The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (3 page)

“Now don’t pout.”

“You will miss the mountains,” he said, recalling a moonlit hike into the foothills. Sex beneath the stars, it was a perfect date.

She took hold of his hand, her fingers coiling around his. “Come with me. You’re eligible to retire.”

“What, and leave all this excitement behind? Besides, sunny Florida is no place for someone like me.”

“We can swim naked in the ocean,” she said, the words soft off her tongue.

“We can swim naked in a mountain lake.”

Her hand left his. “I’m leaving. My mind is made up. So stop trying to talk me out of it.”

His jaw clenched. He missed her already. “When will you go?”

“Two weeks.”

“That soon?” He weaved his fingers through his hair, onto the back of his neck and sighed. “Who will take your place? Do not say Luther Van Adams. The man is a jackass.”

She smirked. “A Harvard-educated jackass.”

“It does not matter where they forged his degree. Van Adams has the mental capacity of a flea. I suppose he will try to cut my position once more.”

“He’d like to see you gone.”

He slammed a fist onto the table. “And I will make him gone!”

She leaned back in her chair and blinked several times. “I never knew you had such a temper.”

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and held out the sugar bowl. “For your coffee.”

She hesitated before accepting the bowl. “No need to fret, Van Adams will only be the Acting Dean. The board has already found my replacement.”

“Who did they hire?”

“Jennifer Tolliver, dean at Medford State. I met her once. Mid-thirties, black hair, long legs, just your type.”

“Perhaps your type as well.”

Her eyes sparkled for a moment. “Perhaps.”

He held back a response. She would be gone soon and start to fade in his mind like an old photograph exposed to sunlight.

“I heard the police visited your classroom last night.” She looked at him with an expression that suggested she understood their relationship was burning down to embers.

“You heard correctly.”

“They must have come about the—”

“Please,” he said holding up a hand.

She chewed her bottom lip. “That’s right. You don’t like to know about them ahead of time.” Several seconds of awkward silence followed before she said, “It’s really amazing what you do. You have a gift.”

“A gift,” he said, the words trailing off to a whisper, a vision of poor Stephanie in the dark basement inside his head. Would she consider what he did amazing? He took a sip of coffee and glanced at his watch. “I need to leave soon.”

She rolled her cup between her palms. “You’re angry with me.”

“No, not at all… well, perhaps. I will miss our moments.”

She pushed out of her chair and stood. “You can always come visit me in Florida. I’m buying a condo near the beach. I will put aluminum foil over the windows.”

He rose from his chair and went to her. “You have always accommodated me.”

She touched his cheek. “And now I desert you.”

“You have your reasons, and so you are forgiven.”

As he sat in the hallway outside the homicide office, an idea came to Mr. Howard. Over a hundred years before, he had sat in the hallway of Scotland Yard, waiting to talk to Inspector Abberline about the Ripper—nasty fellow, no manners at all, tearing apart women and leaving their bodies on the street for everyone to see. Given his history of assisting in difficult investigations, it was no surprise Abberline came to him. Of course, he had nothing to offer them and the killings continued. Tired of reading about the case in the papers, he decided to put an end to the nonsense. He failed to save Mary Kelly, but when he discovered the identity of her killer, he taught the Ripper a thing or two about ripping. It was one of the few times he took pleasure in killing.

Hunched over a black notebook, he studied the information Stephanie provided the previous evening. She was a good kid. Too good for him. He traced the page with a finger as he read to himself.
Mother—Janet. Father—Carl. Two siblings—brother, Steven, and sister, Mary. Rides horses, plays soccer, likes Johnny Depp movies.

“Deciding who to call for a date?”

Killgood and Willard stood before him. Killgood smiled. Willard did not.

“My days of pursuing the fairer sex are long over.”

Willard motioned with his chin. “Why are you dressed like that?”

To protect himself from the sun, he wore a heavy trench coat, scarf, leather gloves, sunglasses, and a fedora. His exposed skin glistened with sunscreen.

“Mr. Howard has a skin disorder,” Killgood said.

“Is that why your skin’s so pale?”

Mr. Howard stood and put away his notebook. “I have PMLE.”

“What’s that?”

