Shiver

27

When he was through at Cedars-Sinai, Delgado returned to the Butler Avenue station, having nowhere else to go. He shut the door of his office, sank into the chair behind his desk, and tried to think.

But the only thought that came to him was of Wendy, naked, headless, her hand clutching a clay figurine.

He turned to the map on the wall. His gaze flinched from the red pushpins marking the Gryphon’s other victims. He glanced down at the papers on his desk and saw Ralston’s preliminary report on the Kutzlow autopsy. He didn’t want to look at that either. Averting his eyes, he noticed the tape recorder that had played the Gryphon’s audiocassettes. When would the next tape arrive in the mail, the one mocking him with a new voice-Wendy’s voice?

He had to stop this. Stop it right now. And think, dammit. Think.

But there was nothing to think about. He’d gone over the case a hundred times. A thousand times. He had no leads. No hope.

He called the Crime Lab, got Frommer on the line. “Anything?” he asked, his voice sharp.

“No.” Frommer sounded weary. “At least, nothing so far. The search of the mountainside has yielded no results. Well, we expected that. The fire would have erased any clues the Gryphon might have left.”

“What about the Pellman house?”

“No significant physical evidence was obtained, except for blood spots on the floor-they’re AB positive, the Gryphon’s blood type-and the knife you found. It’s Wendy Alden’s. We matched it to a set of knives in her kitchen drawer. He was trying to kill her with it, apparently-poetic justice.”

“Prints?”

“We dusted the knife with copper powder and got two partials on the handle, but they’re so badly smeared as to be useless.”

“How about the Dodge?”

“We dusted that too. The interior is littered with prints, but most of them presumably belong to the owner and his family. It’ll take days, at least, to print everybody who might have been inside that car, and even then we may never get them all. A fingerprint can last for years, you know. There was a case where a woman’s print on a glass remained intact for three decades-”

“Later.” Delgado was in no mood for forensic folk tales at the moment. “So what you’re telling me is there’s no hope of a computer scan on any of those prints? A blind run, I mean, on all knowns in the database?”

“Impossible until we narrow it down, eliminate the prints we can identify. As I say, that’ll take-”

“Days, at least. I heard you. All right, Eric. Keep at it.”

He cradled the phone, then looked around him slowly. His hand closed over the nodule of agate on his desk. He picked it up and ran his fingers over the smooth core. There was a time when the mysterious colors and eldritch patterns caught in that chunk of stone seemed to hint at all the beautiful secrets guarded by the world. Now they signified nothing. The world held no secrets other than the ugly, evil kind he was paid to ferret out. And now even those secrets were eluding him.

He felt a surge of hatred for the agate, or for the innocent optimism it represented. With a quick reflexive motion of his arm, he hurled the stone across the room. It banged off a filing cabinet and skittered under a chair, the chair in which Wendy had sat last night-he could see her even now, wrapped in a blanket, curled up and watching him with her blue perceptive eyes.

Dead now. Or soon. Her blue gaze focused on nothing.

His eyes tracked to the tape recorder again.

He had to do something. No matter how pointless, how painful.

The desk drawer slid open under his hand. He put on the headphones. Loaded one of the Gryphon’s cassettes into the machine. Then listened for the hundredth time to Julia Stern’s pleading voice.

“… can’t identify you. We’ve got a lot of nice things here. You can have any of it. There’s silverware in the kitchen. A color TV, a stereo. In the closet I’ve got some birthday presents for my husband: a camera, a watch, a new coat. Oh, God… Please, take anything you want and just go and you’ll never get caught. I swear…”

No, he would never get caught. Julia had been right about that much, at least.

“Please don’t kill me. I don’t… want to die. I’ll do whatever you say. I know you’re much more powerful than… than I am. You’re so strong…”

Why are you doing this, Seb? he asked himself as the tape played on. What purpose does it serve, other than self-torture?

“I’m only twenty-four. I’ve got a husband, and we love each other; we really do. We got married two years ago this April, and we promised it would be forever, and it will be…”

No, it wouldn’t, Julia. Nothing was forever. Nothing good. Only evil lasted. Only death was permanent.

“… got a baby coming. A boy. We’re going to name him Robert. That’s my husband’s name…”

But there would be no baby. There would be no wedding anniversary to celebrate in April. There would be no birthday party for Julia’s husband either, and the presents she’d bought for him would bring no joy, only a deeper grief.

Delgado blinked.

Birthday presents.

He rewound the tape.

“… silverware in the kitchen. A color TV, a stereo. In the closet I’ve got some birthday presents for my husband: a camera, a watch, a new coat…”

He rewound it again.

“… a camera, a watch, a new coat…”

Again.

“… a watch…”

He shut off the tape.

A watch. She’d bought her husband a watch.

Why did that matter? Why was it teasing the nerve endings of whatever intuitive power he possessed? Why was it reminding him of Rebecca Morris?

Rebecca Morris, the second victim. Killed ten weeks later. Killed just as she was beginning to taste the success she wanted. She’d been promoted to vice president of her firm less than a month earlier.

Birthday. Promotion. Two events worth celebrating.

Julia Stern had bought a watch.

Rebecca Morris had bought… a ring.

The ring that was still on her finger when she lay on a slab in the morgue. The ring that had enabled her roommate to identify the headless body.

Delgado sat up slowly. For a moment no breath stirred in his body.

He was seeing Wendy in the chair again. Wendy, fingering the bandages on her neck as she told him she’d purchased a necklace on her lunch hour. At Crane’s Department Store. The one in Century City.

Watch, ring, necklace.

Crane’s.

He was getting ahead of himself. For all he knew, the other victims had never shopped at Crane’s, had never bought anything there.

