Blood of Others (18 page)

Reed’s line
rang at his desk in the newsroom.

“Reed, Lou Del Grachi from the
Daily
News.”

“Lou. How are things in the
Apple?”

“Don’t ask. Molly still at the
Star?”

“Sitting right next to me.”

“Yeah, what’s she wearin’ right
now?”

“An engagement ring,” Reed lied
with a smile.

“Listen, pal, I’ve been following
your bride-in-the-window murder. Bizarre case but you’re all over it, right?”

“All over it.”

“This Sydowski, he the lead
detective?”

“Yup.”

“He any good?”

“He’s legendary.”

“Any word on how close he is?”

Christ, Del Grachi was sniffing
around in Reed’s backyard.

“No, I got nothing on how close
they are. They’re playing it tight,” Reed said. “Why? You hearing something?”

“No, but it looks like some old
cases in my time zone and some unsolveds in other cities across the nation
compare with the bride. I’ve been assembling a file.”

“I’ve started poking around too,
going through the news data files, making a few calls.”

“I’ll share with you, if you
share with me.”

“I don’t know. I got to think
about it.”

“What’s to think about, Reed?
Huh? You forgettin’ who tipped you to that New York crack dealer who iced your
two undercover cops in San Francisco when they grabbed him in the Bronx?”

“And who tipped you to the
Unabomber arrest?”

“We work well together. So here’s
the deal. I’ll fax you stories on the cases, along with some notes of stuff I
know from sources. You compare my package with what you know, see what fits,
what you can find out. In exchange, we keep each other posted.”

Reed was thinking. He could not
risk getting beat and this story was shaping up to go national.

“Tom,” Del Grachi said, “we both
know they’re chasing a serial.”

“Yeah.”

“No telling how big it could be,
or if it will fizzle.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you know that at this point
we don’t know which cases they’re looking at right now for a signature.”

“How do you know I don’t already
have them?”

“ ’Cause it would’ve been in the
paper by now.”

Del Grachi was right. There was a
reason he had been short-listed for three Pulitzers. He was good. Still, Reed
was suspicious. If Del Grachi had an edge he would have gone with it, he would
not be sharing. “Tell me, why haven’t you killed some trees with your story,
Lou?”

“For one it’s not developed. And,
I’m up to my neck covering this mob informant trial. I’ve been on it for months
and it’s all coming down now, with some new twists. I can’t leave that story.”

“So why not pass on your murder
stuff to someone else at your paper?”

“That one’s mine too. I’m not
giving it up. Trouble is I’m jammed with this mob story. But your San Francisco
case is fresh. You know it better than me, know your cops better than me. You
got stuff, I got stuff. I think we’re on the right trail. Come on Reed,
remember how we worked together in Colorado and South Carolina?”

“How do I know you haven’t cooked
the same deal with the
Chronicle?”

“Because I am swearing to you on
my dear grandmother Rosa Del Grachi’s grave that I am working only with you.
Unless you are refusing my offer? Are you refusing my offer, Reed?”

“No. It’s a deal.”

“I have your word?”

“You have my word.”

“Good. Now give me a fax number.”

Reed stood over a rarely used
Sports department fax machine as it churned out Del Grachi’s forty pages of
data. He slipped it into a file folder, which he put into his soft leather
briefcase, then headed for a small bar across the street and down the block
from the
Star
building. He found a corner booth where he ordered a
ginger ale and a plate of nachos, then scanned Del Grachi’s entire file. Very
intriguing stuff. Reed began by reading the gruesome details of the case of a
Manhattan office worker. Her corpse was found --

“What are you up to, Reed?” Molly
Wilson, her bracelets chiming as she pushed back her hair, slipped her bag from
her shoulder, then slid into Reed’s booth.

“You stalking me again, Molly?”

“You wish.” She rubbed her eyes.
“So, is that the little present Lou sent you? You know, I heard the San
Francisco end of your little talk on the phone with him. Sounds like you worked
a little deal there.”

Reed’s order arrived, prompting
Wilson to request a Heineken. She crunched on a very large cheese-dripping
nacho. “In case you forgot, Tommy, I’m on this story too.”

Reed slid the file to Wilson,
then began eating his nachos. “Mea culpa,” he said. “Lou wants to team up on
the story. He thinks there’s a New York connection. According to his cop
sources, our bride murder could fit with some other unsolveds across the
country. A travelling serial killer. But Lou has no link and nobody’s talking.
I think it’s all cop theory, inspired by the bride case.”

