The Killing Kind

I laid aside the pamphlet, kind of relieved that I'd bought Rolling Stone. I spent the next hour deciding who among the good and not-so-good of modern music was unlikely to be taking up salvation space in the next world. I had made a pretty comprehensive list when, shortly after one-thirty, a woman and a man came out of the Fellowship's offices. The man was Carter Paragon: I recognized the slicked-back dark hair, the shiny gray suit, and the unctuous ma

The woman with him was tall and probably about the same age as Paragon; early forties, I guessed. She had straight dark brown hair that hung to her shoulders, and her body was hidden beneath a dark blue wool overcoat. Her face was hardly conventionally pretty; the jaw was too square, the nose too long, and the muscles at her jaws looked overdeveloped, as if her teeth were permanently gritted. She wore white pancake makeup and bright red lipstick like a graduate of clown school, although if she was, nobody was laughing. Her shoes were flat, but she was still at least five-ten or five-eleven and towered over Paragon by about four inches. The look that passed between them as they made their way toward Temple Street was strange. It seemed that Paragon deferred to her and I noticed that he stepped back quickly when she turned away from the door after checking the lock, as if afraid to get in her way.

I left $5 on the table, then walked out onto Main and strolled over to the Mustang. I had been tempted to tackle them on the street but I was curious to see where they were going. The red Explorer emerged onto Temple, then drove past me through the lot, heading south. I followed it at a distance until it came to Ke

I parked in front of the gates, waited for about five minutes, and then tried the intercom on the gatepost. I noticed that there was another fish-eye lens built in so I covered it with my hand.

“Yes?” came Ms. Torrance's voice.

“UPS delivery,” I said.

There was silence for a few moments as Ms. Torrance tried to figure out what had gone wrong with her gate camera, before her voice told me that she'd be right out. I was kind of hoping that she might have let me in, but I settled for keeping my hand on the camera and my body out of sight. It was only when Ms. Torrance was almost at the gate that I stepped into view. She didn't look too pleased to see me, but then I couldn't imagine her looking too pleased to see anyone. Even Jesus would have received a frosty reception from Ms. Torrance.

“My name is Charlie Parker. I'm a private detective. I'd like to see Carter Paragon, please.” Those words were assuming the status of a mantra, with none of the associated calm.

Ms. Torrance's face was so hard it could have mined diamonds. “I've told you before, Mr. Paragon isn't available,” she said.

“Mr. Paragon certainly is elusive,” I replied. “Do you deflate him and put him in a box when he's not needed?”

“I'm afraid I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Parker. Please go away, or I'll call the police. You are harassing Mr. Paragon.”

“No,” I corrected. “I would be harassing Mr. Paragon, if I could find him. Instead, I'm stuck with harassing you, Ms. Torrance. It is Ms. Torrance, isn't it? Are you unhappy, Ms. Torrance? You sure look unhappy. In fact, you look so unhappy that you're starting to make me unhappy.”

Ms. Torrance gave me the evil eye. “Go fuck yourself, Mr. Parker,” she said softly.

I leaned forward confidentially. “You know, God can hear you talk that way.”

Ms. Torrance turned on her heel and walked away. She looked a whole lot better from the back than she did from the front, which wasn't saying much.

I stood there for a time, peering through the bars like an unwanted party guest. Apart from the Explorer there was only one other vehicle in the driveway of the Paragon house, a beat-up blue Honda Civic. It didn't look like the kind of car a man of Carter Paragon's stature would drive, so maybe it was what Ms. Torrance used to get around when she wasn't chauffeuring her charge. I went back to my car, listened to a classical music slot on NPR, and continued reading Rolling Stone. I had just begun to wonder if I was optimistic enough to buy one hundred rubbers for $29.99 when a white Acura pulled up behind me. A big man dressed in a black jacket and blue jeans, with a black silk-knit tie knotted over his white shirt, strode up to my window and knocked on the glass. I rolled down the window, looked at his shield and the name beside his photo, and smiled. The name was familiar from the police report on Grace Peltier. This was Detective John Lutz, the investigating officer on the case, except Lutz was attached to CID III and operated out of Machias, while Waterville was technically in the territory of CID II.

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice liked to say.

“Help you, Detective Lutz?” I asked.

“Can you step out of the car, please, sir?” he said, standing back as I opened the door. The thumb of his right hand hung on his belt, while the rest of his fingers pushed his jacket aside, revealing the butt of his.45 caliber H amp;K as he did so. He was six feet tall and in good condition, his stomach flat beneath his shirt. His eyes were brown and his skin was slightly ta

“Turn around, put your hands against the car, and spread your legs,” he told me.

I was about to protest when he gave me a sharp push, spi

“Take it easy,” I said. “I still owe payments on the car.”

He patted me down, but he didn't find anything of note. I wasn't armed, which I think kind of disappointed him. All he got was my wallet.

“You can turn around now, Mr. Parker,” he said when he had finished. I found him looking at my license, then back at me a couple of times, as if trying to sow enough doubt about its validity to justify hauling me in.

“Why are you loitering outside Mr. Paragon's home, Mr. Parker?” he said. “Why are you harassing his staff?”

He didn't smile. His voice was low and smooth. He sounded a little like Carter Paragon himself, I thought.

“I was trying to make an appointment,” I said.

“Why?”

“I'm a lost soul, looking for guidance.”

“If you're trying to find yourself, maybe you should go look someplace else.”

“Wherever I go, there I am.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“I've learned to live with it.”

“Doesn't seem to me like you have much choice, but Mr. Paragon does. If he doesn't want to see you, then you should accept that and be on your way.”

“Do you know anything about Grace Peltier, Detective Lutz?”

“What's it to you?”

“I've been hired to look into the circumstances of her death. Someone told me that you might know something about it.” I let the double meaning hang in the air for a time, its ambiguity like a little time bomb ticking between us. Lutz's fingers tapped briefly on his belt, but it was the only indication he gave that his calm might be under threat.