The Midtown Murderer (21 page)

Chapter 50

Lynn’s veterinarian clinic sat on Ponce De Leon Street
between Peachtree and West Peachtree Street, sandwiched neatly between the Southern Bell Tower Building and the FOX Theater.

The wind had begun to moderate, and from a cocoon of gray, the city began to open out. Misty clouds hung over the Skyscrapers, casting a flat shadowless light over the landscape.

Trent approached a formidable ten-foot-tall iron fence with gilded spikes that surrounded Lynn’s property. He walked his dog through an iron gate and bound up the steps. A brass sign affixed to an oak door read: “Dr. Jeff Lynn. Hours By Appointment.” Trent pushed it open and stepped into a foyer with a high arched ceiling.

To his right was an open door. He walked in
to an office with oriental carpets, cushioned chairs, and teak furniture.

A plump woman
well into her seventies with gleaming white hair sat behind a glass-topped admissions desk. She was tapping the buttons on an old-fashioned adding machine. A small Charlie Brown Christmas tree with blinking lights sat on the corner of the desk.

Trent
sat in a wingback chair and examined the office. Three large oil paintings hung from a wall. To the left was a sepia portrait of a bulldozer-faced old man wearing a black jacket with rounded collars. He had droopy eyelids, white hair, and white pork chop sideburns. The gold plaque read: ‘Dr. Lynn Sr. 1886-1961.’

The bespectacled man in the middle painting was thinner and younger and wearing a white lab
coat. He held a heavily bandaged dog. Jeff Lynn’s father had died in 2004.

The third painting was of Jeff Lynn. He had blond hair and
friendly blue eyes. Born in 1969, Trent read, realizing that Lynn was three years younger than he.

Trent thumbed through a pamphlet on why dogs need dental care and considered Lynn. Had Jack really
cleaned kennels for him? And why did Cowboy have his business card?

The receptionist exited through a swinging door and returned carrying a plastic carry-kennel with a Siamese
cat in it. The cat’s high-pitched cries all but muffled the barks and yelps coming from behind the door.

When the customer had left she said, “You must be
Mr. Chips.”

“
Call me Joe. And this is Lucky.”

“I’m Ms. Osborne.” She s
tared at Lucky, and Lucky stared back, like, How did I get
here?
Trent rubbed behind its ears and Lucky blinked its big eyes. Ms. Osborne’s brow knitted in a frown. “That dog is severely undernourished.”

Trent pretended nothing was amiss.
“I just adopted Lucky from the Animal Rescue,” he said cheerfully, shuffling through his wallet for some large bills.

Ms. Osborne lifted Lucky’s back paw and examined it. “That was so kind of you,” she said,
peering into its ears. She added, “It is very hard to find stray dogs a proper home; more often than not, they are put down.”

“
I know Lucky will be well taken care of,” he said, sliding three one-hundred dollar bills onto the desk. Now he was a customer, and she gave him a sunny smile.

She swept an arm at the lavish room. “So, what do you think of our
historic building?” she asked in a merry, brisk voice.

“It’s beautiful. May I see the downstairs where you board the animals? It would be very interesting, I’m sure.”

“Yes! Yes, of course!” Ms. Osborne said. She came around the counter and attached a leash to Lucky’s collar. Then she put a hand on the door. “Just want to warn you, it can be loud downstairs.”

“
I don’t mind.”

She pushed open the door
and the discordant wail of dog barks became louder. Trent followed her down a wooden stairway that groaned under their combined weight. They stepped off onto a dull-gray concrete floor in a small basement.

“A hundred years ago this
basement was the coroner’s autopsy and storage room,” she said proudly. “Dr. Lynn’s grandfather bought the morgue from the city and converted it into his veterinary practice.”

“That old, huh?”

“Yes. The property is listed on the city’s historic register.”

“
I’m impressed.”

The redbrick walls were lined with pictures of
animals that Lynn had tended to. Trent poked his head into the surgery room and an examination room.

She opened another door, and they stepped into a
nother small room with a dusty floor. An all-pervading aroma of ammonia mixed with animal urine caught in Trent’s throat.

“What’s that smell?”

“A sewer line runs between this property and the Southern Bell building. A sharp odor occasionally creeps in through those old bricks and mixes with the animal smells; if you’re down here often you don’t notice it.”

The animal stalls were lined against the
south wall. Trent walked in front of the cages trying to find a dog that might have belonged to the late gangster.

