Chapter Twenty-five

Tell the truth. Shit. Four hours later, Spraggue jammed his clenched fists into his jacket pockets and strode down Massachusetts Avenue, too angry to stop and call a cab.

Of all the cops, they had to send out Menlo! Why not leave Hurley in charge? Hurley was a goddamned lieutenant! He’d worked Homicide! He’d been there, at the scene! Why Captain Hank Menlo, with his ugly, jutting boxer’s mug and his negative IQ? The only time Menlo smartened up was in front of a TV lnstacam. A publicity windbag, Spraggue had called him once, to his face.

Spraggue and Menlo were oil and water. When Spraggue had turned in his private investigator’s license, Menlo had sent a congratulatory note.

“Poking your nose in again, I see.” That was Menlo’s idea of hello. The longer Menlo spoke, the more Spraggue felt his resolve to tell all weaken.

He’d tried. But he’d only gotten up to the part about Georgina’s past when Menlo interrupted.

“And you kept that to yourself?” the beefy captain had shouted.

Spraggue hadn’t bothered to answer.

“And here I thought you’d learned about obstructing justice when you were a P.I. Have to refresh your memory, I guess.”

“How?” Spraggue had asked quietly.

“A few nights in the clink—”

Spraggue hadn’t really meant to laugh, but he was pleased with the relaxed sound of the laughter. “I think you’re the one with the short memory, Captain. Forgotten that last time you met up with my lawyer?”

“Then you had that damned private-eye card to hide behind—”

“Right. And this time I’m just a concerned citizen, helping out my fellowman. Please. Arrest me. Maybe with one more illegal bust on your record, you’ll get tossed out for good. Do a hell of a lot for the image of the Boston Police.”

Menlo had smiled, but his fingers had started tapping the desk just the way they used to. “Sergeant,” he yelled. “Make me out a warrant. Georgina Phelps, alias Gina Phillips. Then get her in here. And tell the press—no, better yet, bring ’em all in here. I’ll set up a conference—”

“Arresting her just to make the early-edition deadline, Captain?”

“Shut up.”

“She’ll be out of jail so fast—”

“Yeah? She got a hotshot lawyer, too?”

“You bet she does.”

Menlo had raised his huge head, issued the snort that served him as a laugh. “Hurry up with that warrant, Sergeant. Have to be in time for the morning edition.”

After that, Spraggue had answered yes and no.

He yawned; his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. He drew his hands out of his pockets and flexed his bloodless fingers, slowed his pace. Breathe in for four, hold for eight, breathe out for eight. His mind started to clear and he recognized his anger for what it was, fury at his own inadequacy. If he’d figured things right, Langford wouldn’t have died.

He walked along Commonwealth Avenue, heading into Kenmore Square. Even that most frenetic part of the city stood empty at four A.M., the disco joints silent, the neon lights dimmed. Spraggue hailed a lone taxi, gave the Brookline address, and sat back to think.

“Mind driving with the dome light on for a while?” he asked abruptly, five minutes later.

“Nah. Maybe it’ll keep me awake.”

Even before he heard the cabbie’s answer, Spraggue had his small notebook spread out on his knee, open to the page where he’d listed the joker’s pranks.

1. Frank’s Bloody Marys

2. Spraggue’s decapitated bat

3. Georgie and Deirdre’s decapitated dolls

4. Greg’s bloody mask

5. Darien’s dead raven

6. Caroline’s dressing-room break-in

7. Eddie’s attempted strangulation

8. Emma’s bloodbath

9. Caroline’s trip wire

10. Caroline’s stolen orchids

11. Caroline’s murdered dog

12. Alison’s tape and the rats in Grayling’s dressing room

At the bottom, he added Langford’s death, number 13. Then, using the edge of his wallet as a crude ruler, he lined off a column to the right of the list.

Two tracks … that was the problem. Two totally different sets of footprints marched through the Dracula affair, twisting, intertwining, stepping over and under each other.

Eddie Lafferty was Eugene Arnold. If Karen was telling the truth, Eddie had meant only to frighten Darien, only to remind him of Alison Arnold’s “accidental” death. Guilt and fear, those were Eddie’s weapons. And he’d chosen Macbeth, Alison’s final show, as the source of his messages to Darien.…

Which pranks had been accompanied by quotations? Spraggue ticked them off with checkmarks.

The beheaded dolls, the mask, the bloodbath.… Those had all come with act, scene, and line from Macbeth. Tricks played on the brides of Dracula, on Jonathan Harker, on Lucy Westenra.… He recalled that late-night conversation with Karen during his private rehearsal. Maybe Eddie had intended to follow the script, to attack Dracula’s victims in order.… What about the other pranks?

No one had mentioned any message that went along with Frank Hodges’s bloody drinks. That bat at the Fayerweather Street house, no message there. Damn. The printing. The printing was the same.… Spraggue temporarily shelved the objection. Printing was easy to imitate.

He ran his finger down the column. Six pranks accompanied by messages from Macbeth. Seven pranks unaccompanied by messages, including Langford’s murder.

He rewrote the list, grouping the pranks, altering their order. The effort was hurried and his hand was jarred by the Beacon Street potholes and the cabbie’s erratic lane switches. The result was barely legible.

A.	B.
1. The beheaded dolls	1. The Bloody Marys
2. The bloody mask	2. The beheaded bat
3. The dead raven	3. Caroline’s dressing-room break-in
4. Eddie’s strangulation	4. Caroline’s trip wire
5. Emma’s bloodbath	5. Caroline’s stolen orchids
6. Alison’s tape, the rats	6. Caroline’s murdered dog
	7. Langford’s death

Messages.… No messages.

But that wasn’t the major difference. The pranks in the first column were scary, even gruesome. But not one of them had caused any actual harm. The second column was more malevolent. Frank had quit. Caroline could have broken her neck. Langford was dead.

Bits and pieces of conversation flooded back into Spraggue’s memory: “Watch out for Langford; either he’ll get himself appointed your deputy or he’ll take over altogether! He’s our chief busybody.” “… psychological insights …” “Of course, that could have nothing to do with the joker.” “I was afraid you might be too late.”

While he had followed Eddie’s trail, Langford must have tried to trace the other footsteps.

Just as the cab screeched into the driveway of the Brookline estate, Spraggue scribbled across the bottom of the page: A = Eddie, B = X.

Who the hell was X?