“We think this might be part of a pattern,” said Tee.
The quiet man was studying Dyce. Not staring at him precisely, but sizing him up. His eyes would wander off sometimes, taking in the rest of the room, and then return suddenly, as if to catch him off guard. Dyce averted his own eyes. There was something dangerous there. It was almost as if the man were reading Dyce’s mind. Or as if Dyce were reading his.
The policeman was asking about the incident. Dyce had almost convinced himself by now that it was a mugging.
“Were you able to get a look at the man who hit you?” Tee asked. “No,” said Helen.
“You must have some idea what he looks like- white, black? Dark, fair?”
“It all happened so fast,” said Helen.
“Ma’am,” said Tee. “It might work better if Mr. Dyce tells us himself.”
Dyce lay back and closed his eyes. “Helen, could you get me some water, please?”
“Of course, dear,” she said. Again, the dear. She was showing the police her position, he supposed. Giving herself the right to be here.
“I’m sorry,” Dyce said. “They’ve got me all drugged up. It’s a little hard to concentrate.”
“Sure,” said Tee. “Take your time. But any kind of description would help.”
Dyce kept his eyes closed and forced himself to visualize the incident as he had described it to the police before. He could feel the quiet man’s eyes on him, but there was nothing to see now. Let him look, thought Dyce. He can’t see into my skull, and if he does, he’ll see only what I’m thinking. But remember him, he’s dangerous.
“It was very fast,” Dyce said. “He knocked on the window on the passenger’s side of my car. I opened the door and he reached in and hit me in the face. I was stunned. He hit me again, several times, but I didn’t really seem to feel it after that first time. I had my eyes closed, of course-he was hitting me in the face. He was white, though, I think I know that much. And he was wearing leather. Yes, I can see that much now. When he rapped on the window his sleeve was leather.”
“What kind of leather? Suede?”
“Black, heavy, like a motorcycle jacket.”
“Did you see the syringe, Mr. Dyce?” It was the other voice, the dangerous man named Becker.
Dyce paused and rubbed his throat. The other police had not mentioned the syringe, had not seen a connection.
“Helen,” he said. “I’m so dry.”
Helen put the glass of water in his hand and helped him to sit upright as he sipped on the straw. Dyce allowed himself a look at Becker. The man smiled as their eyes met, politely. He seemed almost bored. So quickly? Dyce wondered. Could he lose interest that fast, or is he hiding something? He slipped back onto the pillows and closed his eyes again.
“No one said anything about a syringe,” said Dyce. “What do you mean?”
Tee said, “Did you see one?”
“No.”
“Do you use drugs, Mr. Dyce?” Becker’s voice again.
“Heavens, no!” said Helen. “I can swear to that.”
There was a weight on the bed. Someone was sitting next to him.
“I don’t usually even take aspirin. That’s why I’m reacting so much to the pain killers here, I guess.”
There was a hand on his arm; he knew it wasn’t Helen’s. Dyce opened his eyes and saw Becker sitting on the bed next to him. His face was close and he was smiling, not just politely this time, but with warmth. Dyce recognized the smile. It was the same one his father would use sometimes to make him calm down before he hit him.
I know you, Dyce thought. I’m ready for you.
“What’s your mother’s maiden name?” Becker asked.
Dyce smiled back.
“I never knew her.”
The two looked at each other for a long time. Their smiles widened as if they were sharing a private joke. Tee thought it was creepy.
“What’s your mother’s name?” Dyce asked finally.
“Larssen,” Becker said.
When Becker rose from the bed, it seemed to Tee that he released Dyce’s arm with reluctance.
“What the hell was that all about?” Tee asked as they waited for the elevator to take them to the lobby. “I thought you two were going to kiss or something, staring at each other like that. What the hell were you doing?”
“Communicating.”
“That what they teach you in the Bureau?”
“I’m not in the Bureau now, I’m not a cop, either. I can use whatever methods I need to.”
“You trying to seduce him or something? What kind of witness do you think he’ll make if the defense attorney learns you questioned him by making goo-goo eyes at him?”
“I was just establishing trust,” said Becker, laughing. “Letting him know I was on his side. Besides, I don’t think you’re going to be able to use him as a witness.”
“No, he doesn’t seem to know much, does he? He doesn’t even fit the pattern.” Becker looked at Tee from under his brows. “Were we in the same room?” he asked.
Chapter 9
The weed trimmer came back from the shop, thirty-five-dollar repair fee, and conked out after three minutes. Removing his work gloves, Eric tinkered ineffectually with the machine for a moment, but his right hand was so swollen it was as useless as the weed trimmer. He had dislocated a knuckle, or possibly broken it, while pounding the jerk-off s face, and the area around the joint was now an ugly purple. The son of a bitch, thought Eric. A syringe full of drugs, and he was going to stick me. I should have killed him. What kind of perverted thing was that? To lure someone into your car and then shoot them up with drugs? Jesus. He didn’t want to get high by himself or what? The world was full of weirdos and getting stranger every day, but the jerk-off had chosen the wrong guy when he decided to play with Eric. I should have killed him.
Eric squatted in the backyard, the weed trimmer dead and useless at his feet, while the lady of the house and her teenage daughter played at their pool. The daughter was a little young yet, not much meat on her and not enough breasts that she needed to walk around all the time with her arms crossed over her chest the way she did. She did it even when she was alone; he knew, because he had watched from secrecy. Did she think she had such prizes there that people were staring at her all the time? A bitch who was modest even when alone? Not the kind of person Eric had in mind. The mother, on the other hand, was more his idea of something to do. A little too much flesh, maybe, but it was arranged properly, and she wasn’t ashamed of it. The bitch liked to flaunt it: Eric had noticed the way she talked to him, one hip cocked to the side like that, arms akimbo with just a trace of toughness, like she was daring him. That little terry cloth jacket always open and not hiding much. She was asking for it, no doubt about that. Husband was this dried-up executive type, big wallet, no balls. Eric could tell just from the types of jobs the man didn’t do around the yard, things he left to Eric because he didn’t know how to hook up a hose.
The daughter saw Eric staring and pulled on her robe as she said something to her mother. The mother was reclining in one of those come-and-hop-me chairs and she turned her head to look at Eric, then spoke to her daughter and laughed.
Go over there and slap her across the chops, not too hard, just enough to get her attention, then pull off” those bikini briefs and show her something her dried-up husband hadn’t used in years except to yank on. That would stop her laughing; start her moaning for more, which he had, more than she could handle.
Do it in front of the kid, let her see how it’s done, then give her a turn while her mother watched. He’d get
