Andrew Vachss - Blossom

She got up, walked around behind my chair, put her hands on my shoulders, her lips against my ear. "I'll carry your gun in my purse, in case you get stopped again. Besides, you probably got no room in your pocket, all those rubbers you brought with you.

93

IT TOOK ALMOST an hour for her to come out of the bedroom. I looked up from the newspaper. Blinked.

Blossom in a teal-blue silk sheath cut an inch or two above the knee, thin black belt at the waist, black spike heels with ankle straps, tiny black-faced watch on her wrist. A pair of black gloves in her hand.

"Like it?" she said, twirling a full spin, looking at me over one shoulder. Showing me another side of her, promising more. Her lemon-blonde hair was swept off her face, done up in a thick French braid. A touch of soft blue eyeliner, lips glossy and full. Seamed stockings caught the afternoon sunlight.

"You're a doctor…I look dead to you?"

She let me hear a grown-up girl's giggle, smoothed the sheath over her hips. "I'm lucky I can still get into this one."

"How come…I mean, why'd you…?"

"You said something about getting a man's nose open, last I heard."

94

BL0SSOM CROSSED her lovely legs, arched her back. Reached for the car phone, punched in a number. I told her we'd start with the reporter who'd done the feature story on the family of one of the dead kids. She got him on the line.

"Mr. Slater, my name is Blossom Lynch. I wonder if I could talk to you about one of the stories you wrote…about those lovers' lane murders?"

…

"I've got a special interest. A personal interest."

…

"Well, I'm on my way to Gary right now. Could I just stop in, maybe take a few minutes of your time?"

…

"Thank you so much."

She sat back in her seat. "He'll be a good reporter."

"How could you tell from that?"

"He knew I was a beauty even over the phone. And don't be asking me how I could tell that ."

95

WE CROSSED THE railroad tracks on Broadway, stopped in front of the Post-Tribune . Blossom gave her name to the guard at the desk. We took seats, Blossom frowning as I lit a smoke.

Slater came into the waiting room. Took one look at Blossom and thanked God for sending him to journalism school. A medium-built youngish man with an honest, open face, shirt coming out of his suit pants, needed a haircut.

"Miss Lynch?" he said, walking over.

"Doctor Lynch," I told him, getting up before she did.

The same reporter who'd been in the courtroom when Lloyd was bailed out. He must have recognized me, but he didn't miss a beat. "And you're…"

"Sloane. Mitchell Sloane. Private investigator."

"Come on with me," he said, moving his arm for Blossom to step in front of him. He was young, not stupid.

We took seats in the conference room. Slater took out a reporter's notepad. I lit another smoke.

"What Mr. Sloane told you is true, Mr. Slater. I'm a doctor. But that's not why I'm here. One of the girls who was killed, Rose, she was my sister. It seems the police don't have a viable suspect, just this young kid they arrested. So I retained Mr. Sloane to help me look into the situation. He had some ideas he wanted to check out, and I thought we'd come to you about one of them."

"Which one?"

My cue. "Maybe this sniper worked up to what he eventually did. Maybe he tried out the weapon on some other people first. Not killing, just shooting at them. Or maybe he tried a different gun. But, I figure, maybe there's been some other shootings in the past few months, maybe back a year or so. Unsolved shootings."

"This is Gary, Indiana, friend. You think every time somebody fires a shot on the street it makes the papers?"

"If somebody's hit they would. Hell, they even do that in Detroit."

"Okay. Why come to me?"

Blossom leaned forward, flashed a smile, promised more. "This isn't a job for a thug, Mr. Slater." Excluding me from the conversation. "It's a job for an investigative reporter. You help us look, you'll be the first one to know if it works out."

"What if I look and there's nothing?"

"I'm going to look other places. Maybe you will too…and we can compare notes, maybe come up with something that will help."

"How can I reach you?"

Blossom gave him her phone number. I smoked my cigarette. They talked some more. I tuned them out.

I followed behind them as Slater walked Blossom to the car.

96

"WHAT'S THE SCAM ?" she asked on the drive back.

"Scam?"

"The one you said I'd be needed for."

"It's too early for it. Have to wait. See if Slater comes up with anything. And there's a man I have to see."

"What can I do now?"

"You got a car of your own?"

"Sure."

"We could use some detailed street maps. And I need you to learn how the Child Abuse Registry works out here. Where they keep the central records, what the access level of authority is. Especially if the records are on computer storage."

"Why?"

"Just do it, okay?"

"You mad at me?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I listened to you when you knew what you were talking about. Like about the vitamins, right? I know about this."

"Didn't I do well with the reporter?"

"You did great."

"Then…okay. Where're we going?"

"I'm looking for somebody."

She sat in silence while I rolled down the Interstate past the motel Sherwood told me about. Cars in the lot. No Chevy Blazers.

I stopped the car outside Blossom's house.

"You're not coming in?"

"I got work to do."

"When will you be finished?"

"Maybe eleven."

"Toss a pebble against my window," she said. "You know where it is."

97

"ARE YOU GOING to live with us?" Virginia asked me at dinner that night. Flat out, the way a kid asks. Wanting to know, not playing with it.

"Child, where did you put your manners?"

"She don't mean nothing, Reba. You like folks to live with us, don't you, honey?"

"Not everybody, Daddy. Just my family. That's how I got my Lloyd, when he came to live with us."

Lloyd sat up straighter in his chair.

98

WE WENT RIDING that night. Looking. It was just after eight when I pulled into a gas station. Virgil filled the tank while I reached out for Vincenzo. The Prof put him on the phone.

"The kind of person you want is a piquerist," he told me.

"A what?"

"Piquerist." He spelled it for me. Explained how the word came from the French, meaning to penetrate. I didn't interrupt him— Vincenzo flies down the track when he's got a full head of steam, but he derails easily.

"That sounds right to me," I told him.

"It wasn't in the DSM-III, not even in the latest revised edition. It's a pathological condition: it means the realization of sexual satisfaction from penetrating a victim by sniper activity. Or stab wounds, or even bites. And I found that case you wanted. People v. Drake . The defendant went to the city dump late at night. He fired nineteen rounds from a semi-automatic rifle into a car parked there. Two people were killed. He said that he didn't know anybody was in the car— he was just taking target practice. When the police examined the bodies, they found the female victim had bite marks on her and a bruised rectum. The female was dead before the bite marks were inflicted. Do you want the citation?"

I knew better than to say no.

"The official designation is 129 A.D.2d 966, Appellate Division, Fourth Department, decided April 3, 1987."

"Perfect job, Vincenzo. Can I ask you some questions about the case?"

"I have a copy with me."

"Okay. Was the shooter wearing camo gear?"

"Camo gear? It says…he was dressed in battle fatigues."

"Yeah, right. The weapon, do you have any specifics?"

"It says .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle, plus a high-powered 5.69-millimeter rifle and two large hunting knives. That's all."