Devious - Lisa Jackson [124]
She rapped her large knuckles against the door, but it swung open. Unlatched. No wonder the music—something popular and definitely not Frank Sinatra—was so loud. What was it called? Hip-hop? Like a rabbit?
Young people today!
And what was that girl thinking leaving the door open in this neighborhood?
“Hello?” Constantina called. “Hello, Gracie?” She adjusted her walker and started into the room. “I brought you some of my spaghetti sauce. . . .” Where was she? Still in bed? The door was open, and Constantina had never seen a woman of ill repute’s boudoir. “Hello?” she called again, not wanting to startle Gracie or catch her dressing. “Gracie?” She angled her walker toward the door, and beginning to perspire, wishing she’d brought her pack of Salems with her, she pushed onward, through the opening to the room and—
She stopped short.
Saw the naked girl on the bed.
Grace’s lean body was a pasty gray color, her eyes open and bulged, the skin around her throat raw. Spread-eagle. Her breasts sliding to the sides, her muff of reddish hair shorn into some weird pattern. But she was dead.
Dead as dead.
Revolted, Constantina screamed as she’d never screamed in her life.
Obviously the girl had been strangled.
Murdered! Her life of sin coming back to her.
Oh, Mother Mary.
Making the sign of the cross wildly, her gnarled fingers shaking, she was certain Lucifer was lurking, snarling in the corners, taloned fingers ready to rip out Constantina’s jackhammering heart.
She tried to get out.
Fast!
Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might give up.
Backing up, she felt a hot rip of pain slice through her hip.
The demon! He was tearing at her!
Scared out of her mind, she saw the fires of hell flaming in her brain, and she tried to run. Failed. Tripped.
“Help me!”
She tripped again, falling backward.
Thud! Her head banged against the floor.
Her walker toppled.
Her jar of spaghetti sauce went flying.
Smash! It crashed into a wall.
Glass shattered.
Red gravy streamed down the plaster walls.
Still Constantina screamed, over the horrible music, loud enough to wake the damned dead.
The nearest corpse being Gracie Blanc.
Praying, screaming, knowing that the Devil was somewhere in the room, Constantina threw off the metal beast that was her walker, untangled her skirt, and clawed her way over the green shag toward the doorway.
It seemed miles away.
“Help!” she cried again. “For the love of Mother Mary, someone call the police!”
Her old heart was pounding, her leg shrieking in agony.
For just a second, she thought she saw God, a powerful, brilliant light appearing in the doorway. “Father . . .” She raised her hand, lifting her outstretched arm, hoping that he would save her pious soul.
Then she realized the brilliant beam was from a flashlight trained on her. Beyond the glare, holding the long handle, was that horrid, lazy super for the building.
Harold Horwood.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” he demanded.
“Call nine-one-one,” she ordered, gasping for breath, trying not to see Satan in every corner. She clutched her heart. “Get the police and an ambulance.”
“What the fuck for?” he said.
“For Grace.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Walking to the bedroom, stepping around the overturned walker, he skidded to an abrupt stop in a pool of Rubino’s Pure Old Country Italian Spaghetti Sauce.
“Shit!” he half screamed. “Jesus H. Christ!”
“Just call nine-one-one!” she repeated sharply to the moron of an apartment manager. “And watch your language!”
CHAPTER 38
Bentz was beat, and he felt it in each of his muscles as he sat in the passenger seat of the department’s cruiser and listened to the police band radio squawk.
Montoya, true to form, pushed the speed limit as he drove. Neither detective was in the mood for conversation; both were processing what they’d learned at St. Marguerite’s.
Traffic was thick, the Crown Vic as hot as the surface of the sun, the humidity sweltering, Bentz’s mood deteriorating with each passing stop sign. He was just too damned old