The Killing Hour

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Landry goes through the drive-through of a fast-food chain and orders a burger that he knows is going to taste great, but won’t feel that great in an hour or so. He becomes so convinced about how sick it’s going to make him feel, that he ends up pulling over beside the next garbage bin he sees and dumps it on top without taking a single bite. He eats the fries and has the drink and drives away, and a minute later he’s so hungry he’s tempted to go back for the burger.

It’s raining now, but not heavily, and he wonders how long it’s going to last. He hates the rain. Always has. When he was a kid he often had to walk to school in the rain, then sit around in wet clothes all day. He wants to pull over somewhere and take a nap. Or go home.

He reaches Luciana Young’s house. The media activity has died. In fact there are no journalists anywhere at the moment. Maybe there’s been a massacre across town he hasn’t been told about. He knows the media still has its uses, but he likes to think that horse shit has its uses too, as do leaches and maggots. There are still patrol cars at the scene, and some of the forensic guys are still looking around inside and out. Neighbors are being reinterviewed today.

Stomach rumbling, Landry heads into the victim’s house wishing he could go into the kitchen and fix himself something to eat. The smell of death stained into the carpet quickly kills his appetite, though. The smell of death has stained his clothes too. He can smell it on himself. Or perhaps that smell is him.

He’s been inside only a minute when Detective Hutton shows up. There’s another guy with him. A guy who’s obviously not a cop.

He approaches them. Hutton introduces the man as the dead woman’s husband. They don’t shake hands. The husband is here to take a look around. He’s in his mid- to late thirties, with a hairline that looks as though it’s been receding for at least half of that time, and a pair of designer glasses that he takes off so he can put the arm into his mouth while he studies everything. Landry follows them. They go from room to room, the husband the entire time looking like he’s going to be sick. The husband’s task here, Landry knows, is to see what is out of place. Has anything been taken. Has anything been added. They spend a few minutes in each room before finishing in the master bedroom.

In the end it’s just the missing clothes. Pants and a shirt are missing. Feldman probably changed after getting blood on his. Landry stares at the victim’s bed thinking she probably wouldn’t mind if he spent three hours lying on it. It would be a reward for what he’s going to do later, by finding and dealing with her killer.

Hutton leads the husband back outside. They avoid the bloody footprints along the way, prints that look like practice dance-step cutouts, which lead from the bathroom to the garage before disappearing. Landry stays in the hallway. The smell of vomit in here mingles with that of death and makes a cocktail that claws into his nose. The vomit is confusing. What person would be sick viewing their own handiwork? Guys like Feldman kill and torture and dismember for their own satisfaction-they do it because they enjoy it. It doesn’t make sense to do all of that, and then throw up.

When he was here yesterday, before he went to the second crime scene, he didn’t know about Charlie Feldman. Now he can look at everything from a different perspective. He goes into the lounge. There’s an empty beer bottle on the coffee table that has been dusted for prints. Those same prints have been found in the bathroom-the owner of those prints took a shower here. The prints don’t belong to either of the women, or the husbands.

Did Feldman make himself at home? Did he have himself a nice relaxing beer while torturing Luciana Young? There are also two wineglasses on the table. Each has been matched to one of the two dead women. So more likely the three of them sat down here at some point and shared a drink. And then what?

On the driveway the cordless phone was found in pieces. Phone records show it was used to call the police, but within seconds the line was disconnected. Fingerprints on the phone match the fingerprints on the beer bottle. The same person who drank the beer and smashed the phone also tossed a set of car keys beneath the van found parked outside. If Luciana had gotten to that phone a few seconds earlier. . things could have been different. Life and death are often all about bad timing.

The van has been towed to the forensics lab. It will be stripped down and examined to a minute detail. This morning it was reported stolen. The key was snapped in the ignition, the rest thrown beneath it. Feldman drove the van there, then took Luciana’s car.

He spends an hour at the crime scene looking for any connection to Charlie Feldman, or even Jo Feldman, and finds nothing. He can’t find a connection to the school Feldman works at. The more he continues to search and find nothing, the more he becomes convinced Sunday evening was the first time these two women ever met Feldman. But why have him back here for a drink? Did they meet in a bar?

He’s walking out to his car getting ready to drive back to the other crime scene when Schroder calls him.

“Finding anything new?”

Landry shakes his head out of habit, and says no.

“Well I got something. I just got a report of Luciana Young’s car,” Schroder says. “How about I meet you there.”

“Where?”

Schroder gives him the address. “I’ll see you there in ten minutes.”

He’s been driving for five of those ten minutes when it suddenly hits him-he’s driving in the direction of Jo Feldman’s house. Sure enough, the street he pulls into is only a block away. Schroder is already here, along with the Armed Offenders Squad-which consists of a dozen cops dressed in black body armor and carrying guns.

“We’re canvassing the street,” Schroder says. “Gotta be careful,” he says, “whoever stole Luciana’s car may live here.”

“It’s possible,” Landry says, but he’s thinking it would have been more possible if they had been one block over. Talking to the people on this street isn’t going to be worth a damn. “Or he had another car here that he switched with. Or stole one. Or walked. So what do you want me to do?”

“Help with the canvassing,” Schroder says. “Then I need you to help me start working up a list of names and addresses. Somebody here must have seen something, and we’re not leaving until we’ve gotten in touch with somebody who did.”