Wild Card

Chapter 49

Valentine’s house was as still as a church when he got home. He entered through the back door, took off his coat, and poured himself a tall glass of cold milk in the kitchen. The clock over the fridge said it was two A.M. He drank the milk slowly, knowing it would be several hours before he felt like going to bed.

He tried to relax by watching television. Nothing on was worth his time, and he killed the power and stared at the blank screen. He’d suffered from insomnia over the years, but it had always been over a case he was working on. Never had he feared what he was suddenly fearing now.

He was a cop; it was the only thing he’d ever been really good at. His mind had been made to solve puzzles, and piece things together. And now, that privilege was going to be taken away from him. He could go out on his own, and become a private eye, only that didn’t appeal to him. He’d known several cops who’d become P.I.’s, and overnight they’d turned into reptiles.

Which left him what?

He shook his head. He was starting to feel sorry for himself. Next, he’d be wallowing in self-pity like his old man. Or, he’d accept what had happened, and move on with his life. Losing his badge wasn’t the end of the world. He could always get another job, and support his family. It was that simple.

Pushing himself off the couch, he went into the dining room. Earlier, Lois had laid the family photographs she’d retrieved from the attic across the dining room table. She planned to look at them for a few days, and decide which ones to hang in the house.

“Pick out your favorites,” she’d told him.

Valentine looked the photographs over. There were three that he really liked. His mother at their wedding, where all she’d done was smile; Gerry’s baptism, where all he’d done was cry; and Lois riding a moped during their honeymoon in Bermuda. He stacked them together, then noticed a dusty photo album sitting on the table edge. He flipped the album open, then realized what he’d found. Highlights of Lois’s modeling career.

He picked up the album and returned to the living room. Sitting on the couch, he leafed through the album’s plastic pages. As a teenager, his wife had never wanted for work. Every exhibit and attraction on the Boardwalk had wanted her to be “their girl” each summer. Her stunning looks had always drawn a crowd.

The pictures made him laugh, and he felt his mood lifting. One was of Lois wearing a rubber lobster outfit. That was the job for the fresh Maine lobster exhibit. Another showed her dressed in a giant bagel. Goldfarb’s bagels. No matter how ridiculous the costume, her smile always looked genuine.

Halfway through the album, he came to pictures of Lois in bathing suits. There were over a dozen, both one-pieces and bikinis. He remembered the job vividly: A company called Candy Swimsuits out of California. Lois had done five shows a day, and been hit on by every hot-blooded male on the Boardwalk. It had been an unbearable summer.

The bathing suits ended, and he stared at a photograph of her coming down a runway in a mini-skirt, her hair ironed straight. The photograph had a date stenciled in the right hand corner. 7-15-65. He vaguely remembered the job. Booked by an agent out of New York. Great pay, only Lois had hated it, and quit after the first day.

He flipped the page. The next photograph was from the same job. This time, Lois wore wide bell bottoms, a denim shirt with flower embroidery, and love beads. He felt himself shudder. His wife was dressed like a 1960’s hippie.

He shut his eyes, and from memory dredged up the slides Fuller and Romero had shown of the Dresser’s victims, the pictures as fresh as the day he’d seen them. Each victim had been dressed in hippie clothes. He saw each outfit clearly, then opened his eyes, and stared at the outfits Lois was wearing in the album. They were the same.

He took a deep breath. Was he seeing too much into this, like Banko had claimed, his mind making connections that weren’t there? Or was there a link between Lois’s modeling job that summer and the Dresser’s victims? There was only one way to find out, and he jumped off the couch, the album clutched to his chest.

He hated waking his wife so late at night, but saw no other choice. Sitting on her side of the bed, he turned on the bedside table lamp, and gently shook her.

“Hi...” she said sleepily.

“Wake up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Her head had sunk deep into her pillow, and she murmured “Of course.” and drifted back into dreamworld. Valentine shook her a little harder, and his wife’s eyes snapped open. She sat bolt upright, stared at the bedside clock, then at him.

“It’s two-thirty. What’s wrong?”

“I need to ask you some questions.”

“You’re scaring me, Tony. What’s the matter?”

The album was sitting on his lap. He opened it to the section of her doing the modeling job in the hippie clothes, and began flipping the pages.

“Do you remember this job?”

Lois stared at the photographs. “Sure. Summer of Love. That crummy agent out New York talked me into taking it. I hated every minute of it.”

“Why?”

Lois was wide awake now, and gave him a strange look. “Tony, what’s wrong?”

“Please, answer me.”

“Oh, God, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t like the clothes. They were supposed to be hippie clothes, but they were just garbage.”

“Was there anything else? Did anyone hit on you?”

“There were always people hitting on me. And you were always telling them to shove off.”

“Was there anyone in particular on this job? Someone who bothered you? Think hard.”

His wife gave him an exasperated look. “Come to mention it, there was. A weird guy who worked backstage wouldn’t stop bothering me. He barged into the dressing room when I was half-naked, and I threw him out.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No. Now, please tell me why you woke me up at this godawful hour.”

Valentine took his wife’s hands, and held them. “The Dresser is dressing up prostitutes in hippie clothes, and then killing them. While I was looking through this album, I realized how much each of his victims looked like you. Same height, same weight, same hair color, and all of them had dark complexions, and were very pretty. Whoever that guy was, I think he’s the same killer.”

The words were slow to sink in. When they did, his wife’s face turned to horror, and she grabbed the bedcovers, and pulled them up around her.

“Oh, my god, Tony. Oh, my god.”