8

Kit had never been to the newspaper offices and she soon wished she had obtained directions from Terry, for the city’s expressways had chopped up Howard Avenue so badly she could not follow it directly to her destination. When she finally saw the lighthouse-like clock tower with TIMES-PICAYUNE lettered across it, she felt a flood of relief.

Two things impressed her upon entering the light, airy lobby: the extremely tall escalators against the right and left walls and an unusual sweet smell she concluded was likely printer’s ink. Following Terry’s instructions, she took the escalator to the third floor and found her way to the newsroom, a football-sized space divided into a hundred cubicles by partitions so low you could see the entire operation from any position. It was not particularly noisy, but Kit still felt that she would have trouble concentrating without real walls around her, a longing for the safety of the womb, perhaps.

She gave her name to the woman at the reception desk, stated the reason for her visit, and was waved inside, where she followed the dirty blue-green carpet through the heart of the newsroom to the library. Happily, she did not run into Nick Lawson.

Terry Yardley was at her desk going over a pile of file folders with clippings in them. Even women who prefer slacks will occasionally wear a skirt, but to Kit’s recollection, Terry Yardley never did, which led Kit to suspect she was hiding something. But it would have taken a man a long time to catch on to that, so there must have been some other explanation for her perpetual lack of male companionship. A good possibility was her perfume, which was so strong that after a few minutes with her, you could taste it. Seeing Kit, she stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Girl, you look so good.”

“So do you.”

Terry patted her tucked hairdo, from which several pencils protruded. “I’m tryin’ the honey blond look. Ash blond got me nothin’.”

“How have you been?”

“I’ll sum it up for you. I just about got enough saved for a boob job and now I’m gettin’ afraid to have it done . . . all that stuff on TV.”

“Can you even get implants anymore?”

“Some kinds, but I dunno. . . .”

“So take a trip with your money.”

“When you come back from a trip, your money’s gone and you still look crappy in a sweater. But I’ve been thinkin’ . . . what do you suppose a boob job looks like when you get old, when you got this wrinkled little body and these big firm headlights? That could look real weird. I mean, I wouldn’t want some mortician callin’ all his friends over for a look.” Her eyes went to Kit’s chest.

“They’re real,” Kit said, reading Terry’s mind.

“You’re lucky.” Suddenly, she clapped her hands together. “Enough about tits. You wanted some prints.” She opened a drawer in her desk, took out three photographs, and handed them to Kit, who looked at each of them and said, “Terry, they couldn’t be better. I really owe you.”

“I like bein’ owed.”

“Good, then maybe I can add some to my account. What can you tell me about Nick Lawson?”

Terry’s eyes widened with pleasure at the question. She motioned Kit into the chair beside her desk, leaned over, and said in a conspiratorial voice, “He’s a good-lookin’ guy, you know that, sittin’ in his red two-seater, the top down, Foster Grants tilted onto his head, that ‘go to hell’ ponytail . . . Heady stuff, for some women. Actually, I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“Why’s that?” Kit said, Terry’s perfume faintly bitter in her mouth.

“I figured some female would have shot him or he’d have killed himself with the crazy stuff he does.”

“Details, Yardley, details.”

“He’s a real rake, usually stringin’ two or three women along at a time. There’s a couple I could name here at the paper who’d like to put his balls in a nutcracker.”

“Not you?”

“Much as I’m attracted to toxic men, that’s one I’ve managed to avoid.”

“What do you mean, ‘crazy stuff he does’?”

“He’s an adrenaline junkie. Always jumpin’ out of airplanes or white-water kayakin’ or some other nutty activity. Last year, he was out for a month with an allergic reaction to a shot they gave him when he got bit at a Texas rattlesnake-baggin’ contest. If that happened to any normal person, they’d have learned a lesson. . . . No, that’s not true, any normal person wouldn’t have been baggin’ snakes in the first place.”

Kit had asked about Lawson out of mild curiosity, her interest piqued by his recent articles on the killer she was chasing and their run-in at the first murder. Now, with what Terry had just said, a crazy idea entered Kit’s head.

Terry punched at the side of her head with her finger. “Somethin’ very wrong up here with that guy, which I guess explains why he stays in the cop shop.”

“Cop shop?”

“Police beat. He could make a lot more money coverin’ business or politics.” Her eyes narrowed and she shifted to a slightly mocking tone. “Why all the interest in Lawson? You wouldn’t be after his bod would you . . . ’cause, like I said, he’s—”

“Hardly. He’s been putting a lot of privileged information in his articles about those murders and we’d like to know where he’s getting it.”

Terry’s brow wrinkled. “Can’t help you there, ’cause I don’t know. And I’m glad. ’Cause if I did, it’d put me in kind of a spot, since I work for the paper too, know what I mean?”

