04.Final Edge v5 Read online

  He jammed the key in the lock. "Well, God damn it, it's time I got some details," he shouted to the empty night.

  "I couldn't agree with you more," she said, pulling open the door, revealing herself as nude, and tugging him inside.

  Arthur fell into her warm arms, his determination to get to the bottom of her obsession with Dr. Sanger put on hold. Lauralie's young body, radiating a passionate heat, her eyes aglow in the soft light of the apartment, her arms tightening around him, her thighs wrapping about him, inviting him into her, to become one with her, all conspired to melt away his fears, doubts, questions, and agitation.

  Arthur couldn't resist. He embraced her, and she kicked the door closed, passionately pawing at his clothing and alternately kissing him and pleading for the details just as he'd expected. "How did it go? Did you place the package on her desk like I told you to?"

  She was turned on, her body heat permeating through his clothing. She swallowed his mouth in hers, sucking in his tongue. Gasping for breath, he pulled away only to hear more words spilling from her. 'Tell me... damn it, out with the details!" she insisted as her hands roamed over his clothing, tearing away at his buttons and his belt.

  He replied with lies between panting breaths and kisses, "Yes, yes...just as planned. Went smooth as silk."

  "Tell me everything...while we make love. Tell me what her office looked like." She went to her knees, ripping his pants and under shorts away to get at the prize she wanted, and he hoped that with her mouth around him, she would be stopped from asking any more questions.

  "Like... any...office, but big, large."

  "What kind of pictures did she have on her desk? You see a photo of her parents? I've got to learn more about them." She somehow talked with him inside her mouth.

  The alternating of talk-suck, talk-suck, talk-suck only heightened Arthur's delight, making him gasp out answers he snatched from his imagination while at the same time seeing lights exploding in his head.

  She had him on the floor now, and he was in her and pumping with eager anticipation over her, driving into her, glad she had finally shut up with the questions, when she asked, "W-what... k-kinda pictures a-and paint-ings...she h-have on...her walls?"

  "Pictures?"

  "Paintings, photographs, prints, what?" She choked him with both hands. 'Tell me! Fuck me and tell me!"

  "I...didn't really... pay...much..." He gasped. "Heed!"

  Arthur came inside her and fell atop her.

  "Think!" she demanded, pushing him off and onto the rug where they had remained in the foyer. "What graced her walls? And what little knickknacks did she have on her shelves and on her desk? A paperweight with a photo inside, a Waterford crystal ball, a letter opener, a calendar, blotter? Any trinkets or mementos? Personalized pen set?"

  "Jesus, I was only there a second or two when someone came waltzing by and I had to rush out, Lauralie."

  She pushed away from him, getting to her knees over him. "You've got to remember something!"

  "All right...all right...she had a Van Gogh print on one wall."

  "Which one?"

  "Which wall?"

  "No, damn it, which Van Gogh?"

  "Ahhh...the one with all the stars."

  "Sure...yeah...Starry, Starry Night. That figures. She's one of those eternal optimists, I bet. The bitch. So what did she have on her shelves?"

  "Books, lots of books, and one of those plastic models of the brain, and...and a photo of that guy, Stonecoat, and a lot of papers, stacks of papers," he continued to lie.

  "The bitch has a full life, doesn't she. An excellent job, good money, the lover she wants. All of it is coming to an end...and soon, soon."

  Arthur wondered why the very paintings on the other woman's walls were so important to Lauralie, and he wondered if she would ever learn of his lies. He wondered if at some time this Sanger woman had taken a lover away from Lauralie, if maybe it was this guy Stonecoat or that other guy Lauralie had mentioned, Byron Priestly.

  Arthur wondered how Lauralie would react if she ever learned that he had no idea what was on Sanger's walls and shelves and desk. That he had not gotten past the shrink's outer office to have one damn look in her actual office. He certainly couldn't tell Lauralie the truth at this point, that he'd had to leave the parcel in the garage for Dr. Sanger as she pursued him out the building. It was a secret he felt best kept in a vault inside his head.

