The Devil's Menagerie (21 page)

“You think he could be some kind of cop? Maybe an
MP
, if he was in the service?”

“It’s possible but not necessary. Hell, Braden, the whole country watched the O. J. hearings and trial. Everyone’s a forensic expert now.”

Braden brooded in silence for a time, examining the FBI woman’s comments and taking what he wanted from them. Then he said, “You mentioned problems with the mother being a common denominator with serial killers. What about the father?”

“The lack of a positive father figure is almost universal among these people. Either there’s no father, an abusive one, or he was missing very early on. That left the mother alone to give him love, nurturing, compassion, a sense of morality. And if, instead, she gave him abuse, neglect, hatred, betrayal …”

“How could a mother betray him?”

“If she was a prostitute, for example, or acted like one, at least in the child’s eyes that could mean betrayal. Or if she was simply someone who couldn’t—and didn’t—love him. What greater betrayal than that can there be?” Karen sighed. “For some women a child isn’t a gift but a burden … a form of punishment … a constant reminder of her failures.”

Suddenly Karen felt the dark presence of the man she was hunting. The smells and the smoke of the bar closed in on her. She slid out of the booth. Her movements were jerky and distracted. “Sorry, Detective, I’ve got to get out of here. I need to do some more thinking. We need more than we’ve learned so far. Maybe forensics will turn up something useful.”

Braden fumbled for a couple of bills, tossing them on the table with the check. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” she said, an audible tension threading her voice. “I need to be by myself.” Seeing Braden’s surprise, she added, “I’ve been fantasizing about this bastard for eight years myself, Braden. I never really thought I’d meet him again, but the fantasy was always there. And I always caught him. You know what I’m saying?”

“I think so.”

“It’s not a fantasy anymore. That’s what scares me. I’m afraid I won’t catch him.”

She turned and walked away quickly, leaving Braden staring after her.

B
ECAUSE OF ITS
location on the highway en route to the beach, the Bright Spot diner always did a pretty good Sunday breakfast business. Since a murdered coed was found under the bridge just up the road, and the cafe was identified on television as the site of a 911 call about the girl, business had been up fifty percent. On Sunday, with local newspaper headlines screaming about a second killing, the trend continued.

There weren’t as many just plain gawkers, Iris Whatley decided. She had been working as a waitress at the diner for the past four years, and she thought she knew her customers. The sensation-seekers had been largely replaced by another group dedicated to remembering Edith Foster. They had made the site under the bridge where the girl was found a sort of shrine, placing bouquets of flowers, crosses and notes that read “We loved you, Edie” and “God bless you.” These pilgrims also had to have Sunday breakfast out, like many other Southern Californians, and the Bright Spot was on the way.

The crush eased off around one o’clock, and Iris had a chance to take a deep breath for the first time in four or five hours. She had hardly sat down at the counter to take a break for coffee when her brother-in-law, Jerry Boyarchek, came in with one of his golfing buddies and slid onto a stool next to her.

Jerry’s buddy, Floyd something-or-other, headed for the john in back, giving Iris a lecherous appraisal over his shoulder. Iris probably had more to do with the Bright Spot’s regular breakfast and luncheon business than the food or the diner’s nostalgic atmosphere.

She had a great figure and legs for the T-shirts and short skirts the waitresses all had to wear, plus that lush tangle of blond hair and the complexion of an English milkmaid. Besides, she was friendly and good-natured with the customers.

“He likes you,” Jerry said with a grin, cocking the visor of his golf cap in the direction Floyd had taken.

“Please, don’t get me all excited.”

“Hey, look who’s bein’ choosy. Floyd’s a good guy, you could do a lot worse.”

“Have you been telling stories about me, Jer? Maybe embellishing things a little to get old Floyd interested?”

“So what’s wrong with that? It’s not like you’re gettin’ any younger, hon. Susie and me, we worry about you.”

Stung, Iris glared at him. She knew a lot better than Jerry Boyarchek that she wasn’t getting any younger. In her own mind thirty-five and unmarried was approaching some sort of deadline, like a warning flag in a race that had only a limited number of laps to go. But she was also aware that her looks, even including the weariness about her eyes suggesting she had been around the block but was still on her feet, attracted more men than were put off.

