The Dream of the Broken Horses (40 page)

"Flamingo was so big it obscured everything else that week."

"That month, that year . . . the whole fuckin' decade. Just thinking about it makes me crazy."

"Well, what's making me crazy is that someone's following me."

"Oh, yeah, Mr. Potato Head," Mace says.

H
e wakes me with a call at seven in the morning.

"Shoshana signed the release. I got through to Dr. Barloff last night. She confirmed
Shoshana's
story, remembers the child porn angle very well. Also that she and Shoshana discussed the pros and cons of coming forward. So Shoshana was telling the truth."

I tell him I'm not surprised.

"Me neither, but I had to be sure. I've been up most of the night going through the file on that old fire/homicides case on Thistle Ridge. The victims' names were George and Doris Steadman. The zinger—they ran a little industrial film company out of a building on
Bailtown
Road. After the fire, there wasn't much left up at the house, but our guys found some film cans containing porn in the garage. Not child porn, just the regular kind. No one made too much out of that. As for the fire/homicides, they were never solved. Our guys chalked it up to the mob, the theory being that the
Steadmans
were producing porn films and the people who controlled the porn market didn't like them infringing on their territory.

"Follow what I'm saying, David? Catch the drift? Suppose Cody, like you said, brings down a torture/hit on the
Steadmans
, who have special 'friends' who know how to collect a debt. Now let's say those same 'friends' live up on Torrance Hill. Six months later Jack Cody gets whacked. There's been a falling out between him and the Torrance Hill boys. So our guys were wrong, it wasn't the mob who killed the
Steadmans
, it was Cody, who tortured them first to make them tell what they knew about the Belle Fulraine kidnapping. Later the mob found out and whacked Cody for messing in their business. See how it comes full circle?"

"I see all right . . . but something's missing."

"Yeah, Flamingo. But suppose the Torrance Hill boys ordered the Flamingo murders as retaliation three days after the
Steadmans
were killed, targeting Tom Jessup because they figured he was responsible for the Steadman massacre?"

"In that case, Tom was the target and Barbara was killed just 'cause she was there."

"Or because the Torrance Hill guys knew Barbara was Cody's mistress. What better way to retaliate than kill her and Tom-the-squealer at the same time?"

"They would have known about Tom since he'd ordered the film, then stalled making the final payment. They could easily have followed him to the motel, seen Barbara and figured out the connection to Cody." I pause. "Is that what you think happened?"

"Could be." Mace laughs. "Maybe so-and-so did such-and-such to whomever, and then what's-his-name did whatever-it-was to you-know
who
. It's too complicated. Been too many years. It's a fuckin' ball of snakes. How the hell can I ever unravel it?"

Mace is right, he can't unravel it, there are too many variables, too many supposes, too big a cast of characters, most of whom now are dead. A hit man acting for the Torrance Hill mob—sure, that could be. As good an explanation as any I guess. But in no way conclusive.

So what does this all mean? That the Flamingo killings must forever remain unsolved? That it will become one of those old murder-mystery puzzles like the Black Dahlia case in L.A.; the "Il
Monstro
" sex killings in Florence, Italy; the Zodiac killings in San Francisco; and a hundred cases more—turning up from time to time as filler in the back pages of newspapers, there to be pored over by
obsessives
, amateur criminologists, and adolescent boys?

"Interesting idea, maybe a little too complicated, too conspiratorial. But, hey! don't sweat it, Mace."

"Thanks, David, but I'm sure I will. So . . . see you around the courthouse," he says.

M
r
. Potato Head:
Something about him rings a bell. But how could that be since I have no idea what he looks like?

Waiting for Pam in Waldo's, I draw several empty head-shaped ovals. Then, sick of that, I turn on my stool and start sketching faces of people in the room, portrait studies of my colleagues—exuberant, cynical, jabbering, tongues loosened by liquor, faces animated by bonhomie.

"You make it look like fun," says Tony, standing behind me, peering at my heads.

In fact, having negotiated a fee with Sylvie's editor, I'm delighted to have something to keep me busy at the bar.

Pam shows up. "Sorry I'm late. I had a meeting with a source." She leans toward me, whispers into my ear: "Don't tell Harriet, but defense presentation's going to be quick. This whole shooting match should be over in a week."

"Good! Finally we'll be getting out of here."

"Up to the jury, but if I were you, David, I'd stick closer than usual to court."

She scans my sheet of media faces. "What a bunch of clowns. I think you're a cartoonist at heart."

"Cartoonist, courtroom sketch artist, forensic artist, all-around hack. Sometimes I think I'd be happy illustrating children's books."

"Yeah,
kiddie
noir. How 'bout some dinner? I hear there's a good Thai Place out near Indiana Circle."

O
n the way, I tell her Mace's ultra-complicated theory about Tom being the Flamingo target. Pam's skeptical, but she likes the way
Shoshana's
tale fits so perfectly with Susan's.

I tell her Thistle Ridge is only five miles or so out of our way. "Mind if we head over there? I'd like to find the site of that burned-out house."

I find Thistle Ridge Road after a few wrong turns. It's twilight by the time we get there. It's a classic suburban street with mailboxes at the entries to driveways leading up to nice-looking contemporary houses set back on one-acre lots. There aren't any streetlamps, just ambient light from the rapidly darkening sky and light cast out through the windows of the homes.