Wilson’s bracelet chimed as she
held up her hand, immersing herself in the information. “Give me a minute.”

“I’m heading to the washroom.
Don’t eat all my nachos.”

When Reed returned Wilson had
skimmed the file. She was flipping through her notebook and checking details
with the cases.

“Hey, you ate my nachos.”

“I ordered more. I think there
might be some common factors here.” Wilson swallowed some of her beer, then
slid into Reed’s seat beside him shoulder to shoulder, tapping a glossed
fingernail on the file at points she had made in some of the homicides. He
could smell her Obsession.

“See, Tom. All of them are single
white females, early twenties to forties. From large urban centers with
clerical type jobs in the core.”

“Right, but keep in mind this is
all general.”

“Look at the bits of bio on them.
It suggests they lived quiet lives, almost socially detached, isolated.
Someday-my-prince-will-come types. I mean it’s general info here, but we don’t
have prom queens, community leaders, high-earning professionals with big social
networks. I mean by what the data is here.”

“Right. So we have a
type.
Say, vulnerable, insecure, lonely.”

“Easy prey.” She swallowed some
beer. “And look here, in Boston, Cleveland, Charlotte, Seattle, Detroit, and
Atlanta, investigators seized computers. Suggesting to me on-line dates,
lonely-hearts. I just finished a feature on that.”

“Yeah, I read it.” Reed was
thinking.

“Tom, we know Iris Wood had a
home computer, but nobody has said much about it, right? Turgeon told me that
it’s SOP for them to check everything. She implied it was no big deal. You know
much more on that, Tom?”

“I get the sense that they’re
concentrating on scene stuff, physical stuff. I think they picked up something
and are looking at comparisons.”

“Could be, we don’t know their
hold back stuff, so…” Wilson shrugged and drank her beer. Reed caught the time
on her watch.

“Uh-oh. I have to go.”

Reed saw no sign of Ann’s car
when he arrived home. The house was dark, empty. A thought tapped at the back
of his mind in a futile attempt to remind him of something. He grabbed an apple
from the kitchen, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, entered his small office
and turned on a reading lamp next to his cushioned chair, where he dove into
Del Grachi’s file.

He returned to the case of the
Manhattan office worker. Liandra Morrel. Thirty-five years old. Lived alone in
a small studio apartment. No family, hardly any real friends. Read romance
novels and belonged to on-line book-club discussion groups. Eleven months ago,
her corpse was found in a waterfront warehouse for discarded mannequins from
the fashion district. Discovered by two homeless men. Del Grachi’s notes said:
They
found her among the mannequins, her face was shredded, her heart nearly carved
out of her. No sexual assault. She was posed, tied to a rod, dressed in the
same office clothes she wore to her job as a secretary for a New York company
on Wall Street. Cops figure maybe lured or stalked by--

A hand touched Reed’s shoulder
and he nearly jumped from his chair.

“Tom?”

Light filled the dark room. Ann
and Zach stood before him.

“I didn’t hear you guys come in.
Where were you this late?”

“Where were
we?”
Ann
turned to Zach. “Go get ready for bed and I’ll be in to give you some
medicine.”

“But, Mom.”

“Zach. Go.”

Zach left. Ann closed the door
behind him.

“Where were
you?
You were
supposed to meet us at the doctor with his file this evening.” Ann saw the lost
look in Reed’s eyes. “Tom, we talked about it this morning. I called you, you
actually talked to me on the phone about our squeezed-in seven o’clock
appointment. You were supposed to bring the file listing the material from the
contractors.”

“Ann, I was on my way --”

“Oh, I’m too worn out to go
through this now.” She extended her hand. “Just give me the file.”

Reed looked at the file folder
containing Del Grachi’s pages. Reed did not know how it happened but he had
used the folder Ann had given him with their son’s records. Reed remembered
that Zach’s report was splayed on his desk back at the newspaper.

“No, Ann, you go on to bed. I’ll
take care of it all tomorrow.”

“Give me the file.” Ann took it
from him, opening it, reading. “What’s this? What’s this doing in Zach’s
medical file? Where’s Zach’s file?”

“Ann, it’s at work, I’ve still
got a few more calls to make on it and -- what are you doing?”

Ann was sniffing it.

