Chapter 55

Jake rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, aching and scraped from his foolish decision of a moment ago. Punching the wall was a dumb idea, he thought. Now he had a sore hand and a hole in the sheetrock to patch.

He grimaced, sighed, and cursed himself. I must get better control of my temper! he told himself.

The source of his current irritation wsa, of course, Trent Pickering. What exactly he had against Victoria was difficult to fathom. But whatever it was, he was hell-bent on pinning these bogus murder charges on her - murders, Jake was convinced, that his own wacko uncle George was behind.

He checked his calendar. He had an appointment with a new client at one o'clock - five minutes from now. He rummaged in his desk, found a hammer and a six-penny finish nail, and tapped it into the wall above the new hole he'd just created. He grabbed his photo of the Niagara Falls off the desk; it had a hook in back of the frame, and covered the hole nicely, just as a knock came on his office door.

"Mr. Wallerstein?" His new client greeted him with a fearful look and spoke histatntly. "I'm Janice McCreary - I - I called you yesterday."

"Yes, of course," he replied, trying not to stare. "Please, come in."

There was a lot to stare at, good and bad, as she shuffled by him in her red three-inch spike heels and sat in the guest chair closest to his desk. Even with the heels she was only 5'5", and most of that was leg. She wsa slender, almost too thin, but busty - oddly out of proprtion to her tiny waist and almost flat derriere. She wore a black wide-brimmed hat atop platinum blinde curly hair that was just a shade darker than her Marilyn Monroe look-alike face. A white, billowy blouse was tucked into a black mini-skirt that didn't cover any of Victoria's Secrets when she sat down. Black fishnet stockings completed the cheesecake look.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," she said when Jake had seated himself at his desk. "I really need your help."

"No problem," Jake replied, thankful to have any clients at all. Ever since the mess with Uncle Al and Uncle George and the rest had started, he'd barely worked any billable hours.

"I hope you can help me. I trust the Wallerstein name. You are related to Dr. Allen Wallerstein, are you not?" That explains the look, Jake realized.

"He was my uncle."

"Oh my gosh. Was?" She covered her red-lipsticked mouth with a white-gloved hand.

Jakes eyes narrowed. "He was murderd a few weeks ago. I thought all of his clients knew."

"Oh, dear," Janice said, nearly in tears, just as breathlessly as Marilyn would have. "I hope that doesn't make this harder for you. What I need is - may be - related to your Uncle's death, I'm afraid."

Jake leaned forward, catching a whiff of her Chanel No. 5. "Ms. McCreary - "

"Janice. Please." Her gloved hand settled on his forearm.

He cleared his throat, gently pulled his arm back, tried to ignore the biological response his body was having to her presence. "Janice. If you know something about my uncle's death, I need to hear it."

"I'm not sure," she said, shaking her head and sitting nervously upright. "All I know is, I think I'm being followed. It started after my... surgery." She shifted in her chair, heaving her chest ever so subtly.

Oh. That surgery, Jake thought. Uncle Al's specialty. Good job, Al. 36D's. Real art work.

"What do you think they're after?" Jake asked, trying not to stare.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked exasperated, and glancing down at herself.

"You think they're stalking your breasts?" Jake asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Of course. These breasts are worth $40,000 apiece. Should anything happen to them, I - I - "

"Ms. McCreary - Janice," Jake corrected himself. "I'm not sure what a person would gain by stalking your breasts. Do you have any other ideas as to why someone might follow you?"

"It has to be that," she said. "You see there's... insurance involved."

"Insurance? I don't understand."

She grimaced, swallowed, then, finally, looked up to meet Jakes's eyes for the first time. "Mr. Wallerstein, I -"

"Jake, please."

"Thank you. Jake, I took out a policy on my body with Dr. Wallerstein. They're guaranteed for life... his life. And now that he's gone..."

"You've filed to collect with Lloyd's?"

She looked at him, startled. "How did you know it was Lloyd's that insured me?"

Jake shrugged. "Who else? Okay. So let me guess. Your policy states that if Allen dies, you hvae some period of time to wait before you can collect."

"I get free follow-up surgery anywhere in the world, if needed, for five years. After that, if there are any problems, I get cash. And it's been four and a half years."

"My guess," Jake nodded, "is you've got much less than six months to live. If Uncle George has anything to do with it." And he does, I'll bet, he thought grimly.

Chapter 54

Pickering stared into the two-way mirror, his body rigid, his jaw clenched. “Lower,” he said. The lights dimmed. He paused. “More,” they dimmed some more. “Okay.” He swiped his crinkled handkerchief over his brow and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “Bring her in.”

The door opened and Victoria, in chains, was led in by two hefty cops, one with a crewcut, the other with a thick, wavy head of hair.

