Authors: C. E. Lawrence
Silent Slaughter (15 page)
C
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HIRTY-FIVE
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HIRTY-FIVE
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he meeting ended around nine, all of them bleary-eyed and exhausted, leaving to make their way home through the snowy streets. Butts left to grab a bus out to Jersey—he had wisely declined to drive in, given the weather. Lee was the most fortunate, living less than a mile from the precinct house. He had brought only a backpack to his mother’s, so he slung it over his shoulder and decided to head home on foot. The pounding in his temples was lessening, but he still felt fuzzy and unfocused, and he figured the walk might clear his head.
he meeting ended around nine, all of them bleary-eyed and exhausted, leaving to make their way home through the snowy streets. Butts left to grab a bus out to Jersey—he had wisely declined to drive in, given the weather. Lee was the most fortunate, living less than a mile from the precinct house. He had brought only a backpack to his mother’s, so he slung it over his shoulder and decided to head home on foot. The pounding in his temples was lessening, but he still felt fuzzy and unfocused, and he figured the walk might clear his head.
He took copies of the crime scene photos, slid them carefully into his backpack and stepped out into the night....
Across town, Edmund sat at the piano, hunched over the keyboard, concentrating on the manuscript in front of him, his fingers pressing hard upon the ivory keys. The notes wove and danced on the page before his eyes, and he could feel the tiny felt hammers striking the strings—he loved the fact that the piano was a percussion instrument. The glorious harmonies of Bach’s Prelude XXI echoed from the baby grand’s sounding board, filling the air with the mathematical purity of his music.
He finished the piece and shivered with pleasure. This, truly, was happiness—to be the conduit for the genius of Bach, to live in this moment, more than three hundred years after his death, in this Greenwich Village apartment....
Lee turned the key in the lock on the front door of his apartment and for a moment had the feeling someone else was there. He flicked on the light, stepped inside and locked the door behind him, listening carefully. He heard nothing except the sound of people in the street outside, their voices muted by the thick layer of snow blanketing the city. He took a few steps in and looked around. Nothing looked out of place—the throw quilt lay on the couch where he had tossed it after his last nap, the last pair of shoes he’d worn were exactly where he’d left them, and the leftover coffee grounds were still in the Krups filter in the kitchen. Yet he couldn’t escape the feeling that something was different—that someone had been there while he was away, leaving an energy trail behind them.
Then he remembered: Chuck was staying with him. There was no sign of him, though—his bedroom was a model of military neatness, the bed made with hospital corners, his shoes neatly arranged on the floor of the closet. Lee wondered where he had gone; he hadn’t left a note. But then, he had originally planned to spend another night in New Jersey, so Chuck probably wasn’t expecting him back yet.
He went back out to the living room, where the piano beckoned silently, light from the street lamps shining darkly on its polished wood. He slid onto the bench, lifting the lid to the keyboard, and took out his dog-eared copy of
The Well-Tempered Clavier
. Peeling away a dried-out piece of Scotch tape holding it together, he placed it carefully on the music rack. Bach was eternal, universal, elemental. No matter how bad things got, there was always Bach.
The Well-Tempered Clavier
. Peeling away a dried-out piece of Scotch tape holding it together, he placed it carefully on the music rack. Bach was eternal, universal, elemental. No matter how bad things got, there was always Bach.
He turned to the D Minor Prelude and began, concentrating on precision and technique. There were so many roads into music, so many different ways of playing, so many elements to focus on. One day you could work on legato line and phrasing, the next on dynamics, and so on....
Across town, Edmund turned to the tempestuous C Minor Prelude. Normally he wouldn’t play it so early in a session, but there was nothing better than playing something stormy to calm the soul. He gave himself over to the Prelude’s restless symmetry and felt his shoulders relaxing as his fingers moved faster, flying over the keys as the music grew more furious....
Lee played on, lost in the music. It still amazed him that, through black ink markings on a page, he could communicate directly with the greatest creative geniuses the music world had ever known: Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, Debussy, Saint-Saens, Mendelssohn—and the greatest of them all, Johann Sebastian Bach. There was a longing inside him that only the music of Bach would fill. He dove into the next Prelude and felt the tingle of pleasure the opening bars always brought him, a prickling on his skin, endorphins flooding his brain.
