Variants of Deja Vu: A Valerie Urniak Mystery, #3

CHAPTER ONE

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It didn’t quite qualify as déjà vu, but it came too close for comfort.

Instead of a client not showing up for her early morning appointment, this time it was Claudia Williams, the manager of my second hair salon, The Cutting Edge, who had failed to arrive there today. Guy, one of the stylists who fortunately had a key to the shop, called me late in the morning to alert me that Claudia was a no-show. That shop catered to a college crowd and opened later than my more traditional shop, but both shops started the workweek on Tuesdays. Claudia had once been a bit flighty, but her promotion to manager at The Cutting Edge had made her quite conscientious. She was usually the first one there each day. It was unlikely that she’d forgotten that work resumed today, which was why Guy’s call had left me a little concerned. I called Claudia’s apartment, but there was no answer. The situation suddenly reminded me too strongly of the day when my client Gloria Evans didn’t show up for her early morning appointment. I’d found her that evening in her bathtub, her wrists slit, a murder masquerading as a suicide.

I tried not to panic. I worked on my client but kept one eye on the clock, trying Claudia’s number whenever I could slip into my office. After an hour had passed with no answer at her home, and with Guy advising me that Claudia had not yet shown up for work, I decided it was time to do something.

I couldn’t remember a time in the three months I’d been married that I had called John at the police station. His job as a homicide detective was too essential; I didn’t think he should be bothered with trivial matters that came up in my day, or with questions such as what he might want for dinner that evening. But this situation didn’t fall into those categories.

I might not have called my husband at work since our marriage, but I did have the number memorized. I dialed it now.

Detective Wilson.

John, it’s Valerie.

Val, what’s wrong?

Claudia hasn’t shown up for work.

Was that an exasperated sigh I’d heard coming through the phone line? And you’re calling me because—?

She’s over an hour late, and there’s no answer at her apartment.

Val, are you forgetting it snowed last night? I know it wasn’t that much, but it really tied up traffic today. It took me twice as long as usual to get to work. She’s probably stuck on a bus in traffic somewhere. Remember, not everyone has a two-minute commute the way you do.

Earlier in the year, when one of my clients died, I had unexpectedly inherited the paid-in-advance lease on her apartment. It was practically across the street from my beauty salon.

But it’s been over an hour! I protested. She could have walked to work in that time. I hesitated before I brought up my real fear. Is Santos still in jail?

Now, instead of a sigh, I thought I heard a sharp intake of breath. Last spring, Claudia’s ex-boyfriend, Richie Santos, had tried to kill both her and me. He had previously killed my client Gloria Evans, staging it as a suicide.

I’ll look into it and get back to you, John said tersely.

Wait! I caught him before he hung up. Can you check on John Lantern, too? Lantern and Santos had conspired revenge on the girlfriends who had dumped them, trading murders to keep suspicion off themselves. They were both supposed to be in jail, but if they had been released for any reason... I didn’t want to think they were free and had gone after Claudia. If they had, that might mean I could be their next target.

We hung up. My next client was Mrs. Herschel, one of my regulars, for which I was grateful. I could wash, set and style her hair by rote, one ear straining for the phone to ring.

It finally did, when Mrs. Herschel was under the dryer. Brenda answered and gestured that it was for me. I took the call in my office.

Both are locked up and accounted for, John said without preamble. There’s probably some simple explanation for Claudia being late.

My shoulders sagged with relief. Do you think, I knew I was treading thin ice here, that Vince might know of her whereabouts?

Vince Cardonza was John’s partner. I always thought that he and Claudia would make a good couple. They met at our wedding three months earlier. They’d only had eyes for each other as they danced together there, but then... nothing. That had been the beginning and the end of their relationship. I found it hard to believe I could have been so wrong.

Vince isn’t here, John said.

He’s out on a case without you? That was unusual.

I don’t know where he is, John admitted. He had yesterday off, and he hasn’t bothered to show up today. I’ve been covering his butt all morning, but if he doesn’t get here soon, I don’t think I can keep it up much longer.

Do you think they’re together?

Valerie. He said it in a tone I knew he meant to be reproachful, but it sounded more like an endearment to me.