He stopped in front of a stall that housed a shiny black pit-bull. When the dog stood and wagged his rat tail, Trent noticed he was all neck and shoulder muscles.

He hooked a finger inside the fence wire and the dog sniffed it with his pink snout. Then he rubbed his silken skin against Trent’s finger. When he bared his alligator teeth, Trent pulled his finger back.

Ms. Osborne placed Lucky in a stall.

“Are any of these animals regular customers?”

“A few,” she said. “That pit-bull’s name is
Chopper; his owner travels extensively, so we know Chopper quite well.”

Trent walked alongside the stalls wondering if there was any connection between Lynn, Butler, and Triple.

“Well, thanks for the tour,” he said, glad to leave the stench. “Lucky should be quite comfortable here.”

“Merry Christmas, J
oe.”

“And to you,”
he said, walking out the front door. It was then that a man riding a Harley-Davidson cruiser pulled through the gate.

“
Joe, that’s Dr. Lynn. Say hello if you have time.”

“
Be glad to.”

The man in the painting and the man walking toward Trent
could have been two different people. Lynn was exceptionally thin. His face was gaunt; his hair premature gray. If Trent hadn’t known, he would have guessed the doctor was in his late sixties.

Trent introduced himself. Lynn raised his boney hand to shake his. Trent thought it might have been palsy that made his hand tremble, but he had his doubts.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Trent asked him questions about buying a Harley-Davidson. Lynn gave him advice, but Trent thought he seemed preoccupied.

“Doctor, I don’t want to take up any
more of your time. Happy holidays to you.”

“
Merry Christmas. We’ll take good care of your dog.”

“Thanks.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful with your motorcycle selection,” he said tentatively.

“You’ve been quite helpful.”
And he had. His eyes told the whole story.

Chapter 51

It was
six o’clock on Christmas Eve. Trent motored sedately through an exclusive suburb in Buckhead where he crossed a narrow bridge that spanned a small lake and found the Clay’s redbrick estate at the end of a quiet tree-lined street. Colored lights were twined around boxwood shrubs by the front door.

Trent squeezed the hand brake and parked alongside
a Lexus SUV. He dropped the sidestand then checked the gauze on his elbows. Grateful that no blood had leaked through, he zipped up his leather coat. His arm throbbed from the bites and he wished he could take two of the Percs for the pain. But he still needed to stay sharp. Soon, he thought, I’ll be able to rest.

C
hief limped toward Trent, and he prayed the dog wouldn’t bite. Chief growled softly and leaned his weight against Trent’s legs. “You old devil,” Trent said, taking the dog’s broad head in both hands and rubbing his fur roughly. Chief sniffed and wagged his tail.

Rikki was leaning on her crutches inside the door. She was all smiles.
She wore a heavy red wool sweater with wide snowflakes embroidered in silver thread: she looked wonderful in it. She shivered and said, “Merry Christmas.”

“And to you.”

“Trent, I can’t wait to tell you what happened in Piedmont Park this morning.”

That incident was emblazoned in his mind but he said
, “First of all, how’s that ankle?”

“Fine,” she said, ushering him up the steps
and through the twin beveled-glass doors. Trent closed the doors behind him.

In the middle of the kitchen
was an island with twin stainless steel sinks and a pretty inlaid counter. Trent helped Rikki onto a barstool beside the countertop and placed her crutches beside her.

Rikki waved a hand at the refrigerator. “Trent, please help yourself to a drink.”

“Thanks,” he said, thinking longingly of Rikki and himself curled up on the couch drinking red wine in front of a fire. He wouldn’t dare suggest that until Chloe was safe and in her mother’s arms.

“Rikki, what would you like?”

“A Diet 7-Up would be nice.”

Trent opened the refrigerator and found a can of 7-Up and a bottle of dark beer. Then he opened the
subzero. Steam emptied onto his feet while he put a few ice cubes into her glass. He poured her soda over the smoking ice and said, “I’m dying to hear your story.”

As
Rikki told Trent what had happened in the park, he felt a wave of sadness roll out from her that shamed him. He’d caused her pain. He’d let her down.

They sat opposite one another
and he said, “I can’t believe what you have endured in the last two days.”

She sipped her drink and didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry I interrupted you,” he said. “Go on.”

“You didn’t interrupt. That’s the end of the story.”

