The Red Queen Dies (7 page)

“And somewhere along the way he became a crime beat threader?”

“That happened when his neighbor's dog was killed by a hit-and-run driver. His threads about now the callous APD couldn't care less when the victim was a beloved pet went over well. After that, he was off and running.”

“And now he's a damn pain.”

McCabe said, “I feel a little sorry for him. He was married, but his wife died in childbirth. The baby, too.”

“That's tough,” Baxter said. “But does it give him the right to make our lives miserable?”

McCabe said, “Nope. But it was the mayor who thought he'd be defanged if he were given a press pass.”

“Bright idea, if it had worked,” Baxter said.

“That's how it goes with bright ideas,” McCabe replied. She tugged at the visor of her APD baseball cap and glanced sideways through her dark glasses at the sun that had been beating down on them for the past three hours. “Speaking of bright, a few passing clouds would be welcome about now.”

“I love this weather. The hotter the better, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Then you have nothing at all to worry about when you die. Either way, you're good.”

Baxter laughed. “What now? Do we hang around, or can we go up on Delaware and help with the canvassing?”

“Let's check in with Delgardo and see what else we need to cover. I'm wondering if we want more people searching along the road leading down here. The perp might have had the victim's purse in his car and tossed it out as he was driving away.”

Delgardo nodded when she suggested that. “Yeah, that occurred to me, too. As soon as we finish down here, we'll work our way back up to the road.” He flashed her a grin. “Hope you're wearing your tick repellent.”

“I came prepared. I've got the latest version in my bag.”

Delgardo told Baxter, “She has more stuff in that bag than a deranged Girl Scout.”

“Says he who carries around an even larger bag,” McCabe said.

“Ah, we're two of a kind, McCabe,
querida.
”

She liked Delgardo. He was happily married, and everyone knew it. That was why he was safe to flirt with—something she rarely did with cops. But FIU detectives were in a different category. The science guys of the police department.

 

7

 

They knew by two o'clock that afternoon that the victim was Vivian Jessup. But Wayne Jacoby had given the press the usual line. Name of victim withheld until next of kin have been contacted.

Jessup's publicist had supplied them with next of kin. Vivian Jessup's daughter from the first of two marriages lived in Colorado with her husband and infant daughter.

By 3:30, the daughter had been informed that her mother was dead. Her husband called back to say that he had booked her on an early-morning flight to Albany.

By four o'clock, Wayne Jacoby was ready to announce the name of the victim from his mobile command post on Delaware Avenue. He was timing the announcement to give the search team time to wrap up. They needed to get to Jessup's hotel before the press found out she was the victim and started trying to find out where she had been staying. Police officers were posted on the door of her room, but it would be better if they got to the hotel before the camera crews arrived.

The search team made a quiet exit while the reporters were focused on the MCP vehicle, parked in the lot of a hamburger place. McCabe and Baxter followed the FIU van out onto Delaware Avenue.

McCabe nodded to Officer Lawrence, who was still on duty

McCabe watched the feed of Jacoby's press conference on her ORB. Questions came at Jacoby from left and right. This was only the Capital Region press. When the story went national … McCabe thought. Maybe she should ask the lieutenant to take her off the case. Adam was not fond of the tabloid press. Her brother would not be pleased if their own family saga ended up as a juicy tidbit amid the feeding frenzy about a serial killer in Albany.

But, damn it, this was her job. Her career.

*   *   *

Vivian Jessup had been tidy. Her clothes—two pairs of slacks, a dress, and a couple of skirts, in neutral colors and travel-friendly fabrics—hung in the closet. Her empty suitcase sat on the luggage rack beside the dresser. Underwear—sensible, if expensive, natural-fiber panties and bras—was in the top drawer of the dresser. Blouses, T-shirts, shorts, and tops in the second. Her nightgown and robe in the bottom drawer.

Nothing that screamed, This is the room of a Tony Award–winning Broadway actress.