There could be something on his desk that will give you a clue where he is, I suggested.

Val, I’m not going to go snooping in my partner’s desk.

Did I say anything about going in his drawers? I challenged. All I’m saying is that if you look at what’s right out in the open, maybe something will tell you where he is, and whether he’s with Claudia.

Hope always springs eternal with you, doesn’t it? he asked with a gentle chuckle. All right, hold on a minute while I look.

I heard him set the phone down and the squeak of his chair as he stood. The backs of his and Vince’s desks abutted; I didn’t know if he’d lean over or walk around to get a better look.

He came back on the line. I think you can stop hoping now, he said. There’s nothing about Claudia on his desk, but there is a scratch pad with the initials L.V. and some numbers; it might be a phone number in a different area code. Looks like he’s met someone else.

I was disappointed, but there were more important matters at hand. What can we do about Claudia? She’s missing!

Officially, she’s not missing until it’s been twenty-four hours, John said.

Are you sure?

Yes, Valerie. Then, in a softer tone, he added, I can check if any accidents have been reported between her house and the shop.

Would you?

Sure I will, babe, but right now, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll get on it as soon as I can.

I heard Mrs. Herschel’s dryer buzz. I’ve got to go too, I told him. My work wasn’t as important as his was, but I was busy, too. I wanted to be irritated with him, but I couldn’t be. He was probably right in thinking that there was some simple explanation. If not stuck in traffic, Claudia’s phone could be out of order without her realizing it. Or there could have been a power failure that she was unaware of; her clocks could be several hours slow, and unless she turned on a radio or the TV, she wouldn’t know about it.

I worked, and I worried. What if Santos and Lantern had met someone in jail and had brought a third party into their conspiracy? That person could have been released and gone after Claudia. He could be planning to go after me next.

The phone rang several times over the course of the afternoon. Brenda always leapt for it. I suspected some were personal calls about her upcoming wedding, which was a little less than two months away. As long as she got her work done and none of her clients complained, I was willing to look the other way if her caterer or florist called. Lately most of the calls were from her mother, who was forever fussing over the seating chart for the reception. Witnessing all that Brenda was going through in preparation for her wedding made me glad I had allowed John to handle the arrangements for our almost-impromptu wedding; it astonished me that he’d done it all in one week while working his usual heavy caseload.

I had a break between clients. I was heading to my office to try Claudia’s number again when Brenda said, Val, Guy called a while ago, while you were busy with Mrs. Harriot’s perm. He said not to bother you, to tell you that she’s there when you were free. He said you’d know what that meant.

My worry evaporated, and anger sparked in its place. Part of it was at Claudia for being irresponsible, and part of it at Brenda for not giving me the message right away. But I couldn’t fault Brenda since she’d had no idea what I’d been going through, and neither, for that matter, did Claudia. I would call Claudia later, when it was far less likely I’d snap at her for worrying me unnecessarily. It wasn’t her fault that I thought the worst when she was late.

It turned out calling Claudia wasn’t necessary; she showed up as my last client was leaving. Brenda and Beverly had already cleaned up their stations and left. We had the shop to ourselves.

Hi, Val, Claudia said cheerily. Guy told me he called you this morning when I was late. I know it probably gave you a fright. I thought I’d come over and explain.

You don’t have to, I said. Claudia hoped to become my partner someday. She was invaluable to me as manager of The Cutting Edge, and I tried to treat her as more of an equal than an underling. No harm done, all’s well that ends well, and whatever other cliché you can think of.

"But I want to tell you, she said emphatically. I couldn’t call to let you know I’d be late because of the weather."

That’s what John said it probably was, that you were stuck on a bus somewhere because of the snow.

Her eyes widened. You had to be pretty worried to call John.

I shrugged with feigned nonchalance. I had been worried, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad about it.

I was delayed by the snow, but I wasn’t on a bus... She let her voice trail off in a way that got my attention. When she saw me looking at her, she grinned. I was late because our plane had to circle a long time while they got the runways cleared.

Plane? I must have misheard her.

Right, a plane. I was coming back from Vegas where Vince and I... She held up her left hand and waggled her fingers to draw attention to the wide beaten gold band on her third finger. Got married! she finished with a scream, and started jumping up and down. We’re married, we’re married! I can hardly believe it.

