A talent for murder, p.22
A Talent for Murder, page 22
“Sure,” she said, and he held the phone out to her. She leaned in close, squinting.
“Yeah, I know him. He comes in here sometimes. But I don’t know anything about him.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Henry said, surprised his voice sounded as calm as it did.
Mo frowned, her chin wrinkling. “Don’t know exactly, but not recently. Like I said, it’s not that I know him, but his face is familiar. He comes in here. Try Norman,” she said, looking over at the man three stools down.
Norman had already been listening to the conversation, and when Henry turned to him, he held his hand out for the phone. Henry handed it over.
“Hmm,” Norman said. “I think he told me his name was Brad Something. Nice guy. Hasn’t been in here too recent, though, like Mo said.” He handed the phone back, reaching his arm out very slowly as though it hurt him to move.
“Can I ask you some questions?” Henry said, moving his chili and coffee down and changing stools to be closer to him.
“Sure,” Norman said. “But can I ask you why you’re asking?”
“It’s complicated, plus a little boring,” Henry said. “I’m a private investigator and it’s possible that the man in the picture, that Brad, has been involved in a financial scheme. By involved, it looks as though he’s a victim and not a perpetrator. My client wants me to find him and it’s turning out to be harder than I thought it would be.”
“Well, you’ve come this far. He must have an address here in Tohickon.”
“All my client knows is that he lives here, but, no, I don’t have an address, and I’m having no luck with real estate records in locating him. You never knew his last name?”
“He introduced himself as Brad. Clearly that’s not the name you have, or you wouldn’t be grilling me about it.”
Henry sipped his coffee, now laced with Irish whiskey. “I have limited information, that’s for sure. You’re the first lead I’ve gotten.”
“I’m not going to be much help to you, I’m afraid. He’s come in here for lunch before, just like you’re doing now. And he’s sat at the bar and the two of us talked, again, just like you and I are doing, and the only reason I remember his name was Brad was because he told it to me and I recalled thinking that he looked a little like Brad Pitt, you know, strong jaw, blue eyes. So the name stuck with me.”
“Did he tell you anything about what he did or where he lived here in town?”
While the man thought, he moved his fingers on the surface of the bar like he was playing a piano. “Said he was an art collector and told me he had property here in town, but the way he said it made it sound like he didn’t really live here.”
“Okay,” Henry said. “You’ve been helpful.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Ted Lockwood. Let me get you a card.” He thumbed out another one of his fake private investigator cards. It was his last one.
“I’m Norman Hart.”
“Let me buy you a drink, Norman,” Henry said, catching Mo’s eye.
Mo uncapped another bottle of beer and poured another short whiskey.
“If you were me, Norman,” Henry said, “where would you go looking for this man’s house here in Tohickon?”
“I suppose you could just knock on every door. There’s only about three hundred houses in this whole town. But if you didn’t want to do that, I suppose you could look for a fancy car out front of a house.”
“Brad drove a fancy car?”
“Yeah, sorry I didn’t mention that before. I saw it once parked in front of this bar. A Jaguar XJ and if I recall correctly, the year was 1976. It was a beaut. He told me how he only took it out for special occasions.”
“It probably wouldn’t be out in front of his house,” Henry said. “Probably in a garage.”
“Probably,” Norman said. “Or under a tarp.”
“Right,” Henry said. Norman took a small sip of his whiskey and then a small sip of his beer, then excused himself. He slid off his stool gracefully, like someone with a lot of practice. Henry’s mind spun, excited to confirm that Saltz did live in this town, at least some of the time, but also thinking about what Norman had just said about protecting a car with a tarp. Driving around this morning, he’d seen so many different cars parked outside of houses, but it felt as though he’d seen a few that had been covered. He closed his eyes and replayed the drive, trying to shut out the Steely Dan song that was playing through the loudspeakers. And suddenly he remembered one of the covered cars, in front of a modest shingled house at the end of a quiet road. There were a couple of cars in front of it and one of them was under a black plastic tarp. For whatever reason, he’d just thought it was someone’s project, probably a fixer-upper that had sat out the winter months, but what if it had been the Jaguar?