  He propped himself up on his elbow. "When are you going to tell me what this is all about and why you hate her so much?" he pressed Lauralie.

  "I want to hurt her, hurt her badly."

  "That's rather obvious, but why? What's it got to do with her cop lover, Stonecoat? Did the two of them once hurt you?"

  "She did."

  "And him, Stonecoat? Did he hurt you?"

  "It's enough that she loves him. I hurt him, I hurt her. Simple as that."

  "How did she hurt you?"

  "Enough. I don't want to fucking talk about it." She lowered herself over him and swallowed up his penis in her mouth again to shut him up, her hair tickling his stomach and groin as she worked to make him groan and end his list of questions.

  When she finished, she propped herself on her elbow and said, "I left the big package for Stonecoat with UPS addressed to him at the precinct. It'll arrive tomorrow. This one'11 kick ass."

  CHAPTER 7

  AN UNUSUAL SILVERY spray of desert rain played lightly over their features, awakening Lucas and Meredyth where they had slept with the creatures of the rocks, here beneath the starlit night that'd become twilight morning. The first of the eastern sun rays had still not reached the boulders, and now Meredyth sat watching the light creep in, creating long dark fingers out of standing cactus plants until these shadows stretched across the desert to them. On first awakening, Meredyth had found herself in the crook of Lucas's arm, and it felt not only good but safe.

  They had agreed to turn off their cell phones, and so no one had been able to disturb their evening. On waking, Lucas had pulled free, checking any messages he might have as he rummaged about in the picnic basket and said, "Hey, you hungry? Let's see what's left to drink and eat. Makeshift breakfast here."

  She was checking her messages, three—all from Byron Priestly—still desperately seeking her forgiveness. Let him beg another week, she thought, then cut him off at the knees. Byron had caught her at her private practice downtown, where they had often met for dinner and the theater in the past, but this time, she had stormed off from him, leaving him standing in the garage. She'd told him not to call or to come by, but here he was, bugging her.

  She joined Lucas and they finished off what was left of the wine and bread, and after watching a circling pair of screeching hawks claiming the territory, Lucas suggested they start back for the city and the other reality awaiting them.

  "We didn't make love," she commented on the trip back.

  "We were too busy making love to the desert," he countered, "together—of one mind. It was great."

  She smiled at this. "You're more the romantic than you pretend, aren't you, Chief? My Wolf Clansman."

  Lucas and Meredyth arrived back in the city and at Meredyth's place a few minutes past nine A.M. in a steady rain, and the day doorman, Stuart Long, greeted them with an envelope from Byron and complaints. "Lost time on the job over this thing...long and frustrating hours spent with that sketch artist. So I took over Max's shift last night, and so here I am, bloodshot eyes, dog's at home alone, nobody to feed 'im, putting in long hours here—get it, Long hours. Hi and hello," he added, taking Lucas's hand, shaking it. "I'm Stuart Long."

  "Detective Stonecoat, Lucas." Lucas then asked, "So, you got a sketch done at the station house?"

  'Talk about long hours...going downtown to give a statement and a description of the guy who left that damnable parcel with me. I told 'em what little I know, Dr. Sanger, but it wasn't much. The guy was an everyman type, you know, nothing whatever to distinguish him. The guy was like medium everything, medium
height, medium weight, medium shoe size, medium brown hair, glasses, kinda geekish-looking, wore a buttoned-up Ralph Lauren polo shirt knockoff over ordinary slacks. Nothing about his features stuck out. Clean shaven. I think the composite they did may's well be a blank slate."

  Meredyth had tom open Byron's envelope, glanced at the communique, and angrily stuffed it into her purse when she could find no nearby trash container. In her purse, she came across the folded copy of the sketch Kelton had given her the night before. She snatched it out, offering it to Lucas.

  He frowned and stared at the depiction—mostly blank space—and said, "Hmmm...I see what you mean, Mr. Long. This... this is extremely"—useless, he thought but didn't wish to insult—"extremely helpful."

