Lilith: a novel (16 page)

Travis and Jessica were feeling cautious, but not outright frightened, as they made their way down the access road in Jessica’s Jeep. They both held the belief that neither one of them had done anything but an amateurish job of evading the police. Had the police been looking specifically for them, they would already be in custody.

Nevertheless, there was something a little unnerving about driving within perhaps twenty yards of the black and white parked outside the Terrace View. The car’s lights were now turned off, but there were two uniformed cops standing outside the vehicle.

The cops were talking to three other people who were dressed in plainclothes: two men and a woman. Neither Jessica nor Travis had much difficulty in extrapolating that the three people in street clothes were cops.

“Must be a drug bust,” Travis said. “They brought in two boys in blue and three undercover agents.”

What Travis failed to notice was that there were no suspects in custody, so there was no real proof regarding the aim of the police presence here. Jessica didn't think too much of this, until she took a second look at one of the plainclothes detectives.

“Hold on,” she said, grabbing Travis’s arm. “Stop the car!”

“Jess, I really don’t think that would be a good idea. They might not be after us, but we don't want to press our luck. If we get stopped—”

“That’s Don!” she said, in a loud whisper. At the same time, she shrank back against her seat.

“Don?”

“Just go!” Jessica said.

Travis shook his head. First she wanted him to slow down; then she wanted him to speed up. But he complied.

Then, as he neared the end of the access road, now a safe distance away from the police car, he understood.

“’Don?’ What are you saying, baby? Wasn't Don the name of that guy you were supposed to meet with tonight?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” she said, her face now gone pale. “That was Don standing out there with those cops.”

Her worst suspicions about “Don” had been confirmed, after all.

“That means—”

“That means Don is a cop. And his real name probably isn’t even Don.” 

Alan drove Maribel back to the ODCI office north of town, where she had left her personal vehicle. Dave was not far behind them, driving the ODCI undercover vehicle that he had driven to his abortive date with Lilith.

“I’m thinking about that tattoo,” Alan said, as he steered north on the dark, misty highway. “That gives us something.”

“It might,” Maribel said. “But only if the man who Pudovkin saw is somehow connected to Lilith.”

“Think about it for a minute: What are the odds of a suspicious-looking man and a very suspicious woman showing up at the Terrace View tonight at exactly the same time? Now what are the odds of their being unrelated?”

Maribel shrugged. “The Terrace View is a suspicious business establishment, like we were discussing. That’s why the Hamilton County deputies were there tonight.”

“Fair enough, but we’ve got one more thing: that gym bag.”

“The gym bag?”

“Yes, the gym bag. Pudovkin specifically said that he saw a shell logo on the gym bag. Ask yourself, Maribel: Where did you and I recently see a lot of shell designs?”

By the time Jessica and Travis reached their little apartment, Jessica found herself shaking uncontrollably.

Her earlier scare with Mark Quinn had been bad enough, but she had not been seriously worried. Mark Quinn would have had nothing but his hunches to go on, and only the flimsiest evidence of foul play. Although she had lost a few hours of sleep over Quinn’s veiled threats to report her to someone, the cooler, more rational voice inside Jessica’s head told her that there had never really been any serious danger.

Tonight was different.

Tonight she had almost been caught. If Don had set up a date with her, and Don was a cop, then there could be no doubt that the police were targeting her and Travis.

Travis, she had long ago discovered, was unusually aroused by danger and violence. The nights of the three murders, he had taken her home and made love to her multiple times, within little more than an hour of shooting one of their victims.

Tonight, too, he was aroused. Almost as soon as they entered the apartment, he reached for her. She was reaching for the light switch in the living room, but he said, “No, baby, later. We don’t need no lights for a while.”

At first Jessica had allowed herself to be drawn to him; but he could immediately see that something was wrong with her, and he knew almost as immediately what the matter was.

“You’re freaked out about that cop, aren’t you? The one named Don, or the one pretending to be named Don.”

“Yes!’ she sobbed. Without turning on the lights, she fell down onto the couch. She pulled Travis down, too, but made him sit beside her.

“Don’t you get it, Travis? That guy saw me. He could identify me.”

Travis leaned back on the sofa, holding her hand. “So that means we’ll have to teach him a lesson, won’t we?”

When Travis talked about teaching someone a lesson, he was usually thinking of violence, she knew.

“No, Travis—don't even think about that. You can’t kill a cop. If you do that, they’ll hunt you down, and nothing will save you from the lethal injection chamber.”

“Relax, baby,” he said. “I’m not talking about shooting some cop. I’m not stupid, you’ll remember. I know as well as anyone that when you kill one of their own, the police turn into a pack of wolves. Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot any cops.”

