“I’m not in the mood for small talk, Roger. Tell me what you have to say before I throw you out the flipping window.”
“I need a drink of water,” he said.
“Choking on your own words?”
“Please.”
She led him into the kitchen. He took a chair without being asked. His body language said that he’d just come from getting his ass chewed out. Cops were not supposed to slam other cops. His one-man publicity crusade had backfired on him. Poor Roger.
Vick set a glass of water down in front of him. She positioned herself on the other side of the room and leaned against the counter. She put the Sig down next to her.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
DuCharme drank the water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This morning a corpse was found on the roof of the parking garage across from the Broward Library. The head had been cut off. The corpse had a hat, which had a slip of paper stuck in the brim. The slip had the words Mr. Clean written on it.
“The coroner’s office examined the body. They’ve put the time of death at around the same time you and I were inside the library. Mr. Clean was watching us from the parking garage, and then killed someone and left him for us to see.”
“Any idea who the victim is?”
“They think he was a vagrant. Now, here’s the bad part. A reporter over at Fox News is all over the story, some pesky woman named Debbie Bodden. Bodden has made the connection between this killing, the shooting last night, and Wayne Ladd’s abduction. Fox was going to run a story on their noon news show saying that Mr. Clean was running amuck in Fort Lauderdale, but my boss got the station manager to put a lid on it.”
“How much time did he buy?”
“A day.”
Media shit storms were great at ruining criminal investigations, especially when the criminal was still at large. The clock was ticking.
“What do you want from me?” Vick asked.
“Help us find this guy. Please.”
“Who’s us? You?”
“Yeah. Moody wants me to stay involved in the investigation, and make amends.”
Vick laughed silently under her breath. No apology had been offered, just a tender pulling at her heart strings to stop a cold-blooded killer from claiming the life of another victim. She refilled DuCharme’s empty glass and threw the water in his face.
“Hey…!”
“That’s for going on television and ruining my reputation,” she said.
“I said I was sorry.”
“Fuck your sorry.”
“I’m going to issue an apology to the media once this is over, Rachel.”
“It’s too late for that. The damage is done. For the rest of my life, people will be able to Google my name, or go onto YouTube, and read or hear the things you said about me, none of which had an ounce of truth. You soiled me, Roger.”
Next to where DuCharme sat was a napkin dispenser. He pulled out several, which he used to dry his dripping wet face.
“You know, you’re really pretty when you’re angry,” he said.
The glass was still in Vick’s hand. Growing up with three older brothers had its advantages. For one thing, no one would ever accuse her of throwing like a girl.
She threw the glass at DuCharme with all her might. It winged the top of his head before hitting the wall and shattering.
She walked out of the kitchen, ignoring his plea for mercy.
Vick went to her computer room, a small space off her bedroom with no windows. Meant to be a closet, she’d stripped the shelving units off the walls, and replaced the cheap carpet with a piece more to her liking. She’d hung Clyde Butcher prints on the walls and stuck her computer table in the corner. PC, HP printer, and scanner, it was the piece of furniture she spent the most time with when in her apartment.
Everything stored in her laptop was also stored on her PC’s hard drive. She pulled up the transcript of Berkowitz’s diary and punched in a command. Soon pages were spitting out of her printer. When the print job was done, she returned to the kitchen.
To his credit, DuCharme had cleaned up the broken glass, and was washing his hands in the sink. She dropped the pages on the counter.
“You really want to find Mr. Clean?” she asked.
DuCharme dried his hands on a towel and nodded. His mouth had gotten him in more trouble than anything he’d ever done. Not speaking was a wise choice.
“Mr. Clean has been linked to another serial killer named Son of Sam who terrorized New York City back in the 1970s. This is a transcript of Son of Sam’s diary. Look through it, and see if anything about Son of Sam reminds you of Mr. Clean.”
DuCharme picked up the transcript and took a seat. He read with his head hanging over the table and his eyes a foot from the text. He needed reading glasses, but was too vain to accept it. Still, it was a fresh pair of eyes, and sometimes that was what was needed to bust an investigation wide open.
“We learned what Mr. Clean’s motivation is for kidnaping the boys,” Vick said.
He looked up, his face dead serious.
“He’s schooling an apprentice,” she said.
“You can’t be serious,” DuCharme muttered.
“It fits his profile. Mr. Clean is vain. Most vain people envision someone following in their footsteps. That’s why he chose Wayne Ladd.”
“Guess he made a good choice.”
Vick liked DuCharme better with his mouth shut, and walked out of the kitchen.
Chapter 33
Wayne Ladd did not know what time it was, what day it was, where he was. All he knew was that he’d been subjected to one hundred of the worst porno flicks ever made, and was sick of seeing women tortured and hearing them scream. It was getting old.
Besides, sex wasn’t like that. Sex was like Amber, soft and sweet and thrilling to the touch. Sex was holding and kissing and talking for a long time afterward about the things that mattered in your life. Sex was about the way things could be if you tried.
But Wayne had played along with the big Cuban. He’d figured out the game as best he could. So long as he got an erection for the movies, the big Cuban would tell him what a good boy he was, and treat him to a good meal. Every game had a scorecard, and this one wasn’t any different. Wayne wasn’t dead yet, which put him ahead.
Wayne heard the deadbolt on the door being thrown. The big Cuban entered wearing sweat pants and no shirt. He undid the leather straps holding Wayne to his chair while looking his victim in the eye. Wayne pretended not to be afraid.
“What’s that smell?” Wayne asked.
“Breakfast,” the big Cuban said. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
The big Cuban went to the door and motioned for him to follow. Wayne rose on unsteady legs. Except for going to the bathroom every few hours, he’d been strapped into the chair, and his legs had turned to jelly.
“Go in front of me,” the big Cuban said.
Wayne walked to the front of the house. The living and dining rooms were combined, with a kitchen off to the side. Steel hurricane shutters covered the windows, and the front door had three different locks. Escaping seemed out of the question.
“What are you cooking?” Wayne asked.
“Eggs, sausage and home fries,” the big Cuban said.
“Good. Watching all that porno made me hungry.”
Wayne had always had the knack of getting adults to like him. The big Cuban offered the faintest of smiles. He put his hand on Wayne’s shoulder, and left it there.
“The movies were good, yes?”
“Couldn’t get enough of them,” Wayne said. “That’s some collection you’ve got. How big is it?”
“I have thousands of films. One day I will let you pick out some to watch.”
Wayne had a feeling the collection didn’t include any South Park or remakes of Batman. The big Cuban went into the kitchen and he followed him. It was small and spotlessly clean. His mother could definitely take some lessons from this guy.