Just as the final chord was dying away, the phone rang. His head full of Bach, he picked it up without checking caller ID. He regretted it immediately.
“Hello, sugar.” The voice was as smooth as ever, but there was an undertone of panic even she couldn’t hide.
“Hello, Susan.”
“Is he there?”
“You mean Chuck?”
She laughed softly. “No, Genghis Khan, silly. Well—is he?” She sounded impatient.
“No, he’s not.”
“But he is staying with you, right?”
He had an impulse to lie, just to confound her, but knew she would only make him regret it later. But at least he could torment her a little.
“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“I guess I neglected to read that part of the memo, sugar.” Her voice was playful, but he knew that the steel underneath it could rip a man’s heart to shreds.
“He’s staying with me, at least for now.”
“What do you mean, ‘for now’?”
Aha
. He had the upper hand, if only for a moment.
. He had the upper hand, if only for a moment.
“Nothing,” he said, trying to give the impression he was hiding something.
“Well, can you tell him I called?” He could tell she was curious but wasn’t going to take the bait. Her self-control had always been impressive.
“Okay.”
“I didn’t do it, you know,” she said, her voice tight. The mask dropped for a moment, and he sensed the pain that drove her compulsive behavior.
She sounded so pathetic, he almost believed her—almost.
“Do what?” he said.
“He
must
have told you,” she said, annoyed.
must
have told you,” she said, annoyed.
“Chuck doesn’t tell me everything,” he said, wanting to hear her version of events before he showed his hand.
“He thinks I stepped out on him.”
Stepped out on him.
Who did she think she was, Blanche DuBois?
Who did she think she was, Blanche DuBois?
“Well, did you?”
“I just said I didn’t.”
“Why should I believe you?”
There was a pause, and he could feel the chill descend.
“Just tell him I called,” she snapped, and the line went dead.
He stood cradling the phone in his hand, staring out the window at the Ukrainian church across the street. It was cold and still in the weak northern light. He shivered and hung up the phone. He had no idea where Chuck was. His best friend’s personal life might be falling apart, but he had to put that aside. He looked longingly back at the piano, then sat in the red leather armchair by the window and picked up his case notes. Lives were at stake, and that knowledge lay heavily on his shoulders.
He pulled out the photos of the two victims and studied them side by side. The pattern on Mandy Pritchard was obviously a pentagram, though what it meant, he couldn’t say. The one on the first victim, Lisa Adler, was more ambiguous. It was a kind of spiral, like the shell of an ancient sea creature.... As he sat staring at the photos, his eyelids became too heavy to hold open. The room was warm, the chair was comfortable, and he was unable to fight the lure of sleep. The bump on his head throbbed, but his fatigue was stronger than the pain. His head fell forward as he succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a deep slumber.
His dreams were filled with dark figures prowling downtown alleyways. His legs wouldn’t move fast enough to run, and he was unable to call for help; no sound came from his mouth as the killer closed in on the young woman lying helplessly in the shadowed doorway.
Then his dream shifted, and he was floating in a warm green sea, with tentacles instead of arms. He felt peaceful and free, hovering in the oceanic currents, his soft body gently pulsating with each wave of salt water. The radiator in the corner of the room suddenly clanked, and he awoke with a start. The photo was still in his lap, and he realized at that moment what the pattern on Lisa’s torso reminded him of: it resembled the curve of a chambered nautilus. He didn’t know what the significance of that was—maybe none—but the feeling of his dream was still strong in his mind as he got up, stretched and went off to bed.
C
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HIRTY-SIX
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HIRTY-SIX
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unday morning Lee got up early and went to the gym. Chuck’s bedroom door was closed, so he figured his friend had come in late the night before. After a strenuous workout with the punching bag, he felt better, though there was still a tightness behind his temples. He showered at the gym and took the train to the Bronx to meet Brian O’Reilly’s sister. He had arranged to meet her at her brother’s apartment, where she was going through his things and preparing for the wake.
unday morning Lee got up early and went to the gym. Chuck’s bedroom door was closed, so he figured his friend had come in late the night before. After a strenuous workout with the punching bag, he felt better, though there was still a tightness behind his temples. He showered at the gym and took the train to the Bronx to meet Brian O’Reilly’s sister. He had arranged to meet her at her brother’s apartment, where she was going through his things and preparing for the wake.