  "BS, Detective. It's all medium... everything about the guy was medium, even his nose. When they showed me those books of collected ears, noses, eyes, chins, shit...all I kept picking out was the medium ones," Stu continued nonstop as if on speed, his shoulders rising and lowering as if on automatic. "I'm for damn sure going to be more observant in the future."

  "Not at all, Stu," replied Meredyth, waving him down. "Thanks for taking the time going in and giving the artist what you could."

  "Did you notice any odors clinging to the man?" asked Lucas out of the blue.

  "Odors... hmmm... That's interesting you should ask." Long bit his lower lip, contemplating this. "On account-a-there was something... something odd like...like...can't place it now."

  "Detective Stonecoat is a great believer in the power of the olfactory nerves to bring back visual memories, Stu. Being a psychiatrist, I'd have to agree."

  "It is, after all, the first sense used in tracking an animal," Lucas commented.

  "I tell you, there was something odd clinging to this guy ……."

  "Go on," urged Lucas, "an odor like the inside of a really raunchy pair of old sneakers perhaps?"

  "No...not exactly."

  "Or the back room of a moldy tenement?"

  "Yeah...mold, only...only a little different than that...something like...like mildew, only added to a faintly nauseating chemical odor."

  "Chemical odor?"

  "You know, like you smell in a hospital."

  "Excellent," said Meredyth. "You do remember something, Mr. Long, and it's more than a medium memory."

  "Oh, and there's something else I remember that was unusual about the guy now," replied Long. "He had this mole right here on his left cheek." Long pointed to the spot. "Like...like that kid character in the Waltons, John Boy? Only...only there was a nasty hair growing out of this mole. Damn, I didn't tell that to the sketch artist."

  "Anything else?" pressed Lucas.

  "Keep recalling that odor on his clothes, on his skin," added Meredyth. They both knew that recalled odors brought back more recall in the visual imagery centers of the cortex.

  Long announced, "His eyebrows were black."

  "And so how is that important?" urged Meredyth.

  "Well, his hair was blond...maybe dyed. Maybe that was the smell coming off him? I told the artist he had blond hair, but now I think about it, the roots were dark, and definitely the eyebrows were dark brown or black. Didn't get that detail into the sketch either."

  Lucas asked, "You sure it wasn't a wig?"

  "Could've been...I suppose."

  "Did the sketch artist give you his card?"

  "Yeah, she did. I'll give her a call. In the meantime, Dr. Sanger, you'll want to see the early edition of the Chronicle." He held the newspaper in his hands up to her. "I swear I had nothing to do with this. I like my job too much."

  Meredyth took in the front page headline: "SHRINKING IN HORROR—Killer Sends Victim's Eyes, Teeth to Police Shrink."

  "Damn," she moaned, shaking the paper. "They've got the story already."

  With Stu Long helping passing residents at the door, Lucas read over Meredyth's shoulder. The details remained sketchy, and the reporters had used no names, but she and Lucas knew they'd soon be reading follow-up, in-depth pieces, and that radio and TV news would soon be airing the story as well—with all the gusto and details their crack reporters could muster.

  "Who the hell're these unnamed sources?" she wondered aloud.

  "Probably Bye-bye Byron?" His suggestion fell flat.

  "No...not Byron."

  "Why not? His fifteen minutes of fame?"

  "He wouldn't, that's all."

  "Like you know him well enough to know?"

  She went to her mailbox, opened it, and snatched out several bills and junk mail.

  "Mere, you didn't expect him to run outta the condo and leave you holding the bag either, but he did."

  "Lucas, he's not going to be allowed back into my bed, all right? Satisfied?"

  "Then why're you hanging onto his letter?"

  "It's trash and I don't litter. I'll bum it upstairs if you like, but I won't be convinced that he's talking to the press."

  "Even if he isn't talking to the press, they're likely tailing him right to you."

  "Drop it, Lucas!"

  "Whoever the unnamed sources may be, it won't be long before the hounds sniff out news of the severed hand," he replied. "And once it becomes public...about where this connected incident occurred, anyone might surmise the central characters in the story are you and me, Mere.

  "I'm so glad my parents are out of the country."

