Moonlight City Drive Trilogy

Chapter 2

Smith spit out another peanut shell onto his Chevy’s floorboard as his gaze stayed trained on the Desert Palms Motel’s front entrance. His fingers instinctively found the opened bag in the complete darkness and pinched another nut. He squeezed his eyes closed to ward off the simmering residual headache from the most recent blackout. The sound of the rain pelting the windshield was soothing.

“Come on. Where are you? You took the last two nights off. I can’t imagine you being on vacation.”

Headlights turning into the parking lot diverted his attention from the motel’s front door. He squinted to decipher the make and model of the vehicle through the downpour. A Bentley. He sighed and returned his focus to the motel as he fingered the brim of his newly purchased replacement fedora and then tossed it next to him in frustration.

Smith removed his revolver from his shoulder holster and checked that all six chambers were loaded for the umpteenth time. He secured the weapon and grabbed the small notebook from underneath his discarded fedora, lying on the passenger seat, where Wynn should be sitting. But she had maintained radio silence throughout the past two days since storming from Hank’s office. He shook his head in disgust for letting Wynn’s drama distract him from the job at hand.

He swiped the Chevy’s dashboard with his palm to clean off the thick layer of dust that had collected from months of neglect. He wiped his hands on his pants, leaving a graying smear across the fabric covering his thighs. He reached into his trench coat’s inner pocket and removed a silver flask. He opened the top and looked at the engraved insignia on the front. His index finger traced the shining eyeball hanging freely in the cut-out middle of a pyramid. Taking a swig from the decorated flask, he grimaced as the brown liquid hit the back of his throat.

Smith retrieved the Polaroid from the dashboard and cleared his throat. “Let’s see what tricks you’re playing on me now.” He flicked the corner of the photograph as he sighed deeply in expected disappointment.

The picture had dissolved half of the desert sand and one-fourth of the sky into a white smear. He thought to himself how it appeared like the images on the photo were slowly evaporating—eroding almost—into nothingness, leaving no signs that an image of Eva’s grandson or the Vertigo had existed at all on the photo. And now the sand and sky were following suit and going by the wayside as well.

Smith took another swig from the flask but didn’t stop when the alcohol hit his tongue. He closed his eyes and kept them shut until the whiskey’s flow slowed to only a drip from the flask’s mouth, like a leaky faucet. He tossed the empty container onto the passenger floorboard and watched two giggling teenage girls exit from the backseat of the Bentley. A man dressed in a business suit closed their door and quickly escorted them into the Desert Palms to get out of the rain, his hands pressing firmly on their lower backs as they entered the motel. Double the fun for that guy tonight, Smith thought.

Double the fun for that guy tonightSmith reached to the left side of his waistline and let his fingers dance along his belt until he found the chain to his pocket watch. Trying not to take his focus off the motel’s parking lot for too long, he stole a quick glance at the time—11:11 p.m.

Even though it was still on the early side of night for the Boulevard Killer, Smith thought it felt really late. Later than his watch said, at least. Maybe it was the diverging headache; maybe it was the alcohol; maybe it was … Wynn.

Thunder boomed overhead.

Smith arched his back over the front bench of the Chevy and strained to reach the attaché case in the backseat. His fingers wrapped around the handle, and he dragged the briefcase into the front seat with him. He unsnapped the latches and opened the cover, grinning when he saw he hadn’t drank this bottle yet. He unscrewed the bottle of scotch and flung his head back. Flask be damned. Tonight called for something more than a slow trickle from a tiny canteen. Tonight the gods demanded the floodgates be opened and the liquid be poured freely.

Another pair of headlights. A Rolls Royce Phantom.

