The Dead Room (38 page)

Teddy wasn’t angry that the detectives or even Powell hadn’t bought his story at face value. They were acting on hunches, but grounded in the methodical world of what they could see and touch with their own eyes and hands. And the situation was delicate. Tedious. Edward Trisco had attacked Teddy and was the prime suspect in the disappearance of Rosemary Gibb and the tortured murder of Harris Carmichael. Although there was good reason to believe Trisco was involved in the murders of Darlene Lewis and the others, Teddy hadn’t given them anything tangible to work with. There wasn’t a hard link, a piece of physical evidence, threading its way between Trisco and the serial murders. Not yet anyway.

Still, there was a certain thrill to the investigation now. And Teddy had to admit that he was surprised by their reaction to his story and how far he’d gotten. Even when he recounted firing the shotgun into Trisco’s car at point-blank range, they seemed more excited than phased.

“That was close,” was all Vega said. “He went at you with the knife. I might’ve done the same fucking thing.”

Powell was speechless and just looked at him with those eyes of hers.

They parked beside a Mercedes and got out of the car. Teddy followed Vega and Powell up the steps, leaving his ripped up jacket behind. The feel of the place and deep sound of the bell reminded him of an old black-and-white film from the 1930s. A place entrenched in the past. When Trisco’s mother answered the door herself, the whole thing seemed too up close, even strange. He knew it was Trisco’s mother. In spite of the gray hair, there was a harshness to her face that she’d passed on to her son. The same hollow eyes.

Vega flipped open his badge. “Mrs. Trisco?”

She was staring at it. She was stunned, but trying not to show it.

“Yes,” she said with hesitation.

“We’re investigating a missing persons case. We’re hoping you might be able to help. We’re trying to locate your son.”

“Do you have a warrant?” she asked Vega as if offering him more tea.

Vega smiled politely. “No, ma’am, I don’t. But I can get one if you like in about half an hour. Unfortunately, my cell phone’s dead. I’ll have to call it in over the radio. Every newsroom in the city will be listening.”

Her eyes flipped up from the badge and stayed on his face. After a while, she looked at Powell, then settled on Teddy.

“Who are these nice people?” she asked Vega.

“Attorneys. Carolyn Powell from the district attorney’s office, and Teddy Mack.”

She looked them over, considering her options. Then she stepped aside finally and let them in.

It wasn’t a house or a building. It was a museum. Mrs. Trisco showed them down the long hallway, pressing forward in short, choppy steps as if marching in a military parade behind a tank. Her posture was agonizingly perfect, her back as stiff and straight as a flagpole. Teddy glanced at the rooms they were passing—the staircase, the ornate moldings he knew were hand carved, the oriental carpets lining the floors, the furniture that must have been in the family’s possession for more than a hundred years, the art collection from the nineteenth century, mostly religious and each painting worth more than he could hope to earn in his entire career. The place was dark, the smell of fresh wax in the air. Small lamps lit the way. When he saw the array of Sterling silver pieces filling out the shadows, his eyes rolled over the room searching for a collection of antique shot glasses like the one he’d found the night Barnett had been run over. He didn’t see any, but gave Powell a nudge. She took the silver in and nodded.

They finally reached the end of the hall and stepped into a large sitting room off the rear terrace of the house. It was brighter here, the furniture more modern. Windows lined the wall from floor to ceiling in one-foot squares set in iron frames. French doors with polished brass handles led outside, and Teddy could see an Olympic-sized swimming pool beyond the stone wall of the terrace just this side of the tennis courts. Mrs. Trisco asked them to sit down, then excused herself. It was more of an order than a request. She wouldn’t speak to them without her husband, she said. Vega nodded, flashed an affable smile at her and didn’t seem to mind. When she left the room, the detective raised his brow and grimaced.

But they didn’t sit down.

The stern-looking woman was demonstrating her knowledge in her very being, Teddy figured. No one would act this way if they were ignorant of the situation. She knew exactly why they were here.

