“The library.”
“That’s not on Duval Street.”
“It’s a happening place.”
He laughed softly. “Maybe, but…while you’re there, want to do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“I need these books,” he said, and rattled off three titles. She scrounged in her purse for a pen.
“All right, I’ll get them-if they have them.”
“I have a feeling that they do. Want to meet me at Craig’s place?”
He didn’t call it “my” house. He called it Craig’s place.
He didn’t intend to stay.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll get the books and be right there.”
She hung up. Bartholomew was watching her. “Well?”
“I’m meeting him at his house. Or-the Beckett house.”
“The museum?” Bartholomew asked, frowning.
“No, no. The old Beckett homestead. Are you-coming with me?”
“Good God, no. The Lord alone knows where the two of you might start madly coupling once you’re there! Far more than I want to know or see or…”
Katie groaned. “That’s not all that…it’s certainly not all that we do.”
“I’m going to hang around the street. Watch the Fantasy Fest preparations. See if I can find the regular habits of my lady in white. But I’ll walk you over, and I’ll not be gone too long. God knows, that fellow is so determined to find the truth, he keeps leaving you alone.”
Katie planted her hands on her hips. “Chill. He’s going to get me some pepper spray. And I’m not the karate kid, but I’m not a ninety-pound weakling, either.”
Bartholomew leaned toward her, his face set seriously. “Katie, this killer is strong. It seems that he snuck up on Stella Martin, surprised her and killed her with his bare hands. You’re not a weakling, but this isn’t someone you want to tackle.”
“Which makes it almost impossible for Danny to be guilty of anything,” Katie said. “He is just about a ninety-pound weakling.”
“Come, my dear, let me escort you,” Bartholomew said.
“I just have to get these books,” she said.
At home, David cleared off the formal dining-room table, removing his grandmother’s silver candlesticks and the lace doilies she had used to protect the beautiful old, carved mahogany.
He laid out the photos from the original crime scene.
He also laid out his photos of the second crime scene.
He set out the files with pertinent crime-scene information and witness reports, but the latter revealed nothing. No one had seen anyone at the museum. No one had seen anyone on the street. No one had seen anything. In Tanya’s case, she had been at O’Hara’s bar. She had left. She had never been seen again by anyone-except the killer-until she had appeared in the tableau.
Stella Martin. The police were still questioning people, but he knew more than the police did. She had slept with Lewis Agaro. She had rifled through his wallet, left his small lodging house through the rear and been killed beneath the branches of a large sea grape tree.
Someone had seen her leave the lodging house. She had been staying off Duval to avoid the cops, probably. She had gone around back. She had argued with Danny Zigler, and he was missing.
The crime-scene pictures were different. Tanya had been laid out like Sleeping Beauty; in death, she had been gorgeous, heart-wrenching.
Stella Martin had been dumped.
Two different killers?
The doorbell rang. He left the table and went to the door, letting Katie in. She seemed to enter hesitantly. He had a feeling that it was the first time she had been in the house since his grandfather had died.
And he hadn’t changed anything within it.
“Come on in,” he told her huskily. He reached out, taking her hand, pulling her in. Then he pulled her against him and she looked up and he stroked her cheek and kissed her. Instant fire. Anticipation increased by the fact that he knew her, and knew what could come.
He stepped back, smiling. “Sorry.”
“Not at all.” She cleared her throat, looking down the hallway. “I got the books. What about these books do you think will help?”
“They were the books Danny Zigler was reading.”
“And you know this because…?”
“I broke into his house.”
“Lord, David-”
“No one will know. I know what I’m doing.”
“Great. You’re a practiced lock pick.”
“It was important that I see his place.”
“Oh?”
“I think Danny was somehow in over his head. He was looking up all kinds of information on the area, too. Which makes me more curious about the past.”
“The past? You mean, the past as in ten years ago?” she asked.
“No, I mean the past. Something happened in the past, that is, history, that somehow has to do with all of this. I don’t really understand yet. I’m fishing. I think that Danny knows-or knew-something, and that it got him to thinking and…he was a carefree-Keys kind of guy, but we’re mistaken if we take him for stupid. Anyway…I don’t really know what we’re looking for. I’m hoping we’ll know when we find it.”