Scotch dribbled from Smith’s mouth as he pulled the glass from his lips. He wiped his chin and replaced the cap on the bottle. He remained motionless—only his gaze trailed the vehicle as it slowly approached his camouflaged Chevy. He slumped in the bench when the headlights illuminated his front bumper. When the Rolls had passed, he scrambled for his Kodak and fumbled with the camera, knocking the cap off the bottle of scotch. The alcohol spilled on the floorboard with the glug-glug-glug of a stopper being pulled in a sink full of water. He cursed as he uprighted the bottle to save more alcohol from escaping while not dropping his recently purchased Kodak 35 in the expanding pool beneath his feet.

glug-glug-glugThe Rolls stopped between two parking spots around the near corner of the front of the motel. Smith brought the Kodak to his right eye and observed the vehicle through the camera lens. The buckets of rain coating the windshield made it difficult to see, so Smith removed his face from the camera’s eyepiece and tried to get a better look at his subject. Even just being on the outskirts of the lamppost’s splashes of light, Smith could unequivocally tell this man matched the one from the disappearing Polaroid. Smith brought the Kodak back in line with his eye and noticed an unknown female accompanied the man. He pushed the shutter release.

Snap!

Snap!The man walked around the front of the Rolls and touched the passenger door handle. The rain let up and turned to a slow drizzle.

Snap!

Snap!The man reached into the vehicle’s cabin and offered a splayed hand, as if they had just arrived at a red-carpet event.

Snap!

Snap!The man guided the female from the passenger seat. Smith could make out her short flapperlike dress, red lipstick, and messy cropped hair.

Snap!

Snap!Smith watched them embrace through the camera’s eye before—

Snap! Snap!

Snap! Snap!—the man closed her door with his foot. The rain finally stopped altogether, but the sounds of rolling thunder could still be heard in the distance as the storm headed east toward the Grand Canyon.

“What’d you say your name was again, doll?” Smith heard the man ask.

“Candy,” the unknown female replied, their voices intertwining with the sound of the wind blowing across the desert behind them.

“Heh, I’m sure you are,” the man said, chuckling as they headed arm in arm toward the Desert Palms Motel’s entrance.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Snap! Snap! Snap!Smith stealthily exited his Chevy and ran hunched over toward cover. The man and woman entered the motel and disappeared into the lobby. Smith realized he couldn’t chance going into the motel just yet; the receptionist from the other day might recognize him as the lunatic who had made a scene about the Rolls. He would have to lurk in the shadows and hope he’d notice which room they were in by watching for a light turning on in the next minute or two. He backed up so he had a more widened scope of the motel, allowing him to see more rooms from the outside.

He checked his pocket watch—11:18 p.m. Three rooms with their lights on already. The rest, twentysomething rooms, were all dark.

Smith nervously shifted back and forth, his gaze darting down one length of the motel’s exterior and back again.

He checked his pocket watch.

Still 11:18 p.m. Three rooms with their lights on. The rest all dark.

Smith coughed into the crook of his elbow to stifle the sound as another set of headlights swept across the parking lot. He stepped backward to prevent as much of his body from being illuminated as possible when the vehicle turned into an available parking spot. The car stopped, and the driver killed the engine.

He checked his pocket watch—11:19 p.m. Only two rooms had their lights on now. The rest still all dark.

Smith watched two men exit the vehicle and stumble toward the doors, using each other as crutches to stabilize their balance. Smith couldn’t bring himself to avert his gaze from them until the two men had disappeared into the motel.

Back to three rooms with their lights on, and the third was not the same room that had turned off its light a few moments earlier.

“Bingo!” he whispered. “I have you now.”

He crouched down and ran alongside the motel underneath the other guests’ windows toward the Boulevard Killer’s room. As he ran by a bush, a black blur jumped from underneath it and scurried up ahead. He gasped loudly. “Damn stray cats.”

Smith reached the window of the newly illuminated room and peeked over the outside sill. The window was closed, but the white curtains were sheer—enough to see through. He placed both wrists on the sill for support so he wouldn’t fall backward while taking more pictures.

Eva’s grandson sat on the bed, leaning on his elbows like kickstands. His shoes were removed, and his bare feet were planted level on the carpet. Smith snapped a handful of photos and stopped just as Candy exited the bathroom on the far side of the room, wearing nothing but a frilly b*a and high heels. She sashayed across the carpet, exaggerating the movements of her hips and long bare legs. Smith captured more snapshots of their actions before she sat next to the man, tracing a single long fingernail delicately along the outline of his upper body.

“So what turns you on?” Candy asked, her voice muffled through the closed window.

