Fatal Care by Leonard Goldberg Page A

arm.”
    “Did you get a look inside the box?”
    “Nah. It had a lid on it.”
    “Did he ever take the lid off?”
    Freddie thought back. “Once, that I can remember. But he did it by the door. And then he did something real strange.”
    “What?” Farelli and Jake asked almost simultaneously.
    “He sprayed some breath freshener into the box,” Freddie told them. “I don’t know what that was all about.”
    I do
, Jake was thinking. The guy wanted to cover up the smell of formaldehyde that had leaked out into the shoe box. That’s why Joanna couldn’t detect the formaldehyde right away. It was an odor she would ordinarily have picked up instantly. But it was covered over with some sort of breath spray. “Did the guy always pay in cash?”
    “As far as I remember.”
    “Did he ever use a credit card?”
    Freddie shook his head. “He wasn’t the credit card type.”
    “Was he a loner?”
    “He always came in here alone.”
    “Did he ever mention his name?”
    “Not to me.”
    “Shit,” Jake growled softly. They still didn’t have a name for the victim, and without a name they’d never identify him. His fingerprints had turned up nothing, and no one had inquired about him at Missing Persons. “Did he ever have other packages under his arm? You know, like things he might have bought in the neighborhood?”
    “I never saw him with anything like that.”
    Jake rubbed at the stubble on his chin, trying to get a handle on the man’s identity. Outside the store, a car was pulling up. An elderly lady was driving. Jake turned back to the cashier. “Did this guy have a car?”
    “I don’t think so,” Freddie said, and then added, “I sure as hell hope he wasn’t driving.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he was always loaded when he came in here.”
    Jake leaned forward. “Was he fall-down drunk?”
    “No. But he was pretty boozed up. You know, enough to slur his words and stagger some.”
    “How many bars are in this neighborhood?” Jake asked at once.
    Freddie considered the question at length. “There’s at least a half-dozen. Just about all of them are south of here.”
    “What’s the closest?”
    “A bar called Sully’s.”
    Jake and Farelli left the mini mart. It was seven-thirty, and the night was already pitch-black. Traffic on Lincoln Boulevard was heavy.
    “Do you want to take the car?” Farelli asked.
    “No,” Jake said. “Let’s walk it, the same way the victim did.”
    They headed south, passing a quick-oil-change facility and a used-furniture store. Both were closed. Next they came to a doughnut shop with its door open. A sweet, mouthwatering aroma drifted out to the sidewalk. Inside, customers were lined up. The detectives walked on, coming to a restaurant called Morocco. They peered in the window. The restaurant was small, with all of its cloth-covered tables occupied. Off to the side was an empty bar.
    “What do you think?” Farelli asked.
    Jake shook his head. “A real boozer is not going to come in here. The drinks would be expensive.”
    “Yeah,” Farelli agreed. “But let me check it out, anyway.”
    Jake lit a cigarette and waited outside while Farelli went inside to question the bartender. He blew smoke into the night air, again trying to fit the pieces of this strange puzzle together.
A drunk carries around dead babies in bottles so he can bury them. And then he gets his head blown off and his body is dumped into a pit next to the babies. Go figure
. It just didn’t make sense.
    Farelli came out of the restaurant. “No luck.”
    Jake and Farelli crossed the street in traffic, ignoring the horns and angry shouts of the passing motorists. They strolled down a half block and came to Sully’s. Its neon sign was blinking intermittently. One of the
L
s was dead.
    They entered the bar and quickly scanned the clientele before nodding to each other. This was the sort of bar they were looking for. The customers were all blue-collar workers, most of them standing with drinks