But you two – you haven’t been going out—

Actually, we have, she said as she stopped jumping. We’ve been seeing each other since your wedding. We didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, in case it didn’t work out.

Obviously it did, if you’re married now.

Her happy expression changed; she looked ill at ease. We love each other, she said softly, but there’s another reason we got married. You see, Val, she suddenly couldn’t meet my eyes, I’m three months pregnant.

CHAPTER TWO

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Three months? I was beginning to sound like an echo. But you met him three months ago.

Right. She drew the word out slowly.

So if you’re three months pregnant, you two would have had to... I let my voice trail off. What about that vow you made to yourself?

After her last boyfriend, whom she’d met when he picked her up at the bus stop, had nearly beaten her to death, breaking her nose, arm, and some ribs in the process, Claudia had promised herself that she was going to start taking relationships slowly, and not jump into bed as soon as she met a guy. To that end, she had decided to stop taking birth control pills... It was starting to make sense.

Claudia glanced my way. Old habits die hard. She shrugged. When we met at your wedding, we were getting along so well, and he was so good-looking. We went out for some drinks after the reception, and— She shrugged again. But here’s the good part, she said eagerly. "After that one time, I told him I wasn’t that kind of girl anymore, and if he wanted to keep on seeing me, there’d be no more of that – at least not until we knew each other better. I was certain he’d drop me, but he didn’t! We kept going out – and everything’s so right when we’re together. So I decided I was ready to start sleeping with him – again. I must have made some face I wasn’t aware of, because she’d rolled her eyes with exasperation as she added that last word. I went to my doctor to get a new prescription for The Pill last week. That’s when I found out I was three months along already. I’d thought I had some kind of bug. She placed a hand protectively on her stomach. If it had been anybody else, I wouldn’t have told him. I would have had it taken care of, you know? But this is Vince’s baby, and I thought he should have a say in it. So I told him, and what he said, right off, no questions asked, was, ‘Let’s go to Vegas and get married.’ And that’s what we did."

That ‘L.V.’ on his desk followed by a bunch of numbers – ‘Las Vegas’ and either flight numbers or times. And John had thought they were the initials and phone number of another girl!

Congratulations, I said, on everything, the wedding, the baby—I can hardly believe it.

Imagine how I feel! she said. You won’t believe the silly thing Vince wants to do. There was affection rather than criticism in her voice. Remember when that client of yours told us about her friend who faked her wedding date so no one would know she was already pregnant when she got married? Vince wants to do that! He wants us to tell people we eloped the night of your wedding! It’s so silly – I don’t care if anybody knows – but it’s sweet too. He thinks his grandmother would be upset if she found out that we hadn’t waited for marriage. He’s planning on making a copy of our wedding certificate and doctoring up the date on it, so he can show it to her if she wants to see it. That’s the reason we couldn’t ask you guys to come with us as our witnesses. How could we explain that our witnesses left their own wedding to go stand up at ours? But I wish you could have been there, she said wistfully. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have met Vince, and I wouldn’t be standing here, Mrs. Vincent Cardonza! She held out her hand and looked at her wedding ring, a stance I had taken many times myself since my own wedding. It doesn’t seem real, she said. So, Val, she looked at me, got any advice from an old newlywed to a new newlywed?

I shook my head, which was reeling from the silly fraud they planned to perpetuate. To me it didn’t sound like the kind of thing Vince would come up with, but I let that pass, and answered Claudia. No advice, but I have a question: what are you doing here when you’ve got a new husband waiting for you at home?

She shrieked, and I jumped. After all the years I’d known her, her exuberance continued to startle me. Oh, my god! I don’t know whose apartment we’re going to live in. We haven’t talked about that!

Then go to your place, I advised, because I bet you don’t have a key to his apartment, do you?

She hit herself in the head with her palm. I should have thought of that myself. I’ll go home and wait to hear from— she paused dramatically, then practically shouted, my husband! With a waggle of her fingers – the fingers of her left hand – she was out the door.

I finished sweeping, decided washing towels could wait until the morning, unplugged and washed the coffee maker, then locked up and headed for home. The snow had long ago melted, but a little slush remained by the curb as I waited to cross the street to my building. I loved living a stone’s throw away from my beauty shop, and couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t moved closer to work sooner.

