Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

"I don't get it," Sam said. "This could be anyone's golf club. How can you know it's Ford's?"

"Provenance?" Manny clicked a few more keys. "See, the dealer selling it says 'Documentation authenticates the ownership.' That means he has some letter or photo that proves it belonged to President Ford. And you see, this dealer receives the highest ranking by eBay shoppers. That indicates he's legit."

"So you think whoever saved the coffee mug at the lecture might have sold it on eBay to the killer," Jake said.

"Now you're catching on."

"It makes sense, but I don't see how it gets us any closer to finding the Vampire. Anyone can sell on eBay, and anyone can buy. If you register to bid under a false name and pay your bill, no one would be wiser."

Manny's fingers continued to fly across the keyboard. "True. You can certainly make it psuedo-anonymous. But what if you saw no reason to cover your tracks?" She stopped typing and leaned back. "When I wanted to sell some of my porcelain shoes, I didn't set up my own eBay account to do it. I contacted one of the dealers that I'd bought from and consigned them for sale through him. He got a cut of the sale price, but it was less hassle for me; plus, I got a better price because he was a reputable eBay dealer. So it's quite possible that whoever originally owned Nixon's mug sold it through a dealer that sells on eBay. Let's contact the most highly ranked dealers in presidential collectibles, describe the mug, and see if any of them handled the transaction."

Jake shrugged. "Seems like a stretch. But give it a shot." He glanced at his watch. "I've gotta run. I have an appointment with Annabelle Fiore."

Jake sat on Annabelle Fiore's sofa and stared at the great singer's chest. Her mighty bosom rose from her pale green sweater like twin volcanic peaks emerging from the Pacific. What man, even a cultured, politically correct, genuinely feminist man, could keep his eyes focused exclusively above Annabelle's neck? Jake was no saint. He couldn't help the thought that popped into his head: Wow, would I love to do an autopsy of those lungs!

Not that he wished the opera star dead-far from it. She must have been pushing fifty, but she had a lot of good performances left in her. He admitted he'd love to discover some scientific explanation for the fact that opera singers all had huge mammary glands. There was no anatomical reason for it, Jake was sure. A singer needed exceptional lung capacity, certainly, but what resided inside the chest cavity should have no correlation to what rested on top of it. Annabelle's mammary glands definitely were well developed. But what did her bronchi look like? That's what Jake really wanted to set his eyes on. But today he had a different agenda.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Ms. Fiore," Jake said. "I know you must be very busy."

Annabelle threw her hands up. "No, no! The pleasure is all mine! I am so grateful you are working hard to capture this terrible man. I tell you, I haven't slept a wink since the attack." She shook her head forlornly. "The stress, it is taking a toll on my voice."

Jake murmured sympathetically. In truth, Annabelle had looked well rested, the picture of health, when she'd opened the door to him. Now, however, she slumped back in her seat and let her eyelids droop to half-mast. Jake was glad he had come. Annabelle had offered to answer his questions on the phone, but he'd been eager to assess her physical response to everything he asked. Annabelle was an actress, but he could see she was also the kind of woman who wore every emotion on her sleeve. If she was frightened, or unnerved, or evasive because of his questions, he would know it instantly by watching her face and gestures.

"Ms. Fiore-"

"Annabelle, please."

"Annabelle. Let's go over again the night of the attack." Jake leaned forward in the overstuffed peacock blue chair. She had already told Vito Pasquarelli when he'd spoken to her in the hospital that she could not recall her attacker's face. But sometimes memory revives after the initial shock passes. "When you opened the door, what was your initial impression of the person standing there?"

"You see, I didn't even look through the peephole because I was expecting my friends. I just threw open the door." She flung her arm out to the side, narrowly missing a delicate lamp on the end table. "And in a split second, this maniac was in my home."

"There was one person at the door, not two," Jake confirmed.

"Yes. Now that you mention it, I remember a moment when I thought, Well, David must still be parking the car."

Jake's eyebrows arched. "You thought David was parking the car and the person on your doorstep was his wife? A woman?"

Annabelle propped her chin in her hand. "I'm not sure that it was a woman. I just remember being aware that the person standing there was too small to be David. He's a big fellow, six three, two hundred and fifty pounds.

"I have this thought only like that"-Annabelle snapped her fingers-"before the person is putting a rag over my face and I am dizzy and falling down." She shuddered as she relived the moment, then fell silent.

Jake waited.

Annabelle looked up and wagged her finger. "I remember seeing the needle before I passed out. Yes, I remember thinking, This must be that Vampire they talk about in the newspaper. And I said to myself, Why me, dear God, why me?"

"That's just it, Annabelle," Jake said. "I want to determine why you were targeted."

Her strong, dark brows drew down. "But surely it was random, no? I thought the newspapers have said there is no connection between the people he attacked. Certainly I don't know any of the others."

"No, I don't think you all know one another. But I do think there's a connection." Jake watched Annabelle closely. "Tell me: Have you ever visited Argentina?"

She blinked three times, quickly. "I have performed there, yes. Teatro Colon, the opera house in Buenos Aires, is quite fine."

"And do you know anyone there? Have friends who are Argentine?"

Annabelle cleared her throat. "Uh, friends, no. No friends there."

Jake studied her. He could tell she was uncomfortable. Maybe not lying, but holding something back. "Did you meet anyone… memorable… during your visit there?"

Annabelle tossed her hair away from her face. "There was-Oh, really, I don't see how this could be relevant. What's the significance of Argentina, anyway?"

"Three pieces of evidence in this case are linked to Argentina. I'm looking for more."

Annabelle's eyes widened. She turned away from Jake as she spoke. "This is a little embarrassing. I'm sure it's not important, but just in case…"

"I'd appreciate your candor, Annabelle. I won't share the information publicly if I can avoid it."

Annabelle took a deep breath. "A few years ago, I found myself in a bit of a jam financially. When I was performing in Argentina, a man approached me and said his boss, General Rafael Cintron, would pay me ten thousand U.S. dollars to sing at his birthday party. Now, this is something I would never do! I am a star! I don't sing for my supper. So I say no, and he raises the price to fifteen thousand dollars." Annabelle threw her hands up in the air. "I would never do such a thing in Europe, or here in New York, but an Italian diva performing arias for a private party in Argentina… well, it's generally off the paparazzi radar. No one outside of native Argentineans pay much attention to me there. I figure no one will find out. And I really needed the money."

"So you sang. What happened?"

Annabelle grimaced. "Horrible, boorish evening! The general, he sits there with a big grin on his face, like I am stripping, not singing 'Un Bel Di.' And the others at the party"-she mimicked talking with her hands-"yak, yak, yak, the whole time I'm singing. Disgraceful!"