“I feel like I do. I know you have a line. It’s something I’ve heard you say a thousand times, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but I care about you.”
She put her glasses back on to hide her eyes.
“You can think what you want about me,” I said, “but there’s more to me than you could ever imagine. There’s a lot I would have liked for you to know about the real me, the me that’s been kind of hidden away for so long, and I feel like now, especially now, with all that’s going on, that’s never going to happen. And I’m sorry about that.”
“You sound like you’re not going to be around anymore.”
That was true, one way or the other. “That’s right,” I said.
“Why?”
“Things have kind of come to a head.”
“What things?”
“Things.”
“There are bands of men looking for the killer in vans and pickup trucks. They have chains, pipes, whatever they can get their hands on, I guess. I hope you’re not one of them. This town doesn’t need that kind of justice.”
“I’m not a vigilante,” I said.
“Marley,” she said sadly, “what are you caught up in?”
“I wish I could tell you.”
She turned and ran her fingers through her hair. “Everything’s gone to hell so fast. These killings are ruining everything. He got Josie, and now I feel like I’m losing …”
“Losing what?”
I thought she was going to say she was losing me too. “Nothing,” she said. “When do you think it’s all going to end?”
“Soon,” I said. “I promise.”
I headed back to the truck and said, “Be careful.”
“You too,” she said.
I got in the truck and took off. I poured some of the water on a towel and washed my face. It would have to do.
Anthony the serial killer had once told me that he had a room rented over on Lincoln Street, on the east side of town. After consulting the phone book at a telephone stand, I saw that there were three motels on Lincoln: the Golden Eagle, the Phoenix Inn, and the Night Owl Lodge. All bird names, I thought. What were the odds?
I pulled up to the first on the list—the Golden Eagle—ran in, and asked the lady at the desk if she had an Anthony Mannuzza staying there. Because of my busted face, she wasn’t exactly willing to answer me like she would for a more handsome bloke, or maybe she—an oatmeal and Bible type—never took to “long-hairs.”
“That’s privileged,” she said, the two words sounding like two parts to a single fart. If she were a man …
“Ma’am,” I said, “the guy’s a friend of mine. I know he’s staying on Lincoln, but I’m not sure if this is the place.”
“Well, maybe you better talk to your friend.”
I took out Van Buren’s detective shield and said, “Listen, lady, I don’t have time to mess around. Answer the question.”
She nervously went through the registry, then said, “No.”
I began to walk out, but then realized the chances were good that he would’ve given a fake name, or maybe Anthony wasn’t his real name to begin with. I went back and gave her a general description of the scumbag, and I probably used the term “prettyboy” more than once. It still didn’t pan out with her.
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Even though this guy isn’t staying here, nor anyone that matches his general description, you were still unwilling to answer me when I came in here. How come?”
“You look like a rock musician,” she said. “I appreciate your honesty. More of a Hank Williams gal, are you?”
She smiled. I walked out.
At the other two places, I started with the description, and then said a possible alias was Anthony Mannuzza. These places didn’t pan out either. There was the possibility that he was staying somewhere else entirely, but I didn’t have the time to visit every single motel in Evelyn. I didn’t want to expose myself that much, especially because I was using stolen police property to get my answers, and for all I knew, I was now officially wanted for assault. So I was shit out of luck, but not out of options.
I drove out to the edge of town to this little bit of land with a log cabin on it. The plaque by the door said “Rose.”
This was the fancypants liquor-and-skin joint Anthony had taken me to. The lot in front had one car parked in it. It was a European car, and I didn’t know whose it was. I parked the truck, then knocked on the heavy wood door. After several minutes, it opened, and that terrifyingly large bouncer in the black suit stood before me, his squinty eyes drilling holes into my brain. My head began to feel like that scene from Scanners. I wondered how often he had to resort to using his hands on people. I wasn’t sure if I really needed to know, though.
“Hey, uh, Hyde, right?”
He didn’t say anything.
“I need to speak to someone here about one of your customers.”
“No,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, showing the badge. “It won’t take a minute. Mind letting me in?”
He looked behind him, said, “Cop,” and a female voice said something to him that I couldn’t hear. He stepped aside, and I went in.
Seated at one of the tables was that Samantha girl, the one that was in the schoolgirl outfit the night I was there, but now she was wearing sweatpants and a large Buccaneers T-shirt. She was counting stacks of money and didn’t seem to think anything of it that a cop had come to her establishment. She barely had the energy to look up, but when she did, she got angry, and fast. A look came onto her face that could melt paint off a wall. But she was still adorable.
“What the fuck is this?” she said. “You’re no fucking cop. Hyde!”
The man grabbed me by the back of the neck and squeezed.
“Jesus!” I cried, sinking to my knees because I couldn’t feel my legs anymore.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked me.
“I need to talk to you for a minute,” I grunted. I felt like I was going blind from the pain.
“Posing as a cop could get you in a lot of trouble,” she said.
“My middle name’s trouble,” I said.
“Mine’s Venus. Don’t tell anybody.” She flashed a smile, but just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone again. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“You know that prettyboy kid I was in here with the other night?”
“Who, Anthony?”
“Yeah,” I said, “Anthony … goddamn … I’m looking to find him.”
“Why?” she said. “That’s private.”
“Not private enough that you didn’t have to lie your way into my place of business, though.”
“Well, that’s true. You think you could tell this guy to let go of my neck?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“What do you want with him?”
“Who? Anthony?”
“Yes, you twit.”
“Well, he screwed me out of a lot of fucking money, and I want what’s mine. That’s all.”
“Oh yeah? It looked like he was carrying your sorry ass the other night.”
“It’s poker money,” I said.
“Whatever. You don’t have to tell me. But he’s a creepy little bastard, so I’ll tell you what I know anyway. One of the girls asked him one night where he was staying. I pulled her aside, because I had a vibe about this guy. I told her not to go with him. She said she wouldn’t, but later on that night I heard him tell her he was staying at a place on Barlow Drive.”
“Shit,” I said. The bastard had lied to me. “Do you know what place?”
“Do I look like I’d want to?”
“Which girl was it?”
“Helen.”
“Which one was that?”