Open Season (29 page)

“Maybe that’s because you don’t know how to ask the right questions.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, black, cylindrical object. It clicked sharply in his hand, and a thin, tapered blade sprang into view, glinting in the half-light. “Or maybe your methods are ineffective.”

Haffner started to squirm on his bed. “Who the hell are you, man?”

“I’m here to collect all the answers you weren’t going to give these gentlemen.”

“What do I get out of it?” Haffner’s voice didn’t carry much conviction.

“Nothing.”

“We were looking for a drug dealer. The one who sold Bill Davis his junk,” I interrupted.

“Why?”

“Why not? It might give us something. It was a long shot.”

“Not a hot lead, huh?”

“Not with him. He was our first stop of the day.”

Ski Mask turned his back to me. “That right, Ted?”

“Yeah. I know nothin’ about nothin’.”

I heard Ski Mask chuckle. He grabbed one of Haffner’s hands and placed the point of his knife at the hollow of his arm, on the inside of the elbow. “Have you ever carved a chicken, Ted?”

Haffner’s eyes were huge and white against his grimy face. “Sure.”

“You know how you’ve got to get your knife right into the joint to cut off the drumstick?”

Haffner didn’t answer.

“It’s a good thing the bird’s dead, because that little maneuver hurts like hell.” He applied a little pressure. Haffner let out a small noise and a single drop of blood appeared at the knife’s point.

“Jesus, man. What do you want?”

“I want the simple truth. What were they asking you?”

I spoke up again. “What I told you was the truth. You’re going over the edge.” My hope in the backup car was fading fast.

He didn’t even look at me. He just pushed the knife a little harder. Haffner whimpered. Ski Mask’s voice was absolutely flat. “Joe, every time you interrupt, I’ll stick him a little harder.” He shifted his weight slightly. “Now, what were they asking you?”

“They wanted to know who bought the junk that ended up at that nigger’s place.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“I’ve done this before, Ted. The pain is like nothing you’ve ever known.”

“I swear to God; I really do. I got no reason to lie to you. I don’t know who bought the stuff. It wasn’t someone anybody knew. It was a one-shot deal. No one ever saw the guy again—honest.”

“Then who sold it?”

Haffner’s face was shining with sweat. It was dripping off his chin. His breath began to come in quick gasps. “Oh, Christ, what was his name?”

Ski Mask’s arm moved ever so slightly. “No, no, stop, please. Wait—I remember. It was Hill. Lew Hill. Lewis Hill.”

“Where does he live?”

“Now? I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. People move around a lot down there.”

“Where? Where did he live, last you knew?”

“Near the old organ warehouse, on Birge.”

“What’s the address?”

“Jesus, the address. I don’t know. Who knows addresses? It’s a big place, near the turn-off to the bridge. They call it the Misery Hilton. People know it around there; just ask. I’m sorry, I don’t know the number.” He was weeping now; the sweat and saliva sprayed from his lips as he spoke. His entire body was trembling.

Ski Mask let him go and withdrew the knife. Haffner suddenly closed his eyes hard. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, and then everything ceased. A final breath of air escaped from between his lips, causing a line of bubbles to drip down his chin.

Ski Mask placed a finger alongside the carotid artery, paused for a moment, and then stood up. He carefully replaced the knife in his pocket. “Heart attack, I would guess.”

Kunkle and I watched in stunned silence as he left. We heard him walk to the front door and slam it behind him. Then all was quiet, and we watched the sweat dry on Haffner’s face.

KUNKLE AND I WERE UNCOUPLED
a full hour and a half later by two very sheepish plainclothes patrolmen who had been cooling their heels at the entrance of the trailer park, watching for a man who had apparently come and gone at his leisure. Kunkle’s fury was such that it rendered him speechless, a fact for which I, and certainly the other two, were extremely grateful.

All personnel—every patrolman and detective—were sent out to find Hill before Ski Mask did, and I later felt that if there was a God, he displayed his mercy by allowing Kunkle to come up the winner. Hill was located two hours later in the back room of Login’s Cafe, bracing himself for the day ahead with a half bottle of scotch. As it turned out, he needed all the numbing he could get—he was already the worse for wear by the time Kunkle dragged him through our doors.