“Let me do the worrying, Jer, okay? I’m good at it. I don’t need any help.”

Jerry put his hand on her arm and kept it there. “Hey, don’t get me wrong, Iris, I’m not knockin’ the merchandise.”

Iris stared at him. Jerry was so transparent it was laughable. “Give me two weeks and I could have your friend Floyd doing dog tricks on command,” she said coolly.

“Come on, I didn’t mean anythin’—”

“You too, Jer, only I wouldn’t need two weeks.” She leaned toward him deliberately, just enough to let him feel the slight pressure of a firm breast against his arm. “What do you say? If I made you the right offer right now … would you sit up and beg for it?”

She saw the light change in his eyes. He licked his lips, his gaze suddenly evasive. Any second he would start hyperventilating, she thought.

“Yeah, I thought so,” she said dryly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Floyd returning from the restroom, passing another man who had taken a seat at the counter. “Guess I oughta have a little talk with sister Susie.”

“For God’s sake, Iris, don’t even joke about that. You know how Susie is.”

“I know how Susie is. And you too, Jer. Just keep it in mind.”

She rose from her stool, nodding indifferently at Floyd as she passed him on her way behind the counter. She picked up a fresh pot of coffee and carried it down to the end where the stranger was patiently sitting by himself. It did not occur to her immediately that he was the reason she had shortened her break, rather than irritation with her brother-in-law.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, thanks, black.” He had a quiet, self-assured voice and a tan that hadn’t come from a lamp. She put a lot of stock in her ability to read men’s eyes, but his were obscured by tinted blue lenses set in gold-framed aviator glasses.

“Would you like to see a menu?”

He smiled. “What would you recommend? I’m not very hungry.”

“The pecan pie’s good. Our pies are fresh, we bake ’em ourselves.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but the pies
were
baked fresh by a local bakery that supplied several restaurants in the area.

“Let’s try the pecan pie then.”

Iris grinned. Walking away, ignoring Jerry Boyarchek’s stare, she told herself,
For
Chrissake, honey, don’t drop the pot
.

She had seen the sandy-haired man before. He had stopped at the diner at least once during the past week for lunch, and another time for dinner. Each time he had been alone. She noticed that he wore a wedding ring, but he was eating out alone regularly, so what did that mean? A salesman on the road? He didn’t seem like the type.

He was … She groped unsuccessfully for the right word. It came to her when she brought him his wedge of pecan pie and he glanced up with his easy smile. Not Floyd’s leer or Jerry’s smirk, just a normal smile, as if they were already friends.
Fit
was the word. About as fit as a man could be.

Iris herself worked out at a beach area club. She punished her body to keep it leaner, firmer and, let’s face it, shapelier. For that very good reason she appreciated a man who took care of himself. This customer wasn’t handsome, not really, just a guy to glance at, with nothing broken or ugly. But the hands surrounding his coffee mug were large and strong, and she remembered now the way he had moved when he entered the diner and walked toward the counter or a booth. Thinking of it, she pictured a tight, hard ass, flat stomach, big hairy chest with swelling pecs. He moved like a goddam big cat, Iris thought.

She was busy for a while, working both the counter and the front window booths. By the time she scooped up the coffeepot again and started along the counter filling up half-empty mugs, Jerry and Floyd were leaving. Iris gave Jerry only a nod and Floyd the cold shoulder. The sandy-haired man pushed his coffee mug forward as she approached.

“How was the pie?” Iris asked brightly.

“Terrific.” Without taking his eyes off hers, he jerked his head toward the cash register, where Jerry, just turning away, glanced toward them as he headed for the door. “Friend of yours?”

“Not hardly.” Iris offered a sardonic grin. “My brother-in-law.”

“Ah, the brother-in-law,” the stranger answered, as if they shared some secret knowledge about brothers-in-law.

For a moment his eyes continued to hold hers, light gray eyes behind the blue lenses, and she felt her heartbeat actually quicken.