“Sure. I hope you don’t feel I’ve tricked you or anything. That wasn’t my intent. I should have explained the situation before quizzing you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t say anything that’d hurt the paper, did I?”

“Not at all. There’s a Forensic convention in town, so I’m going to be pretty busy this week. But how about I take you to lunch next Tuesday . . . and no questions about the paper?”

“I’d like that.”

Walking to her car, Kit tried to talk herself out of the wild idea ricocheting through her brain. Lawson was an adrenaline junkie. Where most people hated the racing heart, the flushed face, and the wet palms fear brought on, Lawson loved it. She knew the type. They aren’t suicidal. They don’t want to die. They just can’t live without risk. Was it possible that he . . .

No. . . . It was ridiculous to think . . .

But was it ridiculous? Was it really so farfetched to believe Nick Lawson might be the killer? That would explain his presence at both scenes and how he knew so much. Then, too, there were the Scrabble tiles. That clue had led directly to the place where he worked. Maybe he’d run out of dangerous stunts and could no longer get the rush he needed from things he’d already tried. This could be the ultimate risk, playing games with the police with his life at stake. And it wouldn’t be over in a few minutes. Every day, there’d be the possibility he’d be caught. The risk wasn’t confined to a few minutes; it would exist at some level every minute of every day, spiking each time he passed a cop.

Before leaving the building, Kit stopped at the reception desk in the lobby and spent a few minutes with a phone book. In her car, she pulled her city map from the glove compartment, studied it for several minutes, then drove away, leaving a tiny amount of rubber on the asphalt.

THE ADDRESS SHE’D FOUND for Nick Lawson turned out to be a small two-story apartment building in Harahan called the Kitura. Lawson’s decision to remain in the cop shop, coupled with his taste for adventure, apparently left him without much housing money, for the Kitura was a drab and desolate place. There were ten apartments: five up and five down. The front doors of the upper five opened onto a covered walkway that functioned as the roof for a similar walk serving the lower apartments.

At each end of the building, there was a simple black metal staircase leading to the upper level. The building was clothed in a nice old brick with pleasing soft edges, but the trim and the doors were a hideous shade of turquoise. Landscaping was practically nonexistent—a dozen or so tiny boxwoods against the slab foundation and a foot-wide strip of brown grass between the walk in front of the building and its parking lot. Scattered over the grounds were bags and papers from a variety of fast-food joints.

There were two cars in the parking lot, neither of them red. She followed the drive around to the rear where there were a few more lined parking spaces and a blue Dumpster. Wherever Lawson was, he wasn’t home.

Kit felt that she’d uncovered some tantalizing stuff and she longed to find Broussard and discuss it. At the same time, she was reluctant to do so, mostly because of the supposedly inspirational Babe Ruth anecdotes he dispensed when he thought you’d made an ass of yourself and needed bucking up. So far, she had been Ruthed twice and she did not want it to happen again. Then, too, she was not unaware that her desire to run to him with some half-developed ideas was that same old desire for a pat on the head. Ugggh.

“ARE WE ALL TOGETHER?” Kit said, astonished at the number of people gathered by the escalator.

“Leo invited some of his students and they invited some of their friends,” Broussard explained.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Fleming said.

“Not at all. It’ll be fun.”

Charlie Franks was standing by two older men she didn’t recognize. One of them was looking at her as though they knew each other.

“Hello, Kit,” he said, extending his hand. “How are you liking that house of yours?”

Ah . . . of course. She took his hand. “Dr. Brooks. It’s good to see you again.”

“Forget that Dr. stuff. Call me Brookie.”

“All right.”

“I’m not convinced you can. Show me.”

It was difficult to call someone she barely knew by such a familiar name, but he gave her no choice. “Brookie . . . As for the house, I love it.” Broussard had told her about Brooks’s recent loss and she considered saying something appropriate. But he seemed in such good spirits, she decided not to bring it up.

“I don’t believe you know Hugh Greenwood,” Broussard said. “Hugh, this is Kit Franklyn, my suicide investigator.”

“A pleasure,” Greenwood said, his faintly scarred face giving no indication of pleasure.

“That’s it . . . everybody’s here,” Fleming announced. “There’s already a full load out by the shuttle, so we’ll have to walk.”

The students did not wait for the senior members of the party to lead the way, but went for the door in a happy noisy rush. On Poydras, they turned toward the Quarter like lemmings.

The dozen or so students moved as a unit, hanging together so all could hear whatever was said. The others paired off: Charlie Franks with Hugh Greenwood; Kit and Broussard; Leo Fleming and Crandall Brooks bringing up the rear.

