Bleeding Hearts Page 13

  “What about me?”

  “Maybe you’re crazy, too.”

  Jody blinked, but didn’t say anything.

  Tom emptied the last of the beer from the pitcher into his mug. “The thing is, something like this takes planning.” His mind was racing too fast, and he lighted a cigarette to help calm himself down a little. “First of all, we need to find a place. Someplace private, where nobody would think to look. That’ll be our headquarters.”

  “What kind of place?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Use your imagination, why don’t you? I can’t do all the thinking.”

  They left the restaurant and got back into the car. Jody inserted the key (this driver had been more considerate than most) and then he just sat there.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

  “I know a place,” he said. “But maybe it’s not right.”

  “What place?”

  Jody shook his head. “I’d rather show you.”

  “Okay. Show me.”

  They headed east out of the city, and then north. Tom was curious about where they were going, but he didn’t ask. Jody’s face was closed and secretive; it was clear that he was on some dangerous edge, and the last thing Tom needed or wanted was for Jody to fall.

  They finally left the freeway, turning onto a narrower highway and then sometime later onto a dirt road. “How’d you ever find a place way out here anyway?”

  “Came out here once,” was all Jody said. “Before it closed down.”

  At last, a sign appeared. Weathered and in danger of falling, it was still readable. HOLLY POINT AMUSEMENT PARK.

  Jody stopped the car and stared at the sign. “It was a nice place,” he said. “But the people running it went broke. They couldn’t compete.”

  Tom wondered when Jody had come out here, and with whom, but again he decided not to ask. Instead, he just opened the car door. “Let’s check it out. See if we can get in.”

  That proved to be no problem. A few strikes with a rock and the padlock snapped open.

  Once inside, it was easy to see why the park hadn’t been able to survive in a Star Wars world. Holly Point was an old-fashioned place, with a merry-go-round, ferris wheel, and a few other rides, as well as several buildings.

  There was a sense of sadness about the place, but Tom liked it.

  He walked around for almost an hour, sizing things up, his mind filled with possibilities. The whole plan seemed to fall into order now.

  “This is perfect, Jody,” he said, meaning it. He gave his brother a tight hug.

  Jody didn’t say anything, but he returned the hug.

  Jody stopped to take a deep breath before going through the door. The name of the bar was the Sweatshop. It was Tom’s idea to come here and meet somebody to party with, instead of just picking a boy up on the street.

  His reasoning was clear, at least to him. By changing the way they worked, they could confuse the cops. Shake old Kowalski up a little. Also, nobody much cared about street kids, so the case was only worth a small story in the Times. By picking somebody more important, they could up the stakes.

  Jody thought it sounded pretty stupid, but he didn’t have the strength to argue, so here he was. It had been a long time since he’d hit the bar scene, not since meeting Jerry, and Jody wasn’t sure he could still hack it.

  Music assaulted his ears as he entered. The place was crowded with customers, mostly young college and professional types. Jody, in his good slacks and a clean shirt, fit right in. He made his way to the bar and ordered a beer. It wasn’t long before somebody slid onto the neighboring stool.

  “Hi,” a voice said.

  “Hi,” Jody said, glancing sideways. The guy looked about his own age, and he wasn’t a hustler. Or at least he wasn’t cheap. His clothes were expensive and there was gold around his neck, on both wrists, and on several fingers.

  “I’m Steve,” he said.

  “Jody.”

  They talked for about twenty minutes, the kind of bar chatter that passed for sociability in this world. Steve, it turned out, was a music student at UCLA. Classical stuff mostly; he was working on a symphony of his own now. He wasn’t into the bar scene—he laughed when he said that, adding, “Who is? But here we all are anyway, right?”

  Right, Jody thought. All of us here and wondering why.

  Steve lived in Santa Monica with someone named J.P. They had this really great relationship. But J.P. was a lot older and liked a quiet kind of life. Luckily, he was also very understanding and didn’t mind if Steve went out alone.

  Jody didn’t say much beyond what was necessary to keep Steve talking. At last, weary of it all, he spoke up. “My car is right outside,” he said. “How about going out there for a few minutes?”

  He’d decided that a fast trip outside was all that Steve would agree to. Anything else might smack too much of emotional involvement, and he was true, in his way, to the missing and tolerant J.P.

  After the obligatory hesitation, Steve agreed, and he even picked up Jody’s tab.

  Only Jody saw Tom duck out of sight as they approached the car. When he opened the door, an arm emerged and the knife was at Steve’s throat before he could react. He lost most of his tan.

  “What the hell is going on?” he managed to say. There was a croak in the words.

  Tom smiled. “A party is going on. You’re the guest of honor.” He pulled until Steve was inside the car and they were sitting side by side in the back seat.

  Jody got behind the wheel. “His name is Steve,” he said flatly.

  “Nice name. You like good times, Steve?” Tom held the knife so that its point pressed lightly at Steve’s throat.

  “You want money? There’s almost two hundred dollars in my wallet. Take it. Take the chains. The watch.”

  Tom shook his head. “That makes me feel bad, Steve. You must think we’re just a couple of punks. Is that what you think?”

