I gave my theory of events. It took two minutes.
“It fits,” Harry said, rubbing his face. “The major pieces, at least.”
Danbury said, “You’re saying Marie Gilbeaux was dug up because her killer saw your picture in the paper?”
“Think it through: the killer’s maybe spent years living off Hexcamp’s supposed art, scraps of something, all the while pimping the notion that a big stash of beautiful madness is floating around. Collectors treat it like the Grail legend, but real. The killer starts thinking of the big score, killing off everyone who might get in the way - Wicky, Gilbeaux, Chastain. The Paris contingent. There’s only one problem…”
“Getting someone to verify the art.”
I read from the caption of the Mayor’s Breakfast photo:
Nautilus and Ryder are members of the MPD’s elite Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, or PSIT, and are considered authorities in the area of serial killers and other psychologically deranged criminals. Having received additional training at FBI headquarters, their expertise in identification and analysis of these warped individuals puts them at the forefront of…
Danbury took the article, read it. “It says you’re authorities, the alpha and omega of regional serial-killer knowledge. Add to that the look on your face, Carson. You look like a Fundamentalist preacher on speed. It’s so righteous it’s scary.”
I let her photo analysis slide. “The killer sees the photo, suddenly knows what the verification mechanism will be: us, the PSIT. But how to get us on the case, weave us into the plot?”
Harry said, “Dig up Marie Gilbeaux, bring her to the Cozy Cabins. Along the way, pick up some candles, a few weirdo rings. Veer into a cemetery, pluck some posies.”
“Instant bizarre,” I said. “We’re handed the case.”
Danbury said, “What about the art at the convent?”
I ran the timeline in my head. “It fits perfectly. Remember the postmark? It was mailed the same day Marie’s body was discovered.”
“An afterthought?”
I felt the rush of the invisible lines becoming visible, of lamps being lit through the darkness. “The killer leaves the motel, thinks the scheme through. Art, he thinks, leave pieces of Hexcamp’s supposed art. He drops a swatch in the mail. It’s the perfect tie-in. Rope in the PSIT with the bizarre death, tighten the knot with art.”
Harry nodded. “Heidi Wicky’s dead too. By a week, maybe. But that doesn’t stop the perp from slipping back and taping art above her body. Nice and spooky.”
“How’d your picture get on the art from the convent?”
I shook my head, waved it away. “It doesn’t fit in the box yet.”
“How about the art that came to Carla?”
“One more way to keep Hexcamp in our faces. Look here: Hexcamp art. Look over there: Hexcamp art. Up, down, sides and back - Hexcamp art. There was one constant suggestion: Marsden Hexcamp’s art is real, and profoundly powerful.”
Harry walked to the window and watched the surf. “It’s like when astronomers can’t see a planet, but figure it’s there because it pulls on the planets around it.”
“There was no planet, Harry. We were fools for gravity.”
“Horseshit,” Danbury said. “Don’t sell yourselves short. Something’s always been there: the incredible swatches of art. Without them, there was nothing to believe in. It was the art at Coyle’s that got you, Carson. Right? You said something to Borg.”
I thought back over the seemingly innocent exchange: his contrition, apology, handshake. His touching at the camera.
“I didn’t really say it existed. But I didn’t deny it. He was wiping his face, set his hat over the top of the camera.”
“A red light that flashes when it’s recording. He got you by covering it. I’ve seen him do it before.”
Harry grunted. “The tape immediately went to Coyle, of course, copies to prospective buyers, the newspaper article alongside. Probably with an affidavit by lawyer-boy: ‘Acclaimed serial-killer authority validates art; auction at eleven.’”
I said, “Let’s see if that piece of the chain links up.”
Harry and I drove to the offices of Hamerle, Melbine and Raus in separate vehicles, not sure which way we’d break after what was hopefully today’s final piece of business. Danbury pulled in behind. She’d run by her station to pull a picture of Zipinski from his ID card file. I didn’t want to show Lydia the final shot of Borgurt Zipinski, the one taken by the Medical Examiner’s technician.
