Belsamo was Hat-Dog, though. Jazz knew that now. He felt the same undercurrent of wrong he’d felt toward the end of his father’s days of freedom. Old memories assaulted him—the teeth in Billy’s nightstand drawer; the knife in the sink; Rusty’s last, dying whimpers as Billy skinned him alive.
Jazz put out a hand and braced himself against a wall for a moment. He didn’t believe in ghosts or demons or other supernatural, superstitious nonsense. Billy had been a hardheaded rationalist, a man who believed only in what he could see and touch and hurt. But in that moment, Jazz wondered if everything he believed and everything he disbelieved should perhaps be reversed. Maybe evil wasn’t a chemical trigger in the brain and a jacked-up childhood. Maybe evil was, after all, something vaporous and mystical that could move from place to place on its own….
Stop being an idiot. Stop it. This is just a reaction to figuring it out. To knowing the truth.
Jazz suddenly wished Connie were there with him. Or Howie. He just didn’t want to be alone in this place.
It was the neatness, he decided. For one thing, it lay in stark contrast to the filthy, unkempt near-beggar he’d seen at the precinct. “Slob Oliver” was a put-on, a sham, designed to distract the cops. This apartment… this was the real Oliver Belsamo: The to-a-pin precise placement of everything. The way a decorative mirror on the wall hung perfectly perpendicular to the floor, as if regularly straightened with a level. Such neatness had been Billy’s mania, too, and even though Belsamo’s tiny studio was a fraction the size of the house Jazz had grown up in, the place vibrated and shimmered with the same crazy energy, as if possessed by the spirit of the departed Dent house.
But it went beyond the neatness. The place was neat, yes, but also cramped. Too organized. Preternaturally organized, almost. Piles of magazines, their spines exactingly lined up with one another, set so that the colors of the spines ran from darkest to lightest. Books placed in precise order of height and thickness, a staircase of pages. Every bit of wall space was claimed with either shelves or piles of reading material or that freakishly perfect mirror, which Jazz avoided gazing into, lest something be in there. Something like horror in his eyes. Or his own monstrous reaction to Belsamo’s lair.
Oliver Belsamo had clearly kept every scrap of paper and every piece of reading material he’d ever owned. And had it organized according to some system that had welled up from deep within.
That makes him a hoarder, not a serial killer.
Jazz had bought a small, cheap flashlight at a convenience store near his hotel, and now he played its beam around the apartment. The apartment was a studio; the only door led to a tiny bathroom that Jazz couldn’t believe was actually usable. In order to get to the toilet, he had to squeeze through a gap of mere inches between the sink and the shower. It was impossible to turn around at the sink at all.
Still wearing his leather gloves, he opened the medicine cabinet and pawed around with impunity. Nothing. Belsamo used Crest toothpaste. As far as I know, Howie would have joked, that’s not one of the diagnostic criteria of sociopathy.
He abandoned the bathroom. There was a tiny stove with a half-height fridge in a little nook that could not be called a kitchen by any reasonable standard. Jazz realized Belsamo must have to wash his dishes in the bathroom sink.
He opened the fridge, half expecting to see a collection of penises and intestines, and perhaps an eyeball or two. But no. Just a container of yogurt, some celery, and a pack of energy drinks.
One step up from hobo at the precinct, but in real life… other than the energy drinks, he seemed to eat healthily.
He keeps everything. But what about the trophies? Where does this packrat keep his favorite cheese? Where are they?
Jazz examined the neatly made bed. Nothing out of order. The bookcases were crammed with mostly nonfiction—true crime. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of people read true crime. He skimmed the collection anyway. No books about Billy. That did seem a bit odd. Wouldn’t a real true-crime aficionado have at least one book about the twenty-first century’s greatest living boogeyman?
Maybe. Maybe not.
An end table had a neat stack of mail on it. Bills. Jazz glanced through them. One wasn’t for Belsamo. The address was right, but the name was different. What kind of man didn’t throw away missent mail like that?