“Polymorphic light eruption, which is a fancy way of saying I am allergic to sunlight.”

Willard squinted, his face a stony mask. “And that’s why you only teach at night?”

Killgood waved toward an open office. “Come, let’s talk inside.”

He followed the detectives into the office. The small space felt suffocating despite having a window that looked out onto the hallway, and another with a view of the distant foothills. It was the kind of office you’d expect a cop to have, all business, with a cold metal desk, and dented steel filing cabinet covered with sticky notes. His gaze fell on the only clue of humanity in the room, family photographs displayed on the desk. “Your children have grown into beautiful young people.” He took a seat. Willard sat in the chair beside him. His clothes reeked of cigarette smoke.

With his wavy, auburn hair and lively blue eyes, Killgood had managed to retain his boyish good looks. He eased into a chair behind the desk, the vinyl rippling, and picked up the frame with the photographs. He smiled. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?” He pulled out his wallet, opened it, and held it toward Mr. Howard. “My granddaughter, Gail.”

Mr. Howard put on his glasses and leaned forward. The photograph showed a little black-haired girl with big blue eyes. “She looks like her mother.”

Killgood returned the billfold to his pocket. “You’re right.”

“Reann has always been lovely.”

“Jesus H. Christ, can we get on with it?” Willard said.

Killgood gestured toward the agitated detective. “Detective Willard doesn’t believe in any of this.”

Mr. Howard peered at Willard from the corner of his eye. The detective grimaced as if he suffered from constipation.
Someone really needs to get the poor sod some prune juice.

“Is it psychic ability you don’t believe in or just me?”

Willard lit a cigarette. He took a long drag and blew smoke at Mr. Howard. “I’m familiar with the work of so-called psychic detectives. Frauds if you ask me. Look at Hurkos in Boston. He didn’t do a damn thing to help catch the strangler other than provide a series of false leads. The same thing happened with the coed murders in Michigan.”

Mr. Howard tapped his chin as he considered the detective’s words.
I will need to win the man’s trust and soon, or at the very least throw him off by providing information that could be verified. Since Willard thinks so little of Peter Hurkos, it is best to reaffirm his suspicion rather than challenge it.

“Yes, Hurkos sought publicity and fame. I, on the other hand, do not. You are the ones who came to me for assistance.”

Willard’s line of smoke drifted toward the no smoking sign on Killgood’s desk. “What powers do you claim?”

“Powers?”

“You know, psychic abilities. Retrocognition, psychometry, or does God whisper the answers into your ear?”

“God does not choose to whisper into my ear, Detective, but if he whispers in yours, I know a good psychiatrist who can help you with that.”

Killgood smirked and shook his head.

“I do not try to categorize my gift,” Mr. Howard continued. “What I do is what I do. If I can help the police, I will, but I make no guarantees.”

“Have you had any visions lately?” Killgood asked.

Mr. Howard pressed his hands against his temples and massaged the skin. A little show to fool the cops. To add to the effect, he hummed softly. The cops always interpreted this as some form of meditation. He hummed for several seconds before stopping. “I had a vision as I drove home last night.”

Killgood leaned across the desk. “What did you see?”

Mr. Howard closed his eyes tightly to cause the skin around them to gather in fine wrinkles and pretended to concentrate. “Rocks.”

“Rocks?” Willard said.

Mr. Howard’s lips parted and he sucked in air between his teeth, the wet sound adding to the illusion of concentration. “No, not rocks… more like stones… river stones… glistening.” He looked at Killgood. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“Glistening stones… hmm. Why did they glisten?”

Mr. Howard stopped massaging his temples and tapped knuckles against his forehead. “The sun… yes… it glistened on the stones as if they were covered in…”

“What?” Killgood asked. “What were they covered in?”

He sighed. “Ice. I believe it was ice. Sorry, this is not much.”

“Hmm, stones covered in ice.” Killgood looked at Willard. “Stones covered in ice. Cold stones.”

Willard groaned.

Mr. Howard turned toward Willard. “What have I said?”

“A girl went missing over the weekend,” Killgood said. “Her name is Stephanie Coldstone.”

“And that is why I am here?”

“I have no clue why you’re here,” Willard said.