“Shall we wait, sir?” the wavy-haired cop asked while seating Victoria, her chains rattling as they hit the table. “She is, after all, you know,” he leaned in toward Pickering and whispered, “coo-coo, coo-coo.” He rolled his eyes while swirling his fingers around his healthy doo.

“No,” Pickering snapped, turning from him. “And Buckley,” he added “get a goddamn haircut, helmet-head.”

Buckley nodded, his face reddening, as the two men left, Buckley’s crewcut partner snickering and nudging him in the ribs on the way out.

The door closed. Victoria looked hard into the mirror, then stared down at her hands, which were folded and resting on the table. "Where’s my lawyer?” she asked. “You said he’d --”

“Talk,” Pickering ordered.

“I’ve told you everything I know, Detective,” she said, not looking up.

“Everything?

“Everything."

“Well, I have reason to believe that you’re not telling me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, Chemiste.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sighed. “Just send me back to my cell now please.”

“I’m glad you like the accommodations because I plan to make sure you stay for a very long time.”

“Detective, I’m hungover and tired. And I really don’t have anything more to say.”

Pickering grabbed her by the wrists and came nose to nose with her. “Look, I’m done playing games, Chemiste.” He studied her newly acquired pallor, the dark circles around her eyes. He knew she’d crack soon; she’d have to.

“Done?” She didn’t flinch, or back away. “Already, Detective? If it’s the ‘good cop/bad cop’ game you’re talking about, we never did get to the good cop part.”

He let go of her wrists and walked toward the mirror. “Tell me about the bodies,” he blurted.

“I told you --”

“How did you do it?” A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“I didn’t.”

He seemed to not hear her. “Better yet, why?”

“Detective Pickering, I told you I --”

He swooped toward her and slammed his fist on the table. Her chains clattered as he did. “The DA tells me I need more,” he rasped, his eyes were ablaze, spit spewed from his mouth on each consonant, “and, damn it, you’re going to give it to me or I swear I’ll --”

A knock at the door interrupted him. It was quiet a moment, but for Pickering’s panting.
“Come in!” He roared, plucking his handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

Buckley opened the door. He stood flattening his hair with his palm a moment, then pointed to the opened package he held in his hand. “This just came in.”

“For me?” Pickering asked, annoyed, blotting his hairline with his now soggy handkerchief. “Damn it, Buckley, just put it in my office.”

“Not for you sir. For Ms. Chemiste.”

Pickering sneered at Victoria warily. “Expecting something?”

She shrugged.

Pickering said to Buckley, “I presume you’ve checked it thoroughly.”

“All the usual checks, of course, sir.” Buckley scoffed, “It’s just some girly stuff.”

Pickering snatched the box from him and pulled out what appeared to be a long, curly hair extension. “I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re gonna look good as a red-head,” Pickering said, studying the hair and furrowing his brow. “Chemiste, what the hell is this?”

“I have no idea.”

“There’s a note too, sir,” Buckley said.

Pickering pulled out the note and read it, “‘At your service, Mistress. As you requested. Will run the shop while you are detained. Signed, You’re Most Loyal Servant.’”
Pickering glared Victoria’s way a moment, then proceeded to examine the hair in his hand.

“I have no idea what that means,” she said, shaking her head. “And I never wear wigs.”

“Oh really now,” Pickering crooned. There was a few seconds of silence as no one moved. Then he bellowed, “Buckley, get me some gloves!” Everyone jumped, Victoria’s chains jangling. “And get Forensics in here NOW!”

“Forensics, sir?”

Pickering hovered over Victoria. “No idea huh?” Then he shouted to Buckley, “Yes! Are your brains being replaced by your hairline or what?!? FORENSICS!”

Buckley hurried out, slamming the door behind him.

Pickering spoke directly to the mirror, “Gentlemen, it looks like our lovely suspect has more sway than we thought. She’s got people on the outside doing her dirty work for her.” He held the flowing mane in front of Victoria, and eyed her response suspiciously.

She gasped as she got a closer look. For, dangling from the strawberry blonde tresses was a pink and moist hunk of scalp.

Chapter 53

Georgia added two bottles of 1999 Ravenswood Zinfandel to her cart, already brimming with fine cheeses, pates, caviar, deli salads, smoked salmon, hard-crusted breads, and the like. She pushed her cart into the checkout line staffed by the healthiest-looking specimen of the bunch, a carrot-topped, athletic woman in black rectangular-framed glasses nearly six feet tall.

"I can take someone over here," a pimply, skinny, greasy-hared teen boy called from the next aisle over.

"Why don't you go - you've been waiting," Georgia said sweetly to the elderly matron in front of her in line. The older woman did not protest; her cart nearly ran over Georgia's foot as she pushed it rapidly past.

