Silent Kills Page 16

  “Well, well, fancy meeting you here,” she drawled, though her voice suggested he was exactly who she had expected to meet. “Can I come in?” she asked when he didn’t move out of the way.

  He opened the door and walked to the window, then turned to face her. She was not the kind of person he wanted to turn his back on.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello?” she pouted, lips pursed so that the dimple on her left check puckered prettily. He had to admit she was impressive—she could turn even a snub into a chance to flirt and preen.

  “Hello, Susan,” he replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I’ll go call Chuck.”

  “Oh, what’s the hurry?” she said, settling down behind the desk in a rustle of skirts and a breeze of tea rose perfume.

  “Was he expecting you?”

  “Not really. I just thought I’d drop in—a little surprise, you know.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to know you’re here,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Wait just a second,” she said.

  His heart thumped hard, and he turned to face her, half expecting to see writhing snakes growing from her head. But of course she was as beautiful and perfectly coiffured as ever.

  “What is it?” he asked, thinking she was about to confess to leaking the details about the case to the media.

  She cocked her head to one side and looked at him through long, dark false lashes. She was the only woman he had ever dated who wore fake eyelashes. She flicked her index finger across her tongue, as if she were about to turn the pages of a book, then pointed her finger at him.

  “You’re Scottish, right?”

  “My ancestry is, yes.”

  He felt a warning tingling in his head. She knew this already—why was she asking him about it?

  “And when you wear your kilt, do you go regimental?”

  Against his better judgment, he said, “What does that mean?”

  “To wear your kilt without any ... to let your laddies swing free.”

  He felt his face get hotter, and turned away, certain he was blushing.

  “No, I don’t,” he said, trying to keep his tone flat.

  “Pity. I wonder what it feels like, especially in cold weather.”

  He turned back to the door and left the room. Behind him, he could hear her silvery laughter, and he remembered when that sound had the power to move him.

  Sergeant Ruggles was at his post, polite as always.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he said, looking up from the duty roster. Lee had never seen the station house looking so tidy. The bulletin board was organized, each piece of paper posted neatly, instead of the usual jumble of tattered, overlapping sheets, some long out of date. The plants in the window were looking healthy and watered; the leaves on the ficus tree looked as though they had recently been dusted. Lee couldn’t imagine how they had ever gotten along without Ruggles. He had an impulse to blurt out a compliment, but thought better of it. Something like that would probably cause the sensitive sergeant deep embarrassment.

  “Sorry to bother you, Sergeant,” he said, “but can you tell me when Commander Morton will return?”

  “Hard to say exactly, sir—he phoned me a few minutes ago to say he was on his way up from One Police Plaza. I guess it depends on the traffic, sir.”

  Lee groaned. One Police Plaza was down below City Hall, in the bottom of Manhattan. Whether Chuck had gone by subway or squad car, it was bound to be at least an hour before he returned.

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” he said. “Page me if he calls again, will you?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Ruggles replied. He looked as if he were about to say something else, but, thinking better of it, turned back to his paperwork.

  Lee went back to the office with a sinking heart. He tried to come up with a plan, but his mind was blank. Susan had that power over men—even him—and he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her.

  He found her filing her nails. She looked up at him and frowned.

  “What are you thinking about so seriously?”

  Whether or not you leaked our story to the media, he thought. He said, “Nothing.”

  “Aw, come on,” she coaxed, her voice silken. “You can tell Aunty Susan what’s wrong.” She knew exactly what she was doing, he thought—her self-control was chilling.

  “I’ve got to make a phone call,” he said, and started out the door.

  “Stop right there,” she commanded.

  Her tone stopped him right where he was. He turned to face her.

  “What is it, Susan? What do you want?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Well, why don’t you just make it clear to me, and that way we’ll avoid any misunderstanding.” He could hardly believe the words as he said them.