She was frowning. “You have no idea where Danny is? You made it sound like something might have happened to him!”
“I don’t know that at all,” he said. “Let’s just say that I’m concerned.”
He took the library books from her and set a hand on her back, guiding her into the dining room. She stepped away from him, frowning as she saw the display on the table. She whitened, looking at the full array of photos of the dead women, but she didn’t turn away.
“It’s almost as if Tanya was treated with respect, and Stella was…well, treated as if she were lower class.”
“Which makes me think that our killer may believe in a social stratum.”
“Possibly. But none of this seems to jive. You’d need someone like a good old boy to have such a feeling of superiority, and someone smart to carry off planting the corpse in the museum, even if she was rather-dumped.”
David pulled out a chair for Katie and then sat down, watching her. “Ah, Katie, it’s rather nice and totally naive that you feel that way. Trust me. I’ve seen it around the world. White supremacy groups-east, west, north and south-are not all peopled by the stupid or illiterate. And someone doesn’t have to be that rabid or prejudiced to feel superior to a woman they might see as white trash.”
“I suppose that’s true. David, what are the blue smudges-they’re on the faces of both women. It’s not something with the film, is it?” Katie asked.
He stood, rifled in a buffet drawer and produced a magnifying glass. He had noted the smudges before. They were on the tips of both noses, on the foreheads and the chins.
“They look like bruises. Pressure bruises, premortem,” David said. “And, I believe, it means that we are looking for one killer-a man who attacks from behind with a plastic bag or some such other item, smothering his victims before strangling them when they haven’t the breath left to struggle. He wears gloves, and that’s why his victims can’t get their nails into him.”
He sat back. “I’ve got to give Liam a call and then talk to Pete. He let me reopen the old case through Liam, just so long as I report to him. I really want to let them both know that they need to be taking a look at what I think are bruises. It really shows, in my opinion, that the victims were ambushed from behind.”
“Then what?” she asked.
“Then-let’s go barhopping.”
Dusk was coming. In another hour, the sun would fall. Then night, with the sound of music and laughter. It became distant, like whispers from the past. Darkness was a lovely time, a time when the old trees tipped down protective branches, when streets were shadowed, when all manner of evil might exist and never be seen.
She was with him again.
Soon, the sun would set again. A magnificent sunset, the kind that had made Key West famous. On Mallory Square the entertainers would begin their night’s work, hoping for tips. Cat trainers, magicians, acrobats, robotic people, all would begin in earnest…
Katie O’Hara was with David Beckett.
Ah, yes, once again, David Beckett on top, carrying with him all the pompous righteousness of decades of Becketts, Becketts who shouldn’t have survived to populate the island.
She couldn’t be with him all the time.
No, she couldn’t be with him all time. There were times when she would have to be alone.
He stared at the house, and he smiled, because he felt powerful. They all thought they were such great detectives, and they were such fools.
It was all moving along so smoothly. The island was agog with the murder of a whore, but hell, it was a capitalist’s world. Fantasy Fest was on the way.
Oh, Lord, that would be so much fun.
It would make everything so easy.
And it would set the scene for one final and beautiful curtain call. He would finish it all, taking down the family.
Katie would have to die, and be immortalized.
The main thorn was David Beckett, so beloved of Craig!
And, at long last, David would go down.
He had seen his mistakes of the past; he knew better now. He had learned. David would go down.
Bless the state of Florida, and the death penalty.
The next time Katie’s phone rang, it was Clarinda. David was still on his own phone, pacing around the table in the dining room as he put through two calls, one to his cousin Liam and another to Lieutenant Dryer.
“Hey, hey, you there?” Clarinda asked.
“Yes, hey, what’s up?”
“Jonas and I are going to go down to Mallory Square. Want to join us?”
“You’re going to Mallory Square?” It was a huge destination for tourists, and, actually, beautiful and a lot of fun. The sunsets were spectacular. Jugglers, musicians, all kinds of entertainers came from all over the world to perform on the square.