Kit had obtained three prints of the Heartbeats from Terry Yardley, one for herself, one for Broussard, and one for Gatlin. Despite having already decided it would be wise to keep them to herself until she’d done some more legwork, she’d brought Broussard’s along in her bag, putting it in an envelope with his copy of the newspaper article.

“You know what tonight is?” Broussard said.

“What?”

“The first murder occurred early Saturday morning and the second, early Monday, a two-day interval. And this is Tuesday. . . .”

“You think we’re due for number three?”

“He’s a guy who likes patterns, so if there’s gonna be a third one, I’d say it’s worth considerin’.”

Kit had been so occupied with the Scrabble puzzle, she hadn’t given any thought to when the killer might strike again. Broussard’s concern seemed reasonable.

“Gatlin taking any precautions?”

“He’s got some men out in plainclothes and he’s set up a quick-response plan to blanket any area where they think he’s been.”

Greenwood turned and began walking backward, his hands in his pockets. “The use of a knife is a real art,” he said. “I once saw some Turkish knife fighters in training, and I swear they were poetry in motion. With guns, there’s no real involvement in what happens. They require nothing of the operator. You can drop it and it’ll go off. But it takes knowledge and skill to use a knife properly. In hand-to-hand combat, when you strike a lethal blow with a knife, it makes you want to throw your head back and howl like an animal. There’s no greater feeling in the world—not sex, not a good bowel movement, nothing.”

Greenwood faced forward and continued walking, leaving Kit and Charlie to exchange surprised looks. His remark had no effect on Broussard. Kit looked back to see if Fleming and Brooks had heard it, and Brooks said, “If I had to die at the hands of a killer, I’d rather it be by a bullet than a knife. There’s something about being penetrated by a blade . . . I don’t know . . . maybe it’s the comparative size of the invading object, or maybe, like Hugh said, it’s the idea that with a knife there’s an intelligence guiding it all the way, making the whole thing more personal.” He shivered. “Is that a typical reaction or just me? What does everyone else think? . . . Kit?”

“Great choices. But I agree, a knife is worse.”

“Andy?”

“I don’t like either one.”

“The point is to choose,” Brooks said.

“Wouldn’t happen either way,” Broussard said. “’Cause I’d take his weapon away from him and make him eat it.”

“I think this man is hungry,” Brooks said good-naturedly, patting Broussard on the back.

A couple of intersections later, the group crossed Poydras and headed for Canal Street. Three blocks shy of Canal, the students stopped to point and giggle at the displays in the window of a T-shirt shop. They seemed to particularly like a shirt titled THE HAPPY FISHERMAN, in which a submerged fish had hold of a certain part of a wading fisherman’s erect anatomy.

Two of the students were female. One, a cool blonde with a perfect complexion, was wearing blue slacks and a short-sleeved blue-and-white-striped sweater that showed off a great figure. The other, a brown-haired girl-next-door, also with fine skin and a beautiful smile, was dressed in baggy jeans and a loose pullover. Of all those gathered around the window, she seemed to be getting the biggest kick out of the risqué T-shirts. She had an ingenuous bubbly energy that Kit liked very much, but it was strange indeed to think that before too long she would be an instrument by which sadistic killers got what they deserved.

The attraction of the T-shirt shop allowed some time to reconnoiter.

“Where we headed?” Fleming asked.

“How about Tortorici’s?” Franks suggested.

Brooks shook his head. “Can’t. It’s closed.”

“No it isn’t,” Greenwood said. “I had dinner there last night, so I’d rather try somewhere else.”

“I wouldn’t mind goin’ back to Felix’s for more crawfish,” Fleming said. “That okay with everybody else?”

Getting no objection, Fleming looked at Broussard. “It’s on Bourbon, right?”

Broussard nodded. “A block off Canal.”

“Okay, Bourbon Street, everybody.”

In Felix’s, the six senior members of the party were shown to a large round table near the front door, while the students were put nearby at two square tables pulled together to accommodate their number. The arrangement struck Kit as similar to the Franklyn family Thanksgiving back in Speculator, New York—the adults at the main table, the kids off by themselves.

After they ordered and were brought their drinks, Crandall Brooks asked Kit if she knew Otto Schatz. She didn’t.

“He was the prosecutor’s psychiatrist at the Wilhoit trial,” Brooks explained. “We had lunch together today and he told me that as a kid Wilhoit used to dissect road kills, which came as quite a shock, because I used to do the same thing.”

“Yeah,” Greenwood said, putting down his beer after a long sip, “but he was masturbating while he did it. That’s the difference.” He paused, then added, “There was a difference, wasn’t there?”

“Hugh, you’re a crude man,” Brooks said.

