The Demon Pool (14 page)

Global Positioning software allowed Jim to navigate
quickly and easily to Bruce York’s home in Tampa. As far as technology went,
GPS turned out to be the next best thing to dash-cams.

Turning into a cul-de-sac, he looked closely at
each house as he cruised past well-manicured lawns. Although the GPS would
announce his arrival at Bruce York’s house, the old habit of watching address
numbers died hard. Driving through the upper-middle-class neighborhood, he saw
no tacky pink flamingos, no patches of brown grass. Just lush green lawns,
well-tended flowers, and healthy trees and shrubs. A middle-management oasis in
a mostly working-class city.

The majority of the driveways were empty, the
automobiles still either at work or hidden away from the hot Florida sun in
two- and three-car garages. But Jim did see the occasional Lexus, Acura, or big
SUV parked in a driveway, adding to the impression of upper-middle-class
success.

Jim arrived at Bruce York’s house near the end of
the cul-de-sac. The Viper was not in sight, but a late-model, blue Acura sat in
the driveway. Jim shut down the Charger, grabbed his campaign hat and made his
way up the drive, past the Acura.

A portico thrust out from the front of the house,
held up by two square columns. Jim stepped beneath its cover and rang the
doorbell. He waited a few moments and rang it again. The door opened, revealing
a heavyset man of medium height who looked to be in his fifties.

“Mr. York?”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. York, I’m Corporal Jim Demore.”

Bruce York looked distracted and unkempt. Not
exactly what Jim expected in this nicely kept neighborhood. York was
half-a-head shorter, and his hair looked thin and permanently unmanageable. Why
would a guy like this have a Viper?
Midlife crisis?

“You’re the officer who called me?”

“I did.”

Something about York seemed off. Not necessarily
dangerous. Just not quite right.

“I only need a few minutes, Mr. York,” Jim
reassured him.

Bruce opened the door wider.

“I have a visitor.”

“A couple of questions, Mr. York. That’s all.”

Jim kept himself relaxed, ready. His internal
radar clicked along unconsciously, searching for threats.

Bruce stepped back and opened the door. Cool air
from inside the house touched Jim’s face and hands. He stepped into a
medium-size foyer. The interior of the house was open, with ample sunlight that
made the house seem as bright as Bruce York seemed dull. Bruce closed the door
behind them.

“I don’t have much time,” Bruce said.

Jim glanced around. The foyer opened to a
spacious living room. The furniture was contemporary, bordering on minimalist.
The room looked thirty-something hipster and gave the impression of an
expensive professional design.

“I don’t think this will take long, Mr. York.”
Unless,
of course, you lie to me.

“DMV tells me you’re the owner of a red and black
Dodge Viper. Is that correct?”

“I don’t drive it all that much. I have another
car.”

“The Acura?”

“Acura? No, no. That belongs to my friend. She’s
swimming.”

Bruce pushed his glasses back up his nose.

“I have a pool. In the back.”

“That’s nice, Mr. York. You didn’t take that
Viper down toward Naples, a week ago Wednesday, did you?”

Jim found himself glancing toward the patio doors
at the far side of the living room. He saw the corner of a pool through the
glass doors.

“No, no,” Bruce said. “I haven’t had the Viper
out in a couple of weeks.”

“When was the last time you drove the Viper, Mr.
York.”

“A couple of weeks ago, I think. I took my friend
for a ride. On a Saturday.”

“And have you ever let your friend or anyone else
borrow the car?”

“Ah, no. I don’t let anyone else drive it.
Insurance. You know.”

Bruce’s face scrunched up as he talked. His eyes
darted left away from Jim’s, then back again.

“Nope, nobody drives the Viper. Only me. You said
you wanted to see it?”

Jim glanced toward the patio doors again. The
water in the visible corner of the pool looked calm. No sign of swimming.

“Where do you work, Mr. York.”

Bruce seemed calm, but behind his glasses, his
eyes blinked rapidly.

“MacDill. For the federal government. GSA.
General Services Administration.”

Jim reached up and removed a small notebook and a
pen from his shirt pocket. He scribbled a couple of notes.

“I’ll need your work phone number.”

Bruce managed to spit out a series of numbers.
Little beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“The Viper is in the garage,” he half-mumbled.
“We can go through the kitchen.”

Bruce led the way into the kitchen. As Jim
followed, the patio door slid open. Jim stopped, turned, and waited. He rested
his hand on the top of his holster as a young woman came into the house. She
wore a light pink, velour body wrap that stopped well above her knees, and red
macramé leather sandals. Her left hand held a couple of pink strips of cloth
that Jim could only assume were her swimsuit. The way she carried herself
radiated confidence. Maybe even a touch of arrogance. He had only glimpsed the
woman in Ft. Myers, but York’s lady friend put him on alert. Could be the same
woman. Maybe.

“Ma’am,” Jim said, greeting her.

The woman looked directly at Jim, but said
nothing.

“Would you mind having a seat?” Jim told her.
More of a command than a question.