Mr. Howard faced Killgood. “Detective Willard is in charge?”

Killgood nodded. “She doesn’t live in the city.”

“Why are the State Police and not the sheriff’s office handling the investigation?”

“Her father has money,” Willard answered, “and powerful friends.”

This revelation came as a shock to Mr. Howard. Stephanie had given no indication her family was wealthy and there was no mention of her father’s position in the newspaper. He tried to target low-profile victims, prostitutes, runaways, not wealthy men’s daughters. “You think the girl is dead?”

“Why would you say that?” Willard asked.

He gestured toward Killgood. “Chandler is a homicide detective.”

“I was asked to get involved because of our past association,” Killgood explained.

“I see. So, you believe the girl may still be alive and you want me to help find her?”

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Willard said, “but the family is desperate.”

Mr. Howard massaged his chin. “I will do what I can, but there are things you must do for me.”

“You’ll need a case file with the girl’s photograph,” Killgood said.

“Case file yes. Photograph no. Let me see if I can develop a mental picture of the girl on my own. Black out anything in the report that pertains to her description.” He wrung his hands on his lap, another trick meant to demonstrate his psychic abilities. “Do you have any of the girl’s personal items?”

“So you can make a relevant association with Stephanie?” Killgood asked.

“Yes.”

“This is bullshit,” Willard said.

“Mr. Howard’s helped us in the past,” Killgood said.

“Fine,” Willard answered. “I’ll play along for now. I’ll talk to the girl’s family. What do you need?”

“Personal items. Articles of clothing. Journals. Favorite stuffed toys, anything with a strong association.”

“I’ll contact the Coldstones as soon as we’re done here,” Willard said.

Mr. Howard sprang out of the chair, pretending urgency. “I must go home and ruminate. When can I get the case file?”

Killgood lifted a stack of paper-clipped pages and held them out. “Here you go.”

He took the papers, nodded at both detectives, and opened the door. Mr. Howard paused in the doorway. “Last night, I kept thinking about Johnny Depp. Does this mean anything to you?”

The detectives shook their heads.

“Hmm,” Mr. Howard said. “How about the word Bethord? I kept seeing the word Bethord.”

Killgood glanced at Willard and then back at him. “I will call you when we have those personals.”

Mr. Howard stepped out into the hallway, a big grin on his face. Bethord, Ohio, was Stephanie’s hometown.

Willard’s shoulders sagged as he stared at the Colonial-style house. Lights burned in every room. Gears turned inside his head like the wheels on an electric meter.
Damn family costs me a fortune.
He stomped up the sidewalk toward the front door. A pair of scooters lay on the lawn.
Little shits never take care of anything.
He grunted upon discovering the front door unlocked. How many times had he told Doris to keep it locked?

He stepped inside and a chill crept over his skin. A low growl rose from his throat. He checked the thermostat, which was set on 68.

Bitch thinks I’m Donald Trump.

Laughter floated from the kitchen. He made his way toward the sound. Doris sat at the table behind a plateful of pancakes smothered in syrup. He estimated the stack to be at least four inches tall. Six slices of bacon shared a nearby plate with three fried eggs. His kids, Dave and Margo (he hated that fucking name), sat behind similar feasts.
No wonder they look like a family of hippos. If Doris’s butt gets any bigger, I’ll have to widen the goddamn front door.

She picked up a piece of bacon and chewed. The bacon hung from the side of her mouth. “Hey, hon, how was your day?”

He resisted an urge to punch the wall.
If this is the American dream, wrap me in a flag and put a fucking bullet in my head.
“Great, just great.” He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.

“Hey, Dad,” Dave said. “I’m trying out for the school wrestling team.”

“Isn’t that fantastic?” Doris asked.

“I didn’t know middle schools had sumo wrestling,” he said on his way out of the kitchen.

Inside his office, he slumped behind the desk. He couldn’t shake the image of the smirking psychic from his mind. The son of a bitch nailed the girl’s hometown, but he could have obtained that information from public records. Just because Mr. Howard claimed not to follow the news meant nothing. His vision of stones covered in ice was total bullshit. The only thing he said of interest was the part about Johnny Depp.