THE CARBON STEEL CARESS Read online

He had looked down at her; she could see him now in minds eye. Cold, speaking with a deadly quiet tone. Saying, -I don’t play.

  He had moved suddenly, shoving her arm upward, forcing her head down to her knees. -I'11 break your fucking arm. Answer me.

  Pain tears formed behind her eyelids and she answered. -All right.

  The blond man had given her arm an upward snap, forcing pain into her shoulders, and then, abruptly, he had released her.

  -They didn't say much of anything, but I got their message. You're nobody to screw with. I know that Billings and Wolfe were in South America with you. They alluded to some kind of assassination team. I didn't think they were afraid of anything or anybody, but they're afraid of you.

  Capers had continued staring down at her, silent,

  waiting.

  -And that told me what l wanted to know.

  -Which was?

  -That you're a man.

  She remembered leaning back against the pillows and tracing fingertips between her parted thighs. She remembered wetting her lips with the tip of her tounge. And she remembered saying, -l’ve been looking for a man. And I found one.

  For her, he was as addictive as the China white that he liked to mix with sensimilla. Her hunger for him had grown, had become insatiable. She knew that she intrigued him. That she needed him. That he had to need her. She knew that. She depended upon that.

  Alone now in the silent house, she finally acknowledged her lies to herself and her rationalizations. Her life hadn't changed. It was the same shambles as it had been since she was thirteen when her incestuous relationship with her father had begun. The same shambles as when she turned eighteen and her father no longer came to her bed. When he had stopped giving her what she had deluded herself into believing was his love. She thought that with Capers she had grown beyond the pain of losing John Wiley’s attentions. That she had replaced that loss. Now, she reluctantly confronted the growing certainty that she would again be abandoned. That her husband would leave. His mounting indifference edged her toward panic. She was losing him.

  She would not lose him. She wouldn't allow that. If the only way to keep him was to escalate the 'game', then she'd do it. Encourage him. Escalation was nothing compared to the risk of loss. Their marriage was no mistake. She needed him. She'd make him need her. She'd find a way.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  August 8

  Donal reached into his shirt pocket for the cigarette that wasn't there. Six years since his last smoke but he still had the reflexive habit when engaged in research or office paperwork. He, shrugged.

  He reached back and dug strong fingers into the aching muscles of his shoulders. He looked at his paper strewn desk, thinking, the key is here. He shuffled the photo copies of the police files on the Moultrie County murders, dropped them back into their folder, picked up the report that Mike had filed on his interview, and began to read the top sheet.

  JOHN R. DONAL ASSOCIATES

  Case Action Summary Report

  Case Number: 001486 Client Name: T. Androlini

  Date Opened:August 2 Date Closed: open file

  Investigator: M. Sullivan

  Date report filed: August 6, 2009

  Revisions/Additions: Date: Investigator’s initials: ___ Summary of Case Disposition (attach extra sheets as needed): Case in process: no disposition to date.

  Date of Action: August 6

  Description of Action: Met with William Rumors, a.k.a., 'Whisperin' Willy'. He put the bite on for lunch and, as he called them, libations. That formality taken care of he proceeded to tell me everything I didn't need to know about Joe Della Porta and nothinq useful. (Interview transcript attached.)

  Required Follow up: Not worth wasting time. Subject useless.

  Pertinent Names, Addresses, Phone Numbers: None. Contact made at Tony DiGilio's Grill, Wild Stallion Road, Hilton Head.

  Comments: Subject is the kinq of baloney but, in the opinion of this investigator, not a suspect.

  Expense Memorandum: (Optional): $72 __ - l&1_.

  Donal dropped the case action form back onto his desk.

  He took a pencil and began ticking off what he knew about the razor murders; questioning, searching. Unsolved murders of two amateur prostitutes who frequented Hilton Head and Moultrie Bay bars. A married churchwoman. Two coeds No useful connection between victims. Then a long hiatus before Marie Della Porta.