She smiled and walked over to the sofa. When she
sat, the body wrap crawled up, barely covering her crotch. She looked to be in
her early twenties, and she moved with a graceful athleticism, like she might
be a fitness athlete, or possibly a dancer. Maybe even both. She slowly crossed
her legs toward Jim and let the little pieces of pink cloth drop onto the
cushion next to her.

“If you think you need to search me, officer,”
her voice was playful. “There’s nothing under the wrap. Except me.”

Jim refused to be flustered.

“Ma’am, I just need to see some identification.”

“It’s in the guest room. With my clothes.”

She gestured toward an open door off the living
room. Jim turned back toward Bruce, who stood frozen in the kitchen. He had
opened the door to the garage, but had stopped when Jim stopped.

“I need to check your guest room,” Jim told
Bruce, “For everyone’s safety.”

Bruce nodded stupidly, still holding the door to
the garage partly open. Still blinking.

Jim made his way past the living room furniture
and pushed open the door to the guest room. The room was surprisingly large.
The furniture looked new and expensive, and designed to give the room a
tropical feel. Jim saw the pool through a pair of patio doors at the far end of
the room.

He stepped inside and removed his pistol from its
holster. A closed door stood to his right. Moving to one side, he turned the
knob and flung it open. It was a small walk-in closet. Two terry cloth robes
hung on one side. Other than that, the closet was empty.

He closed the door, holstered his weapon, and
surveyed the room again. A yellow, halter style, mini-sundress rested neatly on
the bed. Beside it was a small, matching yellow tote bag. He removed his pen
from his pocket and used it to push the sides of the tote apart. The bag
contained a wallet, makeup, and surprisingly, a couple of candles. Nothing he
would call dangerous. He left the tote on the bed and returned to the living
room.

“Looks like you’re prepared for hurricane
season.”

Kat looked at Jim quizzically.

“Hurricane season?” She asked.

“The candles in your bag. That is your bag on the
bed?”

“I didn’t realize that checking the room meant
going through my personal things, officer.”

“It was in plain sight, ma’am. I’m just trying
not to get myself shot. Fortunately, I don’t think your candles are loaded.”

As silly as it sounded, Jim could not resist.

“Oh, they’re loaded, officer. Just not in the way
you’re talking about.”

Kat smiled. Her eyes gave that I-know-a-secret
little girl look.

Jim watched Kat uncross her legs. She leaned
forward toward him. Her breasts pushed at the body wrap.

“You’re right, officer. They do look like regular
candles, but they’re not. They’re special candles. For working magick. You
believe in magick don’t you, officer?”

Jim looked at Kat. Her eyes had that same weird
look Martha St. Onge gave. Now, certain that she was the woman in Naples,
without any proof, he was just as certain that Bruce had been lying to him. He
blinked and broke eye contact. He always looked suspects in the eye, but this
time he avoided looking directly into Kat’s eyes. He also ignored her question.

“Ms. Connors, would you mind getting your
identification for me?”

Kat grabbed the little pieces of pink cloth and
stood, managing to maintain a minimal degree of modesty.

“Do you mind if I change while I’m in there?”

“No ma’am. I’ll wait right here.”

Kat walked around the sofa, past Jim, and went into
the guest room, closing the door half way as she passed through. Jim tried to
keep his eyes away from the door while Kat changed, but found himself
justifying his need to peek with the thought that it might not be safe to let
Ms. Connors completely out of his sight.

Baalzaric knew that Trooper Demore was sneaking glances
toward the guest room while Kat dressed. When it came to beautiful women,
Baalzaric’s experience told him that all men, at least those who were not
homosexual, or eunuchs, were weak and frequently stupid.

Kat removed the wrap and reached for the yellow
sundress. She had moved over enough for Demore to see her through the half-open
door. She glanced back and saw him looking at her naked body.

Baalzaric watched Demore’s face turn red when he
realized that Kat had caught him peeking. Demore glanced away but he had
revealed a weakness. A tiny lapse of discipline. A lapse that Baalzaric would
not forget. A lapse that Baalzaric would gladly exploit if necessary. Trooper
Demore would never complete his investigation, Baalzaric would see to that.

***

Kat came out of the guest room dressed in the yellow
mini-sundress and a pair of matching, yellow, low-heeled sandals. She held her
driver’s license up for Jim to see, but did not offer it to him, forcing him to
step in close to take it from her hand. In the air-conditioned room, he felt
the warmth emanating from her sun-soaked body.

The license gave her name as Kat Connors. The
picture showed a younger version of the woman standing in front of him. Jim
reached for his notebook and pen, careful not to brush against her. Kat stood
still, inches from him. A game of sexual “chicken.” Nevertheless, he did not
step back. He took the driver’s license and copied the information. He kept his
voice level and controlled.

“Ms. Connors, are you employed?”

“Yes,” she said.

She took a deep breath, causing her breasts to
swell toward Jim, intensifying the little game and further reducing the space
between them.

“And where do you work?”

She leaned in slightly. The distance between Jim
and the yellow material holding her breasts shrunk to millimeters.