Smith had to strain to hear their words. Between the barrier of the glass panes and the wind coming off the desert, their voices sounded like they were broadcast from a radio speaker somewhere in the distance.

“Pretend you’re dead. That’ll turn me on.”

She stretched out her body on the bed next to him, crisscrossed her wrists to mimic being tied up, and closed her eyes. “Sick little f**k, aren’t ya?”

“I just get what I want. Even if it’s by force.”

Candy opened her eyes and propped herself up on one elbow. “You don’t have to r**e the willing.”

That’s probably not a turn-on for this guy, Smith thought. He only gets off if there is a struggle. You may have just pissed him off, stupid dame.

That’s probablya turn-on for this guy He only gets off if therea struggle. You may have just pissed him off, stupid dameThe man didn’t indicate he had a more-than-half-n***d semiattractive woman coaxing him into s*x. He sat expressionless, like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz before he gets oiled. Smith thought he felt Candy’s growing frustration by the way she slapped her thigh before standing again.

The Wizard of Oz“Got anything to drink?” Candy asked, placing her hands on her hip and tapping her foot. “Maybe in your car?”

“I’m not paying you to sit around and drink,” he retorted with a hint of anger showing through his voice, like a parent reaching the end of their fuse with a toddler.

“Well then, shut up. I’ll punch the clock, and you can f**k me ’til the blood scares you.”

Candy bit her bottom lip and tossed her b*a on the carpet. She jumped on the bed, giggling as their bodies collided, and almost bounced off his chest. The man wrapped his arms around her back and spun Candy underneath him, pressing his weight against her chest. His fingers played on her privy parts, and she moaned loudly, arching her back.

Smith continued taking pictures and rolled his eyes, thinking how fake and exaggerated her so-called pleasure looked. What an actress, he thought. But it’s probably good for repeat business.

What anactress But it’s probably good for repeat businessThe man was fully inside her now while his mouth completely consumed one n****e, and his right hand clamped down around her neck.

“My God, is he … strangling her?” Smith whispered, then heard a rustle in a bush to his left and looked quickly to see if someone approached. “Cat’s gonna be the death of me out here.”

Smith peered into the room again, and the man groaned loudly as he jackhammered in and out of Candy. She continued the same Academy Award–worthy moaning, raising her volume so her screams were always louder than the man’s, even through the pressure on her neck from his clenched hand. Then Smith noticed the man make an unusual movement. Without removing his hand from Candy’s neck, or releasing her n****e from his teeth, or even slowing the thrusts from his hips, he reached down below the top of the mattress with his left hand, fishing for something.

Smith took one more photo and then the Kodak made a whirring noise, indicating the roll of film had reached its end.

“Sonofabitch. Really? Now?” he said, flipping over the camera.

NowHe looked through the sheer curtains again and saw the man holding a Colt .38 revolver over her face. Smith knew, without a doubt, the make of the weapon; it was what he had carried on duty for years. Candy’s eyes were closed, and she was too busy writhing in fake pleasure as the man thrust harder inside her to notice the barrel of the g*n inching slowly toward her open mouth.

The man groaned louder—Smith was convinced this moan was purposefully obnoxious to keep Candy focused on moving in sync so she wouldn’t open her eyes prematurely—and finally released her n****e from his mouth.

He’s really going to kill her. And I’m really going to witness it, Smith thought as he placed a hand on the windowpane and held his breath. Yes, yes!

He’s really going to kill her. And I’m really going to witness itYes, yes!The man put the Colt beside her head and covered her open mouth with his.

“No, no! Shoot the w***e!” Smith whispered, his breath fogging the glass. “What are you waiting for?”

The killer took his right hand and placed it underneath Candy’s buttocks, gripping her a*s cheek tightly and accelerating the force of his thrusts as he spoke through sporadic bursts of breath. “Take it all, whore.”

“That’s it. Drill the floozie good and proper first,” Smith whispered. “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”

Their gyrating bodies bounced the bed so hard that Smith thought the headboard would crash through the wall into the next room. He didn’t realize he had been running his finger up and down a bulge in his pants until a rustling in the bushes distracted him.

