his head. “Take it easy, Elliot.”
Elliot released his grip and stepped away, returning his attention to the body sprawled across the parking lot behind the Full Moon restaurant, just off St. Louis Avenue. He knew who she was: the slender build, the hair, but mostly it was the tattoo on her stomach. He’d sketched a likeness of it as Stella Martin described it to him. When he’d shown it to Stella, she’d nodded vigorously. “That’s it,” she’d said.
Elliot flipped through the notepad until he found the drawing—a square with lines coming from each corner, forming a sort of cross—and when he compared the rough sketch to harsh reality, he unbuttoned his coat, a hot sickness running through him in defiance of the cold outside. This was the woman Stella Martin had seen that night, the last person to have been with their John Doe.
He watched a dog walk past the east side of the lot, keeping away, sensing the trouble and wanting no part of it. “Any witnesses?” Elliot asked.
Sergeant Conley answered, his voice, even though he stood next to Elliot, seeming to come from a distance. “A few people heard the shots, but nobody saw anything.”
“Have you heard from Wistrom yet?” Elliot asked.
As soon as Elliot had gotten the call, he’d expressed his concern over the suspect, noting his unusual behavior, and his proximity to both murders. But Wistrom hadn’t answered his door, and when the manager opened the apartment, he and Conley had found it empty.
Conley shook his head.
The victim wore black denim jeans, which, with the button having come undone during the commotion, were lower on her hips than they should have been. Curls of reddish pubic hair peeked over the edges. She’d been shot once in the torso on the left side, and again in the head, just above the right eye. Ornate silver earrings adorned her ears, and a large Florentine chain, also of silver, hung around her neck, from which dangled a set of keys, the brass collection laying over the name Bob Dylan, which was emblazoned across her T-shirt.
The smell of hamburgers sizzling on the nearby restaurant’s grill turned Elliot’s stomach as he stared at the corpse.
The suspect had slipped away. Douglass Wistrom was nowhere to be found but that wouldn’t last if Elliot could help it.
Elliot glanced at Conley. “Any ID?”
“Her name’s Brighid McAlister,” Conley said. “She lived a few blocks from here over on Trenton.”
Chapter Eleven
Elliot walked along the sidewalk, taking caution so as not to trip over those places where the roots of trees had cracked it, and he paused momentarily to study the bare branches of the massive sycamores. Come spring the foliage would form a canopy over the area, blocking the sun while lending the neighborhood a sleepy and restful ambiance. The leaves were gone now, and those that remained were few and had shriveled into husks, which, even in their best performance, could not hide the dismal gray of the sky that loomed overhead.
After talking with the crime scene crew, Elliot had come to Trenton Avenue to have a look around and talk with the neighbors. He hadn’t had much luck. The residents hardly knew Brighid McAlister, except that she was quiet and never caused any trouble. However, there were several houses to the south that Elliot had yet to try, and it was at one of these, a red brick that reminded him of gingerbread, where he now walked into the yard, approaching a lady who worked at cleaning out a goblet-shaped planter beside the front door.
She saw him coming and stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. About five feet tall, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Elliot reached into his coat and pulled his badge, holding it out where the lady could see it. After identifying himself, he said, “I’d like to ask you some questions about one of your neighbors, Brighid McAlister.”
The lady, who called herself Deborah
Elliot released his grip and stepped away, returning his attention to the body sprawled across the parking lot behind the Full Moon restaurant, just off St. Louis Avenue. He knew who she was: the slender build, the hair, but mostly it was the tattoo on her stomach. He’d sketched a likeness of it as Stella Martin described it to him. When he’d shown it to Stella, she’d nodded vigorously. “That’s it,” she’d said.
Elliot flipped through the notepad until he found the drawing—a square with lines coming from each corner, forming a sort of cross—and when he compared the rough sketch to harsh reality, he unbuttoned his coat, a hot sickness running through him in defiance of the cold outside. This was the woman Stella Martin had seen that night, the last person to have been with their John Doe.
He watched a dog walk past the east side of the lot, keeping away, sensing the trouble and wanting no part of it. “Any witnesses?” Elliot asked.
Sergeant Conley answered, his voice, even though he stood next to Elliot, seeming to come from a distance. “A few people heard the shots, but nobody saw anything.”
“Have you heard from Wistrom yet?” Elliot asked.
As soon as Elliot had gotten the call, he’d expressed his concern over the suspect, noting his unusual behavior, and his proximity to both murders. But Wistrom hadn’t answered his door, and when the manager opened the apartment, he and Conley had found it empty.
Conley shook his head.
The victim wore black denim jeans, which, with the button having come undone during the commotion, were lower on her hips than they should have been. Curls of reddish pubic hair peeked over the edges. She’d been shot once in the torso on the left side, and again in the head, just above the right eye. Ornate silver earrings adorned her ears, and a large Florentine chain, also of silver, hung around her neck, from which dangled a set of keys, the brass collection laying over the name Bob Dylan, which was emblazoned across her T-shirt.
The smell of hamburgers sizzling on the nearby restaurant’s grill turned Elliot’s stomach as he stared at the corpse.
The suspect had slipped away. Douglass Wistrom was nowhere to be found but that wouldn’t last if Elliot could help it.
Elliot glanced at Conley. “Any ID?”
“Her name’s Brighid McAlister,” Conley said. “She lived a few blocks from here over on Trenton.”
Chapter Eleven
Elliot walked along the sidewalk, taking caution so as not to trip over those places where the roots of trees had cracked it, and he paused momentarily to study the bare branches of the massive sycamores. Come spring the foliage would form a canopy over the area, blocking the sun while lending the neighborhood a sleepy and restful ambiance. The leaves were gone now, and those that remained were few and had shriveled into husks, which, even in their best performance, could not hide the dismal gray of the sky that loomed overhead.
After talking with the crime scene crew, Elliot had come to Trenton Avenue to have a look around and talk with the neighbors. He hadn’t had much luck. The residents hardly knew Brighid McAlister, except that she was quiet and never caused any trouble. However, there were several houses to the south that Elliot had yet to try, and it was at one of these, a red brick that reminded him of gingerbread, where he now walked into the yard, approaching a lady who worked at cleaning out a goblet-shaped planter beside the front door.
She saw him coming and stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. About five feet tall, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Elliot reached into his coat and pulled his badge, holding it out where the lady could see it. After identifying himself, he said, “I’d like to ask you some questions about one of your neighbors, Brighid McAlister.”
The lady, who called herself Deborah
Similar Books