Trent laughed. “End of story. The Midtown Murderer shoots the Doberman, you have a conversation with him, then he drives away in a white van,” he said, setting his scraped elbows gingerly on the countertop. “I’ll stay out of that park for a while.” And he meant it.

“I got a good look at the killer,” she said, twisting the ring on her pinky finger. “I sketched his face
; it will air this afternoon.”

Trent looked at her red fingernails. He had always harbored a suspicion that artist sketches were for crap
. Now he wasn’t sure.

Staring at him, seeking something in his face-he could not tell what, and anyhow he could
not look at her-she said, “The killer made a mistake.”

“
What is it?” he asked, mopping a spot where he spilled some beer.

She eyed him coolly and said,
“He’s a killer; but he’s not a cold-blooded killer. I saw it in his eyes.”

“In his eyes? What did you see?”

“Compassion.”

Trent tried to look confused. “Excuse me?”

“He’s a compassionate man who cares about mothers and children. Sure, he’s twisted; but in his mind he’s making Atlanta safer.”

She looked down
then raised her eyes to meet his. She had a trusting expression and appealing eyes. “The killer could be you.”

He was silent for several seconds, thinking
he should tell her the truth, feeling she could keep his secret.

“
And how do you figure that?” he asked, sliding his eyes from her face. He decided to tread very carefully with Chief Clay’s daughter.

“
Daddy said you were a cold-blooded perfectionist the night you killed those gangsters on the interstate. And that the killings didn’t bother you. Oh, it was the right thing to do, and I thank you for that, but most people couldn’t have done it. And then there’s what went down in your office last night. The Midtown Murderer is like you; a very decisive person.”

He tried to speak, but no words came out.

“Trent,” she said with laughter in her eyes, “I was kidding you. Gosh, those crutches have made my arms sore.”

He stood and rubbed her shoulders. “This will make you all better.”

“That feels so good,” she said. Then she spun around and looked him square in the eyes. She said, “When you leave I want you ditch your iPhone off the bridge into the lake so the cops can’t track you. Take this disposable phone,” she said, handing him a small, prepaid Boost phone. “My number is programmed in it, and I’m the only one who knows your number.”

“
Damn good idea,” he said, accepting the sleek phone.

“I’m a woman. What did you expect?” she said
, seeming very pleased with herself. “We also need to change your appearance.”

“Do we have time?”

“We have to
make
time. There are Wanted photos of you up all over the place. Let’s cut and dye your hair. Hand me my crutches and follow me.”

“OK.”

An hour later he examined his appearance in Rikki’s bathroom mirror. She had shaved his hair and eyebrows and dyed them blond.

Rikki examined Trent’s
appearance and said, “That should do it. Wear a stocking cap, some headphones, and dark sunglasses and you should be fine. Just don’t talk to anyone.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I work around cops; I know what’s what.”

“Yes you do.”

“Maya’s upstairs. I want you to go and talk to her.”

“She’s here?”

“Yes. It was my idea to have her stay with us. It’s been good for her, because we’ve been able to bond. And she knows it’s in Chloe’s best interest not to say a word about your visit here tonight.”

“I appreciate that.”
Trent was sure he knew the answer, but he had to ask. “Rikki, have you discovered the identity of the body that McClure found buried in the woods?”

“Yes,” she said sadly. “Late this afternoon we got a positive. I’m not supposed to talk about it, but if you won’t say anything
?”

“My lips are sealed.”

She dropped her eyes and said, “Her name was Ramsey; she was an Atlanta police officer who worked out of the Midtown Police Plaza. We wrongly believed that she had died in a meth lab fire along with three other GID officers.”

“What did your dad say?”

She was arranging fresh-cut flowers in a tall vase. “He’s devastated. It was unbearable at the precinct; the officers were in total shock and people were getting sick. Daddy’s pushed the investigation to the top; he’s vowed to find her killers if it’s the last thing he does.”

Trent was uncertain how to respond. He felt a deep sadness for Officer Ramsey and the officers who had perished in the fire. After a long silence he said, “Well, I’ll head up and s
peak to Maya.”

She fussed with the flowers and said shyly,
“Trent, I could meet you at a hotel later tonight. I have a Christmas gift for you.”

She had a magnificent figure and Trent found it impossible not to stare at her.
“I’d love to, Rikki. It just depends on when I finish up.”

“
I understand.”

He turned from the kitchen and thought,
Damn damn damn. What a night I could have had before the shit hits the fan.