“Okay,” she said, though she wasn't completely sure she believed him. “Then what
are
you thinking?”

“We’re not going to kill Don,” Travis emphasized. “But we are going to throw him off our trail. And that will throw the rest of them off the trail, too.”

She laughed. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“Simple,” he said. Travis tapped his temple. “You see, I’m a lot smarter than you give me credit for. You said that that cop saw you, but the two of you never actually met. You never said, ‘Hey, I’m Lilith”, and he never said, ‘Hey, I’m Don’.”

“Right, right,” she said, motioning for him to continue.

“So all we have to do is set up a second date with someone else—someone who isn’t you. We’ll put together a cover story, tell that cop you were never even there, that you’re sorry for standing him up and all, but your mother was sick, or your dad died, or something like that.”

“Okay, but I’d still have to meet with him again in order for that to work. And then the police would nab me, and they’d put together the rest of the story.”

“You’re not listening, Jessie. The police won’t grab you, because you’re never going to go on that rain check date. You see? You’re not going to be Lilith. Someone else is going to be Lilith—someone who doesn't have any connection to those three men who so generously contributed to our island paradise fund. Then the police will either forget about the whole thing, or they’ll move on to someone else. Either way, you and me will be in the clear.

“Then we lay low for a while. Maybe we move over to Indiana, or maybe even go to Chicago. Who knows? We’ve got a little money left, and if we move to a fresh location, we can make some more. Ohio is spoilt for us. We’ve got to go, but first we need to throw that damn copper off our trail. We don’t want the cops looking for us. Because when the cops look for someone, they usually find them.”

After listening to Travis’s proposal, Jessica pointed out what she saw as the plan’s central flaw.

“That might work, baby. But if—and only if—we can find someone who will go on a date with that cop as Lilith.”

“Just leave it to me, baby. I know just the person.”

“Who?”

“Someone I know. You leave that part to me.”

“Okay. But here’s another thought: Why don't we simply take off?”

“Because that could ruin everything. They’ll put out one of those damned all-points bulletins, and they’ll be looking for you. Pretty soon, the word about what we’ve been doing will get out—and I mean, big time. The police will poison the well for us. And not just the local well, but the whole, big well. By the time they’re done, we’ll have to go all the way to Japan to find some willing fund contributors.”

Jessica chuckled at the term ‘fund contributors’—the moniker that Travis had recently assigned to Robert Billings, Harold Markey, Scott Green, and their future, as yet unknown targets.

Maybe Travis was right, Jessica decided. If the police became convinced that her alter ego was actually someone else—someone who was basically harmless—they wouldn't pursue the matter any further.

She and Travis would move to another city, like Travis had said. And they would build their tropical island fund. A bit more time and effort and careful planning, and she and Travis would be down on that beach, thanks to those men—the men whom Travis called the ‘fund contributors’.

Alan and Maribel were on their way back to Columbus, driving north on Interstate 71 in Alan’s Explorer. It was the Monday after Dave’s botched meeting with Lilith.

Maribel had expressed some skepticism over the particular lead that Alan had grabbed hold of. Although the younger detective didn't want to say so in so many words, it was clear to Alan that she believed he was grasping at straws.

“You aren’t sold on the significance of the shell logo, are you?” Alan asked.

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to,” he chided gently.

Maribel let out a long sigh. “Okay, if you really want my opinion.”

“I really want your opinion.”

“I think that it’s just another coincidence. There’s a gym up in Columbus that has a shell logo. The guy in the parking lot had a gym bag with a shell logo. I mean—how many businesses out there, in the state of Ohio alone, have shells as part of their corporate logos? It’s a pretty common theme, after all.”

“I agree,” Alan said. “There are a lot of coincidences out there, and many of them don’t mean anything. But when multiple coincidences start to stack up, it is usually going somewhere, in my experience.

“Consider the following: Lorelei Monroe’s photos showed up on one of the dating site profiles that was associated with Lilith’s activities in central Ohio. We ruled out Lorelei as a suspect of any level, but she works at a health club that has shell logos everywhere. Then there is a suspicious man in the parking lot of the Terrace View on the exact same night, at the exact same hour, that Dave had set up a meeting with Lilith. And he has a gym bag—a
gym bag
—that has a prominent shell logo. Don’t you agree that those are a lot of coincidences?”

“I see what you’re getting at,” Maribel said. But Alan couldn't be sure if she was simply humoring him. Both of his subordinates had been known to do that on occasion.

When they arrived at Shell Gym and Fitness, Lorelei was waiting for them near the entrance of the gym. This time they had called in advance, telling her that she was in no way a suspect, but that they would like to take a few more minutes of her time.
Yes, it was very important.
The answers to her questions might lead to the capture of a serial killer.