“This smells like Molly Wilson’s
perfume. Tom, did you? You went to a bar with her to work on this and forgot
all about us, didn’t you?”

Bingo.

“No, Ann, I --”

The file came flying toward him,
the door slammed, and he was alone in his small study. A few moments later it
opened. His pillow and a blanket were flung inside. His office had a small
couch with a pullout bed. Reed got the message. He sat there for the longest
time, letting things quiet down. Then he left the office, passed by the master
bedroom with its closed door, and went to his son’s room to say goodnight.

Zach was in his bed reading a
Spiderman comic book with a flashlight. They whispered.

“Sorry I missed your appointment,
I got tied up.”

“It’s okay, Dad, I know you’re on
that big murder case.”

“What did the doc say?”

“Said I am allergic or reacting
or something to something in our house.”

Reed inventoried Zach’s room
wondering what the hell it could be in this house that was making him sick.

“Hey, Dad, can we go to a ball
game some time?”

“Sure, soon as I get a break. Go
to sleep.” Reed kissed Zach’s forehead.

Back in his office Reed collected
the scattered papers of Del Grachi’s file. He pulled out the bed, undressed,
catching a glimpse of the one-inch-thick manuscript of his aborted crime novel
on the shelf near his home computer. He blinked, knowing how badly Ann wanted
him to leave crime reporting, stay home and finish his novel. Maybe he should
think about it. Really think about it, he thought, settling into bed with the
file, which smelled of Molly Wilson’s perfume.

He flipped through some of the
cases again. All were generally similar. The common link might be so obvious.
Reed yawned, thinking of Ben Wyatt at the cemetery. Wyatt on the case. Wyatt
who was yanked from the street after his partner got shot up. Wyatt back
working. Where was he all this time? Computer Crimes. Computers. On-line.

Reed was drifting toward sleep.

But something was -- noises --
under him -- scraping -- scratching in the floor -- noises.

Something alive under him, under
the floor.

Something scratching under the
floor, moving toward Zach’s room.

Naw, must be dreaming.

Reed fell into a deep sleep.

The routine
morning shriek of her boiling
kettle summoned Belinda Holcomb to her kitchen.

Wrapped in a pink terry-cloth
robe, her hair pulled back and held up with a scissor clamp, she padded
barefoot and sleepy-eyed from her bedroom.

“Coming,” she said to no one.

It was Saturday. She took her
time making her tea this morning, then stepped outside to her apartment’s
balcony, enjoying her 25th-floor view of downtown Toronto from the west end
near High Park.

The morning was clear as she
looked at the CN Tower, which spiked a quarter mile into the sky dominating the
city’s skyscrapers. Sipping her tea, she picked out the big ones including
Commerce Court West where she worked.

Five days a week she rose to
begin the daily ritual of fretting over what to wear, of rushing to suit up for
the charge to the subway to commence jostling for a seat on the train where
people hid behind newspapers, books, or icy masks of indifference. Sometimes
she grew weary knowing her tomorrows would be no different from her yesterdays.
When she first arrived in the city this never concerned her. She had preferred
being on her own after being jilted by the only man she had ever loved. But as
one year followed the next, she had begun to desire male company. So several
months ago, she had set out to change the direction of her life.

Today would be her first test.

Her first date in four years.

It was a blind date. Sort of. His
name was Mark. She was meeting him later this morning for coffee.
Can I do
this?
She peered into her empty teacup, then gazed at the vast green
expanse that was High Park. It was set for 11 A.M. at a café on Bloor, a short
walk from her building.
You could always cancel? No, that would be wrong.
Maybe he’s canceled?

She went inside and sat at her
computer, logging on to the chat site where she met Mark, entering her
username,
citygirl89,
and checking her Internet e-mail. Nothing new from
him. Likely on his way.

They’d become on-line friends
several months ago. Mark was her favorite. She felt comfortable with him, as if
she’d known him all of her life. Like a smitten teen rereading old love
letters, she reviewed bits of their earlier exchanges.

What is the number-one quality
you seek in a man?
he had asked her.

A pure soul.

From that point on, they had just
seemed to hit it off, especially when they discussed honesty, loyalty, and
forgiveness.

I am convinced we share
something extraordinary.

BLUSH. Me too.

My real name is Mark.

Hi, Mark, I’m Belinda.

Belinda, would you like to
meet?

Yes, I think I would.

So it went, up until a few days
ago.

