The Memory Killer (18 page)

I wasn’t taken aback by Canseco’s sexual identity, only by my ignorance. He put his hand on my shoulder, gave it a shake. “You are slow on the uptake, amigo.”

“You know him well, then? Eisen?”

“I started with the program six years back. Jake was one of my first charges. We’ve kept in touch … I guess I see Jake every couple months. We’ll grab lunch or a beer, shoot the shit.”

“OK to talk … or is it confidential? The program?”

“Nothing secret. Oh, Jake used to hook some, shoplift, peddle smoke; the usual petty crap. All in the past.”

I lowered my voice. “The tongue cut out … that could mean he’s spoken when he shouldn’t have or, in some circles, told a lie. Jacob a big liar?”

“Like pathological? No. I mean, he’ll fib or tell white lies if a situation calls for it. Like if I said, ‘Jake, do these slacks make my ass look fat?’ He’d say something like ‘No, Lonnie, not at all.’ And yet I’m sure they do.”

I leaned back and checked. “I don’t think so.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

I downed beer and thought about the other victims, about Brian–Brianna in the Ivana Tramp persona, with supposedly acidic comedy. And Harold Brighton was reportedly caustic as well.

“Could Eisen be sharp with the tongue, Lon?”

“He was a pissed-off kid, Carson, trying to lessen his pain by belittling others. He came up in an Orthodox Jewish family, got tossed out of the house by Daddy when he was eighteen. He dropped out of school with three months to go, worked the streets, got beat up a few times. I think Jake sometimes insulted people just so they’d belt him in the chops.”

“What he thought he deserved?”

“Self-loathing. A lot of that going around.”

“What’d you do?”

“Convinced him he had value. He did the rest.”

Harry Nautilus used to counsel poor and angry urban youths riding a one-way flume to a life of drugs and incarceration. Convincing such kids they had merit took courage and insight, and though I already respected Lonnie Canseco’s skills as a detective, I was gaining new appreciation for his humanity.

“How’d you meet Eisen, Lon?”

“He got busted for slapping around some poor old queen. The judge gave him six months for A & B. I told the judge if he suspended sentence in favor of anger management and Jacob finishing high school, I’d make sure the kid followed up.”

“Eisen must have done pretty well.”

“It was rocky until he realized I’d been through many of the hassles he had, substitute Catholic for Jewish. Jacob’s a smart guy, and he started to let himself learn things about himself. He got his GED and went to a community college and earned a degree in business. Now he’s got a decent job and a future.”

“No more Mister Nasty?”

“The new Jake is secure in his skin. He likes himself, so there’s no need to piss on others.”

We finished our drinks and put money on the bar. A question occurred, now that I knew Canseco was gay.

“Hey, Lon … just by chance. Did you distribute any Ocampo pics to gay bars?”

He turned, a puzzled look on his face.

“No. I figured that was you.”

Roy would be anxious to get the latest so I ran back to HQ. He had an upcoming meeting in Tallahassee and was memorizing background information on a group of legislators added in the wake of a scandal that saw several others go to jail. Venal lawmakers are in every state, but Florida seemed a particularly fecund hothouse for their incubation.

When I entered, Roy pushed aside his “cheat sheets”, information compiled on legislators that allowed him to feign interest in their interests. His study paid off: We were one of the best-funded agencies in the state.

“Jesus, Carson,” Roy said, taking a final glance at one of his sheets. “This new assemblyman, Coronado … his hobby is collecting yo-yos. What do you say to a guy like that?”

“How they hanging?”

He closed his eyes – probably counting to ten – then got down to business.

“You looked weirded out when Doc Costa said Eisen didn’t have that goofy mark on his back. Reason?”

“Making the mark filled a need Donnie doesn’t seem to have any more. The same with his dumping methodology. He went from the Glades to dropping Eisen behind a superchubs hangout. Couldn’t be a coincidence.”

“I’ll bite. Superchubs?”

“The place is called GMSC, for Girth and Mirth Social Club, a hangout for obese gay men. It’s a kind of subculture, like men who have a thing for really big women.”

“How you know all this stuff?”

“A chatty bartender.”

“What’s it mean … Eisen dumped behind this place?”

“Maybe some message to Gary Ocampo. Or a slap in the face. Only Donnie knows.”

“No mark, different dumping ground. You’re sure it’s Donnie at work?”

