Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [72]
"Like you said, I don't know you."
I took a metal Sucrets box out of my pocket. Opened it to show him it was empty. Handed him a fresh white handkerchief.
"What's this?"
"Wipe it down. Get it clean as you want. Then I'll leave you a print, okay? You take the box with you. Check it out. See I'm what I say I am, maybe we can do business. I can give you some references too, you want them."
He pursed his lips. Dragged on his cigarette. Took the metal box, wiped it down. Watched as I carefully rolled my thumbprint onto its surface. Wrapped it in the handkerchief, stowed it away in the pocket of his jacket.
"Say I was interested…"
"I'm a full–auto specialist. Anything you want. Even got some long–range stuff. Hand–held, shoulder–operated. Disposable."
"Where could I find you?"
"Right here. Say, in three days? Around this time?"
He nodded. Big man, considering his big deals carefully. The bouncer watched. I could feel the sneer.
114
I DROPPED VIRGIL a quarter mile down the road. Rebecca was parked in her cousin's Chevy a few feet away. Paid no attention to us.
I wheeled the Lincoln around, went back the way I came. The Blazer was still in the parking lot. A white Dodge sedan waited by the side of the road, Lloyd hunched over the wheel, eating a hero sandwich.
115
I PICKED UP some more clothes at the motel. Called Bostick, Glenda. Nothing new. Asked Bostick if I could pick up a few things from him.
Blossom got back around eight. Put a leather portfolio down on the couch, slipped off her shoes. "Let me take a shower, then I'll make you some dinner."
"We could go out."
"I already ate."
116
LATER THAT EVENING, the kitchen table covered with press clips. "What'd he do?" I asked Blossom. "Pull every file in the morgue?"
"He's a nice boy."
"You tell him that?"
Her smile was wicked. "I just thanked him. Politely. The way I was raised. You're my only boy."
I sorted the clips, speed–reading, Blossom at my shoulder. "What are we looking for?"
"First, we throw out what we're not. These, so far." Tapping a stack of body–count dispatches from the front lines they call city streets. Shootings where the gunman was apprehended at the scene. Shootings in the course of another crime. Where the victims were only male. Gang fights. Bars, nightclubs, bowling alleys…all discards.
I kept working. On instinct now. Tossed out anything except white females. Anything outside the past eighteen months—two birth cycles. The thick stack was down to a few clips.
White female, age twenty–four. Reported shot fired at her while she waited at a bus stop at midnight. Police investigated. Nothing more.
White female, age thirty–one. Shot fired into her bathroom window while she was taking a shower after she got home from the night shift. Separated from her husband, history of domestic violence. He was under a court Order of Protection. Working his job at the plant when the shot was fired. Questioned and released.
White female, age seventeen. Girl Scout leader. Shot in the arm while leading a troop of girls through the woods in the late afternoon, learning about nature.
Human nature.
117
I HAD THE contact–address for two of the shootings. The woman whose bathroom window was shattered was listed in the phone book I'd gotten from Bostick's office. I tacked the street maps up on Blossom's kitchen wall.
"You got a Magic Marker?"
"No."
"A crayon, anything?"
She brought me a tube of red lipstick. I dabbed a tiny blood–dot at each address. Stood back to look.
"A triangle," Blossom whispered.
"Doesn't mean anything. Three dots, you're more likely than not to get a triangle."
"Oh."
"It's okay. Look at the dates. The first one was the bus stop, back in the late fall. The Girl Scout, that was in December. Then the woman in her own house, that was the spring. The lovers' lane killings, they were all this summer."
"Why is that important?"
"I don't know if it's important. If they're all his work, it is. See it building…? The first shot, like an experiment. The woman standing there, all bundled up against