Chapter 29
Ethan had driven into Philadelphia in the Jaguar, not planning on seeing Rebecca just yet, but wanting to check in on the gallery and Chris. There were a few specific things he had to do at his desk—a belated call to an artist they would no longer be representing, a number of emails he hadn’t answered—but mostly he needed a moment of calm. Kidnapping Lily Kintner and holding her at his Tohickon house felt like a triumph. But it was also risky. He needed to think about his next moves.
Chris was in the office when he walked in, and Ethan thought he must have been looking at porn or something on his computer, because he physically jumped when Ethan said hello.
“Everything okay, Chris?” he said.
“Yeah, yeah. Just didn’t expect you and you scared the crap out of me.”
“I’m not here long, but I’m finally going to pull the plug on Dennis Maxwell.”
“Oh, thank fucking god. I’ve already had to talk to him twice this morning.”
“I’ll call him and let him know we’re not moving forward with him. What else is going on around here?”
Chris made a weird show of turning his eyes to the ceiling as though thinking about it, then finally said how quiet it had been. He was lying, of course, and Ethan stared at him for a little longer than usual, just to make him uncomfortable, wondering exactly what he was hiding. It could be something harmless—Ethan knew, for instance, that Chris had been fucking one of the framers, a married guy who drove over every few weeks from Delaware, and that they’d been doing it here in the gallery. But it could be something else.
“Has anyone come around looking for me?” Ethan said.
Again Chris made a show of thinking about it, then said that he didn’t think so. He really was a terrible liar.
“Okay, fine,” Ethan said. “Do you mind leaving the office while I call Maxwell?”
After Chris left and shut the door behind him, Ethan sat at his desk and thought for a moment. He knew that Lily was working hard at delaying the inevitable. He assumed it was just a natural instinct, the desire to stay alive as long as possible, and the hope that maybe someone would figure out where she was if enough time elapsed. But there was another possibility. Did she have a partner, someone who had helped her to figure out that he’d been responsible for the Alan Peralta murders? There was a chance, of course, that she did. But so what? Even if this other person knew the name Ethan Saltz there was no way that Ethan Saltz could be connected to Robert Charnock or to Brad Anderson. Still, he wondered. He knew he’d been careful, but even the most careful people make mistakes. And it wasn’t as though he’d changed the way he looked or anything. There were a few photographs floating around on the internet of Ethan Saltz, although he’d made sure that Robert Charnock was never—or hardly ever—photographed in public.
He got up from his Herman Miller chair and left the office. There was a small kitchenette down the hall, and that was where he found Chris, making his chai tea.
“Hey, Chris,” Ethan said. “I’m going to ask you again: Anyone been here looking for me?”
Chris’s jaw dropped just a little and he took a deep breath and said, “Oh god, Robert. I’m so sorry. He told me not to tell you.”
“Who told you?”
“It was this guy, this private investigator. He came around and told me that you’re part of a financial scam or something. I told him nothing. I mean, there’s nothing to tell him, right? And it seemed entirely possible that he had the wrong guy from the start, because he kept mentioning some other name.”
“What other name?”
“Um, it was Evan Saltz. No, that’s not right. Ethan Saltz.”
“We have a client named Evan Saltzman,” Ethan said, trying to keep his rage under control. “Was that who he was looking for?”
“No, no. The name was different.”
“But you didn’t tell him anything, did you?”
“No, of course not, Robert. Nothing important, anyway. I mean, I did say that the name of Ethan Saltz was familiar because we had a client with a similar name, but of course I didn’t give him any information. I’m not stupid, Robert.”
“What else did he ask?”
“That’s it. It was no big deal, really, but he did say you were in trouble. Financial trouble.”