“That sonofabitch cat,” Smith muttered and returned his attention to the inside of the motel room, watching as he was convinced the man had to be close to finishing.

had“Dirty little b***h,” the man mumbled just loud enough for Smith to decipher the words.

Smith wondered if the man would whack her before or after the killer ejaculated. Then Smith wondered if the man would come before or after he snuffed her out.

He couldn’t be that sick, Smith thought, never contemplating n*********a into the killer’s bag of surprises. Could he?

He couldn’t besickCould he?Candy’s screams grew louder, and Smith saw the man raise the .38 again.

“Good little girl,” the killer said and closed his eyes, expelling a loud, long grunt as he released inside her.

“Don’t stop, baby. I’m almost there too!” she replied, scrunching her eyes tighter and scratching his back as all her muscles contracted.

“Do it now,” Smith whispered.

The killer pulled out quickly, right in the crest of Candy’s last wave of pleasure. When she opened her eyes, he jammed the muzzle of the .38 into her mouth.

“Say good night, b***h!” he said through clenched teeth.

Smith was sure the g*n was so far down her throat that it touched her tonsils.

Candy screamed in a mix of terror and pleasure, and the Boulevard Killer pulled the trigger. One shot. One dead hooker. One scream silenced. One sheet covered in blood. One Peeping Tom private eye applauding outside the window.

The killer turned abruptly and looked through the curtains. Smith slid down the side of the motel underneath the window, his back pressed firmly against the stucco. He frantically collected the Kodak and scooted away on his hands and buttocks. When he had safely cleared the window, he stood up and collected himself.

“He didn’t see you,” Smith whispered to himself. “He might have looked directly out the window, but he didn’t see you.”

The window opened, and Smith gasped, taking a step sideways. The killer tossed Candy’s lifeless body through the open window, and she landed in the bush—her body slid until her neck, bent in an unnatural angle, hit the ground and stopped her from moving any farther. Her legs were draped up and over the top of the bush, and her open dead eyes looked directly at Smith.

A leg appeared out of the window, then another, as the killer ducked underneath the bottom of the window. He jumped down onto the dirt and grabbed Candy under her armpits.

Someone knocked on the other side of the motel room door.

“Mr. Covington?” The female’s voice was distant and faint. Knock! Knock! Knock! “Everything okay in there, sir?”

Knock! Knock! KnockThe killer stuck his head back into the room through the open window. “Yes, Cheryl. Everything’s fine! Thank you for checking on me. Did you hear that noise?”

“I did. It sounded like a gunshot,” Cheryl replied from the hallway on the other side of the door.

“Really? It sounded like someone’s jalopy backfiring,” he called back.

Smith was an arm’s length from the killer and on the verge of hyperventilating. He knew he couldn’t move, or he’d be discovered. He also knew, as soon as the killer stopped chitchatting with the night desk girl, Smith would be discovered. Either way it was a lose/lose situation for him.

“You’d know more about those things than me, Mr. Covington.”

“Yes, I should say I would. Good night, Cheryl.”

“Good night, sir. Sorry to have bothered you,” she said and walked away from the closed door toward her reception desk in the lobby.

The killer backed his head through the window and turned to carry his slayed harlot through the shadows to his Rolls when he found himself eye to eye with the detective. Smith stood silent, his back pressed against the motel’s wall. He had inhaled deeply but had yet to release the breath. The killer, with Candy’s body—blood draining from the back of her head and painting the bushes, and brain matter falling like crumbs onto the front of the killer’s pants—stood silent. Unwavering. Eyes boring into Smith’s soul.

Smith swallowed hard and nodded once. A single head bob. A silent affirmation and understanding they were on the same page with the killer’s choice of victims. Smith opened his mouth to finally speak to the man who had been so elusive to law enforcement over the years but—

The sound of a bush rustling to the killer’s left distracted him, and he redirected his attention to the ground. Two small paws and a black feline face peered from the shrubbery and proceeded to step forward into the pathway between the motel and the bushes.

“f*****g cat,” the Boulevard Killer said and kicked the cat as hard as he could.