Belinda, looked at her clock.
Goodness. Almost time for the date. Before logging off she went to her last
message to him. Feeling somewhat sensitive about ensuring against any
misunderstandings before they met, she had written a couple of notes to him the
other night. Where was that one passage, oh yes here…

Hey Mark, I’m glad you like my
romantic bit about love’s fires allowing me to forgive a man ANYTHING! But we
have to be serious. Douse the candles and turn up the lights. I mean there are
things that some men do that are beyond forgiveness, believe me I know about
that! (Smile).

No response.

Belinda logged off, dressed in
jeans and a sweatshirt, and decided to run some errands to keep her mind off
the big moment.

Pushing her shopping cart at her
local supermarket, she thought it odd that Mark did not respond to her last
note. He had always responded quickly.

He had told her he lived in
Cleveland, was in software sales, traveled constantly, and lived on his
computer. Except when airlines barred him from going on-line, he was always
on-line, he told her. Strange he had not answered her last dispatch. She
shrugged it off. On the way home she felt inspired to pick up a bottle of wine.

She unpacked her groceries, piled
the newspapers on her coffee table in her usual pattern. She loved reading them
on the weekend. Today, it looked like nothing but baseball on the front pages
from the night game at the Dome.

In the shower, she went over what
she would wear. Casual tan slacks and a mauve top that looked good on her, complimenting
her figure. Some makeup, not too much. Some Chanel, not too much. Tiny pearl
studs, a fine-chain necklace. It was time. She grabbed her purse.

The cafe was a twenty-minute
walk, on Bloor’s north side facing High Park.

Belinda walked with a slight
limp, the result of a genetic birth disorder. She hated using orthopedic
footwear in the summer, often eschewing it for a bout of tolerable discomfort
in her back because she really loved walking. She had told Mark about her minor
affliction. He was so understanding.
Wait until you hear what happened to
me.

Belinda did not regard herself as
homely, but knew she was closer to plain than pretty. Walking in her subtly
labored manner to the cafe, she was relieved that she and Mark had exchanged
pictures. She carried his in her bag. Like her, he was thirty-three, he said.
She thought him attractive. Nice smile, chiseled chin. A professional-looking
photo done for his corporate newsletter, he said.

They had agreed to meet from 11
A.M. to noon. To make it easy for him to find her, Belinda said she would be
reading a paperback copy of
Great Expectations.
Arriving at 11:06, she
inventoried the cafe and the tables under the umbrellas of the terrace, while
gripping the book in her hand. She saw a mixture of families, students,
downtown professionals, amid the chink of cutlery, and conversations. There was
no one resembling Mark. The hostess led Belinda to a table for two on the
terrace facing the park and Bloor Street traffic.

This was daring.

Belinda was by and large an
insecure woman who was raised on a farm south of Winnipeg at the Minnesota
border. She was happy to follow the example of her mother’s life, to marry a
farmer and have kids. Remmy had been her high school sweetheart. They had
gotten engaged and dated for years. She had worked at the local bank, he had
worked his dad’s farm. She had saved herself for him as they saved to get
married. Three months before their wedding, she found Remmy having sex with an
older married woman from Minneapolis on the bed of his pickup outside a summer
fair dance. The violation had destroyed her and virtually all she had believed
in.

Several months later, at
Belinda’s insistence, the bank manager lined her up with a job in Toronto. From
her window on the bus out of town, Belinda had seen Remmy’s truck pass, then
drop back. Eventually it vanished, like her old life.

Belinda had successfully
disappeared in the city, working downtown as assistant to the assistant head of
office supplies for a large accounting firm. At home, she devoted herself to
her puzzles, painting ceramic pots, making stainless ornaments, reading, and
watching old movies. Some time ago, Belinda bought a personal computer and went
on-line at home, visiting chat rooms, meeting people, never really taking it too
seriously; although she believed it was helping her feel less lonely. Then she
had met Mark on-line.

We share something
extraordinary.

So here I am.
Belinda
looked at her watch. She felt safe with the privacy and anonymity of meeting
people on-line; still she was anxious. This was her first face-to-face and she
had taken all the precautions. She never revealed personal information. Agreed
to meet in a very public place for a very short time in the morning. A blind
date. Actually, after Remmy, this was her only date.

What was that?
Something
across the street. The glint of binoculars? Belinda looked deep into the
darkened forest of the park. It was like something had been aimed at her for a
second. That’s silly. She shrugged. It’s a big busy park. A lot of birdwatchers
went there. She looked again and saw nothing.

