a damn."

Jack waited for her to inhale deeply. He watched her blow a perfect smoke ring into the air. Then she said, "What we fought about is going to surprise you." Her Southern drawl was becoming slightly thicker as the smoke relaxed her. "We fought about you."

She was right. He was surprised. "What about me?"

"You know, it's not just one-sided, it's not just me who doesn't like the family. The family doesn't care for me too much, either. In our family, everybody has somebody. Or had. Caroline and Llewellyn, they were close as can be when they were little. Then Caroline had you. Llewellyn has her boring-as-shit husband and her even-more-boring-as-shit children. Even Momma and Daddy, they were just a little world unto themselves. Always were. But me, well, I had my own self and that was pretty much it. But that doesn't mean I ever liked it that way. I know what it's like to be alone. And I don't think anyone should throw her life away and risk being alone."

"Is that what you thought Caroline was doing?"

"That's what I believe happens when you have an affair, yes.

"Was she having an affair with Kid?" he asked, closing his eyes.

"That is my belief, yes."