A door was cracked open beside the fireplace. Teddy watched Vega give it a slight push with his elbow and moved closer. The room gave way to a short set of steps leading down to an outside door on the back of the house. Boxes were stacked along the wall. Through the window they could see a van parked in the driveway. A man got behind the wheel and drove off. Teddy looked at the floor, noting it was wet from melting snow.

“It’s a little early for deliveries,” Powell said.

Vega nodded. “Maybe their carting the stuff away,” he said. “Maybe we’re interrupting something.”

They traded looks. As Vega closed the door, Teddy noticed a picture on the mantel. It was a photograph of Edward as a young boy sitting on the lawn with his dog. The dog was a mutt and wore a plaster cast on its front leg. Little Edward spawned an off-balance smile and must have been ten years old at the time. He wore shorts and sneakers and a polo shirt. He looked angry and vicious, even then.

Twenty minutes passed before they heard footsteps in the hall. When they entered, Teddy looked at Trisco’s father and knew his termination notice from the firm of Barnett & Stokes was in the mail. It was the same man he’d seen in Larry Stokes’s office. The old man who sat on the couch behind his back and listened to Stokes deliver his bullshit lecture on toeing the company line. Obviously, Teddy hadn’t followed instructions. Trisco’s father either knew Stokes or threw business his way in order to have some degree of influence over him. From the grim expression on the old man’s face, Teddy suspected the latter. The man had the look of a reptile.

But there was a younger man with them as well. One with bigger teeth whom Teddy guessed would be doing all the talking. He wore an expensive suit, appeared meticulously groomed, and approached Vega with an outstretched hand and well-practiced smile. He introduced himself as Rick Colestone. The Trisco’s had waited the twenty minutes out until one of their lawyers arrived.

“The Trisco’s haven’t heard from their son for several years,” Colestone said matter-of-factly. “They’re deeply concerned about his whereabouts and will do anything in their power to help.”

That’s why they called you, Teddy thought. Because of their great concern and power and willingness to help. He looked at the Triscos, saw their wooden faces, and noticed no one was making a move to sit down. Colestone’s job was to deliver his prepared statement, and get them out of the house as pleasantly as he could.

Vega narrowed his eyes and appeared undaunted. “We have reason to believe Edward may have information that would shed some light on a missing persons investigation.”

“But you’re from homicide,” Colestone said. “You’re the lead investigator in the Holmes case. What’s your interest in a missing person?”

“The witness who saw Edward leave with the girl used to manage a café. Now he’s in the morgue.”

If the goal was to shake up Trisco’s parents, Vega succeeded. Teddy watched them take the jolt, and noticed beads of sweat forming along the attorney’s hairline. Vega had played it perfectly. He’d given them the big picture without saying it. They were looking for Edward because he was a suspect in the murders of twelve women. Harris Carmichael made it thirteen. Rosemary Gibb, they hoped, would still be alive when they found her. It had to remain unsaid. Because of the district attorney, because of Holmes’s confession, Vega had to stir things up carefully. Paint the context in a light wash with watercolors, rather than define it in oils. He was a pro.

“If you’re referring to Edward’s medical history,” Colestone said, “or anything he might have done in the past, let me tell you that the boy was released from the Haverhills facility with a clean bill of health.”

“So I’ve heard,” Vega said. “I haven’t had a chance to pay them a visit, but I understand the Trisco family is responsible for funding the hospital’s new wing and it’s open now.”

Colestone blinked, then caught himself. Obviously, his clients had failed to give him a full briefing.

“The Trisco family has interests in many charitable endeavors,” the attorney said. “Now I think it’s time for you good people to leave.”

They started for the door. Teddy caught Trisco’s father staring at him.

“What happened to the dog?” Teddy said.