Jazz was beginning to regret coming here. He figured he should just go back into the bathroom and see if he could find a hair to bring back for the cops to compare to the DNA found at the various Hat-Dog scenes. Maybe he’d been wrong about Belsamo. Maybe his logic was wrong. His intuition was wrong. And that magical, superstitious buzz he’d felt on entering the apartment—maybe that was wrong, too.
But he decided to check one last place, dropping to his belly to skim the flashlight’s beam under the bed. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but it wasn’t what was there: a laptop. Old and boxy.
He hauled it out from under the bed and opened it. There was only one folder on the desktop.
It was named Game.
Jazz swallowed hard. He tried to open the folder, but it asked for a password and he had no idea whatsoever.
WELCOME TO THE GAME, JASPER.
The laptop wasn’t connected to the Internet, but Jazz looked at the browser history anyway. He found a bunch of links to what appeared to be S&M porn sites, but without an Internet connection, he couldn’t check to be sure. He was sort of glad for that.
S&M porn wasn’t Jazz’s particular kink, but it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Plenty of people were into that sort of thing, and the overwhelming majority of them didn’t rape, kill, and gut innocent victims.
There was nothing else of interest on the laptop.
Game.
Not Games. You might expect someone to have a folder on their computer labeled Games. Solitaire and video poker and Angry Birds and that stupid minesweeper game Howie loved to play.
But “Game”? Singular?
Game doesn’t just mean something you play, Jazz realized. Game also means something you hunt.
Was he looking at a folder containing information on the Hat-Dog victims? Profiles, dossiers, lists… clippings from websites about the murders? Cyber-trophies for an Internet-age madman?
But where does he keep the real trophies? The body parts he took? Where does he keep his killing gear? Weapons? Rope? Tape? Knives?
Suddenly, Jazz focused beyond the secure folder, noticing for the first time Belsamo’s desktop pattern.
It was a crystal-clear photo of a black bird. Some sort of crow or raven.
He remembered the noise Belsamo had made in the interrogation room. Some sort of cawing sound. Just like a crow…
What is going on here? A chill ran up both of Jazz’s arms and rippled across his shoulders for a split second. He imagined his Yosemite Sam tat shivering. A crow. The Crow King… the story… oh—
The ring of a phone made Jazz jump. Had he not silenced his phone before sneaking in here? What an idiotic—
No. The sound was coming from a corner of the bookcase. Jazz scrambled over and noticed three identical cell phones there. One of them was ringing, and Jazz snatched it up and opened it before thinking it through.
Before he could say anything, a voice said, “Nine. Five and four. Nine.” A chuckle. “Looks like you’ll be staying close to home again, eh?”
Jazz couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe. He knew the voice.
It was his father.
CHAPTER 39
Jazz struggled for words—for thoughts—unable to filter either. He had suspected, on some level, that Billy was involved with Hat-Dog, but now to have confirmation…
“Did you hear me?” Billy said, voice now stern and icy. “I said nine. If I don’t hear a response, you’re going to help me redefine misery.”
A response. What kind of response could Billy possibly want? Every second—every millisecond—that Jazz hesitated, his father was gathering information, processing it. Jazz had to ac
t. Quickly.
“I understand,” he said. There had to be more. “Nine is confirmed,” he went on, fighting to disguise his voice. He was pretty good at this—he had a decent range of voices to fall back on, none of them related to any specific person, but all of them different from his own. Right now, he was going for as close to Belsamo as he had in his repertoire, a sort of grim yet uncertain bass. He usually used it on the assistant principal at school when he needed to get out of a class.
And now… what? Hang up? Jazz waited, just in case his father had something else to say.
Dead air for a moment. And then just a heartbeat too long. Jazz realized he should have hung up.
Belsamo would have known exactly what to say. And how to say it. Just my luck he leaves his phones home when Billy decides to call. What are the odds?
The same odds, he figured, as any other mistake a serial killer would make.
“Nine is confirmed?” Billy asked in slightly perturbed amusement. “ ‘Nine is confirmed,’ eh?”