  Donal had searched the hiatus period sure that there was some reason the killer hadn't struck. And he'd come up with paydirt through the FBI serial murder tracking system. Mutilation murders of five mature, well to do, married women in their homes. The five women not in Moultrie Bay or, for that matter, not anywhere in South Carolina. The killings were in Charlotte, Atlanta, Miami, New Orleans, and Houston. The M.O. was the key; an extremely sharp instrument, scalpel or straight razor. Was there a single killer or several? The FBI report offered no clue but Donal knew.

  Donal, through Hook, had obtained copies of the police case reports from all five cities. The reports detailed the facts that all five of the victims were overpowered without signs of struggle, indicating that the killer (or killers) possessed strength usua1ly associated with a man. A woman had been with the male killer when Marie Della Porta was murdered. Or, was the woman Marie's murderer. Donal grinned, a man's strength was not necessarily needed any more, he thought, remembering the strutting, flexing female body builders with rippling musculature who he’d seen the previous Saturday on T.V. “Come on, Donal. You're wandering off track. Stick to the point,” he muttered. He prodded himself, keep on looking. There's a key somewhere in this mass of data. Summarizing his notes on a lined, yellow legal pad, he concentrated on the most recent victims, Marie Della Porta and the five out of State women.

  He listed:

  1. No activity since Della Porta murder.

  2. No signs of forced entry in the Della Porta killing. Evidence of breaking and entering in other five out of state cases.

  3. Forensic reports contain no evidence to point to the identity of the perpetrator(s), except in the Della Porta case there was a woman's print.

  4. Semen found in Della Porta bedroom indicates presence of a male.

  5. Possibility of robbery in Della Porta case.

  6. No apparent motive in any of the other cases.

  7. Families, friends, possible enemies of the women or their relatives all check out. Nothing reported missing from the victim's homes.

  8. Vicious sexual mutilation in all five cases.

  9. No apparent connection between victims.

  Commonalities:

  1. All five wealthy.

  2. All alone when homes entered. (Look at point B. above)

  O.K., Donal, he said to himself, where does any of this get you? He looked over the list that he had made. So what if point B., no forced entry in the Della Porta case, is a change in pattern it still doesn't provide any productive information. He raised an eyebrow slightly when he noted again the fact that possible enemies checked out. Why wouldn't they check out? How many people have enemies that would mutilate them? Everything pointed to psychotics not to enemies with motives. Still, the possibility that diamonds had been taken from the Della Porta home bothered the P.I..

  Donal shoved papers and folders together into a semi-neat pile. He pushed back his leather desk chair, stood, and moved over to the window wall. He saw that Nikko's lights were still burning in the otherwise dark and empty block. He picked up a thermos from the credenza and, in shirtsleeves, went downstairs and out into the oppressive mugg of the low country August night. He crossed the street and rapped on Nikko's locked door.

  Nikko emerged from the kitchen to the front of the restaurant. “Hey gumshoe.”

  “Gumshoe! Showing your age old boy.”

  “What are you after at this hour?”

  “You dump that sludge you call coffee yet?” Donal held up his thermos.

  “Sludge my ass. It’s coffee, by Nikko the Greek
. A blend of rare beans, slow roasted and freshly ground. Deep well water from the purest Lowcountry aquifer. Brewed to perfection.”

  The wiry, deeply tanned man unlocked the door and slipped behind the counter. Nikko filled a white, ceramic mug and slid it toward Donal. “You're in luck. I still have more in the pot. Here, gimmie the thermos.” He looked up at the wall clock. “Jeez, past midnight. You still working, Johnny?”

  “I was. The Della Porta case is driving me around the bend.”

  “Stumped, huh,” Nikko asked, automatically wiping the chipped formica with a folded cloth?

  “Yeah. About the only hope we had was a woman's print that the cops pulled from Della Porta's house. Hook called tonight and told me that the FBI drew a blank.”

  “Tough.”

  “No surprise. They rarely ever get a positive. A person generally has to be a Fed or a felon for the F.B.I. to have a print file on them. Most people aren't either.”