McCabe closed the last drawer with her gloved hands and turned to Ray Delgado, who was coming out of the bathroom.

“Find anything yet?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Usual grooming products on the counter.”

“Notice what's missing?” she said.

“What?” Baxter asked, turning from his observation of one of Ray's technicians scanning the bedcover for fluids.

“Nothing here but her clothes,” Ray said. “She was here to work. How was she doing that without an ORB? How was she staying in touch with people?”

“So,” McCabe said. “Jessup's ORB is probably with her missing purse. Still in the killer's possession, pawned, or tossed somewhere.”

“First vic,” Delgardo said. “The killer took her ORB but emptied her purse on the ground and left it beside her body. Second vic's ORB was also missing, but her backpack was left behind.”

“But this time,” Baxter said, “he took everything.”

“If it's the same guy,” McCabe said.

“Don't let Clarence Redfield hear you say that,” Baxter said. “Can you imagine what he'd do with two killers murdering women?”

 

8

 

Clarence Redfield was still being detained when McCabe and Baxter got back to the station house.

McCabe went into Lieutenant Dole's office. “Is Redfield going to be charged?”

“The legal eagles are debating what we can charge him with. Technically, he didn't cross the police line. He got a canoe and came down the creek. He shot the crime scene from there.”

“And he's about to be sprung,” the commander's gravelly voice said from the doorway.

Dole said, “We're releasing him, sir?”

“That's what I said. Never mind that the son of a bitch streamed to his thread as he was filming. The ADA is trying to get a court order now to get it down.”

“How much of the crime scene can you see?” McCabe asked.

“Take a look.” The commander touched the wall, bringing up the Web and then Redfield's node.

Detectives and uniformed cops had been captured on-camera as they went about their jobs. The details of the crime scene stood out in stark detail.

McCabe said, “I guess we should be grateful he didn't get there before the body was taken away. That would have been tough on the family.”

Osgood glared at the images. “I thought stationing a cruiser up on the bridge would be sufficient to keep anyone with a cam away. We even managed to get agreement from the TV stations not to fly over in helicopters.”

Dole said, “Nobody but that asshole Redfield would have gotten a canoe and come down the creek.”

“Is there any concern that he'll try to sell what he shot to the tabloids?” McCabe asked. “He's never done that before. But when he finds out who the victim is, he might be tempted.”

The commander scowled. “He claims he did this because the public has the right to know how the APD is conducting its investigation into murders that are being carried out by a serial killer.” He looked at McCabe. “You'll be pleased to know that he gave your team a B plus for procedure.”

McCabe shook her head. “Why didn't we deserve an A?”

“He would have preferred all the cops be ‘properly attired.' Only the FIU detectives were in what he considered appropriate crime-scene gear. Everyone else was wearing only gloves. He also questioned the number of officers present.”

“Too many?” McCabe said.

“Not enough,” the commander said. “He wanted the State Police, FBI, Water Patrol, and the canine unit.”

“Well, he got two out of four right,” McCabe said. “The Water Patrol arrived just in time to haul him out of the water. And, as you know, sir, Delgardo requested assistance from the canine unit when we were doing the search of the wooded area along the road.”

“Did the dogs come up with anything?” the commander asked.

“No, sir.”

Dole was scanning Redfield's node. “Look at this garbage. Redfield says he wanted to share his arrest with his audience so that they can see the APD in action, police suppression of information.”

The commander said, “One member of his audience has rushed to his rescue.”

“His attorney?” McCabe said.

“And a second attorney who's joining his legal team. Wendell Graves.”

“That showboat?” Dole said. “Jeez, what did we do to deserve this?”

“Graves describes himself as a defender of the oppressed,” McCabe said, and then regretted she had mentioned that when the commander fixed his stare on her.

