C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-EIGHT
E
dmund had realized early in life that no one really cared about him. Even as a child, he’d known this was wrong—everyone should have someone who loved them, and yet he didn’t. He was alone and abandoned, drifting in the soup of humanity, uncared for and uncaring. He knew his father blamed him for his mother’s desertion. Even worse was the fact that his mother had found it so easy to leave. Edmund’s loneliness was an abyss waiting to swallow him. He had two choices: to feel sad or very, very angry. But the sadness was unbearable, with its groaning heaviness. Anger was easier.
He discovered that if he could make another creature suffer, to feel something of his own gnawing emptiness, he didn’t feel so helpless. At first it was neighborhood cats and dogs—whatever he could get his hands on—but after a while that wasn’t enough. One day while wandering down the country lane they lived on, Edmund found a neighbor’s child playing out in front of their cottage. He had an idea. He would kidnap the boy, take him home and keep him in the toolshed, where his father kept him for punishment.
He would become like his father!
For days he watched the boy and his family, memorizing their routine, following their movements. He learned that the family liked to go to the local pub on Saturdays and church every Sunday. The wife took her aerobics class on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, and her feckless younger sister came to look after the child. The husband’s drive from work was about twenty minutes, so the sister would be alone with the boy for almost two hours.
He decided that that was when he would do it. The sister lived in the next town and was less likely to recognize him—and since she was younger and less experienced, she would be more prone to panic and waste time when she saw that the boy was missing. It was just a question of how and when—of being ready when the time was right.
That time came on a windy Monday afternoon in late March. The trees were just beginning to bud, and the light was softening—spring was in the air. He was only ten, but he was big and strong for his age, and the neighbor’s child, whose name was Sam, was only six. Sam was in front of the house, riding his tricycle up and down the sloping driveway leading to the carport. It wasn’t much of a hill, but Sam would ride to the top and coast down to the garage, over and over.
Edmund crept out of his house and hid behind an azalea bush. The sister was inside; he could see through the picture window in the kitchen that she was at the stove. The phone inside the house rang, and he watched her pick up the receiver. He waited until she turned her back; then he darted across the street toward Sam, who had just finished riding up the small hill.
The sudden rush of movement must have startled him, because Sam let out a yelp before Edmund could get his hands on the boy. The sound alerted the sister, who was out of the house in seconds, the door banging behind her.
“What is it, Sam?” she yelled, her face tight. “Is that boy bothering you?”
Sam didn’t answer; fat tears spurted from his eyes, and his lower lip trembled. Edmund turned away in disgust; the boy was nothing but a crybaby.
“Didn’t your parents teach you not to bully children half your age?” the sister hissed, but Edmund ignored her. He walked away without answering, disappointed with himself for crafting such a clumsy plan.
He vowed that the next time he would be more careful. He would be prepared.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-NINE
G
emma O’Reilly Hancock drained the last of her coffee and set the mug on the table.
“I’m starving. Do you mind if we get something to eat?”
“Sure.”
“Irish bar food okay? I’m buying.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s the least I can do, after you came all the way up here to see me. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you look like you could use some stodgy Irish food.”
“Okay, thanks.” She was a handful, this one—willful and determined, and now she wanted to buy him lunch. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but so far he liked her.
Hanahan’s was a local joint with a steam table, like the Hell’s Kitchen places in the old days. Wizened Irishmen with whiskey beards and shoe-leather breath sat hunched over pints of Killian’s Red, their fingers as gnarled as a leprechaun’s walking stick. Presiding over the scene was a bartender straight out of
Butch Cassidy
—muttonchop whiskers, crisply starched shirt with red and white stripes. He looked like a baritone from a barbershop quartet. Lee half expected him to break out into a chorus of “Goodnight, Irene.” He nodded and smiled when he saw Gemma.
“You’re a regular here?” said Lee.
“My brother is—was,” she replied. “I can’t remember the number of times I trudged over here to find him and take him home.” She looked at the steam table and rubbed her hands. “I hope you don’t think it’s insensitive of me to have an appetite when I just lost my brother.”
