“
Oooh,
this heat feels so good,” she sighed. “Why on earth do they always keep those studios so cold?”
“Money, honey,” Kenny said, and slid as close to her as he could get. “Here, put on your gloves. I don’t want my best girl to get sick.”
Caitlin slid her fingers into the soft, creamy calfskin and ignored the “best girl” remark. After that, they rode through the busy streets in silence, and as they did, Caitlin’s thoughts returned to the letters.
A part of her wanted to tell someone, but her close friends were few and far between. Finding the right person to tell secrets to without having them wind up in the morning papers was a caution she’d learned at an early age. She glanced at Kenny, considering how he would take the news, and then discarded the idea. She didn’t trust him not to use the letters as some sordid hook to sell more books. She could see it all now: Mystery Writer Fields Own Death Threats.
She sighed again, and as she did, Kenny leaned over and cupped her face with his hand.
“What’s wrong, honey girl? And don’t tell me nothing, because I know you too well.” When Caitlin remained silent, Kenny persisted. “You can trust me.”
She smiled. “Nothing is wrong, Kenny, other than that I’m cold and tired.”
“Do you want some company tonight?”
Her smile felt as cold as her hands. Some men were so dense. How many times would she have to say no before he got the message?
“Thanks, but I just want a quiet evening alone. You understand.”
Leibowitz’s eyes glittered with a frustration he never verbalized.
“Sure, honey. No problem. Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning.” Then he glanced out the window as the limo began to slow down. “And it looks as if we’ve arrived.”
The driver got out and opened their door. Kenny stepped out first, then steadied Caitlin as she exited the car.
“Have a good night,” he said softly, and kissed the side of her cheek.
Caitlin waved goodbye and, as soon as the doorman opened the door, bolted inside the building. The security guard looked up from behind his desk and smiled.
“Good evening, Miss Bennett.”
“Good evening, Mike. How’s the family?”
Mike Mazurka grinned. “Good, good. My youngest boy, Tom, just had his first child. I’m a grandpa again. Can you believe it?”
Caitlin laughed. “How many does that make?”
“Seven. But who’s counting?” Mike said.
She waved goodbye as she continued toward the elevators. But when she got inside and slid her key card into the slot, apprehension returned. She wouldn’t feel safe until she was behind the locked doors of her own apartment. Even though this elevator took her straight to the penthouse without stopping on any other floors, she felt her vulnerability all too acutely.
She exited quickly, dashing across the foyer outside the elevator to her door. A quick turn of the key in the lock and she was inside, slamming the door and turning the dead bolt behind her. Slumping with relief, Caitlin leaned against the door, her heart pounding, her skin clammy. The longer she stood there, the more disgusted with herself she became.
“I will not live like this,” she muttered, and headed toward her bedroom to change, turning on lights as she went.
But who to tell? She thought of calling Fiorello again and then dismissed the notion. He hadn’t believed her the first time, and he’d blown her off the second. She wasn’t in the mood for more of his derision. Yet as she readied herself for bed, she accepted the fact that something had to be done, and the resolution had to come from her.
The steady rise and fall of a pair of scissor blades cast a shadow across Buddy’s newspaper, separating the article about C. D. Bennett from the rest of the page. He tacked it to his bedroom wall beside all the others, then stepped back.
Bennett pens another winner.
He sneered. Bennett had been a winner the day she was born.
A gust of wind rattled the windows, reminding him of the bitter cold outside, but he had no fear of freezing. The rage inside his gut would keep him warm.
His belly growled. He hadn’t eaten since noon, and it was almost midnight. Technically tomorrow was already here, but he was hungry now, and it was too long to wait for breakfast.
With the job that he had, regular meals were sporadic at best. Half the time he ate on the run; the other times, when he managed to sit down at a table, something or someone managed to interfere. God. He didn’t belong at this job—always at the beck and call of others. He should be the one calling the shots, not the one always being paged.