“He might have been in the early days, McCabe. But now it's all about him.” The commander rubbed the side of his nose and shoved up his horn-rimmed glasses. “Graves has been in touch with the mayor, threatening a press conference. The mayor has directed—let me rephrase that—has ‘strongly suggested' to the chief that Mr. Redfield be released.”

McCabe waited to see if Lieutenant Dole would mumble his opinion of the mayor under his breath. He managed to contain his disdain.

*   *   *

McCabe happened to be in the lobby, talking to Angie Hogancamp, the second-watch desk sergeant, when Clarence Redfield and his defense team, old lawyer and new, left the station house.

Redfield looked about like she remembered him from the other couple of times she'd seen him in person: five ten or so; around 165 pounds, sandy hair cut short, but not a crew cut; short-sleeved blue T-shirt, khaki shorts, and canvas sandals. Nothing off-putting about his appearance. Nothing about the way he looked to suggest he had become a royal pain in the city's and the police department's butts.

He saw McCabe and nodded in acknowledgment of her presence. He didn't look as if he was gloating, but she didn't doubt that he was.

As they went out the door, McCabe heard attorney Graves suggest dinner at Jack's Oyster House. That makes sense, she thought. They would have an excellent dinner. And if the mayor happened to drop in, as she sometimes did, they would be there to annoy her. Undoubtedly, that was what Graves had in mind. McCabe wondered if Graves intended to try to parlay his media exposure during the investigation into a run for mayor.

Mayor Beverly Stark was an anomaly in the history of Albany's four-hundred-year-long old boys' club. She'd been able to rise to power because of the departure of the former mayor to a federal post in Washington. And she had undoubtedly benefitted from the euphoria three years ago, when a woman had become president of the United States. That euphoria had long since faded, and after a hellish first term that had left her severely wounded politically, the president was probably going to yield the nomination to her vice president.

Meanwhile, in Albany, Stark's survival as mayor was always in question.

“Catch you later, Angie,” McCabe said to the desk sergeant.

“Eating my spicy tofu sub,” Hogancamp said. “Since nobody invited us to go along to Jack's.”

McCabe laughed. “You know how that goes. Nobody wants to hang out with cops.”

McCabe headed back down the hall to collect her ORB with her notes from the first two crime scenes. The profiler from the FBI office in Albany was due within the next half hour. The State Police was sending someone, too. That meant they had at least another couple of hours in store of reviewing the evidence and the meager leads from the first two cases and what they knew so far about what had happened to Vivian Jessup.

The Jessup autopsy was tomorrow morning, and then they would have confirmation that she had died of a lethal dose of phenol and was probably the killer's third victim. In the meantime, they were operating on that strong probability.

But if this was their guy, Baxter had asked a pertinent question. Why hadn't the killer left a flower at the scene? Why the change in pattern, including taking Jessup's purse?

*   *   *

The commander had been called in for another meeting with the chief. The lieutenant was chairing the gathering of Albany PD detectives and the representatives from the other agencies. As the only detective who had worked all three cases, McCabe went over the interviews with family members and associates of the victims. She walked the newly established task force members through the crime scenes and summarized the autopsy reports on the first two victims.

The FBI profiler was up next. They listened as she offered her interpretation of the evidence.

When she was done, McCabe said, “I understand your theory about this, Agent Francisco. But could we go back for a moment to the killer's choice of weapon? The phenol—”

“I heard what you said, Detective. Phenol was used by the Nazis during World War Two to execute Jewish prisoners. But there is nothing to indicate that the killer is targeting women because of their religion.” Francisco adjusted the cuff of her jacket. “As you reported, victim one was from a Protestant family, even though she had stopped attending church. Victim two was a lapsed Catholic.”

“Yes,” McCabe said, determined not to be intimidated by Francisco's cool brunette self-confidence. “But the point I had intended to make when I mentioned the Nazis was not about the victims' religion. What I was noting is that information about the Nazis' use of phenol in the death camps is available on the Web. The articles I found provided a description of how the executions were carried out and even the amount of phenol used.”