I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor and let myself into our apartment. John wasn’t home. I tossed my purse on the couch and went to the kitchen. Being married hadn’t turned me into Suzy Homemaker; we had carryout or ate out more often than not, but I had become better about keeping some food on hand in case I was inspired to cook. Not that I knew how to cook many things. I peered into the freezer, and through its white mist of cold air spotted a package of ground beef. I could brown that, add some canned spaghetti sauce, and let it simmer until John came home. Once he did, I could boil water for spaghetti. When I served it, John would eat it as if it had come from a five-star restaurant. I wasn’t sure if that was from love, or if years of the bitter coffee they served at his station had killed his taste buds.

Something smells good, John said when he entered the apartment.

I was stirring the sauce then, so I smiled at him over my shoulder. It’s the spaghetti.

He came up behind me and nuzzled my neck. No, I think it’s you.

I leaned back against him. Flattery like that, I said as I looked up into his handsome face, will get you anything you want.

He smiled slowly, and my heart began to beat faster. I’ll keep that in mind... Is there time for me to grab a shower?

I nodded. I have to cook the spaghetti.

The spaghetti was close to being done when he came back into the kitchen. Without my asking, he reached into the cupboard for plates, and got silverware out of the drawer. We had fallen into an easy domesticity, and I marveled daily at how wonderful a marriage could be. My first marriage, as a teenager, had been a travesty, a constant source of ridicule, belittlement, and abuse. My marriage with John truly was a loving union.

Did you hear the news? he asked over the clatter of setting the table.

About Claudia and Vince? She came to my shop after work and told me. Did you know they were seeing each other? I asked, looking at him sharply. He was a detective by profession, and a very intuitive man.

I swear, he said, holding up his hand as if he was taking an oath, I had no idea. I can’t figure out how Vince kept it from me. He’d say sometimes that he had a date, but he didn’t say who it was with, but that wasn’t unusual for him. He goes through girls like most people go through a box of tissues. He could have knocked me over with a feather when he told me he and Claudia eloped.

I looked at him closely again. He didn’t tell you why?

He shook his head but I could see his mind was already at work. He got her pregnant, didn’t he?

She was a willing participant, I corrected him, and Vince insisted they get married right away when she told him about it. According to Claudia, he wants them to fake their wedding date so his grandmother won’t find out they jumped the gun.

It must be love, John said as he sank into a chair. It’s not the first time Vince has been in this situation, but it’s the first time he wanted to marry the girl.

I couldn’t help it; I was shocked at hearing that. Have you—have you been in that situation? I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

No, he said, at least not to my knowledge.

That was a major difference between men and women. A woman knew if she got pregnant, but a man didn’t necessarily know if he’d impregnated a woman. I wondered if John was thinking that because he’d married me, he wouldn’t have a chance to impregnate anyone since I couldn’t have children.

How did you feel, hearing that news? he asked.

That they were married? Happy for them.

No, I meant how you felt about Claudia being pregnant.

I was silent as I drained the spaghetti. I put the pot and the pan of sauce on the table. I didn’t want to have to wash serving bowls, and John didn’t mind that I sometimes did that. I sat down and said, Help yourself.

You haven’t answered my question, he said as he heaped spaghetti onto his plate.

The truth was, I hadn’t allowed myself to think about it, but I did now. I’m a little jealous, I admitted. But it can’t happen to me, so what’s the point in moping about it? I got pregnant when I was sixteen, and complications after the birth had resulted in an emergency hysterectomy.

I’m not against adoption if you really want a baby, John said.

We both have to want it, I told him.

John’s sister Lorna was adopted. He had told me his parents had treated all their children equally, and that he considered Lorna as much his sibling as his biological brother, Brian. But he’d also told me he had no real desire for children himself, and that having, at current count, four nephews was enough for him.

We finished our meal. John went to the study to do some paperwork. I cleaned up the kitchen. When I finished and walked past the study door, John beckoned me inside.

Hon, there’s something I want you to look at, he said, and held out a file.

