Waiting

A man stepped out from behind one of the costume racks.

“May I help you?” he asked.

The man cut a startling figure. He was tall and extremely thin, wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt that was printed to resemble a tuxedo. He was also wearing familiar “Groucho” glasses—the kind with an enormous white nose, black-rimmed glasses, and bushy eyebrows and a mustache.

Obviously taken somewhat aback, Crivaro and McCune took out their badges and told the man who they and Riley were.

Seeming utterly unsurprised to be visited by the FBI, the man introduced himself as Danny Casal, the owner of the business.

“Just call me Danny,” he said.

Riley found herself waiting for him to take off the nose glasses. But as she looked at him more closely, she realized …

Those are prescription glasses.

They also had remarkably thick lenses. Danny Casal apparently wore these glasses all the time, and he surely would be quite myopic without them.

McCune opened a manila folder.

“We have photos of two women,” he said. “We need to know if you’ve ever seen either of them.”

The eyebrows and fake nose and mustache all bobbed up and down as Danny nodded. He struck Riley as a peculiarly serious and dour man to be wearing such a getup.

McCune pulled out one photo and held it for the shop owner to see.

Danny peered at the photo through his glasses.

He said, “She’s not one of our regular customers. I can’t guarantee that she’s never been in the shop, but I don’t recognize her.”

“You’re sure?” McCune asked.

“Quite positive.”

“Does the name Margo Birch mean anything to you?”

“Uh, maybe something in the news. I’m not sure.”

McCune pulled out another photo. “What about this woman? We believe she came to your establishment to take pictures.”

Riley, too, looked closely at the photograph. This must be Janet Davis. It was the first time she’d seen her living, unpainted face—smiling and happy and unaware of the terrible fate that awaited her.

“Oh, yes,” Casal said. “She was in here not long ago. Janet something.”

“Davis,” Crivaro said.

“That’s right,” Casal said with a nod. “A nice lady. A nice camera too—I’m something of a photography buff myself. She offered to pay me to let her take pictures here, but I wouldn’t accept. I was flattered that she found my establishment worthy of her efforts.”

Casal tilted his head and looked at his visitors.

“But I don’t suppose you’re here with good news about her,” he said. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

Crivaro said, “I’m afraid she was murdered. Both of these women were.”

“Really?” Casal said. “When?”

“Margo Birch was found dead five days ago. Janet Davis was murdered the night before last.”

“Oh,” Casal said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Riley barely noticed any change in his tone of voice or facial expression.

McCune changed tactics. He asked, “Do you sell clown costumes here?”

“Of course,” Casal said. “Why do you ask?”

McCune abruptly took another photo out of his folder. Riley almost gasped when she got a look at it.

It showed another dead woman dressed in a clown costume. She was splayed on concrete next to an alley dumpster. The costume was similar to the one that Janet Davis, the victim found in the park this morning, had worn—puffy fabric with huge pompom buttons. But the colors and patterns were somewhat different, and so was the makeup.

Margo Birch, Riley realized. The way she was found.

McCune asked Casal, “Do you sell costumes like this one?”

Riley noticed that Crivaro was scowling at McCune. McCune was obviously testing Casal’s response to the photo, but Crivaro seemed to disapprove of his blunt approach.

But like McCune, Riley was curious as to how the man was going to react.

Casal turned to look at Riley. She simply couldn’t read his expression. In addition to the bushy eyebrows and mustache, she could now see how really thick the lenses were. Although he was surely making eye contact with her, it didn’t look like it. Refracted through the lenses, his eyes appeared to be directed slightly elsewhere.

It’s like he’s wearing a mask, Riley thought.

“Is this Ms. Davis?” Casal asked Riley.

Riley shook her head and said, “No. But Janet Davis’s body was found in a similar condition this morning.”

Still with no change in his tone of voice, Casal said to McCune …

“In answer to your question—yes, we do sell this sort of costume.”

He led his visitors over to a long rack full of clown costumes. Riley was startled at how varied they were.

As Casal browsed among some tattered jackets and baggy, patched up pants, he said, “As you can see, there are several different types of clowns. For example, there’s the ‘tramp’ here, often personified as a hobo or a vagabond, with a worn-out hat and shoes, sooty sunburned makeup, a sad frown, and a painted stubble of beard. The female equivalent is often a bag lady.”

He moved on to group of more motley costumes.

“Somewhat related to the tramp is the ‘Auguste,’ a traditional European type, more of a trickster than a vagabond, an underling and a flunky. He wears a red nose and mismatched clothes and alternates between inept clumsiness and agile cunning.”

Then he shuffled through some costumes that seemed to be mostly white, some of them spangled and with colored trim.

He said, “And here we have the traditional European whiteface, the ‘Pierrot’—composed, poised, graceful, intelligent, always in control. His makeup is simple—completely white, with regular features painted in red or black, like a mime, and he often wears a conical hat. He’s an authority figure, often Auguste’s boss—and not a very nice boss. Small wonder, though, since many of Auguste’s jokes are at his expense.”

