Secrets typed in blood, p.24
Secrets Typed in Blood, page 24
“Okay, so what else does this thing tell us?” I asked, once the elements were safely locked outside.
“What thing?”
The question came from our office. I walked in to find Holly sitting behind Ms. Pentecost’s desk, papers strewn out in front of her. She quickly started clearing up.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Eleanor wanted to clean in the dining room. She said there were still footprints all over the floor from the police. Though I didn’t really see much in the way of footprints, but I’m not as fastidious as she is. Anyway, I wanted to get out of her way and there’s not much room in my bedroom and I really wanted to spread Mr. Klinghorn’s report out. It really is very comprehensive. I would have liked to have met him. Alive, I mean. Even if he did break into my apartment.”
By the time she got to the end of that little monologue, she had transferred herself and the report to the davenport under the window.
“So how did it go? The meeting? Salon? Party? I’m still unclear exactly what Mr. Quincannon’s group is.”
“Words cannot do it justice,” I said.
Ms. Pentecost handed our client the letter. While she read it, I went into the kitchen for a sandwich. I found Mrs. Campbell on the floor, scrubbing some stubborn dirt that had accumulated in the corners.
“Pardon me while I scrounge up dinner,” I said, inching around her.
“I thought they were serving food at that thing.”
“It wasn’t an atmosphere conducive to a healthy appetite,” I said, stacking slices of ham, cheese, and bread in the traditional arrangement. “Really, it wasn’t an atmosphere conducive to a healthy anything.”
“Any luck?”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” I said, trying to choose between mayonnaise and mustard and settling on both. “You might as well step into the office. Your advice on Dolly Klinghorn was spot-on. Maybe you’ll see something we don’t.”
She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t like to get mucked up in your business.”
“First, we both draw a paycheck from the same account,” I reminded her. “Also, I believe the phrase Ms. Pentecost used was ‘criminal conspiracy to obstruct justice.’ You’re already hip-deep in the muck, so you might as well dunk your head in.”
I brought the sandwich and the Scotswoman into the office.
“I figured four heads are better than three are better than two.”
I took a seat at my desk while Mrs. Campbell hovered in the doorway.
“I think this is the same person,” Holly said, flipping from one letter to the other. “Do you think he’s an artist? Does he think these murders are…art?”
I looked at my boss. “I wasn’t keeping time. Did she get there faster or did you?”
“What person are we talking about?” Mrs. Campbell asked.
“Our killer wrote to Quincannon,” I explained. “At least that’s the working theory. Holly—do you want to do the honors?”
Holly read the letter out loud.
When she finished, we all gave it a minute’s thought. Mrs. Campbell was the first to break the silence.
“The voice you did…”
“I did a voice?” Holly asked. “I didn’t mean to do a voice.”
“It was like a put-on voice,” Mrs. Campbell explained. “Putting on airs, I mean.”
“This voice made you think of something?” Ms. P prompted.
“It’s nothing, really. This boy I knew back when I was a lass.”
It was refreshing to see Ms. P aim her impatient look at someone else for a change.
“He was just a bloke,” Mrs. Campbell said. “Nothing special about him. Martin, his name was. One day he was out in the country—he must have been twelve or thirteen—and he found this drawing on the underside of this little stone outcrop. Like a cave painting. People from university came to take a look. It was a big deal around there. I remember Martin leading them and what seemed like half the village out so they could study and take pictures. In the end, it wasn’t all that old. Not in the grand scheme of things. But it really got in his head, that little bit of fame. Couple weeks later, Martin comes back, says he’s found another painting. Oh—lightning strikes twice, people said. Called the university. But he’d made it himself, didn’t he? They knew it right away. His father tanned his hide all the way home.”
“I don’t suppose he grew up to kill a bunch of people,” I said.
Mrs. Campbell snorted. “Became a grocer, he did. Meek as a lamb. But those letters just reminded me of him. The way he’s…I don’t know…preening and…something—”
“Fawning?” Holly suggested.
“Yes! That’s it. Preening and fawning. If he was a cat he’d be rubbing up your leg, desperate for attention.”
I didn’t have to think about it long to see how close she’d hit the mark.
“She’s not wrong,” I said. “Three showy murders. Letters to Quincannon and to Holly by way of Horace. Dumping Klinghorn’s body in our alley like a mash note. I’m surprised he hasn’t sent flowers to Staples yet. Or the Times. If he wants attention, I mean. The Ripper did that, didn’t he?”
I glanced at Holly and stuttered, “I mean the original one. The London one. Jack, I mean.”
For some reason my flustering made her smile.
“He’s a connoisseur. Or wants to be,” Ms. P muttered.
“What was that?” I asked.
“ ‘He cannot appreciate the more subtle talents. He is, at best, a hawker of gewgaws. He cannot create. Only sell.’ ”
She looked at the three of us in turn, waiting.
“You’re doing that thing where you’re three steps ahead,” I told her. “Just take a fourth and narrate it.”
