Skin

DeSalvo said, “When you say gave good service–”

“Drinks. She was a waitress and served drinks.”

Pucinski flashed his young partner a look. When would he get it through his skull that he was backup. He turned back to the manager. “So no one had a problem with her.”

“Obviously someone had a problem, or Rosie would be alive.”

“What about her? Did she have any complaints about a particular customer.”

Ruscio shook his head. “Not that I remember. You know, I went over this with the police before.”

“Now you’re telling me, because now it’s my case. What about any of the other girls. They have any complaints about your patrons?”

“C’mon, you know how guys are when they get a few drinks in them. So they’re a little grabby–”

”Ever bounce the same guy twice?” DeSalvo asked.

Good question. Pucinski didn’t glower at him.

“I don’t keep no records of these incidents.”

But Pucinski would bet his pension that the bouncers remembered the troublemakers and kept an eye out for them.

“Let’s talk about the second victim,” he said. “Anita Long.”

“Didn’t know her. She didn’t work for me.”

“She worked your club.”

“If you say so,” Ruscio said, tone stiff. “I am unaware of any illegal activities taking place here, Detective. If I’d’a known, I woulda escorted her out personally.”

“Sure you would have.” Before Ruscio had time to protest, Pucinski said, “But you are aware of the woman in question.”

“I know who she is…was.”

“Did she have any problems with your customers?”

“If she did, she wouldn’t’ve told me. But it’s a moot point. You don’t know that this working girl’s death had any connection to this club, not any more than did Rosie’s.”

“You keep thinking that way; and when the next girl dies, you tell me that again.”

“Next girl?”

Ruscio blanched, but Pucinski was certain it had to do with his wallet rather than his heart.

“Three would certainly be the charm, don’t you think, Mr. Ruscio? The newspapers would put it together, the customers would get nervous, the dancers might quit. Not a pretty picture any way you slice it. Maybe you should realize that not all of your customers are the pick of their litter.”

A red-faced Ruscio checked his watch. “Detectives, your work here is finished. Okay, I’ve been properly warned. Any improprieties and you’ll be the first on my speed dial.”

Pucinski left him his card, then ambled out into the club with DeSalvo behind him.

“We didn’t learn anything new,” his partner complained when they hit the street.

“We set up an atmosphere. Nothing gets by the manager of a place like this. He may very well know a lot more than he’s saying. Now he’ll be vigilant. Maybe even cooperate if he suspects someone. He can’t afford to screw up and lose business. His bosses wouldn’t like that.”

Ruscio would be watching his patrons more closely. And his employees. Couldn’t forget them. Maybe Rosie Harriman had hooked up with a bodyguard or bartender turned deadly boyfriend. And maybe the perp turned to Anita when he didn’t have Rosie to pound anymore.

“Lots of questions. Lots to think about. That’s why we’ll be back.”

Pucinski glanced back at the den of iniquity all lit up like a birthday cake, wondering which of these women would be the next murder victim.

oOo

NO ONE could save her now.

Thrown across the backseat of the car, her hands cuffed behind her back and her feet trussed together, Hannah knew her time had come.

She was exhausting herself thrashing, screaming through the foul-tasting gag in her mouth. If only she could talk. Plead. Maybe she could say something, make some promise that would give her a break. Buy her some time.

She rubbed her face against the seat and was elated when she felt the cloth give a little. Dislodging the gag bit-by-bit, she rubbed until her face was raw. Finally she was able to spit out the disgusting material and take a normal breath.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” she gasped. “Where are you taking me? You’re not really going to hurt me, are you?”

She couldn’t say kill.

She stared at the back of the dark-clothed figure behind the wheel. No answer. He had to be from the club, all right, but here she was without a clue. The dark clothes were baggy, hiding the guy’s body, and a billed cap was pulled down low, hiding any hint of hair.

Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to cry. “Say something, damn you!”

She might as well be talking to herself for all the response she got. Nothing. Like the times she’d pleaded with her stepfather to leave Mama alone. He’d hurt her instead. She’d put herself in this situation, too.

This time, she would be lucky if all she got was hurt.

So this bastard was the killer. The one who’d done the waitress and the prostitute. How could she have been around him and not known? How could she have gotten so close, probably night after night, and not smelled death on him? How could she not know who he was even now?

The vehicle slowed and stopped. When the car door opened, Hannah swallowed a sob and fought the pain of being pulled from the car by her hair. Of hitting the ground awkwardly, arm twisted beneath her. The pain of knowing she wasn’t going to come out of this alive. She bit her lip, tasted her own blood and the salt of her tears and turned to get a look at the face beneath the billed cap.

No dice. The face smeared with camouflage paint and eyes covered by heavy dark glasses were too disguised to figure it out. Even now her intended killer didn’t want her to know his identity.

He pulled a gun and indicated she should move toward the abandoned building. The whole neighborhood looked abandoned, though the parked cars told her otherwise. Where the hell was she? A quick look around revealed high rises in the distance. They were somewhere west of the Loop. In the real inner city.

“What is it you want?” she asked, stopping so suddenly the gun barrel smacked into her.

She whipped around and stepped back, unable to believe she’d been so stupid, that she hadn’t seen beneath the bastard’s disguise. Whoever the hell he was, he’d played her. She’d never been a sucker before. Men were the suckers. Not that she’d ever hurt anyone beyond lightening up their wallets a little.

Why her? What had she done to encourage such hatred?

“What did I do to you?” she choked out.

Hannah knew this was her own fault. Lilith had warned her, but she’d waited too long to get out. Shooting a hand to her throat, to the heart-half, she tried to find courage in this link to the sister who’d done what she hadn’t been able to.

In a low raspy whisper, her captor commanded, “Open the door and get inside, bitch!”

When she didn’t immediately move, he shoved the gun barrel into her gut and reached behind her for the door.

As if he knew Hannah thought to fight him, he growled softly into her ear, “Try it and die now.”

Die now…

She was going to die. At least that was the bastard’s plan. But not now. They’d said he’d kept the other women for a while before he’d killed them. That gave her wiggle room, opportunity for escape. She’d always managed to take care of herself, to get out of dangerous jams, right? So why should now be any different?

She had time… days… more than a whole week to figure him out before he decided to end her life. At least that’s what he’d given the other women.