A Passing Curse (2011) (7 page)

“Transylvanian dirt? I guess they must have their share of it. How much does the dirt cost? Probably shipping is what kills you,” she said as if discussing the price of apples.

“Homer killed thirteen women,” Reese said, hoping to get her back on track. “I think that’s more important than dirt.”

That’s what you say,” she said, “but the paper said you were let go from the police. Didn’t mention “retirement”. They were surprised you weren’t charged with murder.”

Not half as surprised as he’d been. He owed Carsabi for that. “Was Homer into vampires? Did he dress in black? White make-up?”

She shook her head. “Levi’s and checkered shirts. A forty-year old Beaver Cleaver. He had a pocket protector, for God’s sake. He rode a bicycle. He was a sweet kid. Never grew up. The rumor was that his mother drank a lot during the pregnancy and Homer was born slow. He’d stop by for milk and cookies.” He noticed something like regret on her face. “Dean and I never had kids.” She opened the refrigerator and poured him a glass of orange juice. “We have a Gothic store in town that sells that vampire junk but I don’t think Homer knew anything about it.”

“I’ll check.”

“You’re staying in his apartment,” she said. “Your landlord, Rupert Amos, told me a detective had moved into Homer’s old place.”

“I never told him I was a detective,” he said.

“He’s got eyes, doesn’t he? What about a DNA match? What if this Richard Lamb just looked like Homer?”

“Richard Lamb checked into the California Hotel as Homer Wermels. He used Homer’s apartment as a previous address. After I moved into Homer’s old apartment, I found a fingerprint under the toilet seat.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“It’s funny,” he said. “They always forget to clean under the seat.”

He’d been surprised to find Homer’s apartment still vacant. He guessed the landlord had been holding it in hope that Homer would return. Why, he didn’t know. He’d used a small bottle of talcum powder and scotch tape to pull the print.

“It matched Richard Lamb?”

He nodded. “I brought a set of prints from the coroner.” He’d not been surprised and could tell that she wasn’t either, putting up only token resistance. What did she know?

“It sounds like you know what you’re doing,” she said.

“I can still pass for a detective,” he said, “if I have to.” He wished it were that simple. “And you haven’t seen Homer for what? Three months?”

“The same time the killings started.”

“So,” he said, “in your opinion, what caused Homer to change?”

“Change? Is that what they call it now?” She removed a blue plate from the cupboard and put it on the counter. “In my opinion you should ask Ajax Rasmussen. He lives in town and owns Cirrus Industries.”

“And his connection to Homer?”

“In Paris he harvests, harvest is what they call it, blood from the placenta.” She flipped the eggs and adjusted the sausage. She cut a piece of bread from the middle of the loaf and popped it in the toaster. “Afterbirth. Ten tons a day.” She put the eggs on a plate and the sausage next to them. “It’s shipped to his factory in dry ice from all over Eastern Europe. I read that in Newsweek.”

“That’s a lot of - ”

“A wine press, an antique one from Napoleon’s day, he uses to squeeze those placentas dry.” She put the plate down in front of him. “There you go. Heart attack on a plate, as my husband used to call it.” She refilled his coffee. The toast popped up. She smeared it with butter and dropped it on his plate. She poured herself a cup and sat.

He cut the sausage and mixed it with egg yolk. Until now, he’d been unable to tie Homer to personally Rasmussen. “Homer’s connection to Rasmussen?”

“Homer was a gardener at Rasmussen’s little castle before he disappeared.”

“The one with spires and turrets? Hangs over the canyon?”

“You’d have to be blind not to see it.” She blew into her coffee. “I’m also sure that Ajax Rasmussen wants to poison the blood supply. Of the world, mind you. Millions dead. That’s what my husband thought, anyway.”

“That’s following a train of thought,” he said and cleaned up the yolk with the last of the toast, circling the plate. “And your husband?”

“Dean A. Everett was a columnist for the Coast Gazette. He was writing an expose’ on Rasmussen’s blood collecting sham in Trinidad, the Hemo Caribbean. He gives those Jamaicans fifty cents a liter for their blood and sells it in America for a few hundred dollars a liter. Dean knew all about it.”

“I note the use of the past tense, Hannah.”