“DNA is a match. Plus I heard from the lab on the way over. Same nasty brew: datura, robinia, dieffenbachia. No way a copycat would know that.”

“Why’s he changed MO?”

“He’s seeing things in a different way, Roy. He’s changing.”

Roy thought a moment. “You were going to talk to an expert, your super specialist. How’d that go?”

“I can’t seem to reach him. He, uh, travels quite a bit.”

“Hell, Carson, this is the FCLE. Grab a couple guys from the pool and have them track him down.” He pulled a pad close and picked up a pen. “You’re busy, I’ll handle it. What’s the guy’s name?”

My alarms went off. I’d made a mistake mentioning the possibility to Roy. Normally he was hands-off in a case, but the oddities here had piqued his interest. “I’ve, uh, got him covered from every angle, Roy. He’ll turn up soon. But thanks.”

He tossed the pen back on the desk. “You got it, bud. But if you can’t get him, I will.”

I shot a thumbs-up. “Cool. I’ll let you know.”

I headed back to my office, closed the door, and pulled my phone. “Call me, you stupid, self-aggrandizing son of a bitch,” I hissed into my brother’s voicemail. “Or else you’re gonna have a head honcho of the FCLE trying to track you down. How’s that sound, Brother?”

Gershwin arrived in late afternoon. I was at my desk when he tossed his briefcase on my sofa, yanked off his tie and collapsed in the chair across from my desk. The AC had died in his beatermobile, a third-hand F-150 pickup that kept running despite shedding another part every two or three miles. He hadn’t had time this morning to get to HQ and grab a cruiser from the motor pool.

“I checked Eisen’s place,” he said, unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt and flapping air across his sweating chest. “It’s an apartment near Hollywood. Lock intact, no signs of a struggle. Looks like Eisen’s picky about his fashion, had two pairs of pants and three shirts laid out on the bed like doing mix-and-match.”

“What’s the location like?”

“He lives in a complex at the end of a long hall, not a good place to deal with a hallucinating person, even if he can’t talk. The parking-squad zealots found Eisen’s 2009 Rav just two blocks from the club where he was last seen, so I figure Donnie plucked Eisen from the street.”

“OK, Zigs. Nice work.”

Gershwin ran down to the promenade outside to get an iced papaya juice from a cart vendor and I heard the intercom crackle on my desk phone.

“Carson, you there?”

Bobby Erickson, a retired Florida State Police Sergeant who worked the internal desk.

“Sure enough, Bobby. Whatcha need?”

“You got call on line three, a Dr Touring. Says you been looking for him?”

It was Jeremy using another of his identities. But why hadn’t he called my cell? What could he gain by … It hit me: he would know calls to the FCLE, as to most law-enforcement agencies, were recorded. I couldn’t rant at him for his antics, or ask questions that might sound suspicious. It was brilliant, irritating, and totally Jeremy.

I’m not sure why, but I went to the window and drew the blinds, plunging my bright office into soft shadow. I picked up the phone. We’d both be playing a word game.

“Hello, Doctor,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Good that you could find the time to call me.”

“Ryder! My good man! What do you need?”

“I, uh, was talking to my boss about a case of mine. A difficult case. I mentioned you might consult and when I couldn’t track you down, he thought he might put some of our people on it.”

A pause. “You’re renting me out now? Do you get a commission?”

“It was an off-the-cuff remark. My boss became interested enough to ask more about you. Before that happens, we should meet. Where are you at present, Doctor?”

“I didn’t mention that I’m now in Key West? I thought I told you last year.”

Serving up the same old slop. “Key West? I thought you were in Kentucky.”

“I’m afraid my old Kentucky home is in the past, Detective Ryder. It is still detective … you’ve not advanced in your career?”

Bastard.
“Still detective, Doctor. I need to see you soon. Like tomorrow.”

“I’m extremely busy with my foundation. I might work you in late next week.”

I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t jumping at the chance to see my files. Nothing intrigued my brother more than a case that gave me difficulty.

“Listen, Doctor, I really need to—”

“Plus I have work pending on my new abode. We’re deciding on color schemes.”

“Oh? Who is we?”

“My girlfriend is visiting for a few days.”

“Girlfriend?” I said, trying to keep disbelief from my voice. My brother detested women and, as far as I knew, had never had sexual relations. The only females that interested him were those I dated, Jeremy clamoring for intimate details – “
Do you put your tongue in them, Brother? Does it taste like bile?
”
–
and pouting when I refused to answer.

