“Sweet Lord. That’s awful.”
“I want to know what is going on before someone else gets hurt, Graham. Maybe I should just forget about it for the sake of everyone’s safety, but I can’t. David is dead and I want—I need—to know what happened to him.”
“I understand. He must have been a very special guy.”
Laura felt tears slide down her cheeks—tears for David and now for Judy as well. “He was,” Laura said, “very special.”
There was a moment of silence. “Yeah, well, Gina Cassler finally got her hands on the passport cards.”
“And you’ve gone through them?”
Graham paused. “Yes.”
“Was T.C. there?”
“No,” Graham replied slowly. “Frankly, Laura, none of this makes any sense.”
Laura nervously twisted the phone cord around her arm. “Maybe David’s mystery visit can clear this all up. Maybe the person who saw David at the Pacific International can explain what happened.”
“Maybe,” Graham muttered.
“Graham?”
He did not answer right away. “Yes?”
“Who did David see at the hotel?”
“Your mother, Laura. Before he died, David visited your mother.”
The phone dropped from her hand.
Serita leaped out of her chair. “Laura? Honey, what is it?”
Laura’s eyes narrowed in concentration.
“What’s the matter? What did he say?”
Now Laura knew that there was only one way to get to the bottom of this once and for all. Her line of vision swung toward Serita and locked onto her face.
“I have to talk to my mother,” she said. “I have to talk to her right now.”
27
TIME for Death Number Four.
The killer glanced at the clock on the car dashboard. There was still half an hour to kill before the meeting with Stan Baskin—the last meeting Stan would ever have with anyone. Stan was about to die. Stan was about to join his father, his sibling, Judy Simmons . . . and David? What about David?
I don’t know anymore, the killer thought. I just don’t know.
The gun sat in the glove compartment. It had been a long time since the killer had fired a gun, not since the barrel had been pressed against Sinclair Baskin’s skull. The killer had watched while Sinclair’s head exploded into small pieces. Blood splashed. Fragments of bone and tissue flew in every direction.
It had all been so simple. With one pull of the trigger, Sinclair Baskin had been reduced from a human being with emotions and hopes and dreams to a worthless pile of decaying flesh.
So simple.
And it would not be too different with Stan Baskin. He was truly his father’s son. Blackmailing a murderer. And not just any murderer but the murderer of his own father. Only a lowlife would conjure up such an idea. Imagine: Stan Baskin wanted to turn his father’s murder into a profit-making venture. What kind of depraved creature could do such a thing?
It boggled the mind.
The killer parked the car two blocks away from the alleyway. Time check: eight ten p.m. Perfect. Twenty minutes to check out the surrounding area. What was the killer going to look for? No idea really. It just seemed the right thing to do: that is, to make oneself familiar with the murder scene before committing the foul deed. Just in case. This way, if something was wrong or had been overlooked, perhaps it would become obvious. Better safe than sorry.
The glove compartment fell open. A hand reached in and closed around the gun. It felt oddly comforting to handle such a powerful weapon—especially in this neighborhood. South Boston was the perfect place to commit a murder. The sound of a gun shot was more common to the inhabitants of this neighborhood than a school bell.
Would this be the last murder? Unfortunately not.
Not again. Please, not again . . .
After Stan was discarded, there was still one more person who had to die—one more weed to be pulled out by the root.
The car door opened. The killer stepped out and moved quickly through the cold toward the alleyway.
STAN pulled out of the parking space and onto the road. Finding a spot near Gloria’s apartment was like finding a black man at a KKK rally. Not easy. This coveted space was claimed by another car before Stan had managed to unlock the door and get in. He would probably have to stick it in a garage when he got back. Twenty-five bucks to park. Highway robbery. But soon Stan would have one hundred thousand dollars. Soon he would have all the money he needed and there would be no need to circle the block four hundred times just to find a parking space.
Don’t take the money. . . .
The annoying voice in his head was babbling nonsense again. Of course he should take the money. Of course he should bleed the maggot for every cent he could get.
Don’t go, Stan. Stay away. . . .
He shook his head no. True, blackmail was a dangerous game. Very dangerous. But Stan had a switchblade with him, and more important, he was dealing with an amateur. This wasn’t the B Man or somebody like that. He wasn’t screwing around with the big-time. His victim was a scared rabbit. Harmless.
That’s right, Stan, my man. Harmless. Just ask your father. . . .
Stan’s mind journeyed back to May 29, 1960. The look on the killer’s face as the gun went off, the hatred in the cold eyes . . . That face could kill again. That face might appear innocent and innocuous on the outside, but Stan had witnessed the rage behind the facade. Stan had seen what a normal, civilized citizen could become if pushed too far.
You don’t want to do this, Stan. You don’t want to take money from your father’s murderer. . . .
Then what was he supposed to do instead? Forget he had ever seen the killer? Seek vengeance? Tell the police? Walk away? What? What was he supposed to do?
Stan pushed the voices out of his head. Money. Lots of it. That was what he was heading for right now. To hell with studying the morality involved. What was he supposed to be anyway, a saint? Don’t make me laugh. Stan Baskin did not let a good scam go by because of an irrational voice in his head. Stan Baskin did not let easy money just float on by him.
He turned left and headed into South Boston. He did not bother to look in his rearview mirror. If he had, he might have noticed a familiar red car following him.
GLORIA stayed about fifty yards behind Stan’s car. She was no detective and she had no idea of the mechanics involved in tailing a car, except for what she had seen on television and in the movies. This area of Boston was foreign to Gloria. She had no idea where Stan’s final destination was, but she was sure there had to be a safer way of getting there than driving through this concrete jungle of muggings, crime, and murder. What was Stan doing here?