I raised my eyebrows at the spreading blue and red bruise on the dazed man’s cheekbone.

“He resisted,” Kunkle muttered and shook Hill by the collar as if to show the fight was still undecided.

It seemed to me Kunkle’s grip was the only thing keeping Hill on his feet. He rolled his eyes and whined, “Resisted, hell. I didn’t even know who the son of a bitch was. I ought to sue somebody.”

I walked with both of them downstairs to the holding cells. “Consider yourself lucky to be alive. The reason you’re here is because somebody is out to kill you.”

Hill twisted around to stare at me. “Who?”

“You remember Ted Haffner?”

“Haffner? Give me a break. He can’t even get out of bed.”

“I won’t argue with that. He died two hours ago, right after he put the finger on you.”

“What the hell did I do?”

Kunkle shoved him into a cell and slammed the door shut. The metallic crash reverberated off the concrete walls. Kunkle hit the switch of a flood lamp for the closed-circuit surveillance camera aimed at the cell. Hill shrank under the effect. His voice was little more than a murmur. “What are you guys talking about?”

“We’ll be back.”

We returned upstairs. I asked Kunkle to start filling out the report on this morning, and then I called Dunn’s office to request the immediate presence of one of his people. I finally went into Brandt’s office.

He was on the phone, listening. He motioned to me to sit. After a couple of minutes, he said, “Thanks. I’ll get back to you,” and hung up. He tilted back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

“We’ve got Hill downstairs.”

“Has he said anything?”

“I haven’t asked. I thought you and someone from Dunn’s office might like to listen in. Kunkle smacked him around a little—claimed resistance.”

Brandt shook his head slightly. “What was your assessment of Ski Mask this morning?”

“Mid-forties, athletic, very precise and under control, cold as ice. He’s a fast-moving son of a bitch, I’ll give him that, and I would guess he has a military background, or at least that kind of training. And,” I added, “he doesn’t have an accent.”

Brandt gave me an odd look. “Did he kill that man?”

“No. He didn’t help him along any. He certainly abused him—tortured him might be better—but Haffner died just a tad before his natural time, maybe a full half hour, the way he looked when we found him.”

There was a knock on the door and an assistant state’s attorney named Powers stuck his head in. “You rang, Sahib?”

Brandt stood up. “Let’s find out what Mr. Hill has to say.”

On the way down, I told Maxine to get Kunkle. I didn’t want his nose any further out of joint. It took him thirty seconds to join us in the basement.

Hill was leaning with his forearms through the bars of his cell full of renewed self-confidence. “What’s this bullshit about some guy trying to ice me?”

“He hasn’t tried yet. When he does, he’ll probably succeed. He seems very good in that department.”

“Who is he?”

“We don’t know. We’re calling him Ski Mask for now.”

“Hey, I’ve been reading about him. What would he want with me?”

“Three years ago you sold some smack in a one-shot deal that ended up in the apartment of the black guy we nailed for Kimberly Harris’s murder. Do you remember that?”

Hill’s eyes rested warily on me. “I remember the murder.”

I pointed to Powers. “He represents the state’s attorney and is here to assure you total immunity for anything that might be said today, right?” Powers dutifully nodded.

“So, you’re not under arrest, and we don’t want you for the deal or for anything else. We’re only after information. If you want a lawyer for some reason, be my guest, but understand that the only reason you’re in here is for your health. If you want to leave, you may leave.”

He smiled and looked at the bars before him. I gestured to Kunkle to turn the lock.

“Satisfied?”

He pushed the door open but then settled on the cell bunk with his legs crossed and his hands behind his head, feeling cocky. “What makes you think I had anything to do with that deal? It’s not like you can trace a serial number.”

“You were Haffner’s dying words. And you people have your trademarks—word gets around.”

He thought for a minute. “What’s this Ski Mask after?”

“We don’t know for sure,” I said. “We thought he might be a buddy of Davis’s—the black guy in jail—but he’s obviously connected to the girl who was killed, possibly the father of her unborn child. Whatever he is, he’s a nasty son of a bitch. He tortured Haffner.”

“To death?”

“He’s dead all right.” I saw no reason to belittle the impression.

Hill dropped his feet to the floor and rose to a sitting position. “It was a long time ago.”