He readjusted Candy’s body on his shoulder and walked away with his prize, leaving Smith standing rigid, like a Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace, while the cat scurried through the parking lot to lick its wounds.

As soon as the killer had pulled from his parking spot with the dead hooker, Smith sprinted across the parking lot toward his Chevy, using the shadows as cover—he certainly didn’t want anyone to think he had killed someone, had anyone heard the gunshot and come out to investigate. The Rolls’s headlights swept across the other parked vehicles and headed straight for the highway.

heSmith slid into the front bench of his car and, without turning on his headlights, sped to catch up. The Rolls took a left toward the wide-open area of the desert between the motel and the start of civilization, sand spitting from its rear tires, and Smith followed. The Rolls’s headlamps illuminated the cacti and scattered skulls of long-ago-deceased animals.

Smith gripped the steering wheel tightly as it violently spun from right to left as the vehicle bounced and smacked into small dunes of sand. His Chevy launched upward and slammed downward over the divots and knolls. Smith was convinced the killer knew he was behind him by now.

“Playing a little cat-and-mouse game, are we?” he said as his voice hiccupped over the rough terrain. “Or are you bringing me somewhere specific?”

The Rolls stopped abruptly, and Smith slammed on his brakes and spun the wheel hard right to avoid ramming the rear of the killer’s car. The Chevy slid sideways through the sand, resting against a small cactus—the spines scratching the black paint. The Rolls sat motionless and gently idling, its headlights traveling into the vast nothingness of the desert ahead.

Smith couldn’t hear anything except the two motors. He couldn’t see any movement in the car ahead of him. The driver—the killer—sat perfectly still. And Smith found no visual signs of Candy. He assumed she was laid out on the back bench and became concerned as the seconds ticked by without the killer moving his head. No signs of life or movement came from inside the Rolls at all.

killerThen he heard the unmistakable sound of flapping wings. And lots of them.

Smith leaned forward and peered through the windshield for a better view. A gaggle of black figures dotted the sky, circling above the two cars and slowly descending with each cycle of their sky-whirlpool. As they approached, he made out grunting noises coming from the sky that sounded like dogs barking in the distance. But Smith knew the sounds weren’t coming from any kind of canine; they came from whatever winged creatures were descending upon the vehicles. The swarm circled lower and lower, and Smith could now decipher their featherless faces and sharply hooked beaks.

He swallowed hard. “Vultures.”

As if they had heard him identifying their presence, they flung downward with one powerful swoop of their wings, gliding in a single-file line straight for the killer’s Rolls. Smith gripped his steering wheel in fright and anticipation. The vultures didn’t seem to care or acknowledge Smith or his Chevy as they bombarded the Rolls. One by one, they nose-dived into the open windows of the killer’s car. Smith gasped and clasped one hand over his mouth to stifle any further screams that might escape.

Vultures, dozen after dozen in a continuous line, kamikazied into the back open window and disappeared, never exiting the other side.

“How the hell are they all fitting in there?” Smith mumbled.

He could see the silhouette of the killer’s head. Unmoving. Motionless. Staring forward without flinching. Catatonic. Like a mannequin. Or someone possessed. When the last vulture entered the vehicle, Smith couldn’t see the birds anymore.

Where the heck did they all go? No way they all fit inside that car, and, if they could, they would fill the automobile to the roof.

Where the heck did they all go? No way they all fit inside that car, and, if they could, they would fill the automobile to the roofThe desert returned to hosting only the sounds of the two car engines. Nothing moved, not even Smith. The smell of the spilled alcohol on his floorboard wafted to his nostrils and turned his stomach. He gathered a small pool of spittle and swallowed to keep the urge to vomit at bay.

The killer’s Rolls rocked back and forth, like someone thrashed around inside. Smith’s knuckles turned white from gripping his steering wheel. But he still couldn’t see anything through the Rolls’s rear window except the killer’s inert head. Then new sounds grew louder, overtaking the engines’ rumbles. Raspy, drawn-out hissing sounds. Demonic feeding sounds. Inhuman sounds of pleasure.