“I want to know what is going on before someone else gets hurt, Graham. Maybe I should just forget about it for the sake of everyone’s safety, but I can’t. David is dead and I want—I need—to know what happened to him.”
“I understand. He must have been a very special guy.”
Laura felt tears slide down her cheeks—tears for David and now for Judy as well. “He was,” Laura said, “very special.”
There was a moment of silence. “Yeah, well, Gina Cassler finally got her hands on the passport cards.”
“And you’ve gone through them?”
Graham paused. “Yes.”
“Was T.C. there?”
“No,” Graham replied slowly. “Frankly, Laura, none of this makes any sense.”
Laura nervously twisted the phone cord around her arm. “Maybe David’s mystery visit can clear this all up. Maybe the person who saw David at the Pacific International can explain what happened.”
“Maybe,” Graham muttered.
“Graham?”
He did not answer right away. “Yes?”
“Who did David see at the hotel?”
“Your mother, Laura. Before he died, David visited your mother.”
The phone dropped from her hand.
Serita leaped out of her chair. “Laura? Honey, what is it?”
Laura’s eyes narrowed in concentration.
“What’s the matter? What did he say?”
Now Laura knew that there was only one way to get to the bottom of this once and for all. Her line of vision swung toward Serita and locked onto her face.
“I have to talk to my mother,” she said. “I have to talk to her right now.”
27
TIME for Death Number Four.
The killer glanced at the clock on the car dashboard. There was still half an hour to kill before the meeting with Stan Baskin—the last meeting Stan would ever have with anyone. Stan was about to die. Stan was about to join his father, his sibling, Judy Simmons . . . and David? What about David?
I don’t know anymore, the killer thought. I just don’t know.
The gun sat in the glove compartment. It had been a long time since the killer had fired a gun, not since the barrel had been pressed against Sinclair Baskin’s skull. The killer had watched while Sinclair’s head exploded into small pieces. Blood splashed. Fragments of bone and tissue flew in every direction.
It had all been so simple. With one pull of the trigger, Sinclair Baskin had been reduced from a human being with emotions and hopes and dreams to a worthless pile of decaying flesh.
So simple.
And it would not be too different with Stan Baskin. He was truly his father’s son. Blackmailing a murderer. And not just any murderer but the murderer of his own father. Only a lowlife would conjure up such an idea. Imagine: Stan Baskin wanted to turn his father’s murder into a profit-making venture. What kind of depraved creature could do such a thing?
It boggled the mind.
The killer parked the car two blocks away from the alleyway. Time check: eight ten p.m. Perfect. Twenty minutes to check out the surrounding area. What was the killer going to look for? No idea really. It just seemed the right thing to do: that is, to make oneself familiar with the murder scene before committing the foul deed. Just in case. This way, if something was wrong or had been overlooked, perhaps it would become obvious. Better safe than sorry.
The glove compartment fell open. A hand reached in and closed around the gun. It felt oddly comforting to handle such a powerful weapon—especially in this neighborhood. South Boston was the perfect place to commit a murder. The sound of a gun shot was more common to the inhabitants of this neighborhood than a school bell.
Would this be the last murder? Unfortunately not.
Not again. Please, not again . . .
After Stan was discarded, there was still one more person who had to die—one more weed to be pulled out by the root.
The car door opened. The killer stepped out and moved quickly through the cold toward the alleyway.
STAN pulled out of the parking space and onto the road. Finding a spot near Gloria’s apartment was like finding a black man at a KKK rally. Not easy. This coveted space was claimed by another car before Stan had managed to unlock the door and get in. He would probably have to stick it in a garage when he got back. Twenty-five bucks to park. Highway robbery. But soon Stan would have one hundred thousand dollars. Soon he would have all the money he needed and there would be no need to circle the block four hundred times just to find a parking space.
Don’t take the money. . . .
The annoying voice in his head was babbling nonsense again. Of course he should take the money. Of course he should bleed the maggot for every cent he could get.
Don’t go, Stan. Stay away. . . .
He shook his head no. True, blackmail was a dangerous game. Very dangerous. But Stan had a switchblade with him, and more important, he was dealing with an amateur. This wasn’t the B Man or somebody like that. He wasn’t screwing around with the big-time. His victim was a scared rabbit. Harmless.
That’s right, Stan, my man. Harmless. Just ask your father. . . .
Stan’s mind journeyed back to May 29, 1960. The look on the killer’s face as the gun went off, the hatred in the cold eyes . . . That face could kill again. That face might appear innocent and innocuous on the outside, but Stan had witnessed the rage behind the facade. Stan had seen what a normal, civilized citizen could become if pushed too far.
You don’t want to do this, Stan. You don’t want to take money from your father’s murderer. . . .
Then what was he supposed to do instead? Forget he had ever seen the killer? Seek vengeance? Tell the police? Walk away? What? What was he supposed to do?
Stan pushed the voices out of his head. Money. Lots of it. That was what he was heading for right now. To hell with studying the morality involved. What was he supposed to be anyway, a saint? Don’t make me laugh. Stan Baskin did not let a good scam go by because of an irrational voice in his head. Stan Baskin did not let easy money just float on by him.
He turned left and headed into South Boston. He did not bother to look in his rearview mirror. If he had, he might have noticed a familiar red car following him.
GLORIA stayed about fifty yards behind Stan’s car. She was no detective and she had no idea of the mechanics involved in tailing a car, except for what she had seen on television and in the movies. This area of Boston was foreign to Gloria. She had no idea where Stan’s final destination was, but she was sure there had to be a safer way of getting there than driving through this concrete jungle of muggings, crime, and murder. What was Stan doing here?