  Nikko took the still empty thermos and handed it over the counter to Donal. “You don't need more coffee. You look like you haven't slept in a week. Go on home.”

  “Maybe I should.”

  “Don't beat your brain. There's gotta be something that will lead you to the killer. Sleep on it; you'll find it,” Nikko said.

  “I hope so, Nikko.”

  Donal thought for a minute and then said, “There's something you can do for me.”

  “Name it.”

  Donal moved the now empty mug back and forth between his broad hands. “You can keep your ears open. There have been six very wealthy women murdered, including Marie Della Porta and nothing was reported missing from their homes.”

  “So?” Nikko resumed wiping the scarred but immaculate countertop. “A psycho is doing the killings. Wouldn't it figure that nothing's missing?”

  “Not necessarily. We picked up rumors that Marie Della Porta's husband, Joseph, might have had a cache of gemstones. If he did the police never found them. Maybe I'm wrong, but maybe the killer or killers were after something of value in all six cases.”

  “Jeez, Johnny, it doesn't make sense. The Della Porta killing was psycho. Had to be.”

  Donal stood up, “I'm not discounting psychotics.

  But, psychos could also be thieves. If there's any substance to the rumors about Joe Della Porta holding diamonds and if the killers didn’t steal them the gems should have been found. They weren't. The stones are a sticking point that bothers me. If they exist I need confirmation.

  “If you hear anything about gemstone deals; anything at

  all, no matter how slight, let me know.”

  Nikko nodded, “Yeah. I gotcha. I’ll ask around.”

  “It’ll be a help, Nikko, but be careful.”

  “Don't sweat it; I’ll be okay. I know who talks; I know who to listen to. If there’s any action going down’, any money and gems changing hands, anything like that, I’ll hear.”

  “Thanks, Nikko.”

  Nikko took meat scraps from the refrigerator, wrapped them in a sheet of aluminum foil, and handed them across the counter to Donal. “Go home now. Meat’s not for you. Give it to the cat.”

  Donal took the thermos and the package. He left the restaurant, pulling the door behind him, hearing the latch bolt click home, knowing that Nikko Stravapopulous had sources of back alley information that he could never hope to tap.

  When Donal got out of the car at home the cat ran to meet him. She had been sitting on the front porch rail waiting, the expression on her furry face expectant, as if she knew that Nikko had sent home a treat for her. She meowed happily and ran toward the front door, stopping halfway there, and looking over her shoulder to make sure Donal, with the package, was following.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  ...August 18

  Joan tied the sash on the ivory silk negligee -macabre souvenir from Marie Della Porta's home- and asked, “More coffee, darling?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  She refilled Caper’s cup and her own and bought his to the bedside table. She slipped back into the bed, taking up the week old magazine section of the Sunday Post and Courier that had been on her husband's bedside table. “Interesting,” she said, a smile, the first in weeks, playing on her lips.

  “What,” Capers asked, tone hinting irritation?

  “This article on Claudia Chatrian. It's one of those life-styles of the rich and famous things the Sunday magazine editors love to titillate the hoi polloi with. Photos of the woman in her mansion. It’s more interesting than the Post and Courier's usual trash.”

  “Oh! Why?”

  “I know the Chatrian woman.”

  “Who is she?” Capers dissembled, knowing full well who Claudia Chatrian was. And knowing that Claudia Chatrian was a major client of the law firm that had employed his wife. He had purposely left the magazine, folded out to the article on the Chatrian woman when he had stormed out of their bedroom on the previous Sunday, never doubting that it would peak his wife's interest.

  Capers had tracked Chatrian's career for years. Hating her. Hating her accomplishments. Hating her for reminding him of his loss. Hating her success. Wanting her. Hating her for the confusion recognized only by his subconscious.

  He had no intention of letting his wife know that Claudia Chatrian was the infant half sister who, unknown to him, at the time of the fire so many years ago, had been away from their mother's house with an aunt. The infant sister who was raised on Hilton Head and who after maturing to success and fame still owned an Oceanside home there on the island.