“Why would I think that?” he said as they settled into a red leatherette booth with cracked upholstery.
“Some people would prefer me to be pining away, refusing all food and drink, like a Gothic heroine in mourning.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be one of those people.”
“But I never lose my appetite—almost never, anyway.”
“Yeah?” He wanted to ask what did make her lose it.
“It’s embarrassing, but I am who I am. Come on—the corned beef here is really good.”
She was right. They piled it onto thick dinner rolls smeared with mustard and ate like stevedores. Her appetite was contagious—he joined her in a second helping, washed down with pints of Killian’s Red.
“That’s better,” she said, wiping a spot of mustard from her sweater, yellow on black.
“So what do you know about my sister’s case?”
“Mostly what I heard from my brother. And sometimes at the station I overheard things. At one point I actually started keeping notes.”
“Why were you so interested?”
“Something just didn’t smell right. I had a weird feeling about it—and then I kept overhearing things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Arguments, whispered comments—that kind of thing. Sometimes when Brian was on the phone and I’d come into the room, he’d hang up or pretend to be ordering Chinese food.”
“How could you tell?”
She smiled. “I’m a journalist. I have built-in bullshit radar. I know when someone is trying to hide something.”
“That must be hard on your husband.”
She blushed and looked away. “We, uh—we’re not together right now.”
“Join the club.”
“You too? Separated or divorced?”
“I’m not married. Let’s just say that we’ve hit some rocks.”
“You’ll work it out.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
She looked at him with those Emerald Isle eyes of hers, and that was when he knew that at some point they were going to end up in bed together.
He ran his index finger idly over the condensation on the beat-up wooden table and asked the question both of them had been avoiding.
“Do you think your brother’s death is somehow related to my sister’s disappearance?”
Gemma glanced around the bar, but the only customers within hearing distance were a couple of middle-aged barflies flirting over a game of darts. The woman giggled every time she made a throw, and the man eyed her spandex-clad rear end hungrily as she wobbled up to the board to retrieve her darts.
“It does seem like a strange coincidence if they’re not connected, doesn’t it?” Gemma said.
“But what are we talking about here? Conspiracy theories?”
“I only know that there was something fishy about the investigation of your sister’s disappearance, and there’s definitely something odd about my brother’s death.”
“Was there a suicide note?”
“Yes—but it was typed. Who types a suicide note? And it doesn’t even sound like him, for Christ’s sake.”
“Can you get a copy of it?”
“Sure—why?”
“I’m working with a forensic linguist on a case. If you can get me a copy of the note along with a sample of your brother’s writing, I can show them both to her.”
“You’d do that for me?”
That and a lot more,
he thought, but he just nodded.
“Sure.”
“The funeral is tomorrow night, if you want to come, at St. Barnabas Church. It’s on East 241st Street.”
“I’ll be there. Was that your brother’s church?”
“When he was still attending church. Our parents went there. We’re actually related to the first pastor, Reverend Michael Reilly. His family dropped the
O
when they came over because they thought it sounded less Irish.”
“But your family kept it.”
She gave a wry smile. “We’ve always been stubborn. It made my father angry that people could be made to feel ashamed of their heritage.”
“Good for him. Hey,” he said, “doesn’t the Catholic Church deny funerals to people who commit suicide?”
“Not anymore. Those old buzzards in the Vatican have actually loosened up some of their restrictions.”
“Is it too personal to ask if you’re—”
“A believer? No, I’m not, and no, it’s not too personal,” she added with a smile.
“Then why—?”
“I’m doing it out of respect for my parents and the people in the old neighborhood—most of them still believe.” She took a last swallow of beer and leaned back against the wooden booth. He tried not to gaze at her breasts, but the sweater made it a challenge. “You’re working the Alleyway Strangler, aren’t you?”
“How did you—”
“Brian mentioned it before he . . .” She looked down, tightening her grip on her empty beer mug.
“I’m part of the team, yes.”
She shook her head. “That’s a whole other kind of weird. Do you think your sister was taken by that kind of . . . person?”
“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure.”
He looked out the window of the bar at the wind-whipped pedestrians tilting their way home through another blast of winter, and it occurred to him that right then he wasn’t sure of much of anything.