Georgia added a roll of wintergreen Breathsavers and the latest People magazine to her cart as she waited. The best part of being a cross-dresser, she realized, was the freedom to impulse shop like a man after browsing like a woman.

She scanned the cover of the magazine. A headline caught her eye. Under an inset photo of the mayor ran the caption: "Can this man stop Manhattan's crime spree?" She turned to the article, a 2-pager tucked into the "news" section. Good work, she nodded. The reported noted both the overall increase in violent crimes and car thefts, and specifically noted the curious blip in stolen taxicabs and the high-profile murders of the Wallersteins. There was even a sidebar on the grisly organ-theft murders.

She reached the cashier and began unloading her cart. "Did you find eerything you needed?" the redhead asked. Georgia read her nametag - Brenda. "Yes, thank - actualy, no, there was on ething I couldn't find. Capers. Do you carry those?"

"Sure. Aisle five. What size jar do you need?" Brenda was picking up her paging phone, already punching in numbers.

"Just a small jar. Smallest you have. Oh, and some dijon mustard, please."

Brenda requested assistance from Chuck and began scanning the goods already in her cart. "Oh, I love Brie - oh, and Gorgonzola.. That'll go great with the Carr's Wheatmeal biscuits and the zin. You must be having a party?"

"A small one, yes," Georgia smiled. "Let's call it... an organ recital."

"Such a beautiful instrument," Brenda said. "Do you play?"

"In a manner of speaking," Georgia said. "You seem to appreciate some of the finer things in life, am I right?"

"I'm at chef's school," Brenda said, scanning the shrimp cocktail sauce. "I'm getting spoiled, but as a student, I can't afford my champagne tastes."

"Hmm. This would work out nicely. I'd love to have this party catered. Do you think...?"

Brenda's eyes lit up. "I'd love to! When is it?"

"Tonight at seven. Give me your phone number..."

The data were exchanged. The trap was set.

Chapter 52

The grey cement room was musty and damp. A buzzing fluorescent light flickered overhead, and the shadows appeared to twitch with angst. The low and shaky hum of 'Mellow Yellow' could be heard echoing along the cinderblock walls, as could the scratching claws of rats searching in vain for a dropped morsel.

Roger, bearded and emaciated was strapped to the table, his face pale and clammy, his once smooth blonde tresses now a tangled greasy mesh. “Stop humming, damn you!” he shrieked, his strident voice hitting the cement like a bat on bone.

“I like to hum as I work,” the shadowy figure murmured from the corner. “It helps me to concentrate.”

“That song… that awful song…”

“Oh, Rodney, dear –”

“It’s ROGER, damn you, Uncle George,” Roger said, his voice cracking on the curse. Then after a pause he said, “You were humming that song when you murdered poor granny.”

“That was a long time ago. I wasn’t quite myself then. And please, dear nephew, call me Georgia for the time being.” the shadowy figure turned, revealing himself. George had transformed halfway back to Georgia, wearing nothing but nylons, red pumps, a pink lace double D and a surgical mask, but no other clothes, and no wig or make-up. He pranced toward Roger, a scalpel in each hand.

“Please, Uncle George, I really don’t want to –”

“Now, Rodney, just a few alterations and you’ll be back to your old self.”

“I’m not Rodney! I’m his twin brother, Roger, remember? Rodney is dead.”

“Don’t EVER –” Georgia dropped one scalpel so he could grab Roger by the hair. He was wide-eyed and shaking, sweat glossing his temples, “– EVER say that." Then, looking toward the unstable fluorescent light, his eyes glazed over as he spoke swiftly and low, as if suddenly possessed. “While I lay comatose and on the brink of death, my loyal nephew Rodney summoned me from the grave, calling upon me to see our mission to its glorious conclusion. We are worthy; we are worthy. Together we shall be transformed and, from both sides of the cemetery lawn, we shall rule all of Manhattan. And it too shall be transformed, not like the first Manhattan, of liberty and open arms and immigrants who bred bad drivers; and nothing like the second, of taxi cabs and skyscrapers; but the third, the third Manhattan, where all the ugly shall be recycled, their redeeming features preserved and given to the beautiful, the worthy. We are worthy, we are worthy…”

Roger watched his uncle as his voice faded into the shadows. “I can’t believe it,” he finally said, “all those years. The whole family pitched in for your therapy, hoping you’d be cured. You are far from cured. Uncle George, you’re a loony tune.”

Georgia ripped off his surgical mask, revealing a cross-stitched-on Roman nose. “Well, nephew,” he said, holding up the scalpel, “we’ll just see who the crazy one is. Now then. Hold still. Those Dumbo ears have GOT to go.”

For the next half-hour, throughout the basement of the abandoned house that sat on an isolated dead-end street just outside of Poughkeepsie, Roger’s screams could be heard. They remained strong for a while, then turned groggy, then ceased.