"So what's with the limp?" Harry asked as we walked to my car. "Boyfriend wearing you out?"
"I got shot."
"Who would shoot a sweetheart like you? You sure you can drive okay? We could take my car. It's a lot nicer than yours."
"Shut up and get in. The more you talk, the more I feel like arresting you again."
"So nasty, Jackie. When was the last time you got laid? Pretty thing like you should be able to find a guy."
Following Harry's lousy directions, our meandering took us to a corner bakery, where I got coffee and McGlade got a large orange pop and blueberry bagel.
"Hell, where did I leave my wallet?"
I paid. From there, it was to his office, a merciful five blocks away.
"I'm on the sixth floor. Sorry, Jackie -- no elevator. Want a piggyback ride?"
I ignored him, tackling the stairs with as much dignity as I could. It wasn't much. By the third flight I was a sweating, shaking mess.
"You don't mind if I go on ahead, do you, Jackie? No offense, but I don't like watching the Special Olympics either."
I nodded, gasping for breath.
"Just three more flights, last office on the left. I'll come check your progress in ten minutes or so."
He trotted off, and I bit back the pain and doubled my efforts. I reached the top sopping wet with perspiration. A circle of blood had seeped up through my pants leg. I had to put my head between my knees so I didn't pass out.
McGlade had left the office door open for me. He was sitting at his desk, leafing through a magazine called Plucky Beaver. It had nothing to do with wildlife.
"Glad you could drop by, Jackie. You want some club soda for those pants? I think I've got some bandages too."
"Don't trouble yourself."
"No trouble, just take a minute."
"Thanks," I managed. Though God knew why I was thanking him. I took a seat opposite his desk and struggled out of my sweater. His office was tidy compared to his apartment. Almost respectable. The blinds matched the carpet, four lamps shared the floor with several healthy ficus trees, and his desk and file cabinet were stained oak. The only Harryesque touch was the painting on the wall, a cubist portrait of a nude woman with large blue triangles for nipples.
I got my breathing under control, and Harry returned with a roll of gauze and a bottle of liquid.
"Out of club soda. I've got Diet Sprite. Does that take stains out?"
"I don't think so."
Harry shrugged and took a pull off the bottle. I took the gauze and was directed to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I was freshly bandaged and the bloodstain had been scrubbed out.
"Did you find her file yet?"
"Huh? I hadn't been looking. Check out this Rack of the Month." Harry showed me the centerfold. "Think those are real?"
"McGlade..."
"Think of her back problems..."
"Harry. The files."
"Yeah. Okay."
He tore himself away from the magazine and went to a file cabinet in the corner of the room.
"What month was it?"
"April."
From the top drawer of the file cabinet he removed an open box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. He upended it over his desk, and a sheaf of papers spilled out. I picked one up and he snatched it from my hand.
"Don't mess with my organization. This is a complicated filing system."
"It looks like you just stuffed all of your April reports in an empty cereal box."
"To the layman, yes, that's what it looks like. But to my computerlike brain it is infinitely more complex. Aha!"
He held up a slip of paper.
"That's a coupon for baby oil," I told him.
He put it in his jacket pocket and kept searching.
"Let's see. Metcalf. Theresa Metcalf. Here we go."
He scanned through the report, which had been handwritten on notebook paper. I took a glance at it myself and couldn't make out the chicken scratches.
"Okay. She hired me to follow her boyfriend. I can't make out his name. It looks like Tommy. Or Johnny. I think it was Tommy."
"It was Johnny."
"That's what I said. Johnny. She gave me two hundred up front. Wanted to know if he was cheating on her. Gave me another two bills when I finished the job."
"What did you find out?"
"Hey, my client has a right to privacy."
"She's dead."
"Oh, yeah. To hell with her privacy then. Her boyfriend was dipping the wick in another pot. I shot two rolls of film on them. I think I still have some copies. Want me to look?"
"No, thanks."
"They're pretty good. I took an amateur photography class last year. You should see what I can do with a zoom lens."
"Maybe some other time."
"Yeah. Call me. I'll have some slides made up. Is that all you needed?"
"How did she come to you?"
"Walk-in, I think. Saw my ad in the phone book. Pays to advertise."
"What was your impression of the boyfriend?"
"He had the endurance, but came up short in the size department, if you know what I mean. That's why I needed the zoom."
"What kind of person was Johnny?" I rephrased, a temple of infinite patience.
"Besides a cheater? He seemed okay. Worked for some mutual fund company. Good dresser. Ritzy apartment. Up-and-comer yuppie type. Met with the bimbo on his lunch breaks. She worked in his office."
"What did he drive?" I was hoping for a Jeep.
Harry checked his sheet.
"White Lexus. About four years old."
"Do you recognize her?" I showed him the photo of our first Jane Doe.
"I don't think so. Kind of looks like an aunt I had. But she had a mustache. You gonna give me the skinny on these two?"
"They were both kidnapped, tortured, and had their stab wounds raped."
"Yuck. It's a sick world. I had a case once, jealous wife took a needle and thread..."
"Did you get any impression at all from Johnny Tashing that he could be a killer?"
"Naw. He was a typical preppie type, probably piss himself if he saw blood. No connection between the vics?"
"Can't find one. They're both young, pretty. Maybe that's the only criteria the killer needs."
"Look harder. Raping stab wounds seems like a punishment thing. Almost like revenge. Maybe he's going after every girl that ever dumped him. Anyway, this woman's husband was passed out on the couch, drunk. So she took a needle and thread and sewed..."
I tuned him out. In his limitless stupidity, Harry had said something smart. What if these women had offended the killer personally in some way and he was out for revenge? Could he have been a customer that Theresa snubbed, or an old ex-boyfriend?
"...so when the guy tried to take a leak..."
I got up to leave.
"Don't you want to hear what happened?"
I walked out the door, my head swimming with ideas. We'd been dwelling on the who, what, where, when, and how. But maybe the why needed further attention.
"Don't be a stranger, Jackie," he called out after me. "Maybe we can do lunch sometime."
I was convinced now that the killer knew these girls. That he was out for revenge. People like Bundy and Gacy, they killed for pleasure. For sex. Our perp was using sex as a form of punishment. These vics had something in common.
But what?
Before I knew it, I'd reached the bottom of the stairs. I hadn't even broken a sweat.
Mind over matter.
Chapter 26
IN HIS LIFETIME, HE'S KILLED TWENTY-THREE people. He did two stretches in prison, totaling eight years. Neither was for murder. If he hadn't been behind bars, he believes his body count would be double.
He has a knack for it. The fact that he's never been caught is proof. There are several tricks he uses, so suspicion never falls on him. Never leave evidence. Never establish a pattern. Keep a respectable cover and have an alibi ready. And always plan ahead.
Hookers are easy. No one misses hookers. Murder is an occupational hazard.
Or kids. It's simple to grab kids. Tell them their mommy was hurt, they'll always come with you. Or dress up like a cop. Or in a big dinosaur costume. Or as Batman.