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
W
hen Lee arrived at his apartment that evening, Chuck was sprawled on the couch watching television. He looked as though he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were glassy, his skin pasty, and he wore a wrinkled rugby shirt over sweatpants. That wasn’t like Chuck—the only time Lee had seen him lolling around in sweatpants in their Princeton days was when he had the flu.
“Heya,” he said, tossing his keys into the basket by the front door.
“Hey,” Chuck answered without looking up.
“I didn’t hear you come in last night.”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” Chuck said, still not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Where’d you go last night?”
“I went for a run.”
“For four hours?”
“What are you, my mother?”
“Hey, I’m just concerned.”
“I stopped by a bar,” Chuck said. “Want to check my blood alcohol level?”
“You’re a big boy—it’s none of my business, all right?” he replied, peeved at his friend’s rudeness.
Lee went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, drinking it slowly. He needed time to think—Chuck’s behavior was so unlike him, it was unsettling. He came back into the room.
“Whatcha watching?”
“Football.”
“You don’t like football.”
“Jesus Christ!” Chuck exploded. “Can’t a guy just watch a little TV without getting the third degree?”
“Okay,” Lee said. “Message received.”
He went to his room, changed into sweats and went out for a long run. After a quick shower upon returning, he grabbed the case file from the living room, went back to his bedroom and closed the door. A couple of minutes later there was a soft knock on the door. He opened it. Chuck stood there, looking miserable.
“Christ, I’m acting like a real shit,” Chuck said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Lee put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s called depression—welcome to the club.”
Chuck smiled grimly. “Yeah? Am I going to be checking into the hospital too?”
“I hope not. The Bronx Major Case Unit isn’t going to run itself.”
“You got that right.” He ran a hand through his blond crew cut, which was as shaggy as Lee had ever seen it. “You have dinner yet?”
“Nope.”
“What do you feel like? My treat.”
“You can never go wrong with Indian.”
“Done—get your coat.”
The tabla player at the Raj Mahal was in rare form. He and the sitar player sat cross-legged on the tiny stage in front of the window, so that passersby could see and hear them. Lee had walked by the place a few years back—lured in by the music, he had returned again and again for the live classical Indian music as well as the creamy, almond-scented chicken kurma and spicy lamb vindaloo. The Raj’s tabla player was especially gifted—when he saw Lee, he smiled and launched into an inspired riff. Lee always tipped the musicians generously. In college he had played cocktail piano in a swanky restaurant to help pay for textbooks, and he knew what it was like to count on customer tips.
“So,” Lee said after they ordered, “Susan called last night.”
“Yeah?” Chuck plucked a piece of papadum from the basket on the table and popped it into his mouth. He was trying too hard to look uninterested. “What did she say?”
“Oh, you know Susan—wanted to know where you were.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“The truth—that I didn’t know.”
“Serve her right, to be worried about me for a change.” He broke off another piece of papadum. “What else?”
“She said she didn’t do it.”
Chuck grunted. “Yeah—right. I’ve been dealing with criminals for too many years not to know a lie when I hear one.”
“Maybe she didn’t.” Lee couldn’t believe he was defending Susan Morton, but he knew Chuck still loved her. And they had a son and a daughter, so there were the kids to think about.
“I can’t believe you’re saying that.”
“What if those phone calls have another explanation? Maybe she was looking into getting cosmetic dentistry and didn’t want you to know.”
“You’re stretching it, Campbell—you know it, and I know it.”
“Still, I think you should—”
“Is it getting on your nerves, having me around?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I just don’t want you to throw it all away without—”
“Funny. I got the impression you don’t much like her.”
“That has nothing to do with it. I just—”
“You don’t like her, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“You dumped her, after all. Though I never could understand why.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like we’re living in different universes.”
“Well, you know what they say: one man’s meat . . .”
“Yeah, right.” Chuck smiled, but in that smile Lee saw the truth: he was still hopelessly, shamelessly in love with Susan Beaumont Morton. At that moment their food arrived, and talk of love and betrayal took a backseat to chicken kurma with basmati rice.