He glared at the wall, scanning the pictures and clippings. Caitlin Doyle Bennett. What the hell was she playing at, taking up shelf space in bookstores? There had never been a day of her life that she had needed money. She didn’t know what it was like to wonder where her next meal was coming from or if she would still have a roof over her head next week. If she had half a conscience, she would step aside for those more deserving.
His belly growled again, breaking his concentration, but when he strode to the refrigerator, the sight of food turned his stomach. He slammed it shut with a frown. He didn’t want to eat, he wanted to forget, and the best way to do that was a couple of drinks. The bar on the corner didn’t close for another couple of hours. That was what he needed—a drink or two, maybe some pretzels or nuts and a little conversation.
Grabbing his coat, he patted his pockets to make sure his keys were inside. The bulge of his switchblade was in his right pocket, the jingle of his keys in his left. The knife was a holdover from his childhood, one he was reluctant to leave behind. As a youth, it had saved him more than once from being beaten half to death, and as an adult, he found it a comfort against a possible mugging.
He let himself out the door of his fifth floor apartment and took the stairs down to the street. The first bite of wind took his breath away, but he began to acclimatize as he walked, relishing the frigid cleansing.
Despite the hour and the cold, the bar was noisy. He entered with a grin, and when someone called his name, he nodded and waved as he slid onto a stool and ordered a drink.
“Looks like I’m not the only cold fool in the city,” he said, grabbing a handful of pretzels from the closest bowl.
The bartender laughed. “Cold weather is always good for business,” he said. “What’ll it be?”
“How about a lager?”
“Any particular brand?”
“Just something dark and smooth.”
Moments later, the bartender sat a tall glass of brown liquid in front of him, which he used to wash down the pretzels. The cold bite of the brew tasted of yeast and hops and something wonderfully strong. He liked the scent almost as much as the taste as it slid down his throat. Glad that he’d come, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar and closing his eyes, letting the anonymous camaraderie of the place seep into his soul. For this moment, it was easy to pretend he was among friends.
An hour had passed when he got up to leave, tossing a handful of bills onto the bar then waving goodbye as he left. The cold seared his eyeballs, making them tear as he walked outside. It had gotten colder in the short time he’d been inside, and he quickly put on his gloves and pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears.
He paused, looking up at the sky and wishing he could see the stars. But in a city the size of New York, you couldn’t see night past the streetlights. A spurt of longing swept through him as he thought of his mother’s house on the outskirts of Toledo. Unwilling to go to bed with old ghosts, he turned in the opposite direction from his apartment, hoping to walk off the mood.
The sidewalks were almost deserted, although the street traffic was fairly constant. After a while he got weary of squinting against oncoming headlights and took a left onto a side street. There, in the lee of the wind, exhaust fumes from the traffic seemed suspended within the cold, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Now and then he caught a glimpse of himself in the windows he passed and was reminded that while he hadn’t been born rich, he couldn’t complain about his physical appearance. He was above average height, muscular in build, and had more than his share of good looks. With a little luck, he should have at least a good fifty years more on his side before he left this earth. He walked without aim, enjoying the power of his stride and the knowledge that he was Man, the superior animal.
The window displays were well-lit and cheery, even though the stores were all closed. They reminded him of the days when he was a boy and his mother had taken him into the city to look at the holiday decorations.
Look at that one, Buddy. Isn’t it marvelous?
He smiled to himself. His mother had been fond of superlatives. He used to tease her about them. Now he would give anything just to have her back. Losing her to cancer had been hard, but losing himself had been harder. She was the only one who’d called him Buddy, and he missed hearing it said. Everyone else knew him by another name, but in his heart, he would always be Buddy.
Lost in nostalgia, he was almost past the bookstore before it dawned on him what he was seeing. The elaborate display of C. D. Bennett’s latest release sent his thoughts scattering out of control. He started to shake, his fingers unconsciously curling into fists. Wasn’t there a single goddamned place in this city that didn’t bow at her feet?