The birds of prey left the Rolls through its open windows, rising into the night sky—chunks of Candy’s flesh and limbs secured inside their beaks. Smith watched, paralyzed, as the flock of vultures carried away the p********e until disappearing into the cloud covering. Then he jumped when the Rolls lunged forward and made a U-turn around the skull of a longhorn steer partially buried in the sand.

Unable to move or process anything he had just witnessed, Smith watched the taillights of the Rolls fade in his rearview mirror.

“Wynn!” Smith yelled, knocking continuously as hard as he could on her door. “I’m not leaving until you open up!” He stopped his banging when he heard movement from inside.

“Knock it off!” she called from inside her apartment. “You’re gonna wake up the whole floor!” She flung her door open. “Go home and sober up,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Smith pushed her out of the way and barged into her living room.

“Or … come in.”

“I gotta tell you what I just saw.”

“What time is it?” she asked.

Smith looked at the clock above her couch, and it read 11:18. “I dunno. Your clock’s dead.”

“I should call the police. You barging in here like this. I’m sure they’d love to get a call on you like that, huh? Trespassing. Or better yet, unlawful entry.”

love“Just shut up for a moment,” he ordered as he realized the time on the clock. “Your clock stopped at eleven-eighteen.”

“Yeah, so what?”

Smith stood on the back of her couch and reached for the clock.

“Your shoes better be clean, or you’re gonna shampoo my couch.”

He tossed his fedora on one of the couch cushions and grabbed the circular clock. “This was the exact time the killer embraced Candy in the parking lot, in essence, signing her death warrant.”

“Wait. You saw the Boulevard Killer tonight? And with a p********e? In action?”

He stepped down from the couch and removed the clock’s backing. “Thought you wanted me to leave?”

She playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Oh, you’re such a dolt.”

They locked gazes for a moment, and he leaned in. Wynn allowed him to steal a quick kiss before pulling back.

“I’m still angry,” she said. “One kiss won’t fix that.”

“But it’s a start, right?” he asked, laughing and inspecting the exposed back of the clock. “I don’t get it. It’s wound.”

“Of course it’s wound. I don’t neglect my responsibilities.”

“Why do I feel like that’s more of a personal shot at me than about you keeping your clock wound?”

“If you think that, then you must be guilty,” she said, smirking.

“More is going on here than meets the eye. I remember this exact time specifically because I kept looking at my watch while I was staking him out. And wait until I tell you about the vultures.”

“Sit down, and start from the beginning,” she said, running sink water into the teakettle. “Don’t skip a single detail.”

Smith hadn’t realized how bizarre the entire ordeal had been until he rehashed his whole experience to Wynn over a cup of tea, ending his night’s adventures with her clock stuck on 11:18.

“Now that we’ve found the Boulevard Killer, I take it we’re not going to the police?” Wynn asked.

“So now it’s we again?” he asked, laughing. “I do all the hard work, and you want back in, just like that?”

we“Obviously we can’t trust the fuzz with all that bizarro stuff about the birds,” she continued, ignoring his jab.

“No. We are definitely not going to the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Wilcox wouldn’t know how to handle something this intricate. Nor would I trust him with any of what I’ve collected. Also I don’t know if I want to do anything about it yet.”

notwant“Excuse me?”

Smith took Wynn by her hands and guided her to sit on the couch with him. “Look. This guy, he’s … he kind of … I mean, he … ”

“He what, Smith? Spit it out.”

what“I would never admit this to anyone else but you.”

“And I’ll never repeat it.”

“He’s doing what the law has never been able to do. Not even when I was on the force. And certainly not after.”

I“You’re not saying you admire him?” she asked, slightly horrified.

“He’s cleansing the streets. He’s getting the filth off the streets. Filth that continues to devalue this city. Do you want your future children to grow up with these scumbags crawling through the streets? Don’t you want a safe, wholesome environment for the future generations? I certainly do for mine.”

youShe chuckled. “You? You want kids?”

You“Is that so far-fetched?”

She cleared her throat and realized maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was a better man than she sometimes gave him credit for. Maybe he was husband and father material …

wasStop it! she thought, chasing away any chance of traveling down that fantasy road. “Sorry. Go on.”