  Steve didn’t say anything.

  Tom studied him and then frowned. “He’s a little old.”

  “Shit, Tommy, you’re the one who sent me into the bar. There weren’t any kids in there.”

  “Okay, okay. He’ll do.”

  “Don’t hurt me,” Steve whispered. “Please. Please.”

  “We only want to have a good time. Play along with us and nothing will happen to you.”

  His lips moved silently; maybe he was praying.

  “Let’s go to the beach,” Tom said. He knew they couldn’t risk the park again. Besides, he liked the beach. A good place for a party.

  They killed him, of course. Once he was dead, Tom decided that not to take the money would be really dumb. He might have taken the jewelry, too, but Jody got stubborn about that.

  They left the body in the shadows of an old hot dog stand.

  Instead of going straight back to the motel, Tom ordered Jody to detour to Vermont Avenue. It was very late and all the lights were off in Kowalski’s apartment. Tom hunted through the glove compartment until he found an old envelope. Then he took out the purple pen. He kept the note brief and to the point.

  Jody took it inside and slipped it under Kowalski’s door.

  Driving back to the motel, Jody seemed disgusted. “You like this, don’t you?” he said. “It’s all just a big game to you, and you’re having fun.”

  “Maybe,” Tom said. His eyes were closed. “But maybe I figure it’s my turn.”

  Chapter 27

  Spaceman found the note just before dawn.

  He didn’t usually get up that early, of course. But as he was finding out lately, the old bladder didn’t operate with quite the same efficiency as it had in earlier years. A beer too many before bed and he paid the price.

  Standing in the bathroom, he decided he was thirsty. It was as he detoured to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice that he saw the paper.

  It didn’t register at first. His mind, the small part of it that was awake, was on the cold juice. If not for the fact that he’d impulsively s
traightened the living room before calling it a night, the paper could have escaped his attention completely. But because the floor was relatively clean, the square of gleaming whiteness caught his eye in the pale morning light.

  He walked over and picked it up.

  At first, all that struck him was the purple ink, and he felt a nervous tightening in his stomach. If Blue’s theory was right, this might be another message from Robbie.

  But then he read the note and he knew differently. The tight feeling became a dull ache. There wasn’t much on the paper. A crudely drawn map, an arrow pointing, and a few words: “Dear Kowalski, this ones for you. See you soon and then you’ll be SORRY.”

  It wasn’t signed.

  Spaceman found an envelope in a drawer and carefully slid the message into it. He knew what would be waiting for him at the spot marked by X on the map. Another body.

  He called Blue and once he was sure the other man was awake, told him about the note. He was quiet for a moment after hearing the news. “What the hell is going on here?” he said finally.

  “Do I fucking know?” Spaceman said.

  “Could be a hoax. Maybe somebody just saw your name in the paper. There are all kinds of crazies out there.” Blue paused. “And if it is a hoax, Robbie could still be behind it.”

  Spaceman shrugged silent and unseen agreement. None of what Blue was saying eased the pain in his gut. “Pick me up,” he said.

  “We’re going out there on our own?”

  “Yeah, we are. I am anyway.”

  Blue sighed over the line. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hell,” he said lightly. “What’s a partner for?”

  Spaceman was waiting on the sidewalk when the Porsche pulled up a short time later. He got in without a word, and Blue kept quiet, too. The only noise was the soft chatter of the police radio. It was a slow morning in Los Angeles.

  “Heard they finally got those fires under control,” Blue said at last. When there wasn’t any response, he said, “Maybe it’s an omen. Maybe it means that the weather is going to break, and we’re going to bust these creeps.”

  “Maybe.”

  Blue gave up.

  There was no more conversation, not even when they had reached their destination, and were standing poised on the top of a steep bank, looking down upon a ramshackle hot dog stand. Finally, they went down toward the shack, Spaceman in the lead, making his way clumsily through the sand in slick-soled loafers. Blue moved more easily in his Pumas.

  They saw the body at the same moment; no real attempt had been made to hide it. The bloody form of a young man was sprawled in the shadow of the building. The other killings had been bad enough, but what had been done to this human being made the taste of bile rise in Spaceman’s throat. He turned away and swallowed hard.

  Blue wavered a little.

  “Damn,” Spaceman said. “Damndamndamn.”

  Gaining control of himself, Blue bent down and poked carefully through the pile of clothes. He came up with a wallet and flipped it open. “Steven Lawrence,” he said, glancing quickly at the face of the dead man and comparing it to the image on the driver’s license. “A shitload of credit cards. No money. That’s the first time they took the money.”

  “It’s the first time there was any money. Pete had a dollar and Chris just a couple of bucks. This guy probably had a bundle. Check out the shiny stuff he’s wearing. Wonder why they left that.”

  Blue was still flipping through the wallet. “He’s a student at UCLA. Member of the auto club and some private health spa. A real solid citizen. Not like Pete and Chris.”

  Spaceman nodded glumly. “That might be what got him killed.”

  Blue handed him the wallet and started back toward the car to radio in.