Gemma O’Reilly’s resemblance to her brother was startling. She had the same heavy-lidded eyes, full, upturned lips, and square chin. He couldn’t help noticing her striking green eyes, lined with long sandy lashes. It was a good face, with strong, generous features, which Lee’s mother always claimed indicated character. It was one of her odder notions—she thought someone with a weak chin possessed a weak will.
“Please, come in,” Gemma said, holding the door open. She wore a black turtleneck sweater over forest green stretch pants that brought out the emerald flecks in her eyes. Whereas Brian was burly and bloated from alcohol, she was tall and slim and wiry. She looked at least fifteen years younger than her brother.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, closing the door behind him. She led him into the kitchen. It was clear that this was where the family did most of their living. “Please, sit down.”
He pulled a chair up to the table. It was odd to be there again. The kitchen felt strangely still, with the familiar aftermath of death. Lee had experienced it many times, but he had never gotten used to it. It wasn’t emptiness—it was
absence
. The presence of the two of them only seemed to heighten the awareness that Brian was missing, with his booming voice and larger-than-life personality.
absence
. The presence of the two of them only seemed to heighten the awareness that Brian was missing, with his booming voice and larger-than-life personality.
“You want some coffee?” Gemma asked. “Or something stronger?” she added, waving a hand toward the assortment of bottles on the counter. “My brother left behind quite a collection.”
“Coffee’s fine.”
“My brother was quite the whiskey drinker,” she said, handing him a mug of cinnamon-scented coffee. “He took the whole Irish heritage thing to heart. Did he drink with you when you came over?”
“Yeah, he did.”
She took a seat across from him and smiled sadly. “Silly question—of course he did. He’d drink with anyone who would drink with him.” She flushed, frowning. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
“It’s okay—I know what you mean. I have some personal experience with heavy drinkers.”
“You do?” She sounded relieved.
Misery loves company
, he thought.
, he thought.
“Yeah. I’m Scottish. Or, at least, my family is.”
“I see. Say no more,” she said in an exaggerated Cockney accent.
“Nudge, nudge, wink, wink,” he murmured, taking a sip of coffee. It was good—strong and rich, though he could have done without the cinnamon.
“You a Monty Python fan too?” she said.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Brian and I used to watch them when we were kids. We memorized all their sketches. Used to drive our parents crazy on car trips—we’d run their routines over and over, until they ordered us to stop.”
The corners of her mouth trembled and wavered, but she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to go to pieces until after the funeral,” she said firmly.
He couldn’t help admiring that—his family put such stock in stoicism.
Old habits die hard
, he thought, reflecting on his own tendency to bottle up his grief and rage.
Old habits die hard
, he thought, reflecting on his own tendency to bottle up his grief and rage.
“Anyway, let me tell you why I wanted to see you,” she said.
“Please.”
She leaned forward, her voice low, as though someone might overhear her.
“I don’t believe my brother killed himself. I think he was murdered.”
C
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HIRTY-SEVEN
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HIRTY-SEVEN
I
t took a moment for her words to sink in. It was a sentence he had heard uttered dozens of times in movies and on television but never in real life—until now. It occurred to him that she might be testing him, or attempting to lighten the mood with dark humor.
t took a moment for her words to sink in. It was a sentence he had heard uttered dozens of times in movies and on television but never in real life—until now. It occurred to him that she might be testing him, or attempting to lighten the mood with dark humor.
But one look at her face, and he knew she wasn’t kidding.
“What makes you say that?” he asked.
“Brian was a Catholic. He hated God sometimes, and he was depressed, but he believed it was a mortal sin to take your own life. And as a cop, he’d seen what suicides did to families. He never would have done that to me.”