“A grammatical detective.” She stared at him. “Dean was going to a meeting with Ajax when he disappeared. He was getting ready to expose Ajax’s little plan.”

“Poisoning the world, that plan?” he asked evenly. “You didn’t mention that when I returned your call.”

“You would have thought I was nuts. And you just brought up another little question I have - If you’re retired, what are you doing here? The Los Angeles police can’t send a real cop?” She puffed up, indignant, and he wondered why old people were so theatrical. Maybe they felt their words carried little weight. No one listened, anymore. They felt ignored. He knew the feeling. “They don’t think enough of my story to send a real cop?”

“Look at it this way,” he said. “I thought enough of your information to spend a portion of my golden retirement years to come all this way to see you.” It even sounded phony to him and she wan’t buying it.

“I’ll bet you aren’t married. And probably don’t have any kids.”

“None that will claim me.”

“I knew it. You don’t have anything better to do. Nothing to tie you down. I’ll bet the LA cops don’t even know you’re here.”

“You want ID?”

“No,” she said, “I recognize your voice from the phone and the picture, your tiny picture.” She shook her head. “I’m used to playing the hand I’m dealt, and if you’re all I got, so be it.”

“That’s reassuring,” he said. “How long’s Dean been missing?”

“Missing? He’s dead and Ajax Rasmussen got Dean same as he got the others who’ve come up missing. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. You are here to kill Ajax, aren’t you?”

“How long?” he asked her again, ignoring her question about killing Ajax Rasmussen. “How long has your husband been missing?”

“A year,” she said. “He had a meeting with Ajax and that’s the last I heard of him.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“Ajax owns the police,” she said. “Telling them did about as much good as if I’d put Dean’s face on a milk carton.”

“And the police said?”

“Two choices,” she said and counted off her fingers. “One, Dean ran off with another woman. Two, he jumped into the ocean. Suicide.”

“And you think the police were influenced by Rasmussen?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not influenced. They do exactly what he says. To the letter. He runs this town, point of fact, when he’s not trying to take over the world. You talk to our Chief of Police, you might as well be talking to Mr. Ajax Rasmussen himself.”

“So, Ajax is responsible for killing your husband and for Homer killing thirteen women?”

“You’re a quick study,” she said. “I’m not so sure about Homer killing those girls. That’s your story. That’s your alibi, Mr. Policeman.”

“So, in your opinion,” he was on the verge of saying “dreams” but didn’t, “Ajax Rasmussen plans to kill a few million people?”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you got it.”

“Maybe you can tell me why Ajax is planning to poison the blood supply? For fun? For profit? He’s got nothing better to do?”

“Because Ajax is the only one with the antidote, and when people start dying, he’ll have all the power. He’ll be one popular boy.”

“Ah, the antidote.” He drank the coffee. It had gone bitter. There was always an antidote in the disease of the week theories. “You should get out more.”

“He’s also a vampire, Mr. Wisenheimer. There’s something you can hang your hat on. A vampire and he’s greedy, mean, and vicious.”

“I knew there had to be something else,” he said. “You mentioned missing persons? Does Ajax Rasmussen have plans for an army of zombies?”

“Ten in the last few years,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. “And don’t sit there acting like you don’t know who Ajax is, because if you don’t, you wouldn’t be much of a detective and, if that’s the case, you’ll only get yourself killed you hang around here. You’d be better off taking your little fingerprint kit and heading back to la-la land.”

“You’re right,” he finally said, “I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I didn’t know about Ajax Rasmussen.”

He told her about the blood he’d found at the California Hotel. How the units had been factory-sealed by Cirrus Industries, and when he’d called Cirrus, how they’d claimed that since they only shipped blood to hospitals, the only way a private citizen could obtain their product was to steal it from a hospital. The LA hospitals, he’d called over thirty of them, had never heard of any blood being stolen or lost. And since their inventory was scrupulously accounted for, he should ask Cirrus. It was probably only a small mistake in their accounting.

“They had you going in circles,” she said. “Welcome to the club. You didn’t need much proof when you killed Homer.”

“How do you know I didn’t make a mistake?” he said and watched her as she warmed his coffee and sat down. “How do you know that?”

She considered this for a second, then reached over and touched his hand, much like a grandmother would calm a small child, “Kill him.”

