Silent Kills Read online

  “Why do you suppose?” asked Quinlan. “You think the father was doin’ her?”

  Lee shook his head. “No. According to the ME, she was a virgin.”

  Quinlan whistled softly. “Wow. Don’t see too many of those around these days.”

  “I think her brother is too,” Lee said.

  Chuck scowled and turned away. “He may not have had sex, but he’s no stranger to violence.”

  Lee looked at the crime photos again. “I agree. He’s a very angry young man.”

  “Hey,” Butts said. “Maybe this is way off, but could it be him? The killer, I mean?”

  “Not likely,” Lee said. But for the first time, he thought seriously about the possibility of Francois Nugent as a suspect. In some ways it all fit. Francois was the right age, more or less, the right race and socioeconomic class, and he had most of the other attributes of the killer. Or maybe he had a doppelgänger wandering the streets of the city, and the choice of his sister as the first victim was random bad luck. Stranger things had happened—in the annals of crime, there were so many bizarre stories that, as cops liked to say, you couldn’t make this shit up.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  After grabbing a bottle of ibuprofen at a Bronx pharmacy, Lee took the train down to the court district. A visit to the Tombs in lower Manhattan was hardly his idea of a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon, he thought as he threaded his way through Little Italy, passing the clam bars and tourist traps. As usual on weekends, the maître d’s were all out on the sidewalk in their black vests and suit jackets, doing the hard sell. A short, thick man with a waxed mustache saw Lee coming and broke into a broad smile, gesturing toward the entrance as though he had been expecting him and was delighted to escort him in as his honored guest. As Lee gave a quick smile and ducked past the restaurant, the man called out to him.

  “Best calamari in Little Italy! Glass of wine on the house! Come check it out, my friend!”

  He had never eaten at any of the dozens of Italian restaurants and pastry shops lining the narrow cobblestone streets. He always figured them for rip-off joints and mobster hangouts. Little Italy was probably hurting after the World Trade bombings—every other place downtown was. Turning down busy Mott Street, he walked into the heart of Chinatown, past the tea parlors and trinket stalls and card tables of old men playing mah-jongg on the sidewalk, the carved tiles clicking like loose dentures. South of Canal, he turned west on Bayard. The back entrance to the Tombs was at the intersection of Baxter and Bayard Streets, and he stood gazing up at the dirty concrete columns towering above the rickety buildings of Chinatown like the Death Star hovering over a captive planet. He caught a whiff of Vietnamese fish cooked in lemongrass and garlic as he entered through the security gate. He showed his ID to the bored-looking guard leaning against a pillar as though his feet ached. The man barely glanced at it before waving him through.

  Once inside, the first thing he saw was a sign that read:

  POSSESSION

  OF

  CONTRABAND

  (WEAPONS)

  RAZORS KNIVES SHANKS SHIVS BULLETS

  and any other weapon capable of causing injury

  and/or

  otherwise endangering the safety of the institution

  WILL RESULT IN YOUR IMMEDIATE

  ARREST

  The official name of the prison was the Manhattan Detention Complex, but everyone called it The Tombs, and the place seemed determined to live up to its name. Long grey corridors led to other long grey corridors, which led to cell blocks. He passed cops and plainclothes detectives drinking coffee from paper cups while their perps were being booked. Under the fluorescent lighting, everyone looked grey: the cops, their prisoners, and the overworked clerks at the booking stations.

  When he reached Cellblock Twelve, he found Francois leaning against the wall of his cell, staring out of a tiny window that looked out onto dusty Columbus Park, Chinatown’s only park.

  Francois glanced over his shoulder and gave a little snort.

  “Well, if it isn’t Obi-Wan Kenobi. Stop by to see how my Jedi training is coming along?”

  Even in the grim surroundings of the Tombs, Francois Nugent managed to hold on to his sarcasm and caustic wit. Lee wasn’t sure if it was a good sign or a bad one. In spite of the ibuprofen, his headache was getting worse—and the glaring fluorescent lighting wasn’t helping. He held two fingers to his right temple and pressed hard.

