Incubi

“Same kind of rep as the other two?”

“Yeah, only she got around more.” Randy flashed Jack a promo picture the brokerage had given him. Elegant face, short black hair. Big crystal-blue eyes and a pretty mouth.

“I’ve seen this girl,” Jack said.

“Everybody has. She hangs out a lot in the local bars. Every single keep we showed this to has seen her. She made the circuit. Couple places—’Dillo’s, McGuffy’s, Middleton’s — have barred her.”

“For what?”

“Slutting around. It’s bad for business. One night she got plastered at McGuffy’s and started taking off her clothes. Bunch of other places caught her blowing guys in the men’s room.”

“She comes to the Undercroft every now and then.”

“We know, and that’s where we hit pay dirt. She was in the Undercroft last night.”

Very slowly Jack said, “I was there last night too.”

“So we heard. Your pal Craig is down at the station for questioning. He says he saw her leave with two guys after last call.”

“Two guys?”

Randy nodded. “You remember seeing her, Jack?”

Did he? I don’t remember seeing anything last night. “I got fucked up. I don’t even remember what time I left.”

The look on Randy’s face told all. Drunk again, it said. “We should have a good composite in a couple hours.”

“You find out anything about her background?”

“We’re working on it. All we know right now is she’s a local.”

“Same as the other two.”

“Right. And something else — she was a poet.”

A poet? Jack thought. “We found poetry at Rebecca Black’s too.”

“Yeah, some coincidence, huh? Susan Lynn was a bit more serious, though. She’d had some published, local literary mags.”

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. He’d forgotten to shave. “Maybe a coincidence, maybe not. We’ll have to check out what schools they went to, literature courses, poetry classes. It’s all a mutual interest.”

“But Shanna Barrington didn’t write poetry.”

“No, but take a look at what she did do.”

Randy shrugged. “She worked for an advertising firm.”

“Right, and don’t you see a commonality there? Shanna Barrington was the director of the—”

“Art department,” Randy remembered. “I still don’t—”

“Karla Panzram says the killers have some very definite artistic inclinations. So far they’ve murdered three women, and all three also had definite artistic inclinations.”

“I don’t know, Jack. Sounds like you’re digging in shit to me.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “You dig in shit long enough, though, sometimes you find gold.”

“Make way!” someone shouted. Two techs rushed out bearing a stretcher. On the stretcher lay the familiar dark green transport bag full of the remnants of one Susan Lynn. Jack watched the woman leave her home for the last time. Several more techs came out next, holding boxes of relevant evidence. Last was Jan Beck, in bright red TSD utilities, walking briskly as she snapped off rubber gloves. The gloves were dark scarlet.

“This one looks different,” she said.

“How so?”

“I’m not quite sure yet, sir. Stop by the shop later; I’ll know more then.” She brushed by the uniforms at the door and left.

“Come on,” Randy invited. “Let’s talk to our witnesses.”

But Jack stood spacily in the dark apartment, his eyes wandering. This place didn’t feel like someone’s home at all. It felt like a robbed grave.

* * *

Craig looked haggard as he sat beside the composite artist in interview room No. 1. The artist herself, a heavyset woman with a dark ponytail, looked flustered.

“How’s it coming?” Jack asked.

Craig sputtered. The artist said, “It’s not.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Can’t get anything down,” Craig said, laxing back at the table. “I saw them, but I can’t remember what I saw.”

“Come on,” Randy said. “A small bar like the ’Croft, two well-dressed white males sitting with a regular?”

“They pay cash?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. Their tab came to about forty bucks. They paid with small stuff, left a double-saw for tip.”

“They pay hers too?”

Craig nodded.

“What did they drink?”

“The guys drank Patriziers, three apiece. Susan was drinking Cardinals, her usual. She had four of them, and a sandwich.”

“Were any of them smoking? They leave any butts?”

“None of them were smoking. In fact, they were the only group sitting up at the bar that didn’t use their ashtray.”

“How about glasses? Did the guys pour their beers or did they drink out of the bottles?”

“Bottles,” Craig said.

Randy was smirking. “For someone who doesn’t remember anything, you sure remember a lot.”

“I told you, the thing I don’t remember is what they looked like.”

“Come on, they were sitting right up front at the bar. You were serving them for two hours, looking right at them. Did you know her at all?”

“Yeah,” Craig said, tapping a Marlboro. “I knew her pretty well.”

“How well?” Randy interjected.

“Not that well. She’d come in a lot and put the make on me, you know, flirt around.”

“She’d make herself available to you, in other words.”

“Yeah, you could say that. But I never—”

“Right, you never took her up on it, huh? A good-looking woman like that? Never?”

“Never,” Craig said. “I’m just saying I knew her. People come in on a regular basis, you get to know them, you talk to them, you know?”

“Sure,” Randy said. “You talk to her last night?”

“Yeah, I said hello to her.”

“What did she say?”

“The usual shit, how ya doin’, what’s new, that sort of thing.”

“And the two guys were with her then?”

“Yeah.” Craig lit his cigarette, sighing smoke. “And you’re gonna love this. She even introduced me to them.”

Jack and Randy leaned over the table at the same time. Jack said, “You mean you met these two guys?”

“Yeah.”

“She introduce you to them by their names?”

“Yeah.”

“Craig, what were their names?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Jesus Christ!” Randy slammed his fist down on the table. “You saw them but you don’t remember what they