Lorelei ushered them back to her private office. “You two both remember the way, I assume,” she said.

When everyone was seated—Lorelei behind her desk and Alan and Maribel once again in the visitors’ chairs—the fitness instructor gave them a chilly smile. She seemed to be struggling with two conflicting emotions: the sincerity of a concerned citizen on one hand, and the resentment of a woman who had been figuratively frisked by the police on the other.

“I assume you verified the identity of my fiancé, Dr. Ryan Gaines,” Lorelei said, “though Ryan hasn't said anything about you contacting him.”

“We did verify his identity online,” Alan said. “And no, we haven’t contacted him. I don't foresee any reason why we would. As I mentioned over the phone this morning, Ms. Monroe, you have been ruled out as a suspect. You aren’t under investigation here.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, at least,” she said, with an equally chilly little laugh. “So tell me, then, what can I do for you?’

Alan explained the connection in overview: A potential suspect in the serial murder case had been seen in Cincinnati. The suspect had been holding a gym bag with a shell logo.

“Does this facility give out gym bags?” Alan asked.

“Oh yeah,” Lorelei said. “The owner sells them for only four bucks, sometimes less. Basically at cost, in other words. He regards them as free advertising.”

“You don’t happen to have one on hand, do you?”

“Do I ever!” Lorelei leaned over in her chair and reached for something on an unseen area of the floor. When she righted herself again, she was holding up an empty gym bag that bore the gym’s name and logo. The logo was a prominently stenciled blue shell.

“Okay,” Alan said, unsurprised. He had been expecting that much. “The next thing might be a little more difficult. Every health club keeps a members list, I believe. What I’m wondering is, does this health club have a membership database of any sort that includes photos? You see, we have a description of the suspect, and we’d like to see if we could cross-match his description to the photos of your members.”

Lorelei thought for a moment before answering. “I’m afraid it will be difficult to help you there. There is a list of the members, but it’s pretty low-tech. The owner keeps the names and other data in a big spreadsheet. He updates it each week and sends it out to the company that does the club’s billing.”

“But there are no photos? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure there are no photos.”

Alan sighed aloud. Lorelei hadn’t told them much so far that would allay Maribel’s skepticism. They had indeed established a tenuous connection to the fitness club, but establishing a connection to an actual person was going to be like looking for the proverbial needle in the proverbial haystack.

“And there’s more,” Lorelei said. “I mean—more that’s worse.”

“And what would that be?”

“The club does have regular paying members who are charged a fee each month—usually from a credit card or a bank account. However, the club also allows individuals to work out for a single day for a fee of five dollars. So even if the person you’re looking for has been here, there is maybe a fifty-fifty chance that he is a member.”

Alan gave that some thought: The odds were actually much less than fifty-fifty. There was a high probability that any man connected with Lilith wouldn't have opted for a regular membership. After all, Lilith had killed men in three cities now. Lilith moved around.

Assuming, of course, that all of Alan’s other assumptions added up. And despite his assertions about the unlikelihood of multiple coincidences, Alan knew that reality often defied the odds.

“Does the club have any security cameras?” Maribel asked.

“No. As I might have said, things are pretty low-tech around here.”

“Maybe you’ve seen him around, then,” Alan suggested. He repeated the description of the tall, good-looking man that Viktor Pudovkin had given him. “According to our witness, the suspect also has a vertical tattoo.”

Using his finger on his own neck, Alan traced the approximate length from below his ear to the top of his shoulder. “The witness couldn't be sure because of the distance and the dark, but the tattoo might have been an image of a section of barbed wire.”

At the mention of the barbed wire tattoo, Lorelei’s eyes seemed to light up. And then she frowned.

“What?” Alan prompted.

“There was a guy just like that in here,” Lorelei said. “Your initial description was kind of generic; but the barbed wire made me think of someone in particular.”

“Someone with whom you had some interaction?”

“Oh, yes,” Lorelei nodded. “He was a tall, good-looking guy, just like you say, and he had a tattoo like a piece of barbed wire, in the exact position that you describe. He asked me out, in kind of an obnoxious way. I told him no, though, first of all because of his attitude, but mostly because I’m engaged to Ryan—as you know.”

Lorelei seemed about ready to say more, and then thought better of it.

“What?” Maribel asked. “Give us any details you can remember, please. You never know what might be helpful down the road.”

“Well, this isn’t a detail so much as a feeling. This guy looked tough, you might say—but not in a good way.”

“If all of our suspicions about him are correct,” Alan said, “he isn’t tough in a good way at all. He could be a very dangerous man. Did you get his name?”

Lorelei shook her head. “Only his first name. Travis.”

