Silent victim s-2 Page 2

  He shook his head. "I wouldn't even know what to charge you anyway."

  "So can you-help me?" she said, her voice thick.

  Lee was touched, in spite of their history together-or maybe because of it. She seemed so vulnerable-perhaps fear had humbled her. Without her usual arrogance, she was actually rather appealing.

  "I don't see what I can possibly do," he said.

  He glanced at his watch. It was after seven, and he was already late for his dinner meeting.

  "I'm really sorry," he said, rising from the couch, "but I arranged to meet someone for dinner, and I'm late."

  She jumped up from the chair as though she were on springs. "Oh, sorry-I didn't mean to take up so much of your time!"

  "Please don't apologize. I'm just sorry I can't help," he said, fetching her coat from the rack and holding it open for her.

  She slipped her arms into the sleeves and hugged the coat around her body, shivering, even though the room was quite warm.

  "I-I wish you'd change your mind," she said, looking up at him with an expression that was part lost child, part seductress. That was her specialty, the woman/child in distress, guaranteed to reel in a certain percentage of the male population. His friend Chuck Morton would be helpless to resist her, he thought-if he weren't already tied up with his own personal Circe.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I just-"

  "I've missed you, you know," she said, holding his gaze longer than necessary. He was afraid she was going to try to kiss him. But she just took his hand and pressed it between her own. Her hands were cold and smooth and dry, her grip surprisingly strong.

  He disentangled his hands from hers and opened the door for her.

  "I am sorry," he said. "I think you should take the note you showed me to the police in Flemington."

  She gave a quick shrug and looked away.

  "Well, I tried. If something happens to me-"

  "Take the note to the police," he repeated, more firmly this time.

  She gave a little laugh, like the tinkling of bells. "Yeah-right."

  And then she slipped out the door, leaving behind a trail of lilac perfume. He looked down at his hand and realized she had pressed a piece of paper into it containing her cell phone number. Hearing her quick, light step as she hurried down the stairs, he remembered from their days together in therapy that she always seemed to be in a hurry. He had a sharp, unexpected impulse to call after her-not because he was attracted to her, but because he was suddenly reluctant to let her venture out so unprotected into a wild and dangerous world.

  Later, he would regret not heeding that impulse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At first glance there seemed to be no connection between them.

  A man in his twenties found floating in the Bronx River, cause of death: drowning. He was assumed initially to be a suicide.

  Until the farewell note in his pocket was found to have been written by someone else.

  A man in his forties found dead in his bathtub-a careless accident, perhaps. His hair dryer had fallen into the water, electrocuting him.

  Except that he was bald.

  It didn't add up, and whoever staged the bathtub "accident" had to know it didn't add up. Therefore, the clumsiness of the crime had to be taken as purposeful, and the manner of it as a challenge-no, a taunt-to the police. As for the floater-well, he wasn't necessarily linked to the baldy in the bathtub, but there was that suicide note scribbled on the mirror in lipstick-lipstick?-that made the whole thing as fishy as the corpse the boys had pulled out of the river only two days before they found Baldy.

  Chuck Morton had already come to these conclusions by the time he reached his office in the Bronx Major Case Unit on a warm morning in late August. He walked through the newly renovated lobby, across the polished marble floor to his cramped office in the back of the first floor. He plugged in his new automatic coffeemaker and added water and precisely six tablespoons of coffee, listening to the hum of the heating coil as it began to whir into life.

  Charles Chesterfield Morton was a precise man. He liked his rituals at a certain time: black Kenyan coffee from Fairway first thing in the morning, with exactly one teaspoon of sugar and a dollop of cream.

  His phone rang and he grabbed it.

  "Morton here."

  "Ah, yes, Chuck… how are you?"

  Morton scowled. He recognized the voice at once-it was Deputy Chief Police Commissioner Steven Connelly, a man he despised. A call from him first thing on a Monday morning couldn't be anything good. And when Connelly called him by his first name, it was an especially bad sign.

  Morton sank down in his chair.