Then he remembered.

A smiling woman in a straw hat. The cheerful announcement: “Summer’s On the Way!”

The cover of a catalog on the bureau in Elizabeth Osborn’s bedroom. A catalog from Crane’s Department Store.

His eyes were hot. The room blurred.

He knew.

There was no proof, not yet. But, dammit, he knew.

Crane’s was the connection he’d been seeking.

He picked up the phone. Dialed 411. Obtained the number of Crane’s Department Store in Century City. Got the manager, a Mr. Khouri, on the line. A computer search confirmed that, yes, all four women had charge accounts at Crane’s. Delgado asked about Jennifer Kutzlow. No, she wasn’t listed. That was all right. He’d always assumed Jennifer was a victim of circumstance. She didn’t fit the pattern. The Gryphon left no statuette in her hand.

“I recognize the names of these women. Detective.” The manager’s voice was querulous and high-pitched. “They’re all victims of that serial killer.”

“You’re most astute, Mr. Khouri. But I would appreciate it if you would avoid undue speculation.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Would you kindly consult your records and tell me about any recent purchases these women might have made?”

“Certainly. One moment, please.”

Delgado waited. He had no doubt that the store was the link. Still, knowing the common denominator of the crimes was not the same as finding the killer. It was possible the Gryphon simply liked to loiter at Crane’s, probably near the jewelry counter, eyeing female customers till he spotted one he liked. Then he would follow her home to learn her address.

No, wait. That wasn’t right. Because yesterday, after buying the necklace, Wendy returned to her office, then went directly to her dinner date with Jeffrey. When she finally arrived home, the Gryphon was there already, lying in wait.

He hadn’t followed her. He must have learned her address by some other means. Probably through the purchase she’d made. If so, then he was almost certainly an employee.

But what kind of employee? Perhaps someone in the billing department, who would have access to all the customers’ addresses. No, that seemed wrong also. All four women the Gryphon selected were more than ordinarily attractive, a fact that suggested he picked them, at least in part, by their appearance. If so, he would have to be in a position to see the customers.

A sales clerk, then.

Khouri came back on the line. He sounded more frightened than before.

“Detective? All the accounts have been active within the past few months. Mrs. Stern purchased a wristwatch on November twenty-first. Ms. Morris charged a ring to her account on January twenty-third. Ms. Osborn made several purchases on different dates. On December eighteenth, some items from the lingerie department; on January tenth, a coffee maker; and on March third, a bracelet. And Ms. Alden purchased a necklace only yesterday.”

“Are wristwatches sold in the jewelry department?”

“Yes.”

“Then each woman bought something in that department: wristwatch, ring, bracelet, necklace.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Would a clerk ringing up a sale have any means of knowing the customer’s address?”

“In the case of a charge-account purchase, he would. There’s a computer terminal at every counter. The salesperson uses a bar-code scanner to verify the charge card. When he does, information on the account appears on screen. The customer’s home address is part of that information.”

“How many clerks are assigned to the jewelry department?”

“We have two salespeople working two daily shifts, plus two more on the weekends, and on busy days-”

“Do you keep a record of which clerk handled any particular transaction?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me if the same clerk handled those four jewelry purchases.”

“One moment, please.”

Delgado waited.

Could it be this simple? This blessedly, damnably simple?

“Detective.” Panic was jumping in Khouri’s voice. “Yes. It was the same man each time.”

“His name, please.”

“Franklin Rood.”

“Is he there today?”

“Why… no. He called in sick.”

Bang.

“Did you speak with him when he called?”

“No. He telephoned my office before the start of business and left a message on my answering machine.”

“What was his reason for missing work?”

“Illness. Nothing specific. I have no reason to mistrust him. He’s one of our most reliable people.” Khouri was babbling now. “He’s been with us for over two years. I started him in Audiovisual”-Delgado thought of the cassette recorder and mixing board used to make the tapes-“and then one day we were short-handed in Jewelry, so I transferred him there, only temporarily, you understand.” The mythical gryphon was a guardian of jewels; had Rood thought of that? “But he was so good with the wristwatches, and they make up half our receipts at that counter. You know how small the batteries are, how difficult to work with, yet he pops them in, just like that. He has such big hands, but a delicate touch.” Delicate enough to pick locks. “So I left him there, even though it is perhaps unusual for a male salesperson to be stationed at that counter, but our female customers never minded, because, you see, Mr. Rood is unfailingly courteous, extremely polite…”

Polite. The same word Wendy had used to describe the man who tossed a loop of steel wire around her neck. A man careful to address his victims as Miss or Mrs. while he tightened that wire to choke off their lives.

“Mr. Khouri,” Delgado interrupted, “would you kindly give me Mr. Rood’s home address?” Khouri did so. Delgado scribbled down a number and street in West L.A., near the intersection of Bundy Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard. “Very good. Thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch with you again shortly. In the meantime, please do not discuss this matter with anyone.”

“You… you think he’s the one, don’t you?”

“I haven’t said that.”

“I can see how it must look to you. But let me assure you, Mr. Rood cannot possibly be responsible. He’s not a killer, not the type at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s considerate of everyone. Always punctual. Very neat. You should see him, every morning before the start of business, dusting the display case, whistling and… and

…” Khouri gasped. “Oh, God in heaven. God in heaven.”

“Mr. Khouri? Are you all right?”

“The display case. Detective.” There was horror in his voice now. “The display case.”

“What about it?”

“It’s full of… of heads. Styrofoam heads with black velvet skin. They’re all around him every day, and he dusts them off, dear God, and he whistles. Rows and rows of women’s heads.”