Death Angel (12 page)

Kate sucked in her breath at the cool
dampness of the terry cloth. Folding the cloth, she pressed it against her
swollen eyelids.
 

“Just stay where you are, dear. I’ll fix
some tea.” Cupboards opened and closed. Heavy sigh. “Ah, Lemon Lift. That’s
just the ticket.” More cupboards opening. “And I suspect you’ve skipped lunch
and it’s well past noon. No wonder you’re looking so white-faced. My mother
always used to say, ‘Marian, in a crisis, make sure you get plenty of protein.’
It’s strange because the articles you read nowadays stress carbohydrates.”

The running monologue gave Kate a chance
to recover. By the time the kettle whistled, she was ready to face her friend.
Getting to her feet, she leaned against the countertop until her legs stopped
trembling.

“Why don’t we take this outside? The
sun’s shining and it looks to be a lovely day.” Without giving Kate a chance to
refuse, Marian picked up the wicker tray on the counter and started out to the
family room. Kate unlocked the patio doors, holding the screen door open as
Marian stepped out onto the deck.

In Marian, Kate had found the
companionship she might have had with her own mother. It was easy to talk to
her. She was well-educated, nonjudgmental, and had a wry sense of humor. She
was very ladylike, almost prim. Her clothes had an understated elegance that
minimized her plumpness. Her short hair was frosted, very striking with her
pretty face and sparkling blue eyes.

They sat quietly drinking tea and Kate
ate the sandwich Marian had made. When she was finished, Kate leaned back in
her chair, raising her mug in a salute. “Thanks.”

“Tea always helps.” The twinkle in
Marian’s eyes faded as she stared across the table. “I assume that was an
obscene call earlier.”

Kate nodded.

“Right after Leah was born, I started
getting calls late at night when George was out of town. The first time it
happened, I was so stunned that I just let him keep talking. He said very nasty
things. Eventually I learned to hang up. It went on for months. Then it
stopped. I never did find out who was making the calls.”

“It wasn’t like an obscene call. This
was different.” Kate couldn’t bring herself to tell Marian what the voice had
said. “It was sort of threatening.”

“You should tell the police.”

“No!” Kate lurched, spilling tea on her
skirt. She brushed impatiently at the wetness, shaking her head.
 

“Ah.” Marian’s mouth pursed in disgust.
“I would guess whomever it was accused Richard or you or both of you of killing
Jenny. Am I right?”

Kate’s mouth trembled. She could only
nod.

“There are such sickos in the world
nowadays. People are frightened when crimes like this happen. They want someone
to blame. You need to tell the police about the call.” Kate raised her chin
stubbornly, but Marian continued. “You don’t have to describe what the man
said.”

Kate shook her head.

“Think about it, dear. It could have
been the murderer.”

At Marian’s words, Kate caught her
breath in sudden fear.

“The man who killed Jenny is crazy. He
might get his kicks from making calls to frighten you. But no matter who it
was, the police need to know.”
 

Without pressing the point, Marian got
to her feet and began to put the dishes back onto the tray. Kate sighed, rose
to her feet and embraced the older woman.

“Although I hate to admit it, you’re
probably right.”

“Of course, I am,” Marian said. “And
furthermore you really ought to have caller ID.”

“That’s what Richard said. We just
haven’t done it.” Waving her friend toward the house, Kate picked up the
tray.
 

Unnoticed until now, were the flowers,
wrapped in florist’s paper on the kitchen counter where Marian had left them.
Kate ripped open the paper, sighing in pleasure at the basket of flowers.
Yellow roses and daffodils. White daisies and babies’ breath.
 

“It’s from Chris Mayerling, Richard’s
boss. He’s given Richard a great deal of support at work. He sent an
arrangement to the funeral home and now this.” Kate waved at the flowers. “I’m
ashamed to admit I never thought he was particularly thoughtful. He’s always so
full of himself that I didn’t think there was much beneath the blown-dry hair.”

“People surprise you after a tragedy.
You find new friends and old ones desert you. I remember how it was after
George died. Sometimes life really stinks, so when you discover something good,
don’t knock it,” Marian said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Well, my dear, I’m
off. I’ll check back with you later.”

After Marian left, Kate stared at the
telephone. Despite what she had told her friend, she couldn’t call Leidecker.
There was no way she could tell him about the phone call without revealing the
contents. She wasn’t a good liar, and he was intuitive enough to know she was
holding something back.

She no longer trusted Leidecker.

More and more she got the feeling that
he believed Richard had committed the murder. She didn’t know who else the
police suspected, but it was as if Carl was focused solely on Richard. Almost a
personal vendetta. She wanted to scream at him to leave Richard alone.
 

Richard
didn’t kill Jenny!

She would have to hold to that belief if
she had any hope of surviving.

Kate tried to remember the exact wording
of the phone call.
 

“I
saw him.”
 

Now that she wasn’t so stunned and
frightened, she could think more rationally. She didn’t know what information
had been released to the media but other than the rock, the caller had
mentioned no specific details. If the person had actually been in the forest
preserve and seen the murder, he or she would have gone to the police.

It was hard to believe that anyone would
be so cruel as to make such a call to her. However, a week ago she would not
have believed that anyone could murder a child.
 

Kate pressed the palms of her hands
against her eyes, sinking into the soothing darkness. If she called Leidecker
and told him about the call she would only add to his belief that Richard was
guilty. For now, she would let the answering machine pick up rather than risk
hearing the obscenities spewed out by some twisted mind. Only if it continued
would she consider talking to Leidecker.