If he hung up now, Billy would know something was wrong, would know that it wasn’t Belsamo who’d answered. Jazz had no choice—he had to try to keep Billy on the line, keep him talking. Learn whatever he could.
“Nine,” Jazz repeated. What would Billy want—“ Thank you,” he said.
“Well, now,” Billy said, “that’s mighty kind of you to say! You’re quite welcome.” A beat. “Jasper.”
Busted.
“I was wonderin’ when I’d be hearing from you, son! Are you enjoying New York? It’s a hell of a town, isn’t it? I should have come here years ago.”
So much for disguising his voice. Jazz shot a panicked glance at the door. Belsamo could come back at any moment. Stay here and gab with Billy? Or run?
While he tried to decide, he said, “New York’s not bad. So, I know why I came. What brings you to the Big Apple? Just playing some kind of game with the Hat-Dog Killer?”
Billy laughed. “Oh, hell, Jasper. You like firing off words at me, thinkin’ one of ’em’ll get some kinda reaction, don’t you? Anyhow—I didn’t come to New York for Hat-Dog. I came to New York for… well, I came here looking for someone special.” Now Billy sounded almost wistful. “And fortunately, I found what I was lookin’ for.”
Someone special. Who was Billy’s latest prospect?
“But speakin’ of someone special,” Billy went on, “I been meaning to talk to you about your little lady friend.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, sure you do! You think the Impressionist was runnin’ around Lobo’s Nod all that time, spying on you, without stuff getting back to me? You got jungle fever, Jasper! You got yourself some dark meat!” He sounded highly amused. Almost giddy.
Jazz gritted his teeth. Billy knew. About Connie. The thought terrified him more than anything else had in his life. It frightened him more than the power he knew he possessed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, amazed that he could keep a tremble out of his voice.
“Oh, yes, you do. Oh, yes, you surely do, young man!” Billy sounded like a parody of a lecturing schoolmarm for a moment. “You know precisely what I’m talking about. That girlfriend of yours.”
Jazz glanced around wildly, as though Billy were spying on him right now. He had to leave. Now. He made for the door and slipped out into the hallway. “What do you mean? What girlfriend?”
Now Billy’s voice turned stern. “Don’t go lying to me, boy. You ain’t so big and so old that I can’t whup you with my belt like my old man done to me. Or maybe I’ll just cut off one of your girlfriend’s fingers for you. Sort of like old times, you know?”
“Stop it.” He was outside by now, back in the alley. Belsamo was nowhere to be found.
“I gotta admit, after the last time I saw you, I was curious about your love life, son. The way you went to all that trouble to misdirect me and mislead me when I asked about your—whatchacallem?—romantic prospects… I never thought you’d be with a colored girl.”
“No call for that kind of language,” Jazz said, his jaw tightening. He spun around suddenly. He was back on the main street now—What was it called? Where was the sign?—and darkness had fallen. The sidewalk was thick with pedestrians. Baby carriages. Dogs on leashes. Jazz couldn’t help thinking that Billy was watching him. But there were a dozen buildings within visual range. All those rooftops… more than a hundred windows…
“I don’t mean nothin’ by it, Jasper. You know that. I’m just from a, you know, a different generation. I was raised by a woman who didn’t have no appreciation for, well, for diversity, let’s say.”
“I know. I’m the one who’s been taking care of her since you got yourself locked up.”
“And I surely appreciate it. Just like I appreciate the, well, the poetic justice of you dating a black girl. Given that I never killed no black girls. Is it okay to say ‘black girl,’ Jasper? Or does that offend your sensibilities? Is it ‘African American girl’ instead? ‘Girlfriend of color’? So many things to keep track of, and I’m such a busy guy to begin with. Things slip through the cracks.”
“Say what you need to say.”
“I just think it’s pretty damn ticklish. I don’t suppose… Oh, Jasper,” he gasped, as though something had just now occurred to him, “you didn’t go and put love in that poor girl’s heart just ’cause I ain’t never killed no one looked like her, did you?” When Jazz said nothing, Billy roared with laughter. Jazz could picture his father’s head thrown back as he howled. “Did you think that magical black skin, that kinky hair, those big brown eyes were gonna save your soul? Did you think somehow being with her would stop you from turnin’ into me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jazz used his very best annoyed voice.