  “This place suits you,” he said, gazing in at the boy through the thick metal bars of his jail cell. At least the kid wasn’t in with the general population. It must be a slow week, getting a cell all to himself. Or maybe Mommy and Daddy’s wealth and privilege worked in his favor even down here.

  Francois shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Lee crossed his arms and stared at him. “You lied to me.”

  “Oh, come off it, man. Like I exist to obey you or something. Get real.” Francois threw himself onto the cot in the corner. The springs squeaked like frightened mice.

  “You can’t be in rebellion all your life, you know. Mommy and Daddy may have neglected you, but that’s no excuse to go pummel a kid half your size.”

  “First of all, he wasn’t half my size, and secondly, this wasn’t about my parents. It was about what some creep did to my sister,” he said, turning onto his side and facing the wall.

  Lee’s right temple pulsed with pain but he ignored it. “Have it your way. This wasn’t misplaced rage directed at your parents, the kid deserved what was coming to him, and—”

  “Oh, for Christ sakes, stop practicing your psychobabble bullshit on me, man!”

  “Okay. Why did you do it?”

  “Let me alone. I didn’t ask you to come here.”

  “Nonetheless, here I am.”

  Francois turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Shouldn’t you be out lookin’ for the pervert who killed my sister?”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “ ’Cause you’re here, dumb ass.”

  “You know what?” he said. The combination of his headache and the kid’s stubbornness was making him angry. “Because of your shenanigans, we look bad. And that makes it harder for us to do our job.”

  “Why the hell should I care?” he said, but Lee detected a softening in his tone. “What do you mean it made you look bad?”

  “The detail that got into the press, about the blood. That wasn’t supposed to be released to the public.”

  Francois sat up, engaged in spite of himself. “No shit? Someone in the department leaked that? Who?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t even know if it was someone in the department. There’s a dozen ways something like that can get out. But it did, and then you go and do a stupid-ass thing like that, and all it does is muddy the water.”

  The kid shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to look indifferent, but Lee could see he felt guilty. The pain in his temple evened out to a steady pounding.

  “So what, man? What’s done is done. I can’t take it back, so why did you come here to give me shit?”

  “Because maybe we can use your help.”

  Francois couldn’t hide his eagerness. He stood up and came over to the bars, grasping them like a prisoner in a jail scene from a movie. “No shit? What can I do?”

  “We need someone who knows the steampunk scene, who can move through it without sticking out,” Lee said as the pain slid around to envelop his entire head.

  “Say the word—I’m there!”

  “It’s not that easy. Now you’re facing a misdemeanor charge. You’re lucky they didn’t go after you with felony assault.”

  “Okay. So make it go away.”

  “It doesn’t happen that way.” Pound, pound, pound ... it was a symphony of pain, and Lee had to blink to focus his eyes.

  “How does it happen, then?” Francois asked.

  “You own up, you plea bargain out—take community service, whatever they give you. You have a lawyer, right?”r />
  Francois snorted. “My parents keep a whole firm on retainer for their little African Chia Pets.”

  “You did not just say that.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean it racist, man. I just mean the kids are playthings to them.”

  “I’d like to believe that.”

  “Look, I wanna help you, I do. I’ll call my lawyer and tell him to bail me out of here ASAP, okay?”

  “Okay. And Francois?”

  “What?”

  “You keep your nose out of trouble, or I swear—”

  “I will—I promise. I just want to help catch this SOB.”

  “We all do,” he said, as the pain laughed at him. SOB, he thought as the migraine continued to pummel his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Lee and Laura were in a large urban park of some kind—not Central Park or any other one he recognized, but the kind of mosaic of known places that shows up in dreams. It was summer, and they were wandering along a stream in the woods, when they came to a chain-link fence. They were about to turn back when he spied a place where someone had ripped open the fence. He stepped through it and reached out a hand to help Laura through, but then the hole disappeared and she was caught on the other side.