Flustered, Iris kept busy for the next few minutes. When she looked up once more, the stranger was standing by the cash register. She took his check and changed a five-dollar bill. While she counted the change he said, “Thanks for the tip on the pie … Iris.” His glance lingered on the name tag on her T-shirt. She didn’t mind at all having him stare at her chest. He smiled. “See you again.”

He walked out. His khaki pants fit snugly across his buttocks.

T
HE
R
AIDERS WERE
playing the Dallas Cowboys on TV that Sunday. By the time Ralph Beringer returned to his sublet apartment from the diner he had missed most of the first half. He clicked on the television, retrieved a cold beer and a bag of nachos from the kitchen, and eased back in the La-Z-Boy recliner in the living room.

He remembered other times, sitting in a chair with broken springs, Saturday and Sunday afternoons when a game was on TV, his feet up on a dirty ottoman, and having them summarily pushed off the ottoman.
“Are you gonna sit there all day? There’s work to be done around here
.“

But it wasn’t work she had in mind. It was sending him out of the room because one of her “callers” was expected soon or already drooling at the door.

“And don’t come back till I tell you.”

Just before halftime Troy Aikman hit Michael Irvin for a TD on a crossing pattern, putting Dallas ahead by seven points. Beringer liked the Raider’s bad boy image, but he was even more impressed by the Cowboy’s cool professionalism. Trash talk, shirttails hanging out and late hits didn’t get it done against the real pros.

Talk was cheap. Threats and intimidation went only so far. The time was coming for sweet little Glenda and her shack-up, Lindstrom, to find that out. As far as Beringer was concerned, Lindstrom was not Glenda’s husband. The divorce was an aberration he had never accepted.

Watching the rest of the game and working his way through a six-pack of beer, he missed whole sections of the action when his mind strayed off. Instant replays of another kind. He keenly regretted not having had more time with Natalie, under better conditions.

She had got him hot, just watching her there in the library. It was not only her sensual looks. He was struck by her haughty, superior air. Slyly observing her, he had felt the desire to take her down a peg. The desire had become an imperative when he heard her name called out. The name was like the quarterback’s play-calling signal:
Hut, hut … go for it!

He could have blown everything. He knew he should have circled around her if only for a day or two, biding his time, watching and waiting for the right moment. Instead he had plunged recklessly ahead. Pure luck that it had worked out so well. She had fought him for a bit, as he had expected, and he would have enjoyed playing out that scene with her at length, but he couldn’t take the risk. She might have started to make noise. After a couple of solid punches with the sleeve of steel balls in his fist, the resistance had gone out of her. He remembered dragging the sweatshirt over her head, and a flash of naked breasts, the dark nipples staring up at him.

He had hidden her behind the brush well away from the footpath while he brought his car around. The Taurus this time. Then into the hills, where he found a deserted spot and parked. He really didn’t remember much after that. When he started to hit them, to give them what they’d asked for, everything blurred behind a red film. It had been different with Edie because he had had plenty of time, time to enjoy her and to relish her terror. Too bad it had to be so quick with Natalie. She had deserved better from him.

Next time, Beringer thought.

Iris.

Not yet, he thought. It was tempting to make her next in line. The waitress had a body that wouldn’t quit; she was a genuine bitch, pushing her boobs in his face like that, and she had the right name. The name excited him.

But he had to be more careful. He couldn’t let himself spin out of control again. Not after all his years of waiting and planning for this time. Cool it for a few days. Iris could wait her turn, she wasn’t going anywhere. And he still had to find one more of the chosen. In the meantime he could ratchet up the pressure.

Did Glenda have a clue yet? Did she even remember that promise he had sent her from Germany? (A mistake; he never should have mailed the note in his own handwriting, but nothing could be done about that now.) Did she have any inkling at all that the coeds were for her?

Late in the fourth quarter, the Raiders down by ten, they kicked a field goal to narrow the gap to one touchdown. As they lined up to try the obvious onside kick, Beringer watched without emotion. Desperation time, 100-to-l shot. You should never let it come down to that, where you had to trust to a lucky bounce.

Stick with the game plan. Should he go afield for the next one? It was tempting. There would certainly be less risk. After two killings security on the college campus would be tight, making it harder to isolate another college queen, especially one who had to bring a singular gift to the game.