  "It's likely just what this certifiable creep is looking for, his fifteen minutes of fame," he suggested, dropping the newspaper back onto the information desk.

  Lucas turned to find her gone. He had to dash to keep pace. Meredyth had stiffly stalked off, rushing through the posh lounge area, pushing through an inner door, and now she leaned into the elevator call button. He caught up with her there, still talking. "It's the new American way. Mere— do anything, go anywhere for a fleeting moment before the new idol in the desert."

  "What the hell're you onto now, Lucas? Have you been into your stash this morning already?"

  "The golden calf's now the golden camera, and you Anglos have created your own nightmare," he said, ignoring her question.

  "What's that supposed to mean, Lucas?" she fired back, reminding him of how fragile their relationship really was.

  "In a culture that can award an Emmy nomination to the Osbornes for best TV reality programming," Lucas began as she boarded the elevator and he stepped in behind, "a culture that rewards a sniper killer with literally millions of minutes of air time and creates an event out of the most wanted man in America, a cowardly murderer, it should come as no surprise that some nutcase thinks he can make prime time by turning a murder into a game show for a perverse idol—himself.!"

  Moments before the elevator doors closed, an elderly woman with a schnauzer came aboard, the little dog yip- ping at Lucas as he continued lecturing Meredyth. "Look at our case, Mere. The media attention is already in full swing. What body part will next appear? Ears, toes, arms, what? Odds-makers in Vegas and on the Internet will be making book on it, believe me, and Real 7V'll have their cameras rolling."

  The dog continued barking, and the white-haired lady hugged the dog protectively in the folds of her coat, cooing his name, soothing him. "Pudgy-woo, pudgy-coo...it's all right, baby." She gave a disapproving look in Meredyth's direction. "Really, Dr. Sanger, there's been so much disruption in our building of late."

  "I'm sure everything's going to calm down now, Mrs. Chandler. You and little Pudge don't have to worry."

  "I've had inquiries, you know, from all sorts of people, but as I tell them, I know nothing of what's happened in the building."

  The elevator doors opened on her floor, and Mrs. Chandler and Pudge alighted from the cab.

  Lucas and Meredyth rode up the rest of the way in silence, each contemplating what lay between them and ahead for them, dividing their thoughts between a lunatic who had targeted them and their struggling relationship.

  As they now approached Meredyth's door, they saw there was no eerie little package left in her doo
rway. "This is crazy... like walking through a minefield just to get home," she complained.

  Lucas thought the analogy apt, that the killer had put them through an emotional minefield.

  Opening her door, stepping inside, they found stains still on the carpet. "I have a cleaning service coming in tomorrow. They couldn't fit me in any sooner," she told him when she noticed Lucas staring at the marks on the plush gray pile. He watched her eyes roam the room to be certain nothing had been left inside by any well-meaning doorman.

  "We made it," he declared for her.

  She tossed her purse and keys on a table and said, "I gotta get a shower, wash away the stress. Want to join me?" she called out over her shoulder. Not waiting for an answer, Meredyth instantly went for her bedroom and shower, telling Lucas, "If you're not coming in, at least make yourself a sandwich. Make yourself at home."

  "I need to make a call, okay?"

  She was gone. He heard the spray of the shower like the dull cascade of a waterfall wafting down the corridor from her open bedroom door. Lucas called into the precinct, telling Kelton he and Dr. Sanger would be late arriving this morning, that she'd needed time to recuperate. "And I'm not leaving her alone here, understood? Anyone desperately seeking either of us, we can be reached at her home number."

  "Good idea. She's been through hell. You've gotta get this creep, Lucas, and fast."

  "My sentiments exactly. Workin' on it."

  "You see the Chronicle?"

  "Saw it."

  "Can't keep a story like that under wraps, Lieutenant. May as well try to keep a wolverine in a birdcage."

  Lucas grunted and asked, "Put me through to the crime lab, Dr. Davies if he's available."

  Lucas waited to be patched through. "Yes, this is Tom Davies."

  "Detective Stonecoat, Doctor."

  "Oh, good...glad you called. Saves me calling round for you and Dr. Sanger."