Joyland

Pirate Pete's was the souvenir shop outside the Splash & Crash, proudly flying a Jolly Roger from its roof. Inside you could get the usual stuff-tee-shirts, coffee mugs, beach towels, even a pair of swim-trunks if your kid forgot his, everything imprinted with the Joyland logo. There was also a counter where you could get a wide assortment of fake tattoos. They came on decals.

If you didn't feel capable of applying it yourself, Pirate Pete (or one of his greenie minions) would do it for a small surcharge.

Erin was nodding. "I doubt he got it there-that would have been dumb, and this guy isn't dumb-but I'm sure it's not a real tattoo, any more than the Coptic cross the girl saw in that Rocky Mount movie theater was a real tattoo." She leaned forward and gripped my arm. "You know what I think? I think he does it because it draws attention. People notice the tattoo and everything else just… " She tapped the indistinct shapes that had been the actual subject of this photo before her friend at Bard blew it up.

I said, "Everything else about him fades into the background."

"Yup. Later he just washes it off."

"Do the cops know?"

"I have no idea. You could tell them-not me, I'm going back to school-but I'm not sure they'd care at this late date."

I shuffled through the photos again. I had no doubt that Erin had actually discovered something, although I did doubt it would, by itself, be responsible for the capture of the Funhouse Killer.

But there was something else about the photos. Something.

You know how sometimes a word gets stuck on the tip of your tongue and just won't come off? It was like that.

"Have there been any murders like these five-or these four, if we leave out Eva Longbottom-since Linda Gray? Did you check?"

"I tried," she said. "The short answer is I don't think so, but I can't say for sure. I've read about fifty murders of young girls and women-fifty at least-and haven't found any that fit the parameters." She ticked them off. "Always in summer. Always as a result of a dating situation with an unknown older man.

Always the cut throat. And always with some sort of carny connec-"

"Hello, kids."

We looked up, startled. It was Fred Dean. Today he was wearing a golfing shirt, bright red baggies, and a long-billed cap with HEAVEN'S BAY COUNTRY CLUB stitched in gold thread above the brim. I was a lot more used to seeing him in a suit, where informality consisted of pulling down his tie and popping the top button of his Van Heusen shirt. Dressed for the links, he looked absurdly young. Except for the graying wings of hair at his temples, that was.

"Hello, Mr. Dean," Erin said, standing up. Most of her paperwork-and some of the photographs-were still clutched in one hand. The folder was in the other. "I don't know if you remember me-"

"Of course I do," he said, approaching. "I never forget a Hollywood Girl, but sometimes I do mix up the names. Are you Ashley or Jerri?"

She smiled, put her paperwork back in the folder, and handed it to me. I added the photos I was still holding. "''m Erin."

"Of course. Erin Cook." He dropped me a wink, which was even weirder than seeing him in old-fashioned golfing baggies.

"You have excellent taste in young ladies, Jonesy."

"I do, don't I?" It seemed too complicated to tell him that Erin was actually Tom Kennedy's girlfriend. Fred probably wouldn't remember Tom anyway, never having seen him in a flirty green dress and high heels.

"I just stopped by to get the accounts books. Quarterly IRS payments coming up. Such a pain in the hindquarters. Enjoying your little alumna visit, Erin?"

"Yes, sir, very much."

"Coming back next year?"

She looked a trifle uncomfortable at that, but stuck gamely to the truth. "Probably not."

"Fair enough, but if you change your mind, I'm sure Brenda Rafferty can find a place for you." He switched his attention to me. "This boy you plan to bring to the park, Jonesy. Have you set a date with his mother?"

"Tuesday. Wednesday or Thursday if it's rainy. The kid can't be out in the rain."

Erin was looking at me curiously.

"I advise you stick to Tuesday," he said. "There's a storm coming up the coast. Not a hurricane, thank God, but a tropical disturbance. Lots of rain and gale-force winds is what they're saying. It's supposed to arrive mid-morning on Wednesday."

"Okay," I said. "Thanks for the tip."

"Nice to see you again, Erin." He tipped his cap to her and started off toward the back lot.

Erin waited until he was out of sight before bursting into giggles. "Those pants. Did you see those pants?"

"Yeah," I said. "Pretty wild." But I was damned if I was going to laugh at them. Or him. According to Lane, Fred Dean held Joyland together with spit, baling wire, and account-book wizardry. That being the case, I thought he could wear all the golf baggies he wanted. And at least they weren't checks.

"What's this about bringing some kid to the park?"

"Long story," I said. 'Til tell you while we walk back."