  She looked startled; her eyebrows shot up and her mouth went slack. For a moment he thought she might cry. But before she could summon up a response, the door was flung open and Detective Butts trundled into the room. He grunted and nodded to Lee, but when he saw Susan Morton he did what every man did when they first saw her—he stared.

  “Hello there,” she purred, pleased as always to evoke a reaction.

  “Hiya,” he replied, plopping down into the nearest chair.

  “I’m—”

  “Susan Morton,” he finished for her.

  “Why, yes.” She looked irritated, perhaps because he hadn’t spent more time ogling her.

  “Yeah, I figured,” he said, fanning his sweaty face with the same battered fedora he always wore. “Leonard Butts, Bronx Homicide. God, it’s hot out,” he said to Lee.

  “Why, Detective, your deductive powers are impressive,” Susan Morton said, slathering the Southern accent on like syrup. “How did you know—”

  “It’s kinda obvious.”

  She smiled, working her wiles again. “Enlighten me.” Lee couldn’t resist smiling himself. She was fishing for compliments, but she didn’t know Butts. He wasn’t the buttering-up type.

  He squinted at her and wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. “Well, you’re not a cop, and you’re sittin’ in Captain Morton’s office like you own the place, so either you’re his wife or his mistress—and I’m gonna go with you bein’ his wife.”

  Lee saw her body stiffen.

  “And why is that?”

  Butts shrugged. “He doesn’t seem like the philandering kind, and if he were, he’d pick a mistress with enough class to stay outta his office during working hours.”

  Her thin lips tightened. Her only physical flaw, they were thin even under three coats of Giorgio Armani’s best. “And how do you know I’m not a cop working undercover?”

  Butts laughed, a short, percussive burst of air. “Lady, if you’re a cop, I’m Santa Claus. Which would be a joke, ’cause I’m half Jewish.”

  Not to be outdone, Susan Morton leaned forward on the desk, forgetting to protect the sleeves of her expensive blouse from possible ink and coffee stains. “Really?” she said, her voice icy. “Which half?”

  “The smart half,” Butts shot back without bothering to look at her. She scowled, but the detective’s attention was already taken by a crumpled bag of walnuts he had pulled from his jacket pocket. He popped a couple in his mouth and chewed contentedly, still fanning himself with the hat.

  “I have to be going,” Susan said stiffly, evidently thinking a retreat from the field of battle was the best strategy under the circumstances.

  She rose from behind the desk, taking advantage of the movement to arch her back and thrust her breasts forward. She smoothed out her skirt and plucked her jacket from the chair, slinging it over her shoulder before prancing across the room on her three-inch heels toward the still-open door.

  But before she slipped through the door, she turned to Lee and mouthed, We’re not done. It was so clearly a promise of seduction—or a threat of it—that his jaw actually dropped open. He turned to see if Butts had noticed, but his attention was on the bag of nuts.

&
nbsp; “But didn’t you want to see Chuck?” Lee couldn’t resist asking.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll tell him I was here,” she replied, and left.

  When she was gone, Butts got up, dusted the walnut crumbs from his trousers, and said, “Man oh man, is he whipped.”

  “You mean Morton?” Lee asked.

  “Duh. I had no idea. Jesus, poor guy,” he said, shaking his head. “I gotta say, she makes me appreciate my Muriel.”

  Lee hadn’t yet met Mrs. Butts, but he always imagined her as short and dowdy, with alarming facial hair. Now he wasn’t so sure. He looked at Butts with a newfound respect. The pudgy detective had just met She Who Must Be Displayed on the field of battle—and won. Now if they could only win the more important battle they were fighting, Lee thought grimly, but that victory still eluded them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “I find this whole world very intriguing,” Elena Krieger said, handing around a color photograph of a young couple wearing elaborate costumes. “I had no idea it existed until now. I thought it might be useful to get a sense of this subculture.”

  “Where’d you find this—the Internet?” Butts asked.

  “Yes. There are a number of websites devoted to steampunk. These two are dressed as vampire hunters.”