CHAPTER THREE

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I thought he was joking. The closest we’d come to having a fight was a time when I had, accidentally and innocently, looked at one of his case files when we were dating. Since then I had studiously avoided having anything to do with them, going so far as to let dust accumulate on his desk rather than clean there and be accused of trying to get a peak at classified information.

He was holding a file out toward me. Was this supposed to be some sort of compensation to me for my jealousy over Claudia’s pregnancy or because of John’s reluctance to adopt a baby with me? I eyed him, and the file, warily.

Are you sure you want to do this? I asked. I don’t want to get you in trouble if I look at this. I am your wife now, but I’m a civilian. Being a civilian was one of the reasons I wasn’t supposed to have access to his files.

It’s an old file, a closed case.

Then why do you want me to look at it?

I thought you’d jump at the chance, he said, since you have those cute Nancy Drew tendencies.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve given up on all that. I knew he’d noticed; he noticed everything. I’d had a bit of luck figuring out some cases when we first met, but my burgeoning confidence in my skill as a detective had withered instantly when I learned the truth about my daughter’s death. It hadn’t been a crib death as I had long believed, but a case of cold-blooded murder. Since I hadn’t been astute enough to have figured that out when it happened, nor at any time in the intervening years, I’d decided I had no place interfering in John’s work.

I need you to look at this case, John said, and tell me if anything jumps out at you. Or if you have any psychological insights into this guy.

All right, I said, a little grudgingly, and held out my hand. Four months ago, I would have eagerly snapped up the file without a moment’s hesitation, but today I was reluctant and uneasy about it.

You can read it in here, if you want, John said, nodding toward the rocker his mother had given us, claiming she no longer had room for it. I wondered if that gift was her subtle way of telling us she expected more grandchildren. I hadn’t asked John if he had told her I was incapable of bearing children; I certainly hadn’t told her myself, and had no plans of doing so.

I settled into the rocker, and looked around the room. Do you think we should strip this wallpaper and paint in here? This had once been the bedroom of the former tenants’ daughter. The walls were papered in a pink and white stripe, faded by age; that daughter was now the middle-aged, well-to-do North Shore matron who had given me this apartment rent-free for the remainder of its lease since her mother had prepaid her rent through its expiration, and the landlord refused to refund any of the money.

John looked around as if he hadn’t noticed the walls before. I suppose, he said, if we’re going to stay on here – and we are, aren’t we?

I nodded. I want to. I couldn’t be any closer to my shop unless we lived in my office there.

I don’t want to do that. He laughed. I think we should stay here, too.

I think I’ll start stripping the wallpaper next Monday when I’m off. I hadn’t done anything like that before, but how hard could it be?

I looked around the room again, but couldn’t see anything else that could delay the inevitable. I opened the file.

I remember this case, I said after I’d read a few pages. It happened when I was a kid. I heard my mother talking about it over the fence with the neighbor lady.

I was a kid, too, John said, as if I needed to be reminded that we were the same age, both of us thirty-three. I kind of remember my mother and her friends being pretty nervous about it.

The case file contained far more information than I remembered, and included the kind of graphic detail that wasn’t part of newspaper or television news stories of that time. I had told John once that after dissecting a cadaver in graduate school, nothing made me queasy anymore, but this file was coming close.

My memory of these crimes was that women, single women living on their own, without any roommates, were murdered in their homes. The killer had left messages written in lipstick on their mirrors. I remembered a feeling of unease among the women in my neighborhood, and how some had decided to forego wearing lipstick until the killer was caught, lest that was what attracted him to his victims. I remembered, too, that when the killer had been found – not apprehended, but a suicide who had left a written confession – his neighbors and landlady said the usual things about him, that he was a nice, quiet man and they hadn’t suspected a thing was amiss with him. And then the case had faded from everyone’s consciousness.

Now, as I read the police report on the crimes, I had a doubly different perspective: that of an adult, and of someone who had studied psychology and had some specialized insight into human behavior.

The first crime, I was surprised to learn, had taken place about a mile from where I’d grown up. No wonder the neighborhood women had been so apprehensive about it. The victim had been twenty-three, a waitress who had moved to Chicago from downstate Illinois. I noticed disapproval of the victim in the report. There was an emphasis on her having no family in the area, as if that made her move to Chicago suspect. Her landlady said she had often gone out with men on weekends, which carried an implication that the victim had loose morals.