By 12:15, still no sign of Mark.
Her waiter was beginning to wonder if Belinda was getting hungry. She shook her
head, paid for her drinks, and left.

She went to High Park, struggling
with the fact that she had been stood up.
He likely walked by, checked me
out, thought “too ugly” and kept going.

Belinda found comfort in the
park, in the cool shade of giant maple and oak forests sheltering the trails
meandering along its hills and valleys and gardens.
You can handle this. It
was just a lark.
She made her way along her favorite pathways. The park had
been a sprawling country farm until the late 1800s when the architect who owned
it arranged to give it to Toronto. One of his wishes was that he and his wife
be buried there.
How romantic.
Belinda studied the swans at Grenadier
Pond.
True love.

Mark, you are such a jerk.
Belinda blinked quickly, sitting on a bench, staring at her empty hands.
Men
are all jerks.
She stood to leave, turning quickly, locking eyes with a
strange man alone on a bench some distance from her. He turned away but Belinda
sensed she was being stared at. She surveyed her area. A young couple, pushing
their baby in a stroller while another child toddled alongside, a man in dark
glasses with a palm-sized video camera was recording the swans gliding on the
water, a teenaged boy and girl were sitting on the grass giggling and cooing.
Must
be my imagination.

Belinda limped home to her
apartment.

Ascending the elevator, she felt
the pang of hunger and remembered she had a fresh container of ice cream in her
freezer. Butterscotch. She changed into her jeans and a T-shirt, seized the ice
cream, and headed for her balcony.
This takes care of lunch.
She savored
spoon after healing spoon while trying hard not to think about what had just
happened to her. Where was he? What had happened? Did he have any idea how hard
this could be? How he had hurt her? Jerk. She checked to see if there were any
e-mails from him.

Nothing.

Swoosh. Thump.

Belinda held her breath.
What
was that?
The bedroom. Her bedroom. She waited. Sounded like something
fell. Okay. Investigate. The bedroom door was open. She took stock of the room.
Pictures on the walls. Bed made. Nothing amiss. She had just been in here a
short while ago changing. The closet? She looked at her large sliding door.
Something fall inside the closet? The clothes she had just hung up? Belinda
placed her hand on the closet’s handle, then slid it, triggering something,
tall, tumbling at her, “Oh, darn!” Blurring, magazines falling on her head,
shoulders, face, from a high shelf. “Ouch!”
How the heck did that happen?

She began collecting them.
Must’ve
toppled them after changing.
Belinda sighed, shaking her head. What a day.
She decided while restacking them that she would call her mother back home. Why
wait till Sunday night for the usual update? Afterward, maybe she would go out
to an early movie. She recalled seeing a notice for a classic that was playing
at the old theatre a few blocks west off Bloor.

Her mother’s phone rang and rang.
Belinda guessed that her mother had gone into town for Saturday shopping. The
machine clicked on.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me. Thought I’d
try you early today. I’ll call tomorrow. I love you.”

The movie was
Romeo and
Juliet,
she remembered, turning to the newspapers to check the listing for
the time. She reached for the first paper and froze.

Now that’s strange.

The
Star
was on top of the
Sun.
This is not how she left them.
Was it?
Belinda was puzzled.
Was
it? Oh come on now, this is just plain silly. Just forget it and check the
movie time.
She did.

There was a 5:45 early showing,
which was perfect. No crowds, fewer couples. It gave her time to do some
cleaning, a load of laundry, get on with her weekend routine.

In the laundry room she inhaled
the fragrance of fabric softener and detergent, listening to the machines hum,
like an ancient choir, trying hard not to feel humiliated, used, struggling not
to draw parallels with what Remmy did so many years ago.

When it was time to go, Belinda
put on a sweater set. She walked to the theatre, minding her limp, intending to
take a taxi home.
Another date with myself.
She bought her ticket,
popcorn, a drink. It was a small theater. She scanned it. As far as she could
see, she practically had the place to herself.

She found a seat to the right,
close to the wall.

It was the 1968 Franco Zeffirelli
classic, made when the lead actors were teens. Belinda adored this version. It
was poetry. Its moving score plucked at her heartstrings until she began to weep.
As the tears flowed, Belinda knew her sorrow was not for the story but for
herself. She had come to sit alone in the dark to mourn her loneliness.