  Something large and dark and deadly was headed toward her. They couldn’t see it because of the trees, but they could hear it crashing through the bushes. Lee searched frantically for the hole in the fence, but it had vanished. Panicked, he began to climb the fence, as the thing in the woods came closer. He could smell its foul breath and hear it panting as it closed in on his sister. He wasn’t going to make it in time to save her.

  That was when he woke up, panic gripping him like an evil claw. Soaked in sweat, he threw off the covers and sat up. He never should have taken the migraine medicine. It made him sleep, but it gave him nightmares. A faint shaft of moonlight crept timidly through his bedroom window, casting its pale light on the bureau. It fell on a picture of Laura and him as children. In the photo, they stood side by side on top of Turtle Rock, in front of Fiona’s house. It was taken the summer before his father left, and the happy smiles on their faces showed no hint of the disasters to come. He ran a hand through his hair, hoping to dispel the dream images in his head, but to no avail. He got up and went to the kitchen, but the feeling of terror in his dream followed him. Exhausted by the migraine, he had gone to bed earlier than usual after popping a couple of ibuprofen.

  He got a glass of water and looked at the kitchen clock. It was exactly 3 A.M. He went back to the bedroom and lay down again, his head swimming with visions of his sister alone and frightened in the woods.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  When she walked into the Bronx Major Cases station house, Susan Morton was annoyed to find the mealymouthed little sergeant with that ridiculous accent hanging around, drooling over Elena Krieger. His tongue was practically hanging out, and he was blushing like a schoolboy, all stammers and twitches—like a damn epileptic, she thought irritably. God, the Brits were unbearable—the way they used their self-deprecating charm to mask the subtle contempt underneath all that politesse and good manners. She could feel it, though, like a poison seeping through everything they said and did.

  Her eyes met Krieger’s, and an imperceptible acknowledgment passed between them. They were enemies, and they were rivals. Not for anyone in particular, but for all the men around them. They were each used to being the most beautiful woman in any room, and now they both had competition in the other. Susan felt the thrill of battle stir in her groin. She had never been one to back away from conflict, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  She sized up Elena Krieger, cataloging her physical attributes. Silky reddish hair—not as thick as her own, she noted with satisfaction, though she felt a twinge of envy as she took in the creamy white skin and blue eyes. Long legs—ridiculously long—and though she had to admit Krieger had great tits, she suspected anything that large and firm was the product of a surgeon’s knife rather than nature. Her hand reflexively went up to her own very pricey pair—real silicone, which she had to go to Mexico for, after all that crap came out about ruptured implants and autoimmune diseases. Bunch of crybabies, all those women—they probably just wanted reimbursement for replacement boobs.

  Krieger was wearing a tight-fitting tailored suit, military grey with snappy white trim. It became her, but then with her figure, Susan thought, most things would. She smiled a little as the first dozen ways of screwing with Krieger came into her head. No need to hurry, though—she could wait.

  Krieger said something to the little sergeant, and he threw back his head and brayed like a donkey.

  “Oh, you don’t say!” he bellowed, tears of laughter spurting from his pale eyes. Susan decided it was time to put an end to this foolishness, so she stepped forward.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant Rubbles.”

  He paused and looked at her, as if he had only just noticed she was in the room. That did not please her, and she decided to add him to her list of enemies.

  “It’s Ruggles, ma’am,” he said, all smiles and red ears. He did everything but bow to her—and yet there it was, that subtle put-down she knew so well, the little smirk in his voice that said You’re just a child—I’m the real adult here.

  “Yes, whatever,” she answered with a wave of her hand. “Can you tell me when my husband—Commander Morton—will be back?” She emphasized “Commander” to remind the sergeant of his place.

  “Well, he’s downtown at a meeting, so I expect it’ll be quite a while. Would you care to wait?”

