14th Deadly Sin

CHAPTER 84

WHEN JOE WASN’T telling himself he was an asshole, he tried to figure out how he was going to get out of this crypt alive. He sat in the lower bunk of the double-decker bed, his cuffed hands hanging loosely between his knees, the chain trailing under the bed. Off to his left, and way out of range, Clement Hubbell tapped the keys on his laptop.

Hubbell said, “There’s a whole lot of Joe Hogans in San Fran. Some’s retired. One of them has a deli and one is in auto parts. Here’s one who works in an insurance company. He’s closest to your age. Several Joe Hogans are dead. Which one are you?”

“Clem. May I call you Clem?”

“That’s my name,” said Hubbell. He closed out the search engine and scooted his wheeled chair so that he was opposite Joe. A stale smell of sweat and garlic came off him.

“Clem,” Joe said. “What’s going on here?”

On the wall behind Hubbell was a map of San Francisco. Five points had been starred on the map with a marking pen. Were these the locations of the five dead women, including the latest, Tina Strichler?

“What’s going on? This is what I call my life. Imagine how surprised I was to find you coming into my cell,” Hubbell said. “This is the first time that’s ever happened, and you know what? It’s kind of an invasion of privacy.”

“Open the cuffs and I’ll get out of here. I’ll pretend I never met you,” Joe said.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hubbell said. “I haven’t had a chance to get to know you. And you know, I’d really like to.”

Hubbell opened and closed his Buck knife as he swiveled in his chair. The hunting knife had a bone handle and a six-inch blade. From where Joe sat, the blade looked as sharp as a razor.

Joe said, “You said you felt like you were waiting for me. What did you mean?”

“I like solitary. But every now and then, a man likes to have someone to talk to.”

As Hubbell bent his head to his knife, Joe saw the tattoo on the top of his head, just visible under a quarter-inch carpet of hair. It was a vulture with its bill open, talons outstretched.

Joe said, “What do you want to tell me?”

Hubbell grinned. “I’m going to tell you about murders I’ve committed in, like, the middle of the day,” he said. “And I got away with every one of them. They’re right here on my map of the stars.” He half turned, pointing to the map on the wall behind him. “This has been my get-out-of-jail celebration, right?”

Joe flicked his eyes to the map, this time picking out the star on the corner of Balmy Alley and Twenty-Fourth, where Tina Strichler had been gored within a crowd of tourists.

The man wanted a response. And Joe wanted him to keep talking.

“Oh. You were in jail.”

“Oh, yes. You could even say I grew up there. I’m going to tell you things I’ve never told anyone, Joe,” Hubbell said, flicking his eyes from the map to where Joe sat cuffed and chained and stooped on the lower bunk. “But you have to promise to take what I tell you to your grave. Promise? Say you promise.”

“I promise,” said Joe.

“Shake?” said Hubbell.

It was an opportunity Joe couldn’t pass up.

“Shake,” he said. He put out his linked hands, and Hubbell reached out his right one—then, before he touched Joe’s hands, he pulled his away.

“Hah! Got you.”

Hubbell laughed and walked a few steps to the little refrigerator near the toilet. He took out a gallon jug of water. He guzzled some down, then offered the jug to Joe, who said, “No, thanks.”

The twelve-by-eight cell was soundproof at thirty feet underground. Joe was thinking he was never going to leave this place on his own two feet. After Hubbell finished telling him in loving detail about his life of crime, he would slice and dice him and take his body up the ladder one piece at a time.