“You could get in trouble for saying that. That’s twice now. I’m a retired police officer,” he said, a little smugly, wanting to see if he could scare her. “Retired police officers are supposed to report all threats.”

She laughed at him. “Being a cop didn’t stop you killing Homer. And if he did what you said, killing all those girls, well, then he needed killing. He needed killing just like Ajax Rasmussen needs it.”

“That was self-defense. I killed Homer in self-defense. I need proof. You’ve heard of it? I need your help finding proof against Ajax Rasmussen.”

“Proof? I don’t have time for that and neither do you. Since when did proof ever stop you LA boys? It has to be done, so do it. You’re big enough. You don’t need me holding your hand. Proof isn’t going to stop Ajax. Kill him. And you’d better do it before he knows why you’re here and if I know Ajax, he knew you were coming way before you did.”

She was probably right. He pushed himself away from the table. He did not want to waste any more time telling her he wasn’t going to kill Rasmussen. “I’ll do what I can.”

She was not impressed. “Ajax isn’t going to cut you any slack, boy.”

He headed towards Foggy Ben’s. He was not hungry. Hannah Everett had fixed a good breakfast, but he wanted coffee and a paper to read. A slice of pie was not out of the question. He wanted to think.

He saw Foggy Ben’s in the distance and heard the waves hitting the breakwater. A dredger worked the channel. Gulls dived at the wake. Fishing boats made their way out of the harbor. He was positive that Hannah Everett was crazy. He was sorry he’d talked to her. Kill Ajax? He wished it were that simple.

He bought a newspaper from the outside rack and walked inside Foggy Ben’s. He said hello to the waitress. She seemed happy to see him and smiled back, patting his arm and escorting him to a table like he was her new best friend.

He was about to ask what kind of pie they had when she set the coffee down and slapped the front page of some tabloid in front of him, smoothing it out with red hands.

He saw the picture of himself in the blue uniform taken at the LA Police Academy twenty years ago and next to that a picture headed “Richard Lamb” with crude fangs zig-zagging down his mouth, painted in. In slow motion his hand jerked, sending the coffee to the floor. People turned. Mouths flashed. Coffee shot across the floor. The waitress two-stepped around the coffee and gushed, “I knew it was you yesterday, Reese Tarrant, Vampire Killer.”

Father Ramon wrapped the leg carefully in linen from a three foot roll he’d found years ago and kept in his closet. He then set the wrapped leg gently in the shade of the garden wall and glanced at the ditch. Three feet deep, but only twenty feet long, the backhoe perched at the end like some infernal insect. The workers had certainly not accomplished much.

He’d sent the ditch-diggers home; he’d locked the cemetery door; he’d called the police. He’d never called the police before, not even when the rectory had been burglarized, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake. If he’d made a mistake, though, it was only because he was following the new rules of cooperating with the authorities. Then why feel guilty?

He cursed himself for causing the leg to be discovered in the first place. It had been his lack of self-image that had needed a gazebo. It would have been nice, though, a place of serenity in which to contemplate God. A place of his own. And now this. Still, he was not surprised by the leg. He’d been expecting something to turn up for some time. He was always expecting something to turn up. His life hung on revelation.

He could still have his gazebo if he could clear up this matter with the leg. It may be nothing. A stray leg near a graveyard was nothing to panic about. All he had to do was find the body that belonged to the leg, have it all moved thirty feet into the graveyard, a small ceremony perhaps, and continue with his plan. It was probably only the mummified remains of a stray Indian, dead for centuries. Simple. Well, maybe not that simple. He reached under his robe and tightened the spiked corset. He sighed and climbed into the ditch. It was up to him.

He crawled along the rocky bottom. Dust choked him. Sharp rocks gouged his hands and knees. The dirt smell changed to sweet rot. He felt a rough knob like sharkskin. He saw a knee joint, brown skin shrunk tight around the patella, dry as parchment.

He grabbed a shovel and went to work. In twenty minutes he’d uncovered the body.

The skin had shrank in tight folds around the bones, as if drawn by vacuum. The genitalia had shriveled into a wrinkled line. The eyes were dry and flat. The mummified body, missing the lower half of the right leg, was naked except for the remaining sandal on the left leg. A burial shroud, at least, would have added dignity.