She had been killed with a knife. The medical examiner’s report showed that death was almost instantaneous, caused by a single stab wound to the heart. But the killer had not stopped there. He had mutilated her body in a random fashion.

The notable finding in the apartment was ‘Help Me’ written in lipstick on the dresser mirror. The reports indicated police initially thought the victim had written that message. As I looked at the crime scene photos, I wondered why the police had decided she’d had asked for help in that manner, when about two steps from the mirror was a window. Had she written that message on the pane of glass, some neighbor or a passerby might have seen it – though undoubtedly too late to provide any help. A more logical ploy would have been to try to get the window open and scream for help, but there was nothing to indicate she had attempted to do that.

When, a week later, another woman was found stabbed and mutilated, with the words ‘Stop Me Now’ written in lipstick on her mirror, investigators deduced it had been the killer, not the victim, who had written those words. It was then that someone finally thought to ask what had happened to the lipstick, for there was none to be found in the apartment. In checking the first victim’s belongings, investigators found that while there were lipsticks among her possessions, none were the shade used to write the message.

The third victim was not from the South Side, as the first two had been. This one had lived on the North Side, and the message at her scene read ‘Find Me.’ I skimmed that report, but her stabbing and mutilations were much like the others.

The final victim had also lived on the North Side. That message was longer than the others had been: ‘I Must Stop Myself.’

Two days later, a landlady on the near West Side found her least troublesome boarder, Warren Hughes, dead in his bed from what turned out to be an overdose of aspirin. In his room was a large manila envelope on which was written, ‘Give To The Police.’ Inside was his short confession and four tubes of lipstick.

There were more photos at the back of the file. I skipped the ones of the victims – my stomach, it turned out, was not quite as strong as I had once thought – but I studied the ones of the crime scenes, particularly the messages written on the mirrors. I stood up and reached for the magnifying glass on John’s desk, then settled back into the rocker and looked at them again. When I had finished, I shut the file and put the magnifying glass back in place.

What do you think? John asked.

Creepy. I handed the file back to him. What was the point of having me read this?

What did you think about the killer?

I shook my head. There wasn’t all that much to go on, four short messages and a terse confession. His neighbors said the usual thing people say when something like this happens. It’s hard to profile someone from such a little bit of data.

I know, he said glumly.

This case is twenty-five years old. What are you doing reading it now? It’s not like it’s an unsolved cold case.

This is in confidence, he said, and although we were alone in our apartment, he lowered his voice. There’s been another murder, with the same M.O.

Exactly the same? I questioned. Even that—

He cut me off with a firm, Exactly the same.

CHAPTER FOUR

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Before I’d met and married John, I had known that the police usually held something back when a crime got any publicity, something no one except the real killer would know. It was no surprise to me to find they’d been doing that twenty-five years ago.

John raked his fingers through his hair. It could be a copycat crime, except...

For that one detail.

I thought that’s what you needed the magnifying glass for, he said.

So you’re thinking it’s someone who worked the case then?

John rubbed his eyes. That’s one possibility, he said. But since it happened twenty-five years ago, most of those guys are pretty old by now. Some of them have retired and moved away. And it doesn’t necessarily have to be one of them.

What do you mean?

It could be someone they talked to about it. It’s hard not to confide in somebody about what’s going on. I’m talking to you now, for instance, as they might have talked to their wives or girlfriends, or best friend. If one of those people told someone else, the knowledge of that little detail could have spread exponentially. He leaned back in his chair. But it’s a place to start. I brought the file home so I could start working on a list of everyone in the department who was involved in the case. We’ll need to start talking to them.

You don’t think it’s someone in the department who did it this time, do you?

I hope not, John said with a sigh. The press would have a field day if that were the case.

I rocked back and forth for a minute, weighing my options here. I could keep quiet, but what if another murder occurred? How would I feel then? I took a deep breath. There is another possibility, I said slowly.

John had been looking at the legal pad on which he’d been writing his list. He turned his head and raised his eyes to meet mine. What?

I walked over to his desk and planted myself on his knee. John grinned. I like what you’re thinking.

