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The interval between calling 9-1-1 and the police arriving passed in a blur. It wasn’t fast, but more like a moment taken out of time to exist on its own. I stood behind my kitchen counter, Ruger at the ready.
To come under the scrutiny of a killer was an odd thing. I’d watched psycho killer movies and was always amazed by the bad choices the victims made. Not me. I planted myself in the kitchen and stayed there, because it afforded me a clear view all around and no chance that Michelangelo could sneak up on me. I was also sure I would vomit, so I wanted to be close to the sink. I hadn’t yet, but the nauseated feeling lingered. I saw the police car turn in and went to lock the gun in the safe, as police tended to be nervous about civilians with guns in hand. I put on my robe and let them in. As I explained what had happened, I noticed that the officers, Dunn and Brees, were a couple of fine-looking men, so as they looked around the house and property, I ducked into the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth. Apparently, one could face the threat of a madman and be shallow at the same time.
Brees told me, “Looks like your visitor gained access through one of your living room windows. He cut the screen.”
“I like to sleep with the windows open. The sea breeze is nice.”
“I’d recommend you lock them and use the AC.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
Dunn put in a call to either Baker or Ortega, who told the officers to stay with me until they arrived. That sounded like a party, so I started a pot of coffee. I thought about Baker being at my house. Yes, there were several things about him that should be checked out, things that Ortega had said were circumstantial at best. I asked myself, Do I really think that Baker is Michelangelo? The answer was no. Still, even though Dunn and Brees were here, and Ortega would be shortly, I was a little apprehensive.
The coffee pot burped, gurgled, and hissed, indicating it was about done. As I waited for it to push out its final drop of black gold, my mind turned to Michelangelo’s work. I’d seen Angela Lopez wired to the rock in De Leon Park, and I’d seen the crime scene photos from Kristin Harmon’s apartment. Those women had been brutally raped before he murdered them. Had the assault been so bad that their deaths had come as a relief? If he came at me, Michelangelo would find that I wouldn’t die easily. I would fight with everything I had, every ounce of strength, and every weapon available to me. And though I meant it, I was also sure that if Kristin and Angela had known what Michelangelo had planned, they would have said the same. And as evidence showed, Angela had fought for her life and lost the battle.
“Screw Michelangelo,” I muttered and got three jumbo mugs out of the cabinet. “Coffee’s on, boys,” I called.
Dunn, Brees, and I sat at the dining table, where we drank coffee, ate Doritos out of a bowl, and armchair quarterbacked the Jacksonville Jaguars into the next playoffs. A half hour later, Baker announced their arrival with a growl-like “Comfortable, gentlemen?”
His voice raised goosebumps on my arms. Dunn and Brees stood. Brees gave a brief report, then Ortega dismissed them to keep vigil outside the house.
“All right,” Baker said, “what happened?”
For a split second, I had a mental image of Baker moving silently through my house while I slept. It’s not Baker, I reiterated to myself, then took a breath. “I woke up and heard someone in the house.”
“What did you hear exactly?” Ortega asked.
“I’m not sure what it was that woke me, but right away, I could hear movement, subtle movement.”
“Uh-huh,” Baker said.
“I heard when Michelangelo stepped on a squeaky board in the hall. By the time I had my gun and was up, I heard one of the doors closing.”
“Gun?” Baker said.
“Ruger SR9, licensed and locked away.”
“What makes you think it was Michelangelo?” Ortega asked.
“He left me a gift.”
“The picture Brees mentioned?” Ortega asked.
“Yes.”
Baker asked, “A picture of what?”
I motioned for them to follow me into the bedroom and took them to the pillow that held the picture. Pointing at it, I admitted, “I picked it up before I thought better of it.”
Ortega slid it into a clear plastic evidence bag and handed it to Baker, who held it up. I studied his face as he studied it, looking for any sign that he was the one who’d put it there.
“Shit,” Baker grumbled. “What is it?”
“Part of the Medici Chapel, that statue represents night.” I waited for a three count so I could get the appropriate reaction. “Night was sculpted by Michelangelo.” Wanting to reiterate the suspicions I had to Ortega, I said, “You know what I think?”
“What?” Baker asked.
I looked Ortega in the eyes. “Seeing that it’s the police who use the nickname, I think Michelangelo might be a cop.”
Ortega narrowed his eyes and shook his head subtly.
“It doesn’t mean Michelangelo is a cop,” Baker said.
“If it’s only cops who use the nickname, if it hasn’t been in any of the media, then that’s probably a damn good sign it is,” I argued.
“Look, cops talk, to wives, friends, family,” Ortega said, glancing from Baker to me. Still, I could see the doubt in Ortega’s eyes and the suspicion, which was growing. “Word gets around. No telling where the psycho learned that we use Michelangelo.”
“Maybe it’s coincidence,” Baker said. “Maybe that’s what he thinks of himself, not knowing we use Michelangelo too. Or maybe it’s a coincidence that he used a photo of a Michelangelo sculpture.”
I snorted my disbelief, which set Baker’s eyes to burning.
“Maybe it’s not only cops who talk,” Baker said, voice low. “Who have you told? Your professor friend?”
“Yeah, I told Nick, but you came to him before asking me to be a consultant. And seeing as he’s in Vienna, he’s not the one to worry about.”