  "Fine, sir," he said, "and you?"

  "Great, just great."

  Morton ran a hand through his short blond hair. Get to the point, for Christ's sake. He knew from experience that the more Connelly stalled, the worse the news he could expect.

  "And your lovely wife-how is she?"

  Morton suppressed a groan.

  "She's very well, sir-thank you for asking."

  The deputy chief cleared his throat.

  "Have you picked your team yet for this drowning business on Arthur Avenue?"

  "Well, sir, I-"

  "I'm sending someone your way, Chuck, and I want you to take her under your wing, so to speak."

  "Yes, sir. Who is it?'

  But before he asked the question, he already knew the answer.

  "Elena Krieger. She just finished working undercover on the Strickley Affair, so I'm assigning her to you. She's a specialist in linguistic forensics-one of the best in the department. You need someone who can decipher those fake suicide notes, right?"

  Chuck had never met Elena Krieger, but had heard enough to convince him they weren't going to get along.

  But all he said was, "Yes, sir."

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if the deputy chief was waiting for him to raise an objection.

  "Okay, then," Connelly said finally, sounding surprised that Morton wasn't arguing with him. Chuck knew from experience that it wouldn't do any good. Connelly cleared his throat again. "Who's the primary on this one?"

  "Detective Leonard Butts," Chuck said.

  "Oh, yeah, that funny little guy who chews on cigars?"

  "Right."

  "Okay, Chuck, give me a full report as soon as you have anything, will you?"

  "Yes, sir," he replied, and hung up.

  Elena Krieger had risen quickly through the ranks to become sergeant, then lieutenant, and now detective. Oh, she was brilliant-and comely enough, so everyone said-tall and red haired and curvy and all the rest of it, but that didn't cheer him up one bit. Connelly's solicitous manner made Chuck suspect that he had slept with her. He pictured the deputy chief's skinny legs poking out from striped boxer briefs as he was straddled by a red-headed Amazon in a push-up bra. The image made him shudder.

  There was a knock on the door.

  "Come in," Morton barked, gazing with dismay at the mounting pile of paperwork on his desk.

  Sergeant Ruggles poked his pink, bullet-shaped head through the door.

  "Yes, Sergeant?"

  "Message for you, sir-came in just as you arrived."

  Ruggles had recently joined the NYPD after a stint as a beat cop in London. His accent was pure North Country, with the wide vowels and truncated consonants of that part of England. Chuck still hadn't gotten used to how polite he was.

  "What is it?" he said.

  "Detective Krieger called to say she's on her way and will be here in half an hour, sir." Morton frowned.

  "The Valkyrie rides again," he muttered. "Damn."

  Ruggles's pink forehead crinkled. "Excuse me, sir?"

  "That's what they called her at Brooklyn South."

  "On account of her being German, sir?"

  "That-and other things."

  Ruggles coughed delicately.

  "I've heard she's very… good looking, sir."

  "Yeah, sure-a goddamn Teutonic g
oddess."

  He looked up at Sergeant Ruggles, who was still lingering uncomfortably at the door, his thick fingers wrapped around the door handle.

  "That's all, Sergeant," he said stiffly, and Ruggles withdrew, stumbling over his own feet as he backed out of the room.

  Chuck frowned and opened the case file in front of him.

  A lot of what he did as captain of the major cases squad was calculated to intimidate, impress, and control those under him. He kept the real Chuck Morton deeply hidden. Squad commander was a role, and the script had been written long ago by people other than him. He knew that his success depended upon following it carefully: he must be strong, decisive, and, when necessary, intimidating.

  For example, he liked Sergeant Ruggles, and had they met in a bar, might have asked him about his weekend, but as his superior officer he maintained a cool distance between them.

  The coffeemaker on the windowsill, a recent gift from his wife, began to spit and pop, and the smell of freshly brewing coffee infiltrated the room. Krieger. How appropriate. He remembered enough from his college German to know it meant "warrior" in that language.

  The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up and growled into the receiver.

  "Morton here."

  "Hiya, Chuck-it's Rob Murphy."