  “I’ll wait in his office, if you don’t mind,” she said, her tone making it clear that it didn’t matter whether he minded or not.

  “Certainly, ma’am, make yourself at home,” he said with a friendly smile, but his eyes betrayed how he really felt—narrowed at the outer edges, a sure sign of disdain.

  “If he’s going to be a while, I think I’ll go out for a bite,” Krieger said without looking at Susan. “Care for anything, Sergeant?”

  Ruggles blushed. “If you could bring me a coffee I’d be very grateful,” he said, fishing through his pockets for money.

  “No problem—my treat,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. The color drained from his face and he practically had an orgasm right there on the spot. It was disgusting, Susan thought.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” Krieger said. Without even a glance at Susan she turned and walked across the lobby toward the front entrance. If Ruggles was aware of this slight, he showed no sign of it. His eyes followed her as she headed for the exit.

  Susan watched Krieger walk away with that masculine stride of hers. No doubt the woman was a dyke. Without saying another word to that puppy in love masquerading as a policeman, Susan retreated into Chuck’s office to wait—for what, she wasn’t sure, though she hoped it was for Lee Campbell. It was so much fun to torment him by flirting. She knew he would never say anything to Chuck about it, and she enjoyed seeing his discomfort. The idea of a straight man who wasn’t attracted to her was outside Susan Morton’s emotional range, so she imagined he secretly found her little games as titillating as she did.

  She closed the door behind her, took a seat behind the desk, and whipped out her nail file. Susan found it difficult to sit still. She was too antsy to read, and there was nothing to see out the window except a dirty old air conditioner and some dusty old buildings. She whittled away at the nails on her left hand, the fine white dust floating in the air around her.

  She had to admit Elena Krieger was a formidable foe, though Susan had no doubt she could best Krieger on the field of war she knew like no other—sex. Susan Morton was used to having her way, especially with men. The only man who had wriggled free from her grasp was Lee Campbell, and the thought of it still rankled. It’s not that she actually loved him or even truly wanted him—it’s that he didn’t appear to want her.

  And if a man didn’t want her, she couldn’t control him. Control was her drug of choice—sweet, satisfying, and so
othing. There was nothing like knowing a man was at your beck and call, not because you were having sex with him, but because he had the hope of having sex with you. That was the sweetest of all. You didn’t have to actually do anything except exist—and be lovely, of course—and men would do anything for you.

  Susan pulled out her pocket mirror, carved cedar with a round beveled glass in the center. It was a present from Chuck when they visited the Grand Canyon. She had been less than entranced with the hotel they stayed at. She preferred four stars, at least one swimming pool, and a Jacuzzi when possible. Their place was more Twin Peaks than Hyatt Regency, with its raw pine interior, fireplaces, and calico curtains. Maybe Chuck thought it was charming, but she thought it was low rent. So as a consolation he showered her with little presents, souvenirs from the trip, mostly just trinkets she later threw away, but she had kept the mirror. It was useful to keep in her purse—the cedar cover was sturdy, and so far she hadn’t lost it or broken it—the fate of most of her mirrors.

  She held the mirror up to examine her face. The morning light behind her was flattering, as she knew it would be. She had an uncanny ability to assess the lighting in any room and know whether it would be soft and flattering or harsh and glaring. This office was good in the morning, with the diffuse northern light seeping in through the dusty window. She took out a lipstick and applied a layer to her lips, her movements smooth and practiced. She pinched her cheeks and dabbed on a thin shine of lip gloss.

  Satisfied, she tucked her mirror back into her pocketbook and leaned back in the chair. If anyone came in now, she would be ready.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Lee Campbell arrived at the station house in the middle of a shift change. The lobby was bustling with cops coming and going. There was no sign of Sergeant Ruggles, so he went back to Chuck’s office. When his knock on the door received no answer, he entered.

  Sitting behind the desk as if she owned the place was the last person he wanted to see.