apples.
“Homer killed thirteen women,” Reese said, hoping to get her back on track. “I think that’s more important than dirt.”
That’s what you say,” she said, “but the paper said you were let go from the police. Didn’t mention “retirement”. They were surprised you weren’t charged with murder.”
Not half as surprised as he’d been. He owed Carsabi for that. “Was Homer into vampires? Did he dress in black? White make-up?”
She shook her head. “Levi’s and checkered shirts. A forty-year old Beaver Cleaver. He had a pocket protector, for God’s sake. He rode a bicycle. He was a sweet kid. Never grew up. The rumor was that his mother drank a lot during the pregnancy and Homer was born slow. He’d stop by for milk and cookies.” He noticed something like regret on her face. “Dean and I never had kids.” She opened the refrigerator and poured him a glass of orange juice. “We have a Gothic store in town that sells that vampire junk but I don’t think Homer knew anything about it.”
“I’ll check.”
“You’re staying in his apartment,” she said. “Your landlord, Rupert Amos, told me a detective had moved into Homer’s old place.”
“I never told him I was a detective,” he said.
“He’s got eyes, doesn’t he? What about a DNA match? What if this Richard Lamb just looked like Homer?”
“Richard Lamb checked into the California Hotel as Homer Wermels. He used Homer’s apartment as a previous address. After I moved into Homer’s old apartment, I found a fingerprint under the toilet seat.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“It’s funny,” he said. “They always forget to clean under the seat.”
He’d been surprised to find Homer’s apartment still vacant. He guessed the landlord had been holding it in hope that Homer would return. Why, he didn’t know. He’d used a small bottle of talcum powder and scotch tape to pull the print.
“It matched Richard Lamb?”
He nodded. “I brought a set of prints from the coroner.” He’d not been surprised and could tell that she wasn’t either, putting up only token resistance. What did she know?
“It sounds like you know what you’re doing,” she said.
“I can still pass for a detective,” he said, “if I have to.” He wished it were that simple. “And you haven’t seen Homer for what? Three months?”
“The same time the killings started.”
“So,” he said, “in your opinion, what caused Homer to change?”
“Change? Is that what they call it now?” She removed a blue plate from the cupboard and put it on the counter. “In my opinion you should ask Ajax Rasmussen. He lives in town and owns Cirrus Industries.”
“And his connection to Homer?”
“In Paris he harvests, harvest is what they call it, blood from the placenta.” She flipped the eggs and adjusted the sausage. She cut a piece of bread from the middle of the loaf and popped it in the toaster. “Afterbirth. Ten tons a day.” She put the eggs on a plate and the sausage next to them. “It’s shipped to his factory in dry ice from all over Eastern Europe. I read that in Newsweek.”
“That’s a lot of - ”
“A wine press, an antique one from Napoleon’s day, he uses to squeeze those placentas dry.” She put the plate down in front of him. “There you go. Heart attack on a plate, as my husband used to call it.” She refilled his coffee. The toast popped up. She smeared it with butter and dropped it on his plate. She poured herself a cup and sat.
He cut the sausage and mixed it with egg yolk. Until now, he’d been unable to tie Homer to personally Rasmussen. “Homer’s connection to Rasmussen?”
“Homer was a gardener at Rasmussen’s little castle before he disappeared.”
“The one with spires and turrets? Hangs over the canyon?”
“You’d have to be blind not to see it.” She blew into her coffee. “I’m also sure that Ajax Rasmussen wants to poison the blood supply. Of the world, mind you. Millions dead.
“Homer killed thirteen women,” Reese said, hoping to get her back on track. “I think that’s more important than dirt.”
That’s what you say,” she said, “but the paper said you were let go from the police. Didn’t mention “retirement”. They were surprised you weren’t charged with murder.”
Not half as surprised as he’d been. He owed Carsabi for that. “Was Homer into vampires? Did he dress in black? White make-up?”
She shook her head. “Levi’s and checkered shirts. A forty-year old Beaver Cleaver. He had a pocket protector, for God’s sake. He rode a bicycle. He was a sweet kid. Never grew up. The rumor was that his mother drank a lot during the pregnancy and Homer was born slow. He’d stop by for milk and cookies.” He noticed something like regret on her face. “Dean and I never had kids.” She opened the refrigerator and poured him a glass of orange juice. “We have a Gothic store in town that sells that vampire junk but I don’t think Homer knew anything about it.”
“I’ll check.”
“You’re staying in his apartment,” she said. “Your landlord, Rupert Amos, told me a detective had moved into Homer’s old place.”
“I never told him I was a detective,” he said.
“He’s got eyes, doesn’t he? What about a DNA match? What if this Richard Lamb just looked like Homer?”
“Richard Lamb checked into the California Hotel as Homer Wermels. He used Homer’s apartment as a previous address. After I moved into Homer’s old apartment, I found a fingerprint under the toilet seat.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“It’s funny,” he said. “They always forget to clean under the seat.”
He’d been surprised to find Homer’s apartment still vacant. He guessed the landlord had been holding it in hope that Homer would return. Why, he didn’t know. He’d used a small bottle of talcum powder and scotch tape to pull the print.
“It matched Richard Lamb?”
He nodded. “I brought a set of prints from the coroner.” He’d not been surprised and could tell that she wasn’t either, putting up only token resistance. What did she know?
“It sounds like you know what you’re doing,” she said.
“I can still pass for a detective,” he said, “if I have to.” He wished it were that simple. “And you haven’t seen Homer for what? Three months?”
“The same time the killings started.”
“So,” he said, “in your opinion, what caused Homer to change?”
“Change? Is that what they call it now?” She removed a blue plate from the cupboard and put it on the counter. “In my opinion you should ask Ajax Rasmussen. He lives in town and owns Cirrus Industries.”
“And his connection to Homer?”
“In Paris he harvests, harvest is what they call it, blood from the placenta.” She flipped the eggs and adjusted the sausage. She cut a piece of bread from the middle of the loaf and popped it in the toaster. “Afterbirth. Ten tons a day.” She put the eggs on a plate and the sausage next to them. “It’s shipped to his factory in dry ice from all over Eastern Europe. I read that in Newsweek.”
“That’s a lot of - ”
“A wine press, an antique one from Napoleon’s day, he uses to squeeze those placentas dry.” She put the plate down in front of him. “There you go. Heart attack on a plate, as my husband used to call it.” She refilled his coffee. The toast popped up. She smeared it with butter and dropped it on his plate. She poured herself a cup and sat.
He cut the sausage and mixed it with egg yolk. Until now, he’d been unable to tie Homer to personally Rasmussen. “Homer’s connection to Rasmussen?”
“Homer was a gardener at Rasmussen’s little castle before he disappeared.”
“The one with spires and turrets? Hangs over the canyon?”
“You’d have to be blind not to see it.” She blew into her coffee. “I’m also sure that Ajax Rasmussen wants to poison the blood supply. Of the world, mind you. Millions dead.
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