  Rob Murphy had worked with Krieger at Brooklyn South, and had just about blown a gasket, according to Tanya Jackson, his ever competent and eavesdropping sergeant.

  "What's up, Rob?"

  "I hear the Valkyrie is headed your way."

  "You heard right. Any advice?"

  "Yeah. Play your cards close, and don't take any crap."

  "I hear you worked with her on the Strickley Affair."

  "Jesus Christ, Chuck, I never came so close in my life to hitting a woman."

  The Strickley Affair was a delicate matter involving a corruption sting on a local union official. Krieger was working undercover, but had threatened to blow it all sky high when the official's son hit developed a crush on her and started following her around. He was beginning to get suspicious just as they finally collected enough evidence to round up the whole lot of crooks.

  "Let's just say that Krieger wasn't exactly a team player," Murphy added.

  "Thanks," said Chuck.

  "Let me know how it goes," Murphy said.

  "Okay," Chuck said, and hung up. The room suddenly felt overheated; he rolled his shirt sleeves up over his muscular forearms and opened his collar.

  There were rumors that Krieger had been transferred because of Murphy's insistence he would never work with her again. And now Chuck was stuck with her just as he was about to investigate two very bogus-looking suicides.

  He stared glumly at the full coffeepot on the windowsill. Normally he looked forward to this moment, when he could relax and enjoy a fresh cup of coffee after the long commute to the office. He had even splurged and bought some Jamaican Blue Mountain to mix with his Kenyan AA, but knowing he was about to meet the Valkyrie took away his enthusiasm.

  Chuck poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip, but it tasted bitter.

  There was another knock on the door-sharper this time, brisk and businesslike. Chuck took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

  "Come in."

  He smiled grimly. Let the games begin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After Ana had gone, Lee pulled out his cell phone and hit the CONTACTS button, then selected the second name on the list and pushed the dial button. His party answered on the second ring.

  "Butts here." The voice was a thick rumble, like a bulldog with a chest cold.

  "Hi-sorry I'm late. I'll be there in five minutes."

  "Oh, hiya, Doc. Well, I'll just have to order another beer."

  Lee smiled as he put on his coat. He and Detective Leonard Butts were an unlikely pair, but the bond they had formed was a strong one. In the course of their relationship, he and Butts had gone from initial wariness and mistrust to a comfortable familiarity and mutual respect.

  They didn't always see eye to eye, perhaps, but Lee had learned that Butts could be relied upon in a crisis. The squat detective's gruffness masked a deeply loyal, even passionate nature. The more Lee worked with the NYPD, the more he came to see beneath the masks that cops wore as protective covering. The city was not a soft place to live, and daily contact with criminals and creeps made it necessary to develop a thick outer shell. Otherwise, he imagined, you could be crushed by the harshness of police work in this town.

  Virage, the restaurant where he was meeting Butts, was one long block away from his apartment. The rain had slurred to a steady drizzle, the air thick with a hazy mist. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strode rapidly east on Seventh Street toward Second Avenue.

  Sure enough, Butts sat at a corner table, a tall, thin glass of pilsner in front of him. Pockmarks littered his face like craters on the surface of the moon. A smile spread over the detective's homely face when he saw Lee.

  "Hiya, Doc," he said, pulling up a chair for Lee to sit.

  Physically they could not have been more different. Lee Campbell was tall and thin (overly so, according to his girlfriend, Kathy Azarian), with the clear, pale complexion and deep-set blue eyes of a true Celt. Butts was short and thick and swarthy, his face a minefield of pockmarks, his thinning sandy hair as straight as Lee's was dark and curly.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," Lee said as he settled into the chair Butts offered him.

  "That's okay, Doc-gives me an excuse to have an extra beer. It's Belgian, I think they said-pretty good. You want one?" "Sure."

  Butts ordered them both a round and smiled at Lee's inquiring look.

  "I'm takin' the train home tonight, so no worries."

  "Muriel doesn't mind you being out on a Friday night?"