Long minutes passed as he stood unmoving. By the time he came to his senses, he was freezing. Rage was hot in his chest as he turned away from the store. Tucking his chin against the cold, he began to retrace his steps toward home. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of women’s voices and then the heartbreaking tinkle of feminine laughter that he came out of his fugue.
On the stoop of a brownstone across the way, two women were hugging each other and then waving goodbye. As one of them came down the steps and started across the street, he stepped back into the shadows. He had no desire to speak, not even in passing.
He watched as the woman jumped the curb and passed under the streetlight, giving him a clear view of her face. She walked with her head up, her shoulders straight, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, her slim, youthful features framed by thick straight hair the color of chocolate.
She looked familiar, and he stared intently, wondering if he’d met her through his work. It wasn’t until she passed beneath the second streetlight that recognition hit. She looked enough like Caitlin Bennett to be her twin.
Breath caught in the back of his throat as he watched her approach. Bile rose in his mouth, as bitter as his thoughts. Without thinking, he stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her by the throat. He had nothing against her beyond the fact that she resembled the wrong woman, and introductions seemed unnecessary, since he’d made up his mind to kill her.
Choking off her screams, he encircled her throat with his fingers and dragged her out of the light into the shadows of the alley. About twenty yards from the street, he stopped and then let her fall.
With her larnyx crushed, she lay sprawled on her back like a small, broken doll, too traumatized to move. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of one eye, where his ring had cut the flesh. Her gaze was wide and terror-filled as she struggled to breathe, but drawing air past her damaged throat was almost impossible. When she saw him unzip his pants, she closed her eyes and prayed to die.
The assault was brutal and his cleansing was great. The more she bled, the less pain he felt. By the time he was through, he was euphoric. He staggered to his feet, inhaling deeply as he pulled much needed oxygen into his adrenaline-charged body. His mind was blank, his body strangely relaxed. She was dead now, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.
He glanced at her again, as if seeing her for the very first time, then smiled in satisfaction. He’d taken that smug look off her face. But the longer he looked, the deeper he frowned. Her eyes, dark brown and still brimming with tears, were wide-open in silent accusation.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he snarled.
In a last act of violence, he pulled the switchblade, slashing her face in two intersecting diagonal strokes. The flesh parted beneath the knife, aptly quartering her features as if he’d cut up an apple. He wiped the knife on her coat, then carefully closed the blade and walked out of the alley as if nothing had happened.
Within the hour he was home. Later, he dreamed of Christmas and his mother standing by the stove stirring gravy, and smiled as he slept.
It was morning before Donna Dorian’s body was found, and by the time the police arrived, it had started to snow.
Two
“H
ell’s bells, this snow is really coming down,” Sal Amato said as he rolled his substantial girth from the passenger seat of the car, while his partner, Paulie Hahn, got out from behind the wheel.
A couple of patrol cars were already on the scene, and even at this early hour a crowd was beginning to gather behind the yellow crime scene tape.
Hahn turned up the collar of his coat and tugged on his gloves as he circled the car, wincing as he caught sight of the body in the alley, a short distance away. A uniformed patrolman lifted the tape as they ducked under.
“Hell of a way to start a shift,” the patrolman muttered.
Amato settled his hat a little more firmly on his nearly bald head and then glanced into the alley. Even at this distance, he could tell it was going to be brutal.
“At least you’re still breathing, Knipski. Do we have an ID on the victim?”
“Yeah. Her purse was about ten feet from her body. Name’s Donna Dorian. Her mother reported her missing this morning. Said she went to the movies with a girlfriend. Didn’t come home. Thought she was spending the night with the girlfriend and called over there this morning before she went to work, only to find out they’d parted company some time after 1:00 a.m. That’s when she called it in.”
“Who found the body?” Amato asked.
“Some jogger.” The officer turned around, scanning the crowd, then pointed. “That’s him. The one in red and black sweats, throwing up in the gutter.”