“That’s what he said about Mr. Checchetto,” she explained. “Not only does that suggest he thinks of himself as someone who creates, but that he seeks approval and attention from those who would properly appreciate his creations. Look who he has reached out to. A writer whom he admires, though perhaps as much for her proximity to tragedy as for her skill. To Jessup Quincannon, a wealthy aesthete who elevates murder to a philosophical event.”
“And he reached out to you by way of Klinghorn,” I added. “The greatest detective in the five boroughs and beyond.”
She made a face, but she didn’t disagree.
“So he’s a snob. How does that help us?” I asked.
“It helps us in that he is less likely to contact the police or the press. I believe he would consider them—and the general public—beneath him.”
“Let me rephrase,” I said. “How does that help us catch him?”
Silence. I gave it another try.
“Okay, I’ll get a little more specific. The big hurdle is discovering how this guy knew his victims. We assume he maybe tried to sell a drawing or two to Checchetto and got snubbed, but remember what they say about assumptions and asses. Anyway, that’s one victim. What about Haggard and Perkins? You’ve got a white-collar civil servant and a machinist-turned-soldier-turned-layabout. Nothing to do with a sort-of-high-end antiques dealer. At least nothing Klinghorn dug out. I joked about eeny meeny miny murder, but what if that’s the case? What if this guy is throwing darts at the phone book? Or what if—”
Holly had her hand raised again.
“The student in the front row has a question?”
“Well, not so much a question as an…an observation, I suppose.” She picked up Klinghorn’s report and began flipping through it. “While there’s no link between these three men—four men, I suppose, since Mr. Klinghorn shouldn’t be forgotten. While there’s no physical link, there is a…a link of character, I suppose.”
Ms. P asked the question for all of us.
“What do you mean, a link of character?”
“I mean…Here, if you look at the words people used to describe Michael Perkins: fussy, stickler, rule-lover. And then Conny Haggard: pugnacious, abrasive. And Flavio Checchetto: snide, standoffish, weasel.”
I saw the picture before she’d finished the paint-by-numbers, but I let her continue.
“Then there’s Mr. Klinghorn. I know he was likely killed because he discovered something about the killer, or was about to, but the way Will talks about him, it seems like he was…well…”
I saved her the trouble.
“Assholes. They’re all assholes.”
Holly nodded. “Or at least they’re of a type. The kind that would…well, piss people off. Especially the type of man who would write this letter.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He thinks he’s better than other people. Smarter. More talented,” she explained. “I’ve found that men like that can be particularly fragile, especially when confronted with someone who refuses to recognize their superiority.”
I was aware of Ms. P and Mrs. Campbell following this exchange like a tennis match. I was also aware that, as sharp an observation as Holly’s was, it didn’t actually help us find the link between killer and victims.
Ms. P must have been aware of it, too.
“Excellent theory, Miss Quick,” she said. “In order to help prove it, I believe we need Mr. Checchetto’s list of the artists he sold on consignment. That is one of a number of items—lists of people connected to our victims—we had discussed procuring. With this letter sent to Mr. Quincannon, I believe it should become our first priority. It is, unfortunately, in the possession of the police.”
We tossed around the names of some cops we might be able to ask—read this as bribe—to get us a copy of Checchetto’s consignment list. He apparently didn’t sell much, so it couldn’t be too long.
But there was a problem.
Considering how quickly Staples got tipped when Klinghorn came around asking questions, it made a bribe a chancy proposition. Like Klinghorn told me, a bribe buys compliance, not eternal silence.
The payoff wasn’t even guaranteed. Checchetto might have refused to sell the killer’s work. That would account for the anger. The killer might also not have used his real name. The list—assuming there was one—could be useless.
I relayed these thoughts to the group.
“It’s still a tangible lead,” Ms. P said. “We cannot afford to ignore it.”
As we worked out how to beg, bribe, or steal the list, I noticed Holly getting more and more twitchy. Her fingers traced the seams of her skirt, back and forth and up and down.
“You have another brainstorm?” I asked.
“I wonder…” she started.
“Yes, Miss Quick?” my boss said.
“I wonder if I shouldn’t just go to the police. Maybe to the man who came and saw you. Not the rude one, the other one.”
“Lieutenant Lazenby.”
“Yes, to him,” she said. “Maybe I should go to him. Tell him everything.”
“I’m not sure that would be possible now,” Ms. P said. “At least not how I had originally suggested. Mr. Klinghorn’s death and our subsequent deceit of Detective Staples would hamstring the lieutenant. I do not believe he would be able to protect you, either from public exposure or from becoming a suspect yourself.”
The idea that she’d move to the front of the suspect line didn’t seem to faze her. She’d apparently figured out that likelihood on her own. Holly Quick wasn’t dumb.
“Perhaps I should come forward anyway. I could…I could tell them I made you lie. That I convinced you. It’s just…Having this letter. It makes him real. No, real isn’t the right word. It sounds stupid, but—”
“I understand, Miss Quick. It’s a perfectly adequate word. Because, yes, this letter does make him real in a way his letter to the magazine does not. He lets his mask slip here.”
