A Visible Darkness - By Jonathon King Page 0,42

just after sex that got out of hand and that’s why you’ve got some victims still alive.”

“Still violence, Freeman.”

She was looking full into my face, her eyes a pewter gray. I couldn’t hold them.

“OK. You’re right,” I admitted.

“Good,” she said. “Now, tell me again where the money comes in other than to your so-called investors, who sure as hell aren’t out here in their three-piece suits killing clients.”

I told her about Billy’s paper chase, how he’d come up with a possible middleman, some guy named Marshack, who was connected with a finder’s fee. I also told her about McCane and how the insurance investigator had tailed Marshack to the liquor store. When I pointed out the location on the map, it fell just outside her circle.

“And you say the only thing he got from the store clerk was that the white guy with the Caprice comes in once every month or so? That’s pretty thin, Max,” she said. “I know the place isn’t much for white clientele. But how come the clerk even marks this guy?”

“The hundred-dollar bills,” I said. “Guy always pays with a clean hundred.”

I started to pick up my coffee when she reached over without a word and cradled the big cup in her hands and took a sip.

“So you’re thinking this middleman has found somebody in the neighborhood who already doesn’t mind killing to do the old women, quietly and carefully?”

“And get paid,” I said.

“And never leave a clue?”

“In a place where people aren’t looking too hard for clues,” I said.

“Careful, Freeman.”

Our plates came with omelets and hash browns and buttermilk pancakes. We talked about the possibilities as we ate. Would the theoretical killer have to be local, someone who knew the area? Or an outsider doing good surveillance?

“Get out of South Philly, Freeman. Hard to see some big white Italian sitting in his Chevy watching those houses very long without somebody noticing,” she said. “Despite what it looks like, we do run patrol down those streets. And especially in the drug areas they’re going to stop any suspicious white guys who might be buyers.”

“OK,” I said. “So he belongs there,” I offered. “He’s a local.”

She took a couple of bites. Thought about it.

“Someone who stays a lot to himself because you know how word gets around,” she said. “He’s not somebody who’s going to be out bragging about it, or some cop’s informant would have used it by now.”

“True,” I nodded.

“So what does this hit man do when he isn’t killing old ladies, or if we lump them, also raping and strangling street walkers and addicts?” she said.

“Maybe he’s buying things,” I said, the thought coming to me. “With hundred-dollar bills.”

The grinding was starting in my head, but it was new, something I’d have to roll around to get the size and shape of. She took another bite, then reached over and stole another sip of my coffee, leaving a trace of lipstick on the cup. I brought the coffee cup to my own mouth and she watched me.

“You know, you’re not too bad at this cops and robbers stuff. You ever think of coming back? I mean down here, not Philly?”

Unconsciously my fingers went to my neck and touched the circle of soft scar tissue.

“Yeah, I might have thought about it,” I said and then let it go.

“Hell, Freeman. I might even write you a recommendation.” And there was that smile again.

She gathered up her paperwork while I paid the bill. As we left she was stopped by officers coming in.

“Hey, how’s it going, Sherry?” Or “Detective. Long time. You mean they let you guys out for lunch?”

Each one of them nodded at me, maybe waiting for an introduction, maybe just sizing me up, trying to place me into a category. It is something cops do. I was doing it, too.

Outside I walked her to her car. She stopped before opening the door.

“You know why I like you, Max?” she said, pulling my attention to her eyes. “Because you’re careful.”

The question must have risen into my face. It was the second time she’d brought it up.

“You’re careful because you see the bad possibilities in everybody.”

I couldn’t think of a response.

“Call me on my cell,” she said. “We’re sharing here. Right?”

“Yes,” I said, and walked away.

19

I drove back toward the northwest, heading to Ms. Thompson’s house with a purpose that wouldn’t pan out without the right people. And it was there that I’d last seen them.

When I rolled past the front of her house only