  “Man,” Butts said. “These freaks put Buffy to shame.”

  Krieger frowned. “Buffy?”

  “The vampire slayer,” Butts explained. “It’s a TV show. My kid watches it.”

  Lee studied the photo. The young couple was dressed in the most extraordinary outfits—he’d never seen anything quite like it. They both wore black tunics with heavy leather belts and large brass buckles. The girl had on a flared satin skirt, while the young man wore striped trousers and knee-high leather riding boots. Over their shoulders were slung broad leather belts—like the kind of ammunition straps Rambo wore, except that instead of bullets, several broad wooden spikes were buckled to each belt. Both of them wore hats—the girl sported a top hat, while the boy wore a soft leather fedora. Around each hat was a pair of old-fashioned goggles. The young man carried a white wooden cross of Celtic design, and the girl had yellow rosary beads wound around her slim wrist.

  “So this is full steampunk attire?” he said.

  “There are dozens of similar images on the web,” Krieger said. “But I liked these best. They are both very elaborate and a good representation of the steampunk style.”

  “Isn’t your specialty language?” Butts asked.

  “Language and culture,” she replied. “I also have a degree in sociology.”

  “This is real interestin’—don’t get me wrong,” Butts said. “But how does it help us nab this creep?”

  “At this point we don’t know what might help us,” Lee pointed out. “But knowing more about this subculture can’t hurt. I was wondering if you might find this useful,” he said, handing Krieger printed transcripts of his online chat in the steampunk chat room.

  She studied it. “Interesting. How did you find this chat room?”

  “It was one of the first hits when I Googled steampunk.”

  Butts, curious in spite of himself, stood on tiptoes and craned his neck to read over her shoulder. It was a challenge, since he was half a foot shorter than she was.

  “Would you like to take a look, Detective?” she asked, smiling.

  “When you’re done, sure,” he said, reddening.

  “What do you make of it?” asked Lee.

  “Well, of course it’s classic strutting and feather puffing—the males showing off for the female.”

  “Right,” Lee said, but he was thinking, Are we that obvious? Pathetic.

  “Don’t you agree, Detective?” she asked Butts.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he replied, glancing at it again. “But we don’t know who these guys are. Chances are they’re not related to the case in any way.”

  “But they could have a link to our killer,” Krieger pointed out. “Or at least know him. How big a community do you think this is?” she asked Lee.

  “Hard to tell. But I do get the sense it’s growing.”

  “We gotta go hang out with some of these freaks,” Butts said. “Too bad they closed that club downtown.”

  Lee thought about Kathy’s promise to take him to a club in Philly, but doubted that would happen now.

  “Is there anything you can tell us about these three based on this conversation?” he said.

  Krieger studied it. “Well, for one thing, I’d say that there’s a fair amount of posturing—some of it in order to impress the girl.”

  “Assuming she’s a girl,” Butts said. “She could be a fifty-year-old pervert hanging out in his underwear.”

  Krieger studied the text. “No, I’m pretty sure she’s female.”

  Butts’s forehead crinkled like a pockmarked accordion. “No shit? You can tell that just from what they wrote?”

  “With a fair degree of certainty.”

  “Enough to bet a poker hand on?”

  “Oh, yes, easily.”

  Lee smiled. Butts was warming up to the Valkyrie, whether he wanted to or not. Lee didn’t quite trust her yet, but he had to admit she was impressive—and that gender-ambiguity thing she had was damn sexy. He wondered if she did it on purpose, or if it just came naturally to her. She was dangerous, but that was part of her fascination. Sex and death, he thought, forever linked ... in the mind of this offender, that was certain. And if they couldn’t unlock that key, all too soon there would be even more death.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Driving down Route 202, Lee opened the car window and breathed in the soft, decadent air of September. The landscape lay around him in late-summer drowsiness. The farm fields were already beginning to turn the tawny yellow of early fall; the leaves on the trees looked as if they had grown weary of clinging to their branches. There was something compelling about these last days of summer, as the still-soft earth drew into itself in preparation for the coming autumn.