“But no last name?” Maribel added hopefully.

“I had no reason to learn his last name at the time. Like I said, I really didn't want anything to do with him.”

“Was he a regular member?” Alan asked. “Or was he one of those pay-as-you go patrons?”

“I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

Alan allowed himself a few seconds to ponder their progress. They were back to needles in haystacks.

“Oh,” Lorelei said, having just thought of something. “But there is someone here who might know—he happens to be here right now, in fact, I think. Come with me, please.”

Lorelei stood, and Maribel and Alan followed suit. The fitness instructor led them out into the main workout area of the fitness club. There were a few good-natured shouts and even one wolf whistle. This time of day, the clientele was mostly male and mostly young.

She probably gets hit on about a dozen times a day here
, Alan thought, as he followed Lorelei through a maze of workout machines.

Lorelei stopped in the free weights area. This was where the serious muscle types worked out. This portion of the workout floor was dominated by four bench presses, racks of iron dumbbells, and numerous stacks of barbell plates.

Lorelei hailed a young man who might have been twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old. He had longish dark brown hair, and the sort of muscled physique that only comes with serious weightlifting. The man was standing beside a bench press that had been loaded with a barbell containing what looked like a ton of weight. He seemed to be resting between sets on the bench press. At his feet was a gym bag—not a Shell Gym & Fitness gym bag, but a bag bearing the logo of the more widely known Gold’s Gym. The bag was stuffed with miscellaneous workout gear, as well as a protruding shaker bottle that contained an unknown red liquid.

When he saw Lorelei, he smiled. Then he did a double take and noticed Alan and Maribel.

“This is John Carlucci,” Lorelei said. “He might know Travis’s last name. You remember Travis, right, John?”

“Do I ever!” Carlucci shot back. “Guy took off with fifty bucks he owed me.”

Maribel and Alan introduced themselves as detectives of the ODCI, and Carlucci was suitably impressed. They began questioning the young man. He was cooperative enough, but clearly he was not accustomed to getting to the point. Several times Alan and Maribel had to pull him back from meandering segues.

Carlucci possessed little real knowledge about the man who had asked Lorelei out in a way that offended her, the man who had possibly been seen in the parking lot of the Terrace View last Saturday night in Cincinnati. The two men had developed a casual friendship while working out with weights. John didn't know much about Travis’s background.

But he did know his last name.

“Travis Hall,” Carlucci said. “Or at least that’s the name he gave me.”

“What made you ask for his last name?” Maribel asked.

“The guy wanted to borrow fifty bucks. That isn’t all the money in the world, you know, but it’s not nothing, either. So—since I didn't know him very well, I made him sign an IOU.”

“Do you still have the IOU?” Alan asked.

“I sure do.” Carlucci knelt and began digging through his gym bag. He finally located a small, crumpled piece of paper, like the kind torn from a notepad. He stood and handed the paper to Alan.

The paper bore a handwritten statement obligating Travis Hall to repay the amount of fifty dollars to John Carlucci within one week. The date for repayment was two months ago. It was written in the awkward, imitation legalese that one might expect of young men who had no real experience with formal contracts. At the bottom of the paper, the name “Travis Hall’ was crudely scrawled.

“Is this all Travis Hall’s handwriting?” Alan asked.

“Naw. I wrote out the IOU and made him sign it. My mom says I should be a lawyer, you know. Well, maybe someday. I’ve got to get my undergrad degree first. Does this make a pretty good contract?”

“You did a fine job,” Alan replied simply. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Travis recently.”

“Hell, no. Like I said—he took off practically the day after I gave him the money. Haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“Is it okay if we take this?” Alan asked, referring to the wrinkled IOU in his hands. “It might come in handy in our investigation, and something tells me that it isn’t going to do you much good.”

“Be my guest,” Carlucci said.

“Okay, thank you, Mr. Carlucci. You’ve been very helpful.” Alan turned to Lorelei. Thank you for your time and assistance once again, Ms. Monroe. Hopefully this will lead us somewhere.”

He paused and handed out his business cards to Carlucci and Lorelei, even though Lorelei had already been given one.

“If Travis Hall shows up here again, or if either of you sees or hears from him again, call me at this number immediately. Do not talk to him any more than is absolutely necessary; and above all, don’t mention any of this or attempt to confront him.”

They both nodded. Alan took down John Carlucci’s cell phone number, just in case there were additional questions about the man who had skipped out on his IOU. There was another round of thank yous, and Alan and Maribel made their exit.

As they were headed out the main entrance of the gym, Carlucci called out:

“Hey, detectives! If you catch up with Travis Hall, try to get him to fork over my fifty bucks, please!”