had become simply good manners.
“I’m rich,” Salas said, and scooped the packs close to him and tucked them in his shirt.
“You didn’t say thanks,” Westerley said.
“That’s because I know they aren’t free.”
“Something else that isn’t free is using the U.S. mail to harass Beth Brannigan.”
Salas settled back in his chair, acting like a man in control. “I think I have the right to correspond with whoever I want to on the outside, so long as the letters pass the censor.”
“I’m going to see that they don’t. And you’re not corresponding with anyone. The letters only went in one direction.”
Salas studied him. “You puttin’ the salami to Beth? Because I never did.”
“Sure, you’re innocent. Like almost everybody else in here.”
Salas touched his chest lightly with his fingertips. “But I am innocent.”
Westerley leaned toward him. “What you’re not anymore is a letter writer. Not if the letters are to Beth Brannigan.”
“What if I get a lawyer and insist on my rights?”
“Your lawyer would tell you that, as a practical matter, you’d better find another pen pal.”
“Practical the same as legal?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. This is out-state Missouri and we got certain traditions. Even if you behave in here and somehow get out in ten or fifteen years, I might not be sheriff any longer. But whoever my successor is, or his successor, if you write any more letters to Beth, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Salas showed no reaction. Penitentiary face already, Westerley thought.
“My guess is you’d make a small mistake that could be regarded as a parole violation,” Westerley said, “and you’d be back here like you were snapped back by a rubber band. That’s if the parole board never saw your letters and granted you a parole to begin with. You start your stretch by harassing your rape victim via the U.S. mail, and the odds are you’ll grow old here and deteriorate along with the buildings.”
“I guess you got them letters in your possession.”
“I do. And I’m gonna hold on to them. And there aren’t gonna be any more of them, or I’ll see that you don’t have to wait ten or fifteen years to wish you’d never learned to write. You’ll limp all the rest of your miserable life.”
“A threat?”
“You betcha. An actual physical threat. But just between you and me.”
“Maybe Beth likes my letters. Maybe she’s in love with me.”
“Like she loves garbage.”
“Some women do love garbage.”
“If she was one, I wouldn’t be here. Anyway, she only read the first few letters. She turned the rest over to me unopened.”
“But you opened them.”
“Sure. I’m the sheriff.”
Salas closed his eyes, as if he didn’t want Westerley to see the thoughts behind them. Then he opened them and smiled. Westerley was liking that smile less and less.
“Can I smoke in here?” Salas asked.
“It don’t matter. I’m leaving shortly.” Westerley leaned in close and locked gazes with Salas. Held steady until he won the staring contest. When Salas looked away, Westerley clutched his face by the chin between thumb and forefinger, as you might do with a recalcitrant child, and swiveled his head back so they were looking at each other again. “You write any more letters and I’m gonna see you alone in another room where there won’t be a guard within shouting distance. You get my meaning?”
Salas didn’t seem scared, but he was paying close attention.
Westerley squeezed Salas’s lower jaw harder and gave him a grim smile. “We got us an understanding?”
Salas said something like “Eyah.”
Westerley released Salas’s chin but made sure their gazes were still locked.
Salas didn’t look away this time. His dark eyes were flat and emotionless, maybe the way they’d been when he raped Beth. Westerley knew the distance in those eyes; he’d driven Salas’s sick and evil demon well back in its lair.
“If she ain’t opening the letters anyway,” Salas said, “I don’t see any point in sending more.”
“I’m glad you got that straight in your mind.”
Westerley stood up, then went over and rapped a knuckle on the door as a signal to the guard that he was leaving.
“Go easy on the cigarettes,” he said, with a glance back at Salas. “Those things are killing lots of rats on the outside.”
41
New York, the present
The Skinner had learned the doorman’s routine easily enough. As usual, the man in his absurd quasi-military uniform left his post untended when he bustled down to the corner to hail a cab for someone leaving the building. By the time he was helping his charges into the cab and receiving a liberal tip, the Skinner, unseen, was on his way up in an elevator. Since he was in his deliveryman uniform and carrying a package, anyone glancing at him would have paid him little attention. He was as much a part of the decor as one of the potted plants, and about as memorable.
It was easy for him to slip the apartment door’s knob lock with his honed credit card. He then made short work of the dead bolt with his lock pick.
He wasn’t surprised when he eased the door open and found that the chain wasn’t attached. Judith Blaney was dining out with friends on the other side of town. Probably they would stop someplace else for drinks after dinner. She’d be pleasantly tired when she got home, anxious to kick off her shoes and go to bed. The friends she was with were all women, so Judith was almost certain to arrive home alone.
She’d be surprised when she closed the door behind her and wasn’t alone. The Skinner, an expert at his grisly passion, would take full advantage of that surprise and have her helpless even before she had time to cry out.
He tucked the box, in which he carried his tape and instruments, beneath his arm, and with a glance up and down the hall pushed his way into the apartment.
The Skinner locked the door after him but left the chain off, so when Judith came home she’d think everything was as she’d left it and the apartment was inviolable and waiting for her with its comforts and safety. Her world would seem tight and secure and unchanged.
The killer knew how important unchanged was.
Familiarity was easily mistaken for security. It made for denial that lasted until the end. Well, near the end.
The Skinner smiled, turned, took two steps, and drew in his breath.
He stood still, staring at the man casually seated on the sofa. The man had his hands folded in his lap, his legs crossed, and was staring back at him.
Not a large man, the Skinner told himself. Slender, but with a coiled kind of look about him suggesting a wiry strength. He was wearing pale gray slacks, a black blazer, and no tie. Almost absently, he slid a hand into one of the blazer’s side pockets, but the implication was clear. There might be a gun in that pocket.
The Skinner’s mind was spinning, calculating.
The police? Had they somehow guessed Judith Blaney was to be the next victim?
No. I don’t see a badge. And only one man.
And not a very intimidating one.
If not the police, who?
