Chapter 44
BEN SPENT THE next day pursuing every lead imaginable. He bullied Mike into letting him see the reports taken from the patrons at the club the previous night; the ones who seemed promising he tracked down and interviewed himself. He sent Christina to the courthouse and Jones to the computer to pore through any records that might bear on Scat, his background, his history—anything that might suggest why he was killed or who would have a motive to do it. And he sent Loving out to investigate Scat’s neighbors, people who knew him.
And at the end of the day, Ben knew not a whit more than he had known when the day began. Which was next to nothing.
What was he missing? Somehow, he couldn’t make it add up. He had all the necessary information; he just wasn’t putting it together right. It was like he had all the pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, but they were turned face down so all that showed was the brown cardboard backing.
And he hadn’t found Tyrone Jackson, either. Not so much as a trace of him.
At sundown he returned to the office, where he was greeted by Jones—and Paula. What was she doing here? Ben wondered. Were they holding hands under the desk?
“Jones,” he said in a businesslike tone, “did you have a chance to run those Internet searches?”
“I spent most of the day on it. I ran all your searches and several others besides.”
“Masterfully,” Paula added.
“I used all the major search engines—Alta Vista, Yahoo! Excite. To increase my search capacity, I reprogrammed my web browser.”
“Ingeniously,” Paula added.
“Finally, with Paula’s help”—he looked lovingly in her direction—“I went to the library and did some research the old-fashioned way.”
“You mean—you used books?”
Jones gave Paula a knowing look. “You see? I used to put up with this every day.” He turned back toward Ben. “I used their electronic card catalog to search the collections of other libraries, including newspapers and periodicals, for information that might be of use.
“Brilliantly,” Paula sighed.
“No doubt,” Ben said. “Did you find anything?”
“A lot. About Scat. And about this Professor Hoodoo he and Earl used to play with. But probably nothing you don’t already know. Certainly nothing that suggests a motive for murder.”
“Oh.”
“I printed it all out,” Jones said, pointing to a stack of computer paper on the edge of his desk. “But I don’t think there’s anything in there that’s going to solve your case.”
Ben laid his hands on the information. He’d been hoping for a miracle. But all he got was a tower of feed-form paper.
“There’s some mail for you as well,” Jones added.
Ben saw a small package wrapped in brown paper. He picked it up and ripped it open.
Inside he found a golden bauble, a small thin sparkly—and beneath that a note in a handwritten scrawclass="underline" Found this in the men’s room the night of the murder. Probably Rug Man’s. Don’t know what it is—but thought you might. T.
Tyrone! He was alive!
Ben held the golden object in his hands. It was a penknife—a fancy one, from the looks of it. And on the side, in an overwrought, stylized lettering, he saw a monogrammed B.
B, he thought to himself. B. Who could that—
“Is it something important?” Jones asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. I need to talk to Tyrone.” He pushed the penknife into his pocket. “I don’t suppose you saw anything in your computer research that might help us figure out what happened to him?”
“ ’Fraid not,” Jones said.
“Who’s Tyrone?” Paula asked.
“Kid who saw a man at the club wearing a disguise,” Ben explained.
“A disguise?”
“Right. Which led me to believe he might’ve been the killer. Why else would a man go out in a fake Afro?”
Paula’s head tilted slightly. “Ben, he was wearing a fake Afro?”
“False beard, too. Shades.”
Paula slowly rose out of her chair. “Sunglasses with silver lenses? The kind that look like mirrors from the outside?”
“Yes, exactly. Why?”
Paula looked from Ben to Jones, then back to Ben. “I saw him, too.”
Ben gripped her by the arms. “You saw him? You were there the night Lily Campbell was killed?”
“Sure. I told you that last night. Heck, I told Jones the night it happened. In the chat room.”
Ben whirled around toward Jones. “You knew?”
“Well, I didn’t know she saw the Rug Man!”
“The Rug Man?” Paula frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The man we believe killed Lily Campbell was carrying a rug. We think he may have used the rug to get the body into the club. Did you see it?”
“No. When I saw him, he was moving away from the stage. Maybe he’d already deposited the body.”
Ben lowered her back into her chair. “Paula, tell me everything you saw. Everything.”
“There isn’t much. The club had barely opened. This guy was moving out; I was moving in. We brushed shoulders; I gave him a bit of a knock. And I saw the way his hair bounced on impact. I mean, independent from his head. I used to wear a wig myself when I was younger, so I knew what that meant.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No. Why would I? I just thought the man was losing his hair and didn’t want to settle for a toupee. You never know. Men are weird about hair loss.”
“Is that a fact?” Ben said evenly.
“Even after the murder, when I was talking to the police, I didn’t think anything about it. I didn’t make the connection. A woman was murdered onstage; I had no reason to link that to some guy wearing a wig.”
“Paula, this is very important.” Ben gazed steadily into her eyes. “I want you to cast your mind back to that night. Concentrate. Try to remember what you saw. Tell me everything you can remember.”
Paula took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Okay. I’m taking myself back to that night. I’m remembering. He was wearing—well, I’ve already told you about the shades.”
“Right. What else do you see?”
“That’s about all. Silver mirror glasses. He’s about my height. Maybe a bit taller. He’s black, or looks black, anyway. His hands are disgusting; fingers are stained an ugly blackish-yellow. He’s strong-looking, well-muscled.”
“What else do you see? Go through the whole scene. You’re walking through the club …”
“I’m walking down the floor, picking a table. I see this guy coming, but he’s moving quite fast and I don’t have time to get out of the way. We bump shoulders, his wig bounces. I say I’m sorry; he makes a grunting noise. He moves on toward the bathrooms.”
“Was there anything else, Paula?”
“I’m trying, but that’s all I can remember.” She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more—Ben?”
Ben wasn’t looking at her. He had turned away, was staring off into space. “Can it be?” he muttered. He took the penknife out of his pocket and stared at it.
“What are you talking about?”
Ben still didn’t look at her. “But if—” His face suddenly blanched. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Oh, my God.”
“Ben, what is it?” Jones stood beside him. “What’s going on? Do you—do you know who the killer is?”
Ben slowly turned his head till his eyes met Jones’s. “Oh, my God,” he repeated, even more softly than before. “I think I do. I think I do.”
When Tyrone awoke, he was blind, chained, naked, and cold.
He didn’t know where he was or what had happened to him. His mind was all a blur at first; he was barely able to pull his thoughts together long enough to remember who he was. Slowly and painfully it began to come back to him.