Baker crossed his arms. “Oh, yeah? What’d you tell that fat slob that runs the gallery?”
I inhaled deeply so I could unleash a proper retort, but instead emitted a squeaky sigh. “Oh, yeah.”
“Oh, yeah,” Baker repeated sarcastically.
“We know you told him he was a suspect, but you actually told him we call the killer Michelangelo?” Ortega asked.
“Well, I had to explain because I needed his help on something else. I figured since he was cleared by the pickle—”
“Cleared by the pickle!” Baker exploded.
I yelled back, “The bite pattern, whatever the hell you want to call it!”
Maintaining his volume, Baker answered, “I told you that just because the bite pattern didn’t match doesn’t mean he’s not a person of interest. Hell, it may not have been him who took the bite of the damn pickle—did you ever think of that?”
Tired of talking loudly, I calmly replied, “I talked to him. I didn’t get the feeling that he was some psycho killer.”
“Well, if you don’t feel it,” Baker muttered sarcastically. “We talked to him, too, and I’m not gonna start calling him Saint Adolph anytime soon.”
“Lise, he’s got a past of questionable sexual appetites,” Ortega said.
“And I talked about that with Adolph. He’s cleaned up his act. People change.”
And voila, Baker’s voice shook the roof again, “People change?”
“Baker.” Ortega spoke softly, but it did the trick.
Baker looked from Ortega to me, shook his head, and left the house.
“Coffee?” I asked Ortega.
“Yeah.” He watched me pour and took the cup. “You know it’s not Baker.”
“I don’t know that at all, and the fact that Michelangelo broke in and left me that photo, knowing what police are calling him, only makes me more suspicious.”
Ortega took a sip. “Maybe it wasn’t even Michelangelo. Might be a prank.”
“Yeah, real funny one. Who’d be stupid enough to risk getting shot for a prank?”
“I don’t know. But I was the one who got the call from the uniforms, and I called Baker, waking him from a deep sleep.”
“Or he was pretending.”
“He was home,” Ortega said.
“Did you call his cell or a land line?” I asked.
Ortega chose not to answer.
“Yeah, cell, huh? You going to check his alibis now?” I asked.
He sighed. “Maybe. Yeah, I’ll get around to it.”
“You’ll probably be right and can take great pleasure in calling me an idiot.”
“I wouldn’t call you an idiot.” Ortega sipped then grinned. “Maybe naïve.”
“Baker’s married, right? So give his wife a call tomorrow. Pretend you’re looking for Baker and can’t find him. Ask if your call tonight woke her up. If she said it did, then Baker was at home, and you’re right.”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, it’ll put your mind to rest as well.”
“Maybe,” he repeated a bit more sternly.
Cops and their loyalty, I thought, but said, “Consider it.”
Ortega opened his wallet, thumbed through it, and extracted a business card. “Here’s something I want you to consider.” He passed the card to me. Buddy Reid Security: security systems for home and business. Ortega reached out and flipped the card over. The name G. Fitzgerald was scribbled in ink on the back. “That’s a friend of mine, an ex-cop who works as a consultant for Buddy. Get in touch with him, tell him you had an intruder and that I suggested you get a security system installed as soon as possible.”
I stared down at the card. “Yeah, that’s a great idea. Thanks.”
Dunn and Brees stuck around, sitting in their unit until the sun rose, but apparently being scared shitless could make a person tired, because by then, I was back in the land of Nod. My phone rang, and I struggled from sleep like a dinosaur in a tar pit. Cracking open an eye, I tried focusing on the alarm clock until I saw it was almost time to get up.
I mumbled something into my cell phone that vaguely resembled “Analise Norwood Investigations.”
“We’ve got a lead.” It was Ortega, and he sounded excited.
“You got in touch with Baker’s wife?” I asked.
“Would’ve been a waste of time. This is promising. We’ve got a sexual predator who moved to San Marco a couple of weeks before Kristin Harmon was killed.”
“Oh?”
“Earl Banner, creep from Worcester, Massachusetts. He left there without telling his parole officer, and there’s a warrant for his arrest up in the Bay State. Needless to say, he didn’t file any of the required paperwork for predators when he arrived.”
“And he’s good for being Michelangelo?” I asked.
I could hear the smile on Ortega’s face when he said, “Oh, yeah, he got himself a small apartment a couple of blocks from Kristin Harmon’s place.”
“Any connection to Angela Lopez?”
“Not that we know of yet. One step at a time.”
“Did Banner do things like Michelangelo?” I asked.
Ortega became grim as he said, “Banner liked to abduct young women and bring them blindfolded and bound to his house and chain them in his basement. He’d take his time assaulting them, and when he was done, he’d drive them out to the country and let them go, always naked.”
“But he let them go,” I pointed out.
“After abusing and beating them.”
“Anything connected to art?”
“Not that we know of yet.” He was starting to sound aggravated.
“And since he let them go, there wasn’t any kind of body posing.”
“Almost all sexual killers have a period of escalation. Maybe he’s reaching his pinnacle here in San Marco.”
“Lucky us,” I grumbled. “How would he know about me and the nickname?”
“Those are things we’ll find out when we nab his ass.”
“When’s that happening?” I asked.
“Soon.”
“Let me know how it goes, okay?”
“You bet.”