“I dance at a club near the Air Force base. The
Midnight Oasis. Ever been there, officer?”

Jim shook his head, made a note of the
information and held up her driver’s license. If she took another deep breath,
her breasts would touch his chest. Jim had experience with these sexual games,
just none playing them with a person of interest in a vehicular homicide. 

Kat slid her arm up to take the license back. She
caught Jim’s eyes. Before he could break eye contact, an electric shock went
through his body, and her eyes drew him in with a kaleidoscope of shifting
colors. Instead of taking back the license, she cupped Jim’s hand and pulled it
against her breast. For barely a second, he allowed his hand to rest there.
Although the shock lasted only a moment, Jim realized, that in those seconds,
his discipline had collapsed. Regaining composure, he broke eye contact,
stepped back from Kat, and put his notebook and pen back into his pocket.
Connors had breached his self-control, and though Jim had made a quick
recovery, he silently berated himself. Those were the mistakes that got cops
killed.

“If I need anything else, I will be in touch,” he
said.

“Call me if you need anything,” Kat said.

He turned around and headed back toward the
kitchen, gathering his thoughts, restoring focus. Bruce stood at the entrance
to the kitchen. Anger and something else — jealousy? Frustration? — inhabited
Bruce’s face.

“Mr. York, I need to see the car and your
registration. You said that no one else drives it?”

“No one.”

“Not even Ms. Connors?”

“Just me,” Bruce replied.

Jim looked at Bruce’s face as he stepped past into
the garage.
Yeah, right.

***

Bruce decided to assume that the cop did not believe
him. Even on his best day, Bruce could not tell a convincing lie. His mother
had always known when he lied to her, and she had always made him regret it.

Bruce opened the door wider, letting Jim pass. The
cop scanned his face like he was a laboratory specimen. Bruce followed him into
the garage.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

Bruce had parked the Viper next to the door. A
sensible Honda Accord sat on the other side of the Viper. Bruce opened the
Viper and retrieved the registration. He handed it to Jim.

“I got an inheritance,” Bruce offered.
Why the
hell are you telling him that?

Jim nodded as he copied information from the
registration into his notebook.

“It paid for the car and the down payment on the
house.”
Shut up, Bruce. You’re telling him too much. Shut up, shut up, shut
up.

***

Jim’s intuition and experience told him that
something made York nervous. Something more than just the presence of an FHP
Trooper.

“Where did you meet Ms. Connors?” Jim asked.

Bruce stood next to the Viper, blinking at Jim.
Kat answered the question from the open kitchen doorway.

“Bruce came to the club. He was nice. I let him
take me for a ride. Now we’re friends, but he doesn’t let anyone drive his
baby.”

Jim wrote some more information into his notebook
and handed the registration back to Bruce. He took out his cell phone and used
the built-in camera to take a picture of the Viper. He needed something to show
his single witness.
Not much more to do here.

He took a last look. The Viper was pristine. No
signs that anyone had driven it recently. Jim’s intuition told him that he had
the right vehicle, but, for the moment, he had no other evidence. Only the
imperfect memory and quick glimpse of a witness.

“Thank you, Mr. York,” Jim said as he put his pen
and notebook away. “If I have any more questions, I’ll call you.”

Jim turned to go through the kitchen. Kat held
the kitchen door open with her back. Jim slipped past her and, once again, her
body heat reached him without any physical contact. A very weird feeling.

Jim went through the living room and let himself
out the front door. Bruce trailed behind him, closing the door as Jim stepped
outside. The late afternoon heat washed over him. Putting on his sunglasses, he
welcomed its warmth.

He walked down the driveway to the Charger. He
opened the driver’s door, then looked back at York’s house. Kat stood beneath
the portico watching him. Her expression was intense, like a beast evaluating
prey.

She was a stunningly beautiful woman, but there
was something dark in her, something that wasn’t right. He had known women who
were selfish, women willing to do anything to get what they wanted. Even a few
out-and-out criminals. None of them had given him the creepy feeling that
accompanied his interaction with Kat Connors.

Jim got into the Charger, started it, and pulled
away from York’s house. Even before he turned on the Charger’s air
conditioning, the air inside his car seemed to drop twenty degrees. A freakish,
someone-just-walked-across-my-grave chill slithered up his spine. The
temperature in the Charger seemed to drop another ten degrees. Most bizarre
.
He opened the driver’s side window and relished the sudden blast of hot air as
he drove away.

***

Kat watched Demore leave. She realized that her denials
might have been an empty gesture. It would be easy for Trooper Demore to find
out that she had been away from the club the night of the accident. She had no
alibi. It also would not take long to uncover her day job with AGT. Even a
half-assed investigator could link driver’s license numbers to social security
numbers, and to employment records.

Although she had seen a weakness in Demore, she did not
believe he was a half-assed investigator. That left her with one option: stop
the investigation before Demore went any further. Either seduce or somehow
compromise Trooper Demore, or else kill him. While seduction or compromise
might be the most interesting solution, killing him might be the quickest and
cleanest. Either way, Trooper Demore’s fate now belonged to her.