Roy was telling me about the Paraíso bust when my phone rang: Leala.
“Gotta go, Roy.” I bent close to the phone and heard rustling, bumping: Leala moving. We weren’t going to attempt communication without a signal from Leala, the putty over the mic. Then, the sound of a trunk latch. We held our breath as a male voice filled the Rover.
“… next, Xaviera, I need to put this collar around your lovely neck, then clip this to it. Think of it as a … an elegant necklace. Sit up, Xavie. DO IT!”
I looked at Gershwin; like me, he was barely breathing. More rustling. Another click. “Sit up, that’s it. Give me your hand. HAND! Welcome to Key West, Xavie. Doesn’t the evening smell beautiful?”
“Come on, pervert,” I whispered. “Introduce yourself.”
If we got a name, Gershwin would relay it to the Key West cops. They’d match it with an address. Even a non-resident who owned a vacation home would be named on tax records, but I figured we were dealing with a resident, given Orzibel’s reference to the perp’s porch and neighbors. Plus my experience suggested that if this monster had bought Leala for the purpose it seemed, he would create a special venue for the event, a place to sit and fantasize prior to the act. The concept was grim and grisly and something I’d learned from my brother years ago.
My mind was racing, trying to recall everything I knew about disturbed minds when we heard the crunching of feet on gravel or shell.
A door opening. Closing.
“Come in here, Xavie. I should have a kiss. An innocent kiss.”
A pause. “There we go. Wasn’t that nice? Come over here, Xavie. To the bed. Isn’t it pretty? I know how you love pink. Talk to me, Xaviera.”
“What’s with the Xaviera?” Gershwin whispered.
“It’s either the name she was sold under, or part of this lunatic’s fantasy.”
“I told you to talk to me, Xavie,” the perp said, a thin wire of anger in his voice.
Leala found her voice. “I’m sorry … my throat is so dry. If I had …”
The anger seemed to turn to contrition. “Of course. I’m sorry Xavie, you’ve had nothing to drink for hours. I have some Pellegrino water. Is that all right?”
“Si.”
The captor offering an apology? It suggested the guy wasn’t in full master–slave mindset. There was something almost childlike in his response, a small clue to his mental make-up.
Footsteps moving away. A door closing. And then, Leala, to us: “He has gone for the moment. I am in a pink room in a big white house. There is one man wearing a robe. I think his mind is broken. There is a chain from mi neck to the above. My hands are loose but I cannot move far. I am very scared. When he looks at me he sees something not here.”
I pulled the putty from the mic. “Get his name,” I whispered. “We need his name to know where you are.”
“I am not sure if he any more knows who he … He comes. Please help me.”
We heard the door. The perp’s voice.
“What were you saying?” Suspicion.
“I was praying, Señor … Señor …” Hanging the word out, hoping he’d supply his name.
A laugh instead. “Please, Xaviera. Remember how you and your amigas used to make fun of the church and the priests?”
“I do not remember, señor. I am not Xaviera.”
A slap and a yip of pain. I felt my fists clench.
“Do not lie to me, Xavie. Your days of lying are over and I will not stand for it. I grew up. Would you like to see where I grew the most?”
“What’s with his voice?” Gershwin asked. “It’s deeper.”
“The fantasy’s taking over.” Something else I had learned about madness from my brother. “He’s shifting to an inner vision.”
“Do you want to open my robe, Xaviera? I have a surprise for you.”
A pause. “Not until I hear you speak your name.”
“What?”
“Can you not speak? Can you not say your name?”
“Don’t you dare make demands of me.”
“Then slap me again,” Leala said. “Maybe like your daddy taught you to do. Did he have a name? Does no one in your family have names?”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Easy, Leala.”
“Me llamo es Leala Rosales,” she said. “I am proud of my name. Does yours disgust you? Are you shamed by your name? Does it bring vomit to your lips?”
The sound of a slap. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, XAVIERA!”
“Jesus,” I whispered. “He’s going off.”
“My name came from mi madre y papa!” Leala said. “Did you have no one to name you?”
“I SAID SHUT UP!”
Another slap. I pictured Leala half-hanging by a chain from the ceiling as a robed monster battered her face.
“When it was asked what name to put on the certificate,” Leala continued, “did your mama say, ‘That thing is so insignificant … it deserves no name. Is that what she said?’”
Three slaps. It was like hearing a whip crack. Then …
“You know who I am, you stinking little tramp … MINARD CHALK! MY NAME IS MINARD SIMPSON CHALK!”
“On it,” Gershwin said, relaying the information to Key West cops hunched over keyboards and waiting. A long and frightening pause before Gershwin looked up. “They’ve got an address. They can be there in five minutes. It’s ten from here.”
“Tell them to roll. I gotta stay and listen.”
Gershwin relayed the decision. Twenty seconds later the pair of cruisers hit the lights but not sirens, blasting away as back-up.
A minute passed. I heard slow footfalls punctuated by pauses. I pictured the guy circling Leala and letting his imagination run wild, the savoring phase. Our on-board computer buzzed with incoming info. Gershwin read the screen. “The fucker’s in the national sex-offender database: Minard S. Chalk, thirty-four years of age, four arrests for voyeurism, San Clemente and Seattle, most recently in Minneapolis …”
“A peeper,” I said, staring at Gershwin in disbelief. “That’s all?”
“Two arrests for exhibitionism, Minneapolis and Seattle. Both times he flashed teenaged girls with a fake dick.”
I was taken aback, expecting more violence in his past. Peepers, creepers and waggers were almost never violent; many were timid, painfully shy, inept. This guy had jumped from the box, maybe let his fantasies bloom to a dark garden of needs. What did the pseudo penis mean? Impotence? Insecurity?
The footsteps stopped and I held my breath and listened.
“Look what I have for you, Xavie,” the voice crooned. “Go ahead … untie my robe. OPEN THE GODDAMN ROBE, XAVIE! There … that’s the way …”
A gasp from Leala. She started screaming.
“HELP ME! HELP ME!”
The pleas were to us. Gershwin looked at me, helpless.
“Lay back on the bed, Xavie. That’s an order!”
Leala screamed again. “STOP. NO! HELP ME!”
There was one chance left, a long shot. I tore the putty from the phone and brought it to my lips. “MINARD CHALK,” I said, a voice in total command. “This is Carson Ryder of the Florida Center for Law Enforcement. WE—”