Ethan took a deep breath. “Did he give you his name?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Chris dug into the front pocket of his trousers and pulled out a card, handing it over to him. Ethan read it: Ted Lockwood, Private Investigator. Then a phone number and an email. No mailing address.
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. A normal white guy. Thin. Messy hair. Looked like he hadn’t slept for a couple of days.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Pretty basic Levi’s, I think. A light blue oxford shirt and a jacket that was probably a Harris tweed.”
“Okay, Chris. If I find out you’re holding out on me—”
“I’m not, Robert, I swear. He freaked me out, though. I mean, are we in trouble?” Chris was whispering. “Should I be worried?”
“No, don’t worry. I think I know who this guy is, and he’s just a pest. Don’t worry at all.”
Ethan imagined taking two steps across the linoleum and twisting Chris Salah’s head so that he was facing the opposite direction, but then he told himself there’d be time to deal with Salah later. Right now he needed to get back to Tohickon. Before leaving, he told Chris to take the rest of the day off, and to not talk to any more people about gallery business.
He hit traffic leaving Philadelphia and tried to keep his rage in check. He’d been foolish keeping Lily alive as long as he had, and now there was someone else to worry about. A moving truck pulled out in front of him just as he was going to catch the tail end of a green light, and Ethan howled in his car. Martha Ratliff’s face loomed in his mind. In some ways she was to blame for the shit show that was coming down on him now. Lily Kintner, too, but he’d be able to take care of her soon. If only he’d make it through this fucking light.
An hour later he parked outside of the Tohickon house. It wasn’t dusk yet, but it felt like it, inky clouds blocking out the afternoon sun. For some reason, he hadn’t quite figured out yet how exactly he was going to kill Lily Kintner. The easiest way would be to hit her again with a tranquilizer dart, and then he could just smother her with a pillow. He did know what he planned on doing with her body. Even though the house had a finished basement, one section of it had a dirt floor, a walled-off pantry through a door at the back of the basement. It was at most about ten-foot-by-ten-foot, unused shelving lining the walls. He’d already dug a grave, knowing one day that he might have use for it.
Sitting in his car for a little while longer, Ethan wondered why he’d waited this long to kill Lily. He wasn’t squeamish about what he had do, but the truth was he wanted to spend a little more time with her, talk with her some more about killing people, about morality. He’d never met anyone like her before. Even if she was lying to him about her past, he still hadn’t met anyone willing to lie about such things. And for one moment Ethan felt as though he knew what it might be like to be in love with someone. Not that he was in love with Lily. But he knew what the feeling was, an anticipation in seeing them again, in hearing their voice. A desire to prolong the time spent with them.
It was like a sudden, unpleasant glimpse into normal life. Was this how people lived? Waiting around for other people to provide feelings for them? He laughed out loud in his car, the sound of it almost startling him. Had he gone temporarily insane?
Fuck it, he thought, and made a decision to kill Lily Kintner with his hands. He was twice her size, and she was shackled to the floor. It would feel good to take her long slender throat and squeeze the life out of it.
He walked around to the back of the house and retrieved the key he hid under one of those fake rocks. He stepped into the house, feeling right away that something was a little off. The air was too still. It meant nothing, though; he’d had that kind of feeling before. But when he opened the door that led down the carpeted stairs to the basement, the feeling continued; the house was quiet, like there was no life in it. He walked down the stairs, hitting the switch along the way that lit up the fluorescent ceiling lights. As soon as he got down there, he saw that he had been right about there being something wrong. Lily was still on the cot, wrapped in her sheets, perfectly still. Her head was at an unnatural angle, and her mouth hung open. He moved halfway to her and saw the blood that lined her throat and pooled beneath her head.