That’s not what I’m thinking, I said, but I wriggled a little to let him know it was definitely a possibility later. I want to show you something in the file.

I pulled it toward me and flipped through it to the crime scene photos. I pulled out the four that showed the messages written on the mirrors. This is what was held back from the public, I said, tapping my fingertip on each photo. Below each message were two small stick figures, one about twice as large as the other.

Right, John said. In the new case, those same drawings appear under the message.

Look at the messages, I said, and waited as he looked at each one of them in turn. Notice anything?

Desperation? A desire to stop what he was doing?

Not that, I said.

He looked again, then shook his head.

The printing. The messages are desperate, yes, but the printing – it’s so precise, so exact. It’s like the sample printing in those practice books we had in grade school, when they were teaching us how to print.

John looked again, and nodded acknowledgement.

But look at the figures. They’re sloppy, imprecise. And they’re drawn way below the message. How tall was Hughes?

I think I saw that in his autopsy report. John started to flip through the file. I had skipped that report myself. Here—he was a shade under six feet.

So I’d be safe to assume that he wrote the message at about his own eye level, wouldn’t you say? John nodded. But to draw those figures at that level, he would have needed to bend down.

That could be why they’re sloppier, John offered.

Or else they were drawn by someone else, someone who drew them at their own eye level.

I waited, knowing I wouldn’t have to spell it out any more than that.

That’s—insane, John said.

That’s what Hughes must have been, I countered. So why wouldn’t he have brought a child with him?

But whose kid?

I shrugged. Did he have a girlfriend who had a child? Or did his landlady have a kid? She’s quoted as saying how trustworthy he was. She could have let him baby sit for her sometimes, or she let him take the kid to the park, something like that.

And he took the kid along when he committed those murders? Wouldn’t the kid have told his mother or someone?

Not if Hughes threatened him in some manner – if you tell, I’ll kill your mother, or you, or your dog. Who knows what he might have said?

But once Hughes was dead, wouldn’t the kid have told then?

Hughes could have told him he’d be considered guilty of murder too. Or he repressed what happened. Some recent event might have triggered his memory, and he’s reenacting what happened back then.

I don’t know, Val... It’s pretty farfetched.

Who better to know about those figures than the person who drew them in the first place? From the style of those drawings, the kid could have been anywhere from three to six, so he’d be in his late twenties or early thirties now...

John reached for the phone. I’ve got to call Vince.

I put my hand on his arm. Honey, he just got married. Technically, they’re on their honeymoon although they’re at home. Give him a break. How would you have liked it if someone had called us right after we got married? We hadn’t been able to take a trip after our wedding because John couldn’t get more than one day off, so we’d spent that day in our apartment, alone together.

You’re right. He sighed. Scoot, he said, putting his hands on my waist and guiding me off his knee. I’m going down to the station to see what I can find out about the landlady’s current whereabouts.

It’s late, I protested. Can’t it wait until morning? But I already knew the answer, so I kissed him and said, Wake me when you come home.

It might be pretty late. You’ve got work tomorrow.

I’ll make it worth your while. I waggled my eyebrows as I grinned at him.

I love you, he said. Now, come lock the door behind me.

But at the doorway he stopped, patting his pockets. Almost forgot, he said, pulling out a small slip of paper and handing it to me. Yours wasn’t the only personal call I got today.

For a moment, I held my breath. Had his mother called him to alert him about an upcoming family dinner we’d be expected to attend? I’d heard from John’s sister Lorna that their brother’s wife Jeanne had been released from the psychiatric hospital. My mother-in-law Dorothy might consider that a cause for a family celebratory dinner, but that didn’t mean I wanted to see Jeanne, or that it was a good idea that Jeanne see me.

That old friend of yours called me at the station because he couldn’t get our home number now that it’s unlisted. I gave him our number, but I got his, too. He handed over the paper. I unfolded it to see ‘Dr. Jacob Harris’ written there, along with a phone number.

Thanks, hon, I said, and slipped the note into my own pocket. I rose up on tiptoe to kiss him again, a lingering kiss that made me sorry he was heading out the door instead of into our bedroom. Remember – wake me up.