“You did!” Billy wasn’t buying it. Of course not. “You thought that. Oh, Jasper. Oh, my boy, my son. Thought I raised you smarter than that. Thought a lot of things, I guess. So tell me, Jasper—what’s it like, being with a black girl? She go all ghetto in bed with you? What’s it like down there? Never had the pleasure myself, you know.”
“Don’t have anything to compare it to,” Jazz told him as officiously as possible. Trying to put Billy off balance. Shake him.
Impossible. Billy just laughed again, was all. “That what you think? You go on thinking that. Go on livin’ in denial.”
“I got your message,” Jazz said. “ ‘Welcome to the game.’ What was that about?”
“Don’t recall sending you a message,” Billy said, and as he did so, it finally occurred to Jazz that he should be contacting Hughes. He fumbled his own cell phone out of his pocket.
“You sent that message, didn’t you? The one welcoming me. You used the Hat-Dog Killer to get in touch with me. How long have you been in New York?” Stabbing in the dark, blind, but not deaf.
Something was wrong with his cell. It wasn’t working.
“Long enough, son. Long enough.” Wistful. A man on a diet, watching the pile of fries delivered to the next table over.
“And you’re controlling Belsamo, is that it?”
“Is that his name?” Billy asked. “I suppose you’ve already got him all trussed up for the bastard cops.”
“No. He wasn’t home.” Oh, damn! Why did I tell him that?
He expected one of Billy’s low, gruesome chuckles, but instead there was nothing. And then: “I see.” Icy.
Jazz pondered that even as he realized why the phone wasn’t working—that cop had turned it off during the interrogations and Jazz had forgotten to turn it back on. While he waited for it to boot up, he said, “You were expecting him—” And then stopped. The cell phones. Disposables. Of course Billy hadn’t known Jazz would answer; he’d expected Belsamo to answer….
He spun around and ran back to Belsamo’s building. A man was leaving just as he arrived, and Jazz slipped in past him and charged up the stairs.
“You’re breathin’ all heavy,” Billy said. “Forget something
back in that apartment you illegally entered? Been there. I empathize.”
Jazz hadn’t locked the door when he left Belsamo’s, so he had no problem getting back in. He made a beeline for the end table, the one with the mail on it. He hoped what he was looking for would be there….
It was.
He couldn’t believe it. It was.
“Kinda quiet there, Jasper,” Billy needled. “You findin’ what you need there?”
Jazz stared at the envelope in his hands. The one with the wrong name. “C. D. Williams.” A mash-up and switch-around of Billy’s own name, William Cornelius Dent. It wasn’t a misdirected piece of mail or something for a previous resident. It was an alias.
The return address said it was from something called U-STORE-IT-ALL.
I was wondering where his trophies were. Not enough room here. And we might come here. So he stored them somewhere else. That’s where he is now.
“He’s not here,” Jazz said. “We spooked him today. At the precinct. So he went to visit his trophies, didn’t he? It calms him, I bet. Always worked for you.”
“We? You still thinkin’ you’re on their side, Jasper? Not enough to catch that poor jackass thought he was me? Now you gotta come here and catch this other guy?”
“That’s the game, isn’t it?” He caught Belsamo’s laptop out of the corner of his eye, still open on the floor. He closed it with his foot and nudged it back under the bed. He contemplated tucking the envelope into his pocket, but realized someone as OCD as Belsamo would notice it missing. He snapped a quick picture of it with his phone, which had booted up by now.
Then, just out of curiosity, he squeezed the envelope, just enough to get the plastic window to lift away from the contents so that he could get a peek inside. All he saw was another line of text: Re: Unit 83F.
Good to know.
“That’s the game,” he said again to his father. “You put another serial killer in play and goad me into catching him. You must have been pissed when the cops jumped the gun and brought me onto the court before you were ready. Were you really running all of this from prison? You never answered any of your so-called fan mail, so how did you do it?”