  Butts grunted and downed the rest of his beer, wiping his rutted face with the back of his sleeve.

  "Wife's taken up bridge. She belongs to this club-duplicate bridge, they call it. Some kind of a round-robin thingy, where the hands are dealt ahead of time, and each team gets a chance to play them."

  "Sounds fun."

  "I dunno, Doc-I'm not a card-playing man. All I know is they sit there playin' for hours, and at the end someone wins fifty bucks or somethin'. Seems like a waste of time to me, and they pretty much take over the living room for the evening."

  "So you decided to be elsewhere tonight."

  Butts threw his arms up in surrender. "I'm just in the way. I can't even go to the kitchen for a beer without havin' to pass by a dozen people or more."

  "I understand. I felt that way sometimes when my parents had parties when I was a kid." Lee remembered with a pang what a handsome, glamorous couple they were-his tall, elegant father with his curly black hair and Italian suits, presiding over the arrival of smartly dressed guests, his mother hanging on his arm, her head thrown back, laughing-a hearty, full-throated sound Lee hadn't heard since the day his father walked out.

  Butts took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and set the glass down on the table with a clunk. "Hey, listen, I'm glad the wife has her own thing, really I am. I just don't happen to share her love of cards, is all."

  Lee rested one elbow on the white linen tablecloth and looked around the room. Virage had an easygoing East Village charm, elegant and casual at the same time, a relaxed atmosphere with seriously good food. The floor was done in the classic black-and-white Art Deco tiles used in so many building interiors in the twenties, and the decor reflected the French/Moroccan cuisine: comfortable green and white wicker chairs, white tablecloths, with French movie posters on the walls. With the slowly rotating ceiling fan and potted palms, the restaurant could have been a back room at Rick's in Casablanca.

  Lee glanced at his watch. Kathy was late, but he knew the rush-hour trains from Philadelphia often ran behind schedule.

  "So what is this mysterious case you're working on?" he asked.

  Butts licked his lips and took another sip of beer. "It's ver
y weird, you know, Doc-very weird." "How so? Who's the victim?" Butts leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Well, that's the thing. There's more than one." "Yeah? Tell me more."

  "Okay, but if they decide to call you in on this one, you didn't hear this from me."

  "Really? You think they might call me in?"

  "Who knows? Alls I know is that we're not even sure yet these are homicides."

  "Is Chuck Morton involved yet?"

  "Well, if we decide that these guys are vics and not suicides, he will be."

  Besides being the head of Bronx Major Case Unit in the Bronx, where Butts was a homicide detective, Chuck Morton was also Lee's college roommate and best friend-and was largely responsible for his appointment as the only criminal profiler in the NYPD.

  Lee took a long swallow of beer. It was very fizzy and a little sweet-it tasted yellow, like honey.

  "Okay," he said, leaning forward, "tell me the whole thing from the beginning."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By the time Kathy showed up at the restaurant, Butts and Lee were well into their second round, hunched over the table deep in conversation, their heads almost touching. When he saw her, Lee leapt up from his chair and rushed over to her, his handsome face flushed with happiness. How different he was from the thin, pale, and worried-looking man Kathy had met five months ago. Though he still suffered from occasional bouts of depression, he was much more relaxed than he had been when they met. Of course, he told her it was because of her presence in his life, and as much as Kathy wanted to believe this, she suspected there were other factors as well.

  "Hi! We were beginning to worry about you," he said, kissing her on the lips and putting his arm around her shoulders. She was much shorter than he was, so he had to bend down a little. Kathy was self-conscious about her height, but Lee Campbell made her feel good about the way she looked-one of the many reasons she loved him. She was dark-haired and small, and he claimed to prefer compact brunettes over the American stereotype of beauty-tall, leggy blondes. She didn't even need to believe him to feel grateful-it was enough that he said it. She was a successful scientist, brilliant and respected in her field, and a member of an old aristocratic Philadelphian family, but she was still a woman, with all the insecurities about her appearance of most American women, bombarded daily by impossible images of airbrushed physical perfection.