Looking into her green eyes with their tawny lashes, he could believe that. How could a man desert a woman like her, even if she was only his sister?
“Look, Ms. O’Reilly—”
“It’s Mrs. Hancock, actually, but call me Gemma.”
His stomach did a little flip-flop of disappointment at hearing her married name.
“Uh—Gemma, what evidence do you have that he didn’t die by his own hand?”
She extracted an eight-by-ten glossy from a manila envelope and slid it across the table. It was a photograph of her brother’s body lying on the living room floor. His head had nearly been blown away, and a semiautomatic lay at his side. It was a Glock 26, a standard-issue off-duty gun for a member of the NYPD. He looked at her to see if her face registered grief or disgust, but all he saw was determination. Her square chin was set, her mouth firm. No trembling of those perfect lips now—she looked like she wanted to slug someone.
“How did you get this?”
“I’m a journalist—and a cop’s sister. I have more friends at the precinct than I do in my book club.”
My book club
. He knew she was married, but he couldn’t resist sizing her up as a potential mate. There was just something about her.
. He knew she was married, but he couldn’t resist sizing her up as a potential mate. There was just something about her.
“Okay,” he said. “What is it about this picture—”
“Just look at it.”
“But I’m not a detective. Why not go to one of his friends on the force?”
She leaned her long arms on the table, pressing her breasts together. He tried not to look at the shape they made under the black sweater.
“Look at the picture.”
He did. Brian O’Reilly lay on his back, what was left of his head surrounded by a pool of dark blood. The gun lay next to the body, on the right side. The shell casing was a few feet away.
“Where was the point of entry?” he asked.
“His right temple.”
“That’s a little odd. Most people would—”
“Yeah—most people would put the gun in their mouth. But not always.”
“Then I don’t see the—”
“My brother was left-handed,” she said. “Whoever killed him didn’t know that.”
“This is how you found him?”
“I didn’t touch anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Did you tell the investigating officers?”
She looked away. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know who I can trust.”
“What do you mean?”
She got up and poured them both more coffee, the green pants clinging to her hips as she moved. He leaned back to admire the view. She sank back down into the chair and slid his mug to him.
“What did my brother tell you?”
“Not much. We did a lot of drinking.”
“That was Brian, especially in the last few years. He always liked his booze, but after Des’s death . . . he kind of fell apart.”
“Who was Des?”
“His partner for twenty years. They worked hundreds of cases together. He didn’t mention Des Maguire?”
“Des? Nope.”
“Short for Desmond.”
“How did he die?”
“His house burned down with him in it.”
“Arson?”
“They never found any evidence of it. But I always thought there was something fishy about it. Brian wouldn’t talk about it, but I think he did too.”
“Jesus. Who—?”
“Des was dirty, taking bribes and drug money—you name it, Desmond Maguire did it.”
“And Brian knew?”
“He always suspected. And then when Des was killed, there wasn’t much doubt.”
“So the crime was never solved?”
She shook her head. “They didn’t try very hard.”
“Why not?”
“Either because Des was a dirty cop and they didn’t much care—or because someone on the force was responsible for his death. Brian knew that, and it’s one of the things that kept him on the bottle.”
“So you think all of this hindered the investigation into my sister’s disappearance?”
“It didn’t help.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I want your help in solving my brother’s death.”
“I don’t know—”
“My mother’s a good Catholic. If she hears Brian committed suicide, she’ll—”
“Where is your mom?”
“Ireland. She moved back years ago, during the economic boom there, and now she’s too old to do much traveling.”
“Does she know yet?”
Gemma looked down at her nails, which showed evidence of recent chewing. “I haven’t called her yet. Isn’t that terrible? I just can’t tell her Brian killed himself, when I know he didn’t.”
“How are you going to prove it?”
“I’m an investigative journalist. It’s what I
do.
And it might bring us closer to finding out what happened to your sister.”
do.
And it might bring us closer to finding out what happened to your sister.”
Lee looked out the window at the soft light filtering through the white curtains. These waters were deeper than he’d imagined. He looked at the woman across from him with the hazel eyes and green stretch pants.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
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