  Capers had no intention of revealing to his wife the extent of his own involvement on Hilton Head Island, the locus of Claudia Chatrian's current film. Joan didn't know that he had driven to the island repeatedly in the past several weeks checking out the filming location. Nor did she know that he, no longer amused by flying, had sold the Lear jet and invested, under an assumed name, Thomas B. Carey, in a marina partnership there on the island.

  Joan said, “Chatrian must think she’s Jackie. She married a filthy rich Greek industrialist and inherited hugely when the geek popped off. Now she's the head of her own fashion design firm and she's a top dollar fashion model and a recording artist and movie star. She's had hit records. She's starring in a new movie the paper says is being filmed at the Beach Palace Resort. She' s got it all.”

  Capers shrugged, “Celebrity crap for the masses.”

  “True, but Claudia Chatrian is one of the firm's most important clients. Handled personally by Harry Trent.

  “Trent that bastard,” she said, digressing, bile in her voice. “Trent blocked my partnership. He convinced the rest of those lemmings that I didn't bring in a sufficient number of clients. How could I. I was always busy with research for the senior partners and stroking their clients, especially Trent's. And that ungrateful prick turned around and cut me out. Forced my resignation.” Joan looked across the bed to her husband and continued, switching the subject back to Claudia Chatrian, tying the actress back to her bitterness toward Trent. “She's ideal for us. We could kidnap her and force Trent to deal with us.”

  Capers didn’t respond.

  “Claudia Chatrian is ideal,” the woman repeated. “Perfect.”

  “Ridiculous,” the Capers said, “kidnapping's not our thing.”

  “Oh but it could be, my darling. Think about it. You said you’re bored. Well, she's prime. She has millions of fans. She's the darling of the tabloids.”

  Capers maintained silence for a long moment then said, “Maybe.”

  “Not maybe. Claudia Chatrian is perfect. We could demand a huge ransom. The publicity would be sensational. Exactly what we want.”

  Capers sipped his coffee, the light of calculation in his eyes. “You're sure you want this? You're sure it's not just the idea of more money and revenge for Trent fucking you out of your precious partnership?”

  The soft, sarcastic, insinuation in his words chilled her. She looked into his pale eyes and replied, �
�It's not the money and it's not revenge; it's the game. The money is secondary.”

  “It's never been secondary with you.”

  “Never before. But I've learned to appreciate action so much more than mere money. You've taught me so much.”

  Capers drained the coffee in his cup and got out of bed. He paced the length of the room, talking, as much to himself as to her. “Another client from my wife's former law firm. But this time with a difference. Yes, I like it.”

  Joan watched as he continued to stride back and forth, his naked body lean and muscled, nearly hairless.

  He returned to the bed, stared down at Joan, cold eyes hooded. “Yes, it's a perfect suggestion, my love,” he said, dissembling. He reached for her, pushing the mound of newspapers to the floor.

  She parted her thighs. “Come on baby. Do me. Give it to me; hard.”

  Capers plunged his stiffened penis into her with characteristic violence. The rush electrified her senses. Once more she had cured his boredom. So, at least, he was to lead her to believe.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  August 22

  Donal called Mike into his office. “Only report I saw was the one on Whisperin Willy. You get anything else from Della Porta's associates?

  “Un-uh. Nothing worth a damn. Midge is typing up my report on Rudella. He was about as helpful as Willy.” Mike slipped on a smile; using the sly one from his smile bag. “At least the sucker didn't hit me up for L and L.”

  “Hummph. I’ve been meaning to say something about that. Seventy two bucks for lunch and drinks. Bit steep, ain’t it?”

  “Hell, Willy told me talk is time and time costs. Said lunch or no chit-chat. How was I to know he had nothing to say? 'sides, seventy two isn't so bad. Wait'll you see the chit from Roma’s. I took Della Porta’s next door neighbor for lunch.”