“Yes, Detective. My girlfriend and I are decorating my new abode. Peaches.”

“Your girlfriend’s name is Peaches?”

“That’s the hue she’s selected for the kitchen: Peaches. Oh, wait … she’s telling me it’s actually Sunrise Peach. I don’t know how that differs from Twilight Peach, but I’m new to this. Give me a call midweek or so, Detective, perhaps we can work something out.”

“I … don’t think that will work. My boss will continue to press.”

A sigh. “Let me check my calendar. Hmm. Here’s what we can do, Detective Ryder: hang tight for a day or so. Tell your grand imperial whatever I’ll soon be consulting and to muzzle the bloodhounds.”

“Here’s another idea, Doctor. I’ll be in Key West soon. How about I drop by your place and you can show me—”

He hung up. I stared at the phone. I’d worked with the Key West police last year and called a contact. If my brother had bought property, it would be in the residential database. I’d drive the ninety minutes to Key West and show up on his doorstep, files in hand. Maybe a ball bat in the other.

“Sorry, Detective,” Lieutenant King Barlow said after checking my request. “No Charpentier listed.”

“Auguste Charpentier?” I spelled it again.

“Not even listed on the sales-pending reports.”

Jeremy had left Kentucky. The Key West home was a lie. Where the hell was my brother? What was this “foundation” he was supposedly building? Plus my brother never did or said anything without a reason.

What was the purpose of a fictional girlfriend and a peach color scheme?

“Pretty is as pretty does,” Billy Prestwick sighed as he set aside the facial moisturizer. “And right now pretty tweezes.”

It was eight in the evening. Billy Prestwick leaned closer to a mirror bordered with light bulbs and plucked hairs above the bridge of his nose. If he didn’t tweeze, he’d grow a grotesque
unibrow
, gawd, the indignity.

He finished his follicular ministrations and studied his image, pursing his lips and winking to himself. “Showtime,” he trilled, a lift from Roy Scheider in
All That Jazz
. He fluffed his trademark silver hair – the idea stolen from Andy, but
très chic
in a retro way. And no one else was doing it.

His phone pounded out the drum riff from “Let’s Have a Kiki”. He checked the caller and grinned.

“Why, Nurse Patrick, are we coming out to play?”

He listened. “No, I’m not letting you drag me to a yawn bar. I spent my entire weekend with a lovely gentleman, but he was sixty-four and gawwwwd … I need to par-
tay
. We’ll start at the Stallion and, if we play our cards
purr
-fectly, get invited to some simply stunning soirée in Miami Beach. Pack your swimsuit,” he giggled. “Or better, still, don’t.”

He listened again, sighed. “If you must study, I can’t stop you. So I’ll at least see you at Stallion for a drinkie or two. We’ll buzz around for a bit and I’ll leave you to your books while I swim off to the action. Gawd, Patrick, one day you’ll be finished with all this
future
nonsense and return to the living, right? Yes, you will, yes, you will. Kiss kiss, bye bye, girl, see you at nine.”

Prestwick went to his bedroom to craft his look, opting for cranberry jeans that molded to his ass, a burgundy suede belt with the word
Diva
repeated in silver studs around its length, and a skin-tight purple T-shirt with a silver-sequined star in the center. The shoes were gray loafers, Italian, the expensive leather like warm butter − a gift from an admirer.

For visual depth he added a black silk vest. Oriental in style, with frogs instead of buttons and dragons embroidered in an iridescent black thread down the front panels. Subtle, lovely, and inscrutably expensive, the product of a renowned Taiwanese designer and another gift from another admirer.

He did have the perfect life, did he not? He could be himself, mostly, which he knew was a wonderful thing. Another wonderful thing was his visage, once described as, “Brad Pitt, the early years”.

Billy checked the mirror again.
Brad never looked so good.
He pirouetted like a ballerina, chuckled to himself, and trotted to the living room to finish the joint he’d started prior to tweezing. Outside his front window the sky was moving from orange to cobalt, the air holding that particular magic of late twilight that grants all color five minutes of a soft and surreal incandescence, a gift before the dark. He toked at the weed until it was a smudge in his fingers, tapped it out. When he turned for the door he heard a voice in his head, small, yet clear as bell.