Dream Man
Trammell considered the level of beer in his glass. “No, this will do it.” He paused, still frowning at the amber liquid. “Say, Dane…”
His voice trailed off, and Dane lifted his brows, waiting inquisitively. “Yeah, what?”
“These gut feelings you get. Your instincts are usually right on, and everyone knows it. Have you ever thought… you aren’t a lot different from Marlie?”
If Dane hadn’t already finished his beer, he’d have spewed it all over the table. He choked, and his outraged “What?” was just a wheeze of sound.
“Just think about it.” Trammell warmed to his subject, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the table. “We all get hunches, we all go with our guts. Most of the time we don’t need to, because the perp is sitting there singing like a good little birdie, but every so often we get a mystery. So how are our hunches different from what Marlie does?”
“That’s a crock. Hunches are just the subconscious noticing something that consciously we haven’t thought about yet.”
“That’s pretty much what a psychic does, isn’t it?” Dane gave him a sour look. “I think two beers is maybe one over your limit. We get hunches because of evidence we can see, and circumstances we can think about. Hell, a psychic doesn’t have to be anywhere around or know anything about the situation, they just pick up these vibes, or whatever.”
Trammell rubbed his head, disturbing his hair. Dane began to feel vaguely concerned; maybe two beers was too much for Trammell. God knows he’d never seen Trammell with so much as one hair out of place, except for that time when they’d gotten in a shootout and Dane had caught a bullet, but those were extenuating circumstances.
“I can’t make up my mind what to believe,” Trammell muttered. “Logic and the law of averages says that Ansel Vinick was the most likely suspect. But Marlie knew everything, except about the fingers, and how did she know unless she’s for real? If she’s for real, then Vinick was innocent and we’re back to square one.” He picked up the glass and drained it, then set it on the table with a thunk.
“That’s exactly where we are. Square one. I’m beginning to feel stupid, because we sure as hell aren’t accomplishing anything.”
“No evidence, no witnesses, no motive. Know what?”
Trammell’s lean, faunlike face was so funereal that Dane had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “No, what?”
“I don’t metabolize alcohol very well,” his dapper partner announced with grave dignity.
“No!” Dane clapped his hands to his face. “I never would have guessed.” Privately he thought that anyone who could still say “metabolize” without tripping over the syllables was in damn good shape.
“I’m usually more careful than this. I … sip.”
“You’re a world-class sipper.”
“Thank you. But it’s probably a good thing that you’re driving.”
“I think so. Are you ready to go home now?”
“Any time you are. You won’t have to put me to bed or anything like that, but I wouldn’t want to drive.”
“I wouldn’t want you to drive, either, buddy. C’mon, let’s go.”
Trammell was steady on his feet, but he was humming under his breath, and Dane almost laughed again. Humming “My Darling Clementine” didn’t fit with the image. “Will you have a hangover?” he asked curiously. A hangover from two beers would be hilarious.
“Never have,” Trammell said. They were outside, and he inhaled a deep breath of smoke-free air. “This doesn’t happen very often. Not since college.”
“That’s good.”
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Naw. I promise.” It would be tempting, but he’d keep it to himself. Though most embarrassing things were fair game, this was something Trammell couldn’t help, and the guys would rag him unmercifully for the rest of his life. On the other hand, it was nice to have something he could hold over Trammell’s head occasionally. He whistled cheerfully as they got in the car, his good mood restored.
* * *
The ritual was comforting. He liked for everything to happen in exactly the same order every time, because he commanded it. He didn’t do it often enough for it to be routine—that would weaken the power of it—but there was reassurance in the sameness of preparation. Knowing that these very preparations would make it impossible for the police to ever catch him gave him a sense of gleeful power. They caught only stupid people who made stupid mistakes, and he had never made a mistake. Not one.
Anticipation for the coming night kept rising in him, but he kept it firmly under control. He wanted to concentrate on the preparations.
First the hairpiece of blond curls came off. It was a very good hairpiece; he had paid an outrageous amount for it, but it had been worth every penny. No one had ever discovered that it was a full wig. Not only was blond his natural coloring, which meant the color wasn’t jarring, but the style of blond curls was something that people remembered. It was very recognizable.
There was nothing wrong with his own hair, he thought, examining his temples for any telltale sign of a retreating hairline. But it would be stupid to let a stray hair give the police a means of identifying him. He carefully shaved his head, taking his time about it, though there was only stubble because the last time had been so recent.
He loved shaving, the wetness, the slick feel of the shaving gel, the glide of the razor over his flesh. It was almost like sex.