Warren Hamerle was out of the office, probably his default condition. Still, I was surprised Lydia wanted to meet at the firm, and not in the secrecy of the coffee shop. She further surprised me by wearing a mauve print dress, matching shoes, a yellow scarf around her neck. For her it seemed as colorful as an electrified rainbow.
“Sure, I remember him,” Lydia said, nodding at the picture. “Mr Pizinski.”
“Zipinski,” I corrected. “He’s worked for the firm, then?”
“Yes.” I heard disfavor in her voice.
“For Mr Coyle specifically?”
“The first time was a couple of years ago. Mr Coyle was handling a negotiation for farmland sought by a developer, acreage jointly owned by a brother and sister, estranged. Mr Coyle was working to get them to agree on a selling price. He suspected the developer and the sister of conspiring against the brother to lower the price, the sister getting her cut on the side. Mr Zipinski brought us the necessary pictures. The developer and sister were having an affair. The tapes were very…graphic. Perhaps unnecessarily.”
Harry said, “Coyle knew who would get the job done.”
“That’s why Zipinski provoked my little scene,” I said. “After knifing the tire to keep us there.”
Danbury’s eyes flared and her hands balled into fists. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I got used; I’m an idiot.”
Harry said, “Relax, Danbury. Using people’s what Zipinski did best, I think.”
Lydia handed the photo back like she couldn’t wait to get rid of it. “I never cared much for Mr Zipinski. He was somehow…unsavory.”
“How are you holding up, Lydia?” I asked. I’d noted Rubin had transformed to a frostcoated Mr Coyle in Lydia’s mouth.
“I gave my notice to Mr Hamerle three days ago. And left a letter on Mr Coyle’s desk. It says, ‘Go to Hell.’”
I smiled, though I figured the odds were long on Coyle’s ever seeing it. “Good for you, Lydia.”
She smiled tentatively; I saw resolve in her eyes. “I think so. Time to move on.”
The guard in the building’s lobby was a star-struck old guy who wanted Danbury’s autograph. She went to do a little PR schmoozing and Harry and I walked into the sunlight. He said, “Miz Lydia confirming Coyle knew Borg pretty much ices the cake. To paraphrase Walt Kelly, ‘We have met the authenticators and it is us.’”
“What’s a Walt Kelly?” I asked. Harry sighed and looked at his watch. “Looks like we wait until morning, hear what Walcott gets. What are you going to do, Carson?”
“I’m going home for the night, Harry. I’m ragged.” I headed toward my car.
I turned. Harry walked to me. “Wanna go grab a cold one?”
“I, uh, that is…”
Danbury exploded through the door into the parking lot, afraid she was missing something. “Hold up, boys,” she bayed.
Harry looked at her. Then at me. “Got other plans, then?”
“Hope so,” I said.
Harry smiled like he’d just won a bet with himself and walked to the car whistling “What a Wonderful World”.
It was almost six p.m. when Danielle Desiree Danbury and I turned into the sand-and-shell drive to the three houses on my short street. The Blovines pulled out as we entered. Mama was wearing something cut low, boobs bouncing mightily as the garish Hummer growled over the choppy drive. They made a point of not seeing me.
Loath to let absence contribute to the peace, the Blovines had left a TV on. On the other side, my quiet newcomers continued apace. The red Toyota hadn’t moved. After pouring a drink, we went to the deck to let the breeze blow the day away. We spoke of Borgurt Zipinski for a few moments, Danbury saddened he’d led what seemed such a shrunken, self-centered life.
“There was nothing to him but what he could buy and who he could screw, physically and metaphorically, Carson. You know people like that?”
“From prison block to pulpit, courthouse to boardroom.”
“I pray, Carson. You believe that? I’m not sure to who, or how it all works, but I do. Sometimes I give thanks I wasn’t someone like that, like Borg. And probably like these…people you’re following. The death collectors. I can’t imagine the emptiness of their lives. Maybe it’s a terrible thing to say, but do you think some people are born without souls?”
I started to answer, caught myself. I was tired of thinking and wanted to lose myself in something simple and honest and physical. I stood and held out my hand.
“Let’s go inside,” I said. “I want to learn more about dancing.”