I went back into the living room, pulling the paper out of my pocket as I walked. Dr. Harris had been at our wedding, a surprise guest John had tracked down for me. Dr. Harris had delivered my baby and helped me get through the tragedy of her death. I hadn’t seen him for years, and there hadn’t been much of a chance to talk at our wedding. It would be nice to catch up with him, but it was a little too late to call someone I didn’t know anymore. I tucked the paper back in my pocket. Tomorrow, if John was busy working on this case, I’d give Dr. Harris a call.

I left one light burning in the living room; that way, when John did come home, he wouldn’t be stumbling around in the dark. I prepared our coffee maker and set its timer. As I got into bed alone, I almost wished I had kept my mouth shut about those stick figures.

CHAPTER FIVE

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The smell of coffee woke me in the morning. I was surprised to find I was alone in the bed. I stumbled into the living room where the lamp I’d left on was shining brightly. I knew that meant John had pulled an all-nighter, not his first one since we’d been together. He hadn’t called because he didn’t want the phone to wake me. I had yet to convince him that I would prefer to be awakened by the phone and told he’d be away all night rather than wake up in the morning to find myself alone. This was an argument I believed we would have for many years to come – unless or until he came to his senses and did it my way.

If I had known John wasn’t coming home last night, I wouldn’t have prepared any coffee. The smell woke me far earlier than I normally got up, and I didn’t like getting up any earlier than was necessary. I puttered around the apartment, straightening things, not that there was that much to do. John was pretty neat, except for his desk. My problem area used to be a clutter of magazines and books at my bedside, which I had finally corralled in a basket. But since John came into my life, I found I had other, and better, entertainment when I went to bed.

I got to the shop early; I hadn’t washed the towels last night and this would give me a head start on that never-ending chore. I checked the appointment book. This was going to be a light day for me, with a couple clients in the morning, and a couple more in the late afternoon. In those hours between my clients, I could go home and take a nap. I already could tell that I would need it.

With half an hour before the shop officially opened, I was officially bored. Trying to think of something to do, I remembered that John gave me Dr. Harris’s number last night. I had stuck the note in my pants pocket, and those pants were in the hamper. I had time to go back home and retrieve it. It was Wednesday, which, at least in my youth, had traditionally been a doctor’s day off. My schedule today looked like it would give me a chance to call him.

Back in the shop with the number, I wondered if it was too early to place that call now, and decided that it was. Dr. Harris was old, and if he did have this day off, he might want the opportunity to sleep late.

My first client of the day was Mrs. Bloomberg, who’d been with me since I’d opened the shop. She was and always had been a complainer. It was a relief when I finally got her under the dryer. She’d been talking nonstop about the terrible job the dry cleaner did on her blazer. He’d left indentations from the pocket flaps in the jacket’s body because he’d pressed it incorrectly. She made it sound like the end of the world, and it could feel like that to a woman with too much time on her hands and absolutely no interest in filling it productively. I had tried, over the years, to suggest a myriad of pastimes that kept my other older, widowed clients active and amused, but she would have none of that.

While she was under the dryer, the phone rang. It was my ten o’clock, a youngish married woman with a small son who had come down with a bug overnight. She called to cancel, and promised to reschedule once she knew he was better. Her call made me wonder how things would change after Claudia’s baby was born. Would she want to continue her job at The Cutting Edge? She could always place a playpen in her office-supply-laundry room and keep her child nearby all day. My long-ago employers, Tim and Jen, had done that for me in anticipation of my returning to work at their beauty shop after my daughter was born. But such an idea might not appeal to Claudia. Her marriage to Vince could thwart her ambition to become a partner in my businesses. It all remained to be seen, I reminded myself, as Mrs. Bloomberg’s dryer buzzed.

With my ten o’clock cancelled and Brenda and Beverly industriously working on their clients, I slipped into my office and dialed Dr. Harris’s number. Ten, I decided, was not too early to call.

Harris residence. The voice was a woman’s, and I couldn’t determine if she was young or old. It could be his wife. But I recalled that Dr. Harris had been by himself when he came through the reception line at my wedding.

Is Dr. Harris there?

Who’s calling, please? I thought I detected a hint of a Jamaican lilt to the voice.