Stop it!“I want to tail him a little more. To figure out what the hell the deal was with those vultures, where they took Candy’s remains, and dig up some background on our killer. I also would like to see if I can catch him from the moment he comes in contact with his next victim and follow him through the whole process. That might shed some light on all these odd occurrences.”

“Like the disappearing Polaroid?”

“Exactly. And that reminds me. I need to develop these photographs.”

“Just so I’m clear. You don’t want to blow the whistle on a Jack-the-Ripper-style serial killer who has been stalking our city, because you agree with his choice of victims?”

agree“Something like that.”

All of a sudden, it was a lot easier for Wynn to not fantasize about a marital and parental relationship with this man. “For the record, I do not condone investigating him any further until the authorities are notified. Just because the sheriff and municipal police are a bunch of corrupt Keystone Kops doesn’t mean we can’t go over their heads with this.”

not“Like, to the FBI?”

Wynn nodded.

“You do realize the moment we turn this over to anyone, we’ll get treated like civilians and won’t have any access to any progress in the case. That means probably never discovering what in Sam Hell is going on with that Vertigo Motel Polaroid or those vultures. Isn’t a piece of you itching to know those answers?”

anyone“Don’t play me, Smith. You’re just using my curiosity to manipulate me into agreeing to go along with you, to buy the killer more time to do what he’s been doing to the streets. Because that’s what you want him to continue doing. Cleansing, as you said yourself. You could care less about the Polaroid or the birds. You applaud his intentions and execution.” She pushed a stiffened finger into Smith’s chest. “You’re just jealous that this sicko has more balls than you, to do what you could never do yourself.”

CleansingSmith remained silent and stood from the couch.

“Maybe you should, at a minimum, contact Eva and tell her you found her grandson, and she should know some interesting factoids about him. That might put the squeeze on her to come clean with the Polaroid. Don’t give her any actual info unless she gives up the story behind the vanishing photograph.”

“Maybe putting a little pressure on her will work in our favor. I have her number at the office,” he said, reaching for his fedora. He stopped at Wynn’s door and turned to face her. “Well, are you coming?”

“You’re calling her at this hour?”

this“I’ll be waking her from hopefully a dead sleep and disorienting her. Confused people tend to be more honest. They don’t have the faculties to concoct fibs.”

She located her shoes. “You don’t mind I’m in my pajamas?”

“I don’t mind if it doesn’t bother you.”

“Vegas won’t know what hit ’em when they get a load of Wynn in her floral-pattern sleepwear!” she announced as they exited her apartment into the hallway.

Smith dialed the final digit of Eva Covington’s phone number. The tone pulsed in his ear; then he heard a series of clicks as the lines connected. “I love not having to go through a party line anymore,” he said, covering the receiver with his hand. “I really can’t afford the private line, but it was getting harder to maintain confidentiality when I called clients about their cases.”

Wynn nodded and tightened the outside layer of her pajamas by pulling the small drawstring around her waist.

Smith held up his index finger to her, in case she would reply, and spoke into the phone. “Mrs. Covington? Sorry to wake you in the middle of the night, but there’s some new developments about your grandson that you might find interesting.”

Smith winked at Wynn, and she smiled, her eyes sparkling.

“Excuse me? … Oh, I’m terribly sorry. This isn’t HO7-5309? … Oh, really? Well, forgive me, ma’am.”

Wynn shot him a quizzical look as he replaced the receiver on the cradle.

“Wrong number. Lady said she’s had that same number for years. And the number is correct.”

Wynn slid the notepad that contained the phone number closer to her. “Your handwriting sure is sloppy, but you clearly wrote HO7-5309. Are you sure you copied it correctly?”

“Almost positive.”

“We should develop those pictures you took tonight. But first, can you drive me back home so I can get some things and change?”

“Get what kind of things?” he asked, egging her on.

“Oh, you know. Stuff. Just in case we’re in the middle of some grand discovery and I need to stay over.”

“I feel like I’m being set up … and I’m not complaining.”

Wynn giggled. “Do you have the Polaroid on you?”

Smith reached into his trench coat pocket. “Never leave home without it.”

“Let me see.”

He handed her the photograph. It was finally completely blank.