She got up from her desk and walked to the drinks trolley. She picked up the bottle of honey wine, then put it back down and went for the bourbon instead, pouring a healthy three fingers, then considered and added two rocks from the ice bucket.
“I’ve brought many criminals to justice, Miss Quick. Few of this particular ilk, but still…I have a sense of when things are on the verge. I feel we are on the verge now.”
That was news to me. The only thing I felt on the verge of was exhaustion.
She took the drink back to her desk and sat there, ice clinking against the glass.
“If I did not feel that way, I would consider your suggestion. But I would like, to whatever extent possible, to protect you.”
“Why?” Holly asked. “Why do you care?”
A swirl, a clink, a sip. A grimace. When Ms. P drinks bourbon, it’s not for the taste.
“The world often defines women by the worst thing that’s ever happened to us,” she said. “It won’t let us be otherwise.”
Another sip, a smaller grimace.
“You’ve managed to create a new life,” she continued. “Despite your past, despite your tragedy, you’ve carved out a place for yourself in the world. If you go to the police now, I believe that will be lost and irrecoverable. I would fight to protect it.”
Turned out that I would, too.
CHAPTER 39
We talked things over, namely how what we knew about the killer could help Holly’s and my discussion with the Strange Crime employees the following day. Out of deference to Holly, I didn’t call it an interrogation. But that’s what it would be.
Somehow the killer had seen Holly’s story, and unless her apartment had been broken into twice in short order, that limited the pool. The plan was for me and Holly to go over the next morning. If one of them was our killer, I wanted to be armed with questions that would root them out.
If they had somehow shared the story with someone else, that could make things more complicated, but still doable. There was also the possibility the killer got access to the Strange Crime offices some other way. I made a note to ask about cleaning staff and to check the locks for tampering.
After that was settled, Holly asked if we thought it would be safe for her to go back to her apartment.
“If Mr. Klinghorn was the person who broke in, then it shouldn’t be a problem, should it? Mr. Cosmo changed the locks.”
The rest of the room was unanimous that Holly going home was a bad idea.
“If the killer knows who you are, he can find out where you live,” I told her. “Until now he’s been happy fawning from afar. But maybe he has some literary criticism he wants to share in person.”
It was an excellent argument, but Holly dug in her heels.
“I understand your fear. I do,” she said. “But I want to be back in my own home and to sleep in my own bed. I can’t sleep here. I mean, I can, but not well…. I have dreams.”
Eventually Ms. P and I relented, but on the condition that I spend the night propped in one of Holly’s armchairs. She made some grumblings about how that wasn’t necessary, but they weren’t very loud, and eventually we both went upstairs to pack our respective bags.
Mine, as usual, included some specialty items.
“How many guns do you own?” Holly said when she caught me trying to choose between the Colt and the Browning Hi-Power.
“Three more than the police know about,” I said before tucking both in with my pajamas. “Before you ask, no, I do not think they’ll be necessary. But I didn’t think the Cardinals were going to take the Dodgers in the playoffs, and look what happened.”
She looked at me blankly. “What happened?”
“I’m just saying, better safe than sorry.”
Properly supplied, I drove myself and Holly to her apartment. She called Mr. Cosmo before we left, and he was waiting on the curb when we arrived.
“Miss Holly, it is so good to see you. So awful what happened,” he said as he took Holly’s suitcase and tucked my overnight bag under his arm. “I am so sorry I was not here. I tell my sister—no more Sunday dinners. Not for a long time.”
I told him that wasn’t necessary.
“You got cracked by a pro,” I explained.
“I talk to owners. Locks are old, I tell them. They do not want to replace. I tell them it will cost less than if building gets a reputation as unsafe. Eventually, they agree. Miss Holly’s door and the front door first. Next week I do the rest.”
He dropped the bags outside Holly’s door and handed her the new keys.
“It is very good to have you back,” the super said. “If you need anything, you call.”
She assured him she would, then let us into her place.
I took a big whiff. Stale air, baked-in cigarettes. Nothing to raise my hackles.
We spent an hour sorting and cleaning. Sure, it hadn’t been a killer in her apartment. But it was still an invasion.
Her apartment wasn’t exactly spotless when we were finished, but Klinghorn’s presence had been erased.
Holly brewed some tea—an herbal concoction that didn’t quite taste like grass—and we spent another hour chatting, she sitting at her desk, I in one of the armchairs.
After a while, she started talking about her father.
“I remember the police asking me why he’d killed all those people, but I didn’t know. He just seemed normal to me. Although I guess all parents seem normal to their children, no matter how off they are.”
Her hands were surprisingly still. Not a twitch or tic in sight.
“I’ve thought about it a lot since,” she said. “I remember him and my mother fighting. Mostly about money. So I think it might have started out about that. Because he was robbing them at first. And sometimes it was men. Drunks. Then…then it became something else. He must have enjoyed it, mustn’t he?”
I didn’t know how to answer that, and it didn’t look like she expected me to.
“I think he was thinking of her. My mother,” she said. “I think he was killing her over and over again. Until he finally did.”
She stared down into her empty teacup, like she was looking to read an answer in the dregs.