Chapter 30
After Ethan Saltz had brought me lunch, then spoken at length about his accomplishments, all I had wanted to do was sleep. But he’d left me alone again, and I knew that I needed to at least explore every possibility of escape, however slim. I started with the cot that I was lying on. The frame was metal, and the musty mattress was filled with stuffing, no springs or anything like that. I slid down to the foot of the bed and stood up. I was still in the clothes that I’d been wearing when I walked into the Shepaug town center a hundred years ago. My shoes were still on my feet.
I took steps in every direction to see how far I could get. There was a framed print on the wall that was just out of my reach. It was a pop art illustration of a topless woman with short black hair and a black puma creeping around behind her. I could almost touch the edge of its white frame with a fingertip. Not that having access to the picture would be helpful. I could throw it at Saltz when he came back, but even if I managed to knock him out or hurt him, how would that help me?
What would be helpful was the nail that was probably holding up the print. I looked at the portion of the wall that I could reach. It was painted a deep maroon, heavily patched here and there where spackle had been used to cover up holes. I ran my hands along the surface, wondering if there were weak spots where I could punch through the plasterboard. Again, not sure how that would help me.
But my hand did detect a slight protrusion on the wall. I touched my finger to it and realized that it was a nail head, flush with the wall, that had been painted over. I scraped away at the paint and was able to uncover one edge, managing to slide a fingernail underneath it. I pulled at the nail head and my fingernail ripped. I shook my hand and tiny flecks of blood covered me and the wall. I put my finger in my mouth and with my other hand, searched my pockets. I was wearing jeans and there was a small pocket inside the larger one on the front right side. Inside was a single dime.
It took me about a minute, but using the dime I was finally able to extract the long thin nail from the wall. It was about an inch and a half and the tip wasn’t exactly super-sharp, but it wasn’t dull, either. I lay back down on the cot, no longer sleepy, my mind forming a plan. I took long deep breaths while experimenting with different ways of holding the nail. I put it between my index and middle fingers and closed my fist. I tried gripping the head using my thumb, and jabbed at my own thigh to see if I could get any purchase with the nail. I got some, but it wasn’t great, so I used the nail to rip a strip away from the bedsheet, and looped the strip through my fingers, tightening it so that the fabric held my fingers together the way brass knuckles would. Then I slid the head of the nail between my fingers, making a fist and adjusting the nail so that the taut fabric held it in place. I jabbed at my thigh again, and the fabric made all the difference, the nail tip puncturing my jeans and pricking at my skin. I reached down and felt blood slowly sleeping into the denim.
I had my weapon. Now I needed a way to ensure that Saltz would get close enough to me so that I’d have a chance to use it.
I looked at my finger, still sleeping blood, then swiped it across my neck, probably leaving just a small streak. But if I was going to get Saltz to come close enough to me to find out if I was still alive, then I was going to need a lot more blood.
I thought about simply puncturing a small wound near my carotid artery. If I did it right, it would produce enough blood to make it look as though I’d cut my own throat and was lying dead on the cot. If I did it wrong, then I would actually be lying dead on the cot. I thought of cutting at my forearm, trying to hit one of the arteries, but even if it produced enough blood, what I really wanted to do was get that blood all over my neck area. I wanted Saltz to lean right over me, to look me in my eye. I wanted a shot at his carotid artery.
Then I thought of my ear. I had a fuzzy memory of a party my freshman year at Mather College when one of my three roommates—I think it was the goth version of Winona Ryder—got drunk and tried to pierce her own ear using one of the blades from a Swiss Army knife. She’d started to bleed, and it just hadn’t stopped, so one of my other roommates, the one who looked like a preppy version of Winona Ryder (all three of my roommates oddly looked like Winona Ryder), had almost called an ambulance after the blood had completely soaked through several paper towels. We finally taped a tampon to my roommate’s ear and eventually the bleeding stopped. My takeaway from that awful party had been that ears bleed a lot. I didn’t know if that was a universal truth, or if it only applied to goth Winona Ryder, but it was time to find out.