“But I’m not infatuated with road kills.” Hand cradling his beer, he looked at Broussard. “Now, Andy, let’s talk about your serial killer. What’s being done?”

“Everything that can be.”

“So he hasn’t made a big mistake yet?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“I take that as a no, because if it had been a big mistake, I don’t think you’d have to wait to find out. So it was a small mistake or no mistake, which means the hairs you found didn’t help.”

“Hugh, you’re havin’ a conversation with yourself,” Fleming said.

Ignoring his remark, Greenwood turned to Kit. “Have you thought about going on TV with a sympathetic piece about the victims? If it’s done well enough, it may make your killer commit suicide.”

Brooks dismissed his comment with a wave of the hand. “That might work if he had remorse over the killings. I don’t think he does.”

“Neither do I,” Kit said. “And beyond that, it would be immoral.”

Greenwood’s eyes widened. His scars made interpretation of any of his expressions unreliable, but Kit now thought he definitely looked amused. “Immoral?” he repeated. “It’s immoral not to try everything and anything you can to stop him.”

“I just have a problem with that approach,” Kit said. “Besides, even in cases where it might work, it’s unpredictable. Sometimes it backfires and sets him off.”

“Apparently, he’s going to go off at least twice more, anyway. Have you thought about what he’s building up to? Maybe he’s going to pop up at some mall and slash his way through the crowd.”

Kit shook her head. “You’re confusing two different psychological types.”

Greenwood snorted derisively. “And if it happens, there’ll simply be a new subtype in the psychology literature.”

Kit was about to reply when the brown-haired female student approached Fleming with a package wrapped as a gift.

“Dr. Fleming . . . this is from all of us . . .” She gestured to the student table. “To you on your birthday.”

Judging from the look of admiration in her eyes, Kit concluded that Fleming must be a fine mentor.

“I’m touched, Diane,” Fleming said. He looked toward the student table. “So much so that I won’t hold it against any of you for remindin’ me I’m another damn year older.”

That brought laughs from the students.

“Open it,” Diane urged.

The package was about the right width and length for a tie. Fleming opened it fastidiously, carefully loosening and unfolding the paper as though it was a Dead Sea Scroll. He removed the lid and smiled.

“Show everybody,” Diane said.

He reached in the box and took out a wicked-looking ser-rated knife, which he waved at the student table, prompting applause and whistles.

“I have a saw collection on my office wall,” he explained to those seated at his table. “And a serrated knife is actually a type of saw.” He looked back at the students. “Thank you all very much. It’s a fine gift.”

The other patrons in the room stared at the noisy group with great curiosity and Kit was struck by the fact that whatever theories they might have about who these people were, they wouldn’t begin to guess the truth.

As Diane went back to her colleagues, Greenwood said, “So, Leo, how old are you?”

“Old enough that if my hair doesn’t quit droppin’ out, I’m gonna look like one of those damn carnival Kewpie dolls.”

The waitress arrived with a large round tray loaded with crawfish and other Cajun dishes. When it was all distributed, conversation flagged while they ate. Kit had bypassed the crawfish, choosing instead a spicy jambalaya that, after a few bites, made her mouth feel as if it was harboring a smoldering grass fire.

This proved to be a mild harbinger of what was to come, for her lips were soon an open conflagration. In a place that served such food, there was no greater sin than to allow a guest to run out of liquid to quench the flames. Their waitress understood this and deftly kept the fires from consuming her tip.

After the meal, Broussard, Kit, and Franks decided to catch the shuttle back to the hotel. Everyone else wanted to stay in the Quarter a while. The shuttle pickup was near the Jax Building on Decatur, which meant the group remained intact for a few blocks down Bourbon. This time, Kit found herself paired with Crandall Brooks.

“Andy told me about your little dog,” Brooks said. “Despicable thing for someone to do. How is he?”

“When I first took him in, the vet said he’d be fine, but this morning he had a relapse. Now I don’t know what to think.”

“I have a vet friend here. I wonder if he might be the one you’re using.”

“Dr. Samuels, at the South Carrollton Animal Hospital?”

Brooks shook his head. “Nope. Not him.”

Brooks’s interest in Lucky made Kit feel guilty that she’d not acknowledged his wife’s death. “I was extremely sorry to hear about . . .”

“I know,” he said. “When I first arrived, I thought that coming might have been a mistake. But it wasn’t. It’s been a big help. Being with all of you . . . seeing the life in those young people. I’ve drawn from that. And I’m stronger for being here. So don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Behind them, Kit heard Diane say to her companion, “So when they found her brother and X-rayed him, the whole side of his face was full of shotgun pellets, too. Isn’t that totally wild?”