Brandt smiled. “Haffner remembered—with a little help. You tell us what we want to know, and we’ll be able to spare you the same kind of help. If not, you’re on your own.”

“I’m on my own anyway. You guys obviously weren’t too useful to Ted. I’ll take my own chances.”

I turned off the floodlight. “It’s a free country, as they say. What about the deal?”

Hill rose and walked out of the cell. “I sold the stuff. I don’t know who to, though. He kept his face covered and whispered a lot—pretty corny.”

“Was there anything else about him? Young, old, tall, short—stuff like that?”

“Hard to tell, you know? It was at night, just for a couple of minutes, and he was wearing a shitload of clothes. He must have been sweating like a pig.” There was something in his eyes—a great sense of enjoyment. He knew what we were after.

I tried to indulge him. “Do we have to ask for your theory on why he was wearing so many clothes?”

His pleasure burst forth. He grinned broadly. “Could have been the hunchback.”

Kunkle muttered, “You asshole.”

I held up my hand. “You sure it was a hump? It might have been a disguise.”

“No, no. I’m sure. I mean, this guy freaked me out. He was so weird, you know? I couldn’t resist it. After we did the deal and he started to leave, I slapped him on the back, real friendly, just to check it out. He wasn’t too pleased, but it was a real hump, all right. I felt it.” He shook his head and chuckled. “That one really made the rounds.”

He started for the stairs.

“You leaving?”

“Yup.”

“You may not live through the day.”

He smiled again, but this time I sensed little pleasure. “Yeah, well, the story of my life. Stay out of trouble, guys.”

We listened to his footsteps. When he reached the top, I turned to Kunkle. “Follow him. As soon as he settles down, call in and we’ll send reinforcements. If we’re lucky, we’ll keep him alive and grab Ski Mask at the same time.”

Kunkle left. Powers took the hint and followed suit after I thanked him for coming over. Brandt pulled out his pipe and began filling it. “You think Ski Mask’ll bite?”

“I’m hoping for anything; he’s under more pressure now. Maybe the best we can shoot for is just to keep them apart. The longer Ski Mask doesn’t know about the hump, the better.”

“You think this guy is still running around looking like Quasimodo?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Why don’t you call Danvers back and tell him to contact his DEA connection. It looks like we can rule out the short-term, low-dosage prednisone prescriptions—maybe that’ll speed things up a bit.” I hesitated before resuming. What I was about to say represented a major hurdle I wasn’t sure Brandt would be willing to take.

“I also think it’s time to bring in the state police.”

He busied himself lighting the pipe and setting up a smoke screen that totally obliterated his face. I’d never thought of pipes being that strategically handy.

When the smog cleared, I saw him nod his head impassively. “How do you want to use them?”

“Mostly to back up Kunkle. We could use them other places too, though.”

“Like where?”

“Like putting more pressure on Ski Mask. So far, we’ve been combing the motels and increasing patrols and talking to damn near everybody over the age of six, but he’s still been able to sit and watch, and to pop up at will. Kunkle suggested putting tails on some of us, trying to either catch him or dissuade him. It didn’t work this morning, but it was a good idea. Also, if the DEA comes through with a huge list, we’ll have that paper trail to track. The backlog of our normal work is starting to strain every desk in the department. We just need more help, period—for everything.”

Brandt nodded again. “All right, I’ll see what I can do. I might start with the sheriff ’s department, though.”

“All right. Sheriff ’s men for the noncombat stuff and state troopers to help cover Lew Hill.”

He took the pipe from his mouth and looked at me. “He really has you worked up, doesn’t he?”

“You didn’t see him with Haffner. This bastard’s a real number—a man who loves his work.”

Brandt nodded a third time. “I’ll make some phone calls.”

He led the way upstairs. At the top, looking his usual bird-dog best, was Stan Katz.

“Conspiring in the basement?”

“Be nice, Stanley. We might be nice back.”

Brandt shot me a questioning look.

“Oh?” said Katz.

“Yeah. Give me a few minutes and I’ll let you know.”

“What about the dope dealer being killed in his trailer this morning? Is is true you and Kunkle were witnesses?”

“It was a heart attack, Stan, and just hold your horses. I’ll be right back.”