  He inhaled deeply, savoring the thick, humid air, and felt the knots in his shoulders loosen.

  Lee felt protective of his home state. He was occasionally impelled to tell people that it deserved its reputation as the Garden State—it did after all contain thousands of acres of public parks and nature preserves. In counties like Morris, Essex, and Sussex, Jersey had its share of rich people too. The sprawling estates around Morristown were horse country, and Upper Saddle River, to the north, was the last residence of former president Richard Nixon. Not something to be proud of, perhaps, but it did indicate a certain level of opulence.

  By the time he pulled into the driveway of his mother’s house he was feeling better, as his body relaxed into the rhythms of country life, softer and slower than Manhattan, which came at you hard and fast. Its relentless pace could take your breath away and pull you down if you weren’t ready for it.

  There was a boulder in the front lawn, dear to him from many hours of playing with his sister. At some point in their childhood they christened it Turtle Rock—he forgot which of them had come up with the name. It was fitting, though—from a distance the rock did resemble a giant tortoise, the broad grey hump curved in an angle suggestive of a turtle shell. In the magical world of childhood, the boulder became many things: a sailing ship, a horse, a gypsy caravan. It had not lost its ability to evoke the sweetness and innocence of those early years, before tragedy folded its great black wings around their little family, sweeping them into its dark embrace.

  Years ago, when his mother talked about having the boulder removed, Lee and Laura managed to talk her out of it. And so the rock remained, a relic of their childhood together—and now his niece stood waiting for him on that same patient, stolid piece of granite. With the sun in his eyes, it appeared that the small, lithe figure on the rock was his sister, but it was just a trick of the light. Laura’s hair was black like his own, not blond—Kylie had her father’s coloring.

  “Uncle Lee!” Kylie cried, launching hers
elf into his arms before he had time to close the car door. Children moved with such careless grace, like the young animals they were, at home in their bodies. He hugged her, inhaling the lemony scent of her hair. She pulled away with the heedless ease of the young and skipped toward the house, humming to herself.

  Fiona Campbell stood on the front steps, shielding her eyes from the glare of the midday sun. Her back was as straight and stiff as if she were a military officer. Physical superiority was part of the family mythos—as well as a general impatience that Lee suspected was genetic. He didn’t have her drive to maintain a pose of invulnerability, but he did have her restless, kinetic nature.

  His mother had plenty of friends—strong, sturdy women like her. Some of them were widows and some had gotten divorces after years of marriage, leaving their men behind like discarded luggage on railway platforms. And yet she was essentially a solitary creature, wary of closeness with other human beings. She seized her only son by the shoulders and gave him a brisk, muscular hug. His mother was not a demonstrative person; too much physical contact made her uncomfortable. Kylie didn’t seem to mind, though. She wove her finger around a lock of her hair, twirling it absently. Seeing a Hula-hoop in the front yard, she dashed over to play with it.

  His mother watched her go, then turned to her son. “There now!” she said with her trademark brittle cheerfulness. “How about a decent cup of tea after that long drive?’ Fiona Campbell was a curious combination of Old World charm and impeccable good manners grafted onto a loose-cannon personality.

  Lee smiled. “Sure, why not?” He followed her into Brigadoon. In the manner of natives to the British Isles, Fiona had given her house a fanciful name—so unlike her in some ways, but in keeping with her emotional ties to the land of her birth. The rooms were small, and dark in the winter, but she loved the house. She sometimes talked dreamily of having “a wee cottage” somewhere on the outer islands of Scotland—the Orkneys, perhaps, or the Shetlands—with a small herd of sheep and “a wee border collie” to look after them. When she talked of these things, the faint curve of her r’s became more pronounced, the rolling landscape of her birth tattooed into her speech patterns.