 
Finally she’s asleep.

He closed the bathroom door gently,
wincing at the sound of the lock clicking into place. Heart sounds thudded in
his ears. If she woke up, she would talk to him when he got back in bed. All he
wanted was silence.

Opening the medicine cabinet he pushed
the pill bottles aside so he could reach the bottle of castor oil in the back.
The bottle had been in the cabinet for ages. She would never touch it. He
unscrewed the cap, letting the contents spill out into his hand.

My
talisman.

Index finger extended, he stroked the
nest of delicate links, nudging the chain until it lay in a straight line
across his palm. The wings of the angel charm appeared to move as the gold
shimmered in the fluorescent lights.
 

Arms
spread wide, beckoning him.

His breathing quickened and he touched
the charm, increasing the pressure until the edges cut into his skin. The metal
should have been cold but there was a warmth that seared him and he jerked back
his finger, staring at the tip, amazed that it wasn’t burned.

Once more he touched the charm.
 

A slight buzzing sound enveloped him and
the room fell away. He was back in the forest preserve and he saw it all again,
not in pictures, only in flashes of light that this time, instead of fear,
brought heat and energy before disappearing into the secret recesses of his
mind.

He had initiated many young girls. This
time it was different and the difference frightened him.

In the beginning he had gone abroad for
his pleasures. Other countries were not so restrictive, understanding that he
had special requirements. The price was high but confidentiality was assured.
He enjoyed the planning; the secrecy always heightened the experience. Then
later, when it was difficult to get away, he knew people to call.

He had never taken a child off the
street before. Was it the fear of discovery that made this time so special?
Maybe. But there was something more.
 

He
had come at the moment of her death.
 

Would he ever be able to duplicate the
experience? Even though the incident had catapulted him to a higher plateau, it
was far too dangerous to explore it. It must never happen again.

The intensity of sensations was a
seductive lure but he would have to find a way to deal with the weakness of his
spirit. He could not take another child. Far too risky. Repetition could lead
to exposure. As if he could imprint the image of his decision on his skin, he
tightened his fingers around the links of the gold bracelet. Holding the end of
the chain, he lowered it into the mouth of the bottle, screwed on the cap and
returned it to its position in the cabinet.

Closing the door of the medicine
cabinet, he stared into the mirror, surprised to see that his face was
unchanged. He had always believed in the mark of Cain, but realized now that it
was just another myth left over from childhood. The bogeyman. No one would know
to look at him; if there were marks, they were embedded deep within his soul.

His reflection mocked him. In the eyes
there was knowledge of death and yet he was too cowardly to explore the
subject. Had death triggered the rise in sensation and power? Would death alone
give him the same pleasure? Coward! He glared back, wanting to refute the
accusation.
 

Sex
or death?
 

An intellectual challenge worthy of his
talents. He ought to be able to find out which of them gave him the biggest
thrill. He knew the risk he’d be taking. The investigation continued. The
threat of discovery and arrest was constant. If he chose carefully enough,
another death might be further protection against exposure. His mouth stretched
in a grin. It was an obvious choice. Dangerous but it would be worth the risk.

His eyes glittered in anticipation.

Nine

B
ehind the closed doors
of the conference
room, the bevy of activity in the center of the police station was muted. Even
the ringing phones sounded less urgent, Carl thought as he reached for a
cigarette. The compulsive action annoyed him and he snatched at the gum on the
table and jammed a piece into his mouth. The vigorous chewing relaxed him and
he leaned back in his chair.

Too bad Chief Corcoran hadn’t lived long
enough to see the new station. Patrick died two years after retirement.
Everyone had known he had a bad heart, but it still had been a shock. Carl had
consulted frequently with Patrick during the design phase of the new building.
The old man had impressed on Carl the need for a conference room that could
double as a war room in case of some major crime.
 

Carl yawned, staring down at his watch.
Nine o’clock, Tuesday morning. A week since Jenny Warner was killed. The crisis
team had been meeting for an hour.

“This coffee sucks,” Diego Garcia said.
Despite the comment, he stretched across the conference table for the thermos.
His other hand reached for the tray of sweet rolls, taking two
chocolate-covered donuts.

Carl noticed the slight tremor of his
hands and debated whether he should talk to Garcia. The man had been divorced
for a year. Perhaps his weekends really were the orgasmic marathons he bragged
about, however the bags under his eyes and the pallor beneath the light tan
told a different story.
 

Booze, at a guess, Carl thought. He
ought to know. That’s how well he’d handled his own divorce from Mary Clare.
Drank himself into oblivion for several months. One night his partner, a big
Irishman named Danny O’Sullivan, dropped by to tell him to get help. Danny
wasn’t long on finesse because when Carl told him to butt out, Danny punched
him. By the time Carl agreed to go to an AA meeting, his eyes were swollen
shut, two ribs were cracked, and every tooth in his head felt loose.

Carl went to the meetings. First,
because Danny dragged him and waited outside in case he tried to skip out
early. Finally, Carl stayed. He’d sworn to beat Danny to a pulp when he’d been
sober six months. A month shy of the date, they’d been ambushed in an alley
during a drug bust. Danny was gut shot. Died on the way to the hospital. Carl
hadn’t had a drink since.

“This is a summary of the interviews
done at Mayerling’s, the company where Richard Warner works,” Bob Jackson said
as he passed a stack of papers around the room. “The window of opportunity to
snatch the kid is 3:10
p.m
. to 4:00
p.m
. Both Richard Warner and Christian
Mayerling were unaccounted for at that time.”