Free Play It Again by Stephen Humphrey Bogart Page B

threw the mangled cigar at the wastebasket and let the breath hiss out between his teeth. “I think I recognize the actor,” he said.

CHAPTER 11
    R.J. was unable to shake that haunting feeling of familiarity. He and Casey had looked at the tapes over and over until almost dawn, and when he finally stumbled down the stairs to go home all they could agree on was that it might be the same guy.
    But the name wouldn’t come, and he could not remember how or why the face was familiar.
    R.J. took the subway home, hoping the adrenaline rush of danger would keep him awake. But all the muggers must have taken the night off too, and he dozed around Grand Central Station. He woke up one stop past his and walked back.
    The elevator was out again in his building, so he climbed the four flights up to his apartment, so tired he couldn’t even think of a good death threat for the super.
    He opened the door and stood blinking for a good thirty seconds, sure he was hallucinating.
    There was a body on his couch.
    “Shit,” he said, and the body sat up.
    “Well,” said Henry Portillo, stretching. “Hell of a time to be tomcatting around, R.J. Your mother’s funeral is this afternoon.”
    R.J. was stung. “It’s all right for you to sleep,” he snapped. “She was my mother.”
    Portillo froze in midyawn. R.J. could see the remark had hurt. Tough, he thought.
    “All right, R.J.,” he said softly, “let’s just start over, okay? Where have you been all night?”
    “Working. With that TV producer, Casey Wingate.”
    Portillo nodded. “What did you find?”
    R.J. sank into a chair and rubbed his bleary eyes. “I’m not sure if I found anything. But I think we got a serial killer. I don’t know how or why he got on to my mother. Maybe coincidence. And—”
    He hesitated. He knew that Uncle Hank, like most longtime cops, would respect a hunch. But it was still tough to put into words something that indefinite. Still, he wanted the older man’s input. “I think I know the guy.”
    Hank leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Tell me,” he demanded.
    R.J. ran it all down for him: the different figures at the funerals that could have been the same man in different disguises, Casey’s ideas about the role-playing, the haunting feeling that he knew that face. When he finished, Hank lounged back on the couch, his brow furrowed in thought.
    “It fits,” he said. “When I saw what the crime scene was like…” He shook his head. “A one-time killer, somebody who does it for revenge, out of passion, whatever—somebody like that doesn’t do those things. This guy took a lot of time, made it look perfect.”
    “He’ll be there this afternoon,” R.J. said.
    “That fits too,” Portillo agreed. “Let’s see if we can’t catch him. But first…” He stood up. “It has been, by my account, almost three years since you have had a proper breakfast.”
    “Uncle Hank—”
    But Portillo held up a hand to cut him off. “No, R.J. You are tired, and you’re hungry. You can’t catch a killer without a fire in your belly, and I’m going to put it there.” With that he headed for the kitchen.
    R.J. trailed after him. “You can’t even get most of the stuff you need in Manhattan,” he protested.
    “I brought it with me,” answered Portillo, rummaging through several grocery bags. “Why don’t you make coffee while I cook?”
    In a very few minutes the two were sitting at the rickety kitchen table, tearing into huevos rancheros smothered in hot salsa, refried beans, and fresh, hot tortillas.
    R.J. was surprised at how hungry he was. He wolfed down two full plates before settling back with his coffee.
    “Better, huh?”
    R.J. had to agree.
    As R J. stood up to get more coffee, there was a knock at the door.
    Hank looked at him with a raised eyebrow, but R.J. shrugged. “Not a clue,” he said and went to open the door.
    Hookshot stood in the hall. R.J. gaped in surprise: His friend was wearing a tie with his black silk