  Spaceman was mad. The case, bad enough to begin with, had taken an even nastier turn. He felt, stupidly, responsible. And he didn’t like the feeling that maybe all these people were dead because of him.

  It was several hours later before they were able to get away from the beach and into the office. McGannon was waiting. He sat behind the desk and surveyed them sourly. “So?”

  Spaceman sat; again, Blue remained standing by the door. “So what?” Spaceman said.

  “The stiffs seem to be piling up.”

  “They do.”

  “And I hear the killers are sending you mash notes.” McGannon held up a Xerox of the note; the original was already in the lab. “Interesting.”

  “Maybe you think so.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Spaceman shrugged.

  “That’s a great answer.”

  “What the hell do you want me to say?”

  “How about that you’ve got the crazies that are doing this?”

  Blue stepped forward. “Maybe the perps are somebody he busted before.”

  “Maybe,” McGannon agreed.

  “I guess somebody should start going through his files.”

  “Somebody already is. It doesn’t take a damned college degree to figure that out.”

  Blue accepted that with a nod and stepped back to his place by the door.

  McGannon put both hands behind his head and stretched. “So what are you plans for the rest of this glorious summer day?”

  “To backtrack Lawrence.”

  “Do you think that will gain you any more than tracking down the first two did?”

  “Maybe not,” Spaceman said, “but do you have a better idea?”

  McGannon smiled. “That’s the pleasure of command. I don’t have to have a better idea. I just get to tell you when your ideas suck. But I won’t do that right now.” He relaxed. “Come up with something pretty soon, will you? I’ve already had calls from a couple of the angrier gay groups in town. They’re wondering if this case is being pursued with full enthusiasm.”

  “Screw them. I like their sudden social concern. Why didn’t they do something for Peter and Chris before it was too late?”

  McGannon shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Ask next time.”

  They stopped at the diner for some breakfast before setting out in quest of Steven Lawrence. Joe was behind the counter, of course, and he already knew about the latest killing. He offered up some encouraging words with the under-cooked eggs and over-done sausage, but they didn’t feel much encouraged.

  The standard To Be Notified In Case of Accident in Lawrence’s wallet was a Joseph P. Kilbane, and the address was in a posh part of Santa Monica.

  They went to the top floor of the very first-class apartment building. Their feet sank into the thick carpeting as Spaceman rang the muted bell.

  The door was opened quickly. Spaceman figured that money could deal best with money, so he let Blue take it. There was no doubt that the man facing them was loaded. His clothes were the kind of casual designer things that cost plenty. And Blue, even unshaven and dressed in jeans, seemed to have class. They could relate to each other, probably.

  Blue had his shield case in hand. “Mr. Kilbane? We’re Detectives Kowalski and Maguire. May we talk with you, please?”

  There was no hint of emotion on the finely-chiseled features as Kilbane’s eyes swept over the ID and then raised to study Blue’s face. “Is it very bad?” The voice sounded like New England.

  Blue hesitated. “If we could step in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He turned and led the way into a vast living room, furnished with antiques. Everything gleamed. The low table in front of the sofa held a silver tray with a coffee pot and one china cup. Kilbane sat down. “Coffee?” he said automatically.

  Blue shook his head. “Mr. Kilbane, you are acquainted with Steven Lawrence? He lives here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

  “I knew something had happened when he didn’t come home. Is he dead?”

  “Yes. Murdered.”

  The man took a careful sip of the steaming c
offee. “Steven never stayed out all night. I hoped that perhaps it was merely an accident of some kind. I hoped …” He shut up and shook his head.

  “Did he have any family that should be notified?”

  “Not as far as I know. He never mentioned any family.” Kilbane stood again and walked across the room to a picture window that looked out over the Pacific. “We lived together almost three years, but I don’t know anything about his background.”

  “Yet you took him in?” Blue glanced around at the artwork decorating the room.

  “We got along well. He was a very talented musician, with an astounding future. What a waste.” He might have been discussing a stranger.

  “We have reason to believe that Steven was killed by the same people who murdered two young boys this week.”

  Kilbane glanced at him. “The boys in the park, you mean?”

  Blue nodded.

  “But how can that be? As I understand it, they were both hustlers.”

  “They were. What about Lawrence?”

  “That’s absurd.” He spoke firmly, yet without heat. It didn’t seem possible that anything could stir him to emotion. “Steven was a music student. He did not go with men for money.” Now it was Kilbane’s turn to look at the room and consider all that it signified. “He didn’t need money.”

  “What was he doing when you met him?”

  Kilbane sighed. “I suppose this is necessary.”

  “We want to catch the killers.”

  “Yes. The lust for revenge must be satisfied. It won’t bring Steve back, of course.”

  “No,” Blue said. “But it might keep others from dying.”

  Kilbane nodded. “When I met him, he was a music student. The only difference was that then he was a poor student. After we met, he was a very well-off student. He was not, then or now, a cheap hustler.”

  Spaceman, who was standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room, afraid he might break something, cleared his throat. “Do you know how he might have met the killers?”

  There was the briefest silence. “Sometimes he went into the bars. He was young.”

  “You didn’t mind?”