1160 Thistle is at the crest, last lot on the street. A hedge screens the house and yard. There's a carriage lantern atop a post and a sign on the mailbox, THE HERRONS.

I pull a little past, then back my car into the driveway so we can scan the residence. It's a single-story ranch that looks like a rebuild, not surprising since, according to
The Times-Dispatch,
the original house nearly burned to the ground.

"Lonely up here," Pam says. "End of the street so nobody's likely to drive past, and the house is well set back. Good place to make dirty films. Probably shot them in the
rec
room."

"Sinister, isn't it?"

"If you're asking do I like being up here, I don't. What did you expect to find?"

"Just wanted to sense the mood."

"So you can draw it?"

"Yeah, something like that."

A
t the Thai restaurant, I tell her that ever since Shoshana Bach's revelations, I've felt empty, disinterested in Flamingo.

"I know what bothers you," she says. "If Mace's retaliation theory is correct, if Flamingo was about the
Steadmans
and Tom Jessup was the target, then it doesn't cut so close to home."

She's right, of course. The notion that Dad committed suicide out of guilt because he'd murdered his favorite patient cuts a good deal closer than if he jumped out his office window merely because he was depressed.

But Pam challenges me again. "Is it really about which explanation is more meaningful to you, David, or because all your life it's been in your head that Barbara brought your family to ruin? I think you've had a love-hate thing for her for years, turned her into your personal femme fatale. From the way you describe her at that Parents Day, it's clear you've been besotted by her since you were twelve. So you come back here and find out all this stuff, and now that it looks like she might
not
have been the killer's target, you feel empty because that undermines your 'family romance.' "

"Know something? You sound just like a shrink."

"Is that a compliment?"

I smile. "Maybe you're right, maybe a part of me always did hope that Dad played a role in Flamingo. Otherwise I'd feel all the emotion I'd invested in it was a waste."

"Okay, but don't forget—real people were killed. Even if Flamingo isn't the key to your life, it's just as important as your Zigzag murders."

Hearing that makes me feel better. Anyhow, Mace's retaliation theory is just that—a theory. So if want, I can hold onto my romantic belief that Barbara Fulraine was the key
actor
in my early life.

B
ack at the Townsend , after several nightcaps at Waldo's, we adjourn to Pam's room, then go at each other in our customary fashion—panting, grasping, working ourselves up, seeking heart-pounding, shattering release. But then something different starts to happen, our love-making turns sweet. We get romantic, start kissing and whispering endearments. It's more of a slow dance than a quick wheel around the track.

"Well, that was a change," Pam announces when we lie back. "I liked it."

"Are you surprised?"

"Gushy isn't my style. But, then, being with a Calista boy, I guess all bets are off."

"For a Jersey girl, it must be quite the exotic experience."

"Uh huh . . . exotic," she agrees.

I wrap a bath towel around my waist, sit in her easy chair, then start sketching her as she watches me from the bed, chin propped by an elbow.

"Am I allowed to move?"

"Of course."

"You haven't drawn me before."

"There've been so many unpleasant people to draw, I never got around to the good stuff."

She studies me while I continue sketching. To my surprise, I discover I'm executing a serious portrait. I work on her eyebrows, then her eyes. I don't want to idealize her, simply get her down handsomely on the page. I like the way she looks at me, the direct way she engages. She's relaxed, the intensity's still there, but without the overlay of ambition.

"Just can't keep your hands still, can you?"

"My drawing hand—no."

"Why's that?"

"I draw people to understand them."

"You told me that before."

"I also draw a lot because I'm always hoping my
hand'll
be taken over by the planchette effect."

"Which is— ?"

"A
planchette's
a drawing instrument on casters that slides around like a computer mouse. It can also be a pointing device, the heart-shaped gizmo that zips around a Ouija board spelling out messages from The Dear Departed out in The Great Beyond."

"So what's the 'effect'?"

"That's when an outside force seems to take hold of my hand. Drawing becomes effortless. Of course, it's not an outside force, it's my subconscious guiding the pencil. Psychologists call it '
ideomotor
action.' So, you see, I always keep my drawing hand busy hoping the planchette effect will take hold."

She gazes at me with perhaps a bit of admiration. "That's cool, like an athlete being 'in the zone.' "

"Sure, that's it—being in the 'zone,' the 'groove,' the 'flow.' There's nothing sweeter. It's nearly as good as great sex."

When I finish the drawing, I hand it to her.

"Oh, I like this!" she says. "It looks lovingly drawn."

"It was.

"I like the way you make me look tender . . . not the way I am on TV."

"That's how I see you tonight."

She laughs. "I'm glad, because I wouldn't want you to see me like Mr. Potato Head—just an empty oval."

E
arly in the morning, when I return to my room to shave, I notice the message light blinking on my phone. I call down to the desk.

"There's a package for you, sir, left here around midnight," the deskman tells me. "I'll have the bellboy bring it up."

The package turns out to be a large envelope enclosing what appears to be manuscript accompanied by the following note:

Dear David: I've been doing a lot of thinking since your visit, especially about your comment that maybe it's time to finally put the family nightmare to rest.

Yesterday I pulled out Mom's diary and tried again to read it through. Just as before, I didn't get too far.

Perhaps you'll have better luck. Enclosed please find a photocopy, which is yours to read, study, do with as you like. I believe you'll find it painful to read, but, hopefully, not nearly as painful as it was for me.

Sincerely,

Robin Fulraine