The old man’s eyes widened a little. He appeared confused by the question and very irritated. Teddy smiled and pointed at the photograph in the Sterling silver frame on the mantel. When the man saw it, his withered cheeks twitched.

“The dog’s got a broken leg,” Teddy said. “What happened to him?”

“He died,” the old man said through his teeth.

Teddy ignored the man’s fury. He knew his job was lost the moment they’d walked into the room. If the old man had asked for Stokes’s phone number, he would’ve given it to him.

“How did he die?” Teddy asked.

The old man showed his fangs. “Someone fed him rat poison,” he said.

SIXTY

Eddie jabbed the hypodermic needle into his thigh, let out a moan, then pushed the morphine into his leg. The right side of his body was throbbing from head to toe. He checked his watch, calculating that it would take ten to twenty minutes before the pain slipped away.

As he got up off the seat of the john, his image raked across the bathroom mirror and he set the needle down. His face looked like an etching in cuts and scratches. When the kid with gusto fired the shotgun into the car, glass sprayed forward and bounced off the windshield into his face. He’d had enough sense to cover his eyes. He hadn’t been blinded. Still, the experience and pain that went with it was harrowing enough to spawn a series of nightmares. Last night he dreamed he was a beekeeper without a mask. As he collected honey from the nest on orders from his mother, the bees swarmed his face and began stinging him. There were hundreds of them. Thousands of them, clinging to his face in a mask three inches thick. He woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air and swatting at the insects until he remembered the shattered glass. It was the shards of glass that had disfigured him. The kid with gusto who had transformed his appearance and made him stand out.

He stepped into the bedroom and opened the closet door. As he got dressed, he could hear Rosemary start up again from the basement. He thought she might be hungry. But maybe it was more than that. Since he’d seen the angel painting in the barn, he hadn’t been able to look at Rosemary or get any work done. There was the chance he’d made a horrible mistake with his painting, wasted the entire fucking year on the wrong fucking face. How could he break through and become famous when he’d painted the wrong type of woman? Rosemary wasn’t an angel. None of them had been. Eddie shook it off. He’d deal with it when the pain went away. Try to look at his painting from a fresh perspective and decide if his life was ruined or not.

He walked downstairs into the kitchen, opened the door to the pantry and reached for another can of Chef Boyardee ravioli. Then he descended the stairs into the basement, entering the workroom and listening to his model rant and rave. He unlocked the bathroom door and switched on the light. She was sprawled out on the concrete floor, staring back at him with wild eyes. The house dress he’d given her was partially open and made her look like a whore. She was beginning to smell and needed a shower as well.

“Here,” he said, offering her the ravioli.

“I’m tired of eating out of cans,” she said. “I hate ravioli.”

Eddie looked at the two cans on the floor and realized she hadn’t finished either one of them.

“People are starving, you know. When someone offers you food, you should be more grateful and not waste it.”

“Fuck you,” she said. “And fuck your stupid painting.”

She stood up on her bare feet. She was grinding her teeth and moving closer with her hands behind her back. Eddie had lost count and didn’t see it coming—a third can of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli flying through the air. Rosemary swung it forward and crashed it over his forehead. The blow knocked him against the doorjamb. He felt her pushing him aside, and saw her streak by and bolt out the door.

She wasn’t an angel. She was an ungrateful bitch.

He tried to shake the dizziness away and sprinted forward, catching up with her on the stairs. He was right behind her, grabbing at the dress with his fingers and pawing at her legs. Rosemary burst into the kitchen, swung the door back and forth, banging him on the head again. Then she yelped and fled away. Eddie chased her into the living room, pulling her off the front door as she fumbled with the locks. She was squirming in his arms, twisting out of his hands, driving her elbows into his stomach and searching for his balls. When she pulled away and raced up the steps to the second floor, Eddie decided he’d had it. He climbed the stairs, slower this time because of the pain in his leg. The wound had opened again. He could see the bloodstain blooming all over his clean pants. And then he heard her shriek.