He moved through dozens of wildly different costumes, saying …

“Now here we’ve got lots of different ‘character’ clowns, based on types familiar from everyday life—cops, maids, butlers, doctors, firemen, that kind of thing. But here’s the type you’re looking for.”

He showed his visitors a row of brightly colored costumes that definitely reminded Riley of the victims in the picture and the field.

“This is the ‘grotesque whiteface,’” he said.

That word caught Riley’s attention.

Grotesque.

Yes, that certainly described what had been done to Janet Davis’s body.

Fingering one of the outfits, Casal continued, “This is the most common type of clown, I suppose, at least here in America. It doesn’t reflect any particular type or profession or status. The grotesque whiteface is just generally clownish-looking, ridiculous and silly. Think Bozo the Clown, or Ronald McDonald—or Stephen King’s ‘It,’ to cite a scarier example. The grotesque typically wears a baggy colorful costume, outsized shoes, and white makeup with exaggerated features, including a huge wig and a bright red nose.”

Crivaro seemed to be genuinely interested in what Casal was now saying.

He asked, “Have you sold any of these grotesque-type costumes lately?”

Casal thought for a moment.

“Not that I remember—not at least during the last few months,” he said. “I could look through our receipts, but that might take a while.”

Crivaro handed him his FBI card and said, “I’d appreciate if you’d do that and get back to me.”

“I’ll do that,” Casal said. “But remember, the grotesque costume is extremely common. It might have been bought at any costume shop anywhere in the city.”

McCune smirked a little and said, “Yeah, but this isn’t just any costume store. One of the victims was here pretty recently taking pictures.”

His expression still inscrutable, Casal put his hands in his pockets and said, “Yes, I can understand why that might concern you.”

Casal looked off into space for a moment, as if deep in thought.

Then his whole body seemed to jerk to attention.

“Oh, my,” he said, finally sounding unsettled. “I just thought of something I think you’d better know.”

CHAPTER TEN

Riley felt a surge of excitement as she and the two FBI agents followed Casal away from the costume rack.

Are we about to get a break? she wondered.

Without revealing what he’d just remembered, the store manager had whirled around and headed back to the front of the store.

When he reached the front desk, Casal stopped and began to explain.

“Janet Davis came back here a second day to take more pictures. But she left rather abruptly—and she wasn’t at all happy.”

Riley, Crivaro, and McCune exchanged interested glances.

“Why not?” Crivaro asked.

Casal opened a filing cabinet and thumbed through its contents.

“Well, she complained about a young man who was working here at the time—Gregory Wertz is his name. Apparently he’d said something improper to her. She wasn’t specific, but she was quite upset about it, and it wasn’t the first time a female customer complained about him. I’d also suspected him of stealing for some time, so I fired him on the spot.”

Crivaro asked, “Can you give us his address?”

“Certainly,” Casal said, taking a sheet of paper out of the drawer and handing it to Crivaro. “Here you go—his name, Social Security number, phone number, and address. Also, the last day he worked here—exactly two weeks ago today.”

Crivaro thanked him for his cooperation, and Riley followed the two agents out of the store.

She was startled when, as soon as they were outside, Crivaro grabbed McCune by the shoulder.

“What do you think you were doing back there?” he asked angrily.

McCune looked surprised.

“You mean showing him that photo? I wanted to see his reaction, of course.”

“It was a stunt,” Crivaro said. “I don’t like stunts.”

McCune’s face reddened with anger.

“A stunt, huh?” he said. “Are you telling me you trust that Casal guy? He seemed as suspicious as hell to me. Actually, he gave me the creeps, the way he talked and all. He didn’t even give us a good look at his face.”

That’s true, Riley thought.

But it really hadn’t occurred to her to suspect Casal of anything.

Crivaro paced back and forth, barking at McCune.

“So you just thought you’d put the screws to him, huh? You decided to go for some kind of instant confession. Figured you’d get a lot of glory if you succeeded. Well, let me put your mind at ease about something. Casal’s not our killer.”

“How do you know?” McCune asked.

Crivaro rolled his eyes and said, “Didn’t you get a good look at him? He’s blind as a bat without those glasses, and he’s as skinny as a rail. Our killer abducted two women—at least one of them probably forcibly. Then he managed to subdue them. Can you imagine Casal pulling that off?”

Looking as embarrassed as angry now, McCune began, “Maybe with an accomplice—”

Crivaro interrupted, “There wasn’t any accomplice. My every instinct tells me our killer acts alone. And he’s sure as hell not Danny Casal. Casal’s maybe an important witness, though. We’re all just lucky you didn’t spook him into not cooperating.”

McCune hung his head and shuffled his feet.

Crivaro jabbed his finger at him.

“Now listen to me. No more stunts, not when you’re working with me. If you get any ideas, talk to me about them first. This is not the Boy Scouts. Initiative is not a virtue right now. Either I call all the shots, or you can get off the case.”

In a whisper, McCune said, “I hear you. It won’t happen again.”

“It sure as hell had better not,” Crivaro growled.

A silence fell among the three of them.

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