“Sergeant Hawley and I were just trying to figure that out.” She indicated the computer screen and a small window in the bottom right corner. “We’ve got an open chat going so we can keep updating each other.”
Grant nodded, happy to see his daughter throwing herself into the investigation with such vigor. “Please say hello.”
Rachel did just that and received a similar typed greeting back from Hawley. Grant then told them about his unexpected breakfast companion and the deal he’d struck with the journalist.
“Smart,” said Frankel. “Getting him to look in that direction while we work on this.” The detective indicated the computer screen.
“He did happen to bring up one other thing.” Grant repeated Ferguson’s questioning the killer’s motive for using the Ten Commandments.
“I’ve been racking my brain over that since you told me at breakfast the other morning,” said Rachel. “Some fanatic who spent his entire life tethered to the teachings of the church until some crazy switch flipped?”
“Or just some nut job looking for a reason to kill a bunch of people but didn’t know where to start,” countered Frankel. “Maybe he was watching that Charlton Heston movie one night and thought, hey, now there’s something I could use!”
“It might be either—but neither sheds any light on why he’s reached out to me specifically.” Grant glanced at his daughter again. “Your mother was the one who insisted on going to church every Sunday. I basically went in deference to her.”
Grant paused a beat. When he resumed, his voice had dipped. “Though the truth is I’ve been going more often since she passed.”
Rachel looked surprised. “I had no idea you did that.”
Grant offered up a sad smile. “Perhaps you’ll come back and go with me one Sunday.”
“You never know,” Rachel told him.
Grant managed to pull himself together by looking at Rachel’s computer screen and the work at hand. “Whoever is doing this, I think it’s clear there isn’t anything random about it. There has to be a connection here and this is the probably the best way we’ve got to go looking for it.”
“I don’t have a better suggestion at this point,” admitted Frankel. Rachel’s response was a nod of agreement and a resumption of her computer chat with Sergeant Hawley.
The two cops took their leave and let her get back to work.
The rest of the day was spent doing what all cops spend most of their time doing—good old-fashioned grunt work. Whether one was a commander at Scotland Yard, a first-grade NYPD detective, a sheriff in a Long Island suburb, or even a constable in a Northern Ireland village that Rachel had talked to about a former killer who had moved there, nothing substituted for working a real case.
Back when Grant first started, most investigations had been done on foot or by putting lots of mileage on their personal vehicles. It had taken longer but questions were answered face-to-face. Nowadays, ninety percent of what a detective needed to know could be discovered without leaving his desk, courtesy of the internet, cell phones, and satellite tracking. True, it was accomplished quicker, but Grant still missed talking to people in person. It was the only way to get a true read on someone.
One more reason Grant was convinced he was retiring at the right time.
But he held out hope that before he was done, he’d get to sit across from the person responsible for this chaos. It might be the only way to find out what was motivating the person that he, Frankel, and now his daughter were hunting for.
Frankel and Grant went over a few lists as well—the ones culled from various databases about possible Number Six victims, the men and women currently residing in the Tri-State area that had once taken a life themselves.
“These lists are longer than the ones Rachel and Hawley are looking at,” Grant observed, sitting across from Frankel in the detective’s office. They had chosen to work here because Frankel’s room had a window, even though it looked directly into the rear of another building.
They spent the next few hours contacting names on the lists. Frankel mentioned that one of the good things about the Ten Commandments being out in the open was that they could be upfront with people.
As for the few ex-killers they couldn’t reach, uniforms were dispatched to make sure they weren’t lying in their apartments, on a street corner, or on a Hudson or East riverbank with a Roman numeral VI carved in their foreheads.
Frankel had Philly cheesesteaks brought in from Shorty’s around one o’clock, which they devoured, washing them down with cold Coca-Colas.
“I’m going to have to buy a new wardrobe if I keep eating with you,” Grant grumbled at Frankel.
After lunch, Frankel and Grant further split up the lists and spent the rest of the day in their offices contacting as many former felons as possible. Meanwhile, Rachel didn’t emerge from her cocoon in the basement until seven o’clock, when she appeared in her father’s cubbyhole.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“We’ve gotten in touch with maybe seventy-five, eighty percent,” Grant informed her. “No dead bodies yet.”
“I guess that’s a good thing.”
“What’s happening with you and the good sergeant?”
“We’re working our way through—I think I’ve narrowed it down to fifty or so. I told him to head home; it’s past midnight over there. I think he’s put in a long enough day.”
“We all have,” agreed Grant. “You should be heading home yourself.”
Rachel indicated Grant’s luggage on the floor behind him. “What about you? Any luck finding a hotel?”
Grant searched his desk and found a piece of paper he’d scribbled on. “A place called the Holland in Jersey City said I could check in tonight and stay indefinitely.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can.” She reached over and crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it in the trash can. “You’re not staying in Jersey, Dad. You’ll never get back into the city this time of year.”
She crossed over and picked up his bag. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“You’ll stay with me. My apartment’s not much bigger than this but I’ve got a fold-out couch. And it sounds better than Detective Frankel’s place.”
Over lunch, presented with Grant’s housing predicament, Frankel had said he wished he could help him out. “But after Julia left, all I could afford was this studio apartment in Murray Hill with a Murphy bed. When you open it, there isn’t even room for me to stand up, let alone a houseguest.”
Given the state (or nonstate) of their relationship the past couple of years, Grant would never have presumed to ask his daughter to put him up— let alone put up with him.
But once she made the unexpected offer, he certainly wasn’t going to refuse.
Perhaps there was hope for the two of them yet.
If he ever did come face-to-face with the killer, Grant realized, he might very well have something to thank him for.
14
Rachel lived on Ninety-Seventh Street between West End Avenue and Riverside Drive. The neighborhood had undergone a total face-lift and now boasted a condo conversion rate that was off the charts. Many buildings that had once been destined for demolition or considered eyesores now had five-year waiting lists.
But a few, like Rachel’s, had refused to succumb to the Manhattan makeover due to residents refusing to give up their rent-stabilized apartments. Their monthly payments were locked in at a rate lower than some paid to secure a spot in a parking garage.
Grant watched as Rachel used her key to let herself into the glassed-in vestibule of her building and check the mail. He pointed at the name tag affixed to the box his daughter had just unlocked. “Who is G. Fletcher?”
“Gretchen—a girl I went to college with,” Rachel answered.
She explained how Gretchen had gone to Norway two years earlier on a one-week vacation and had a fling with a then-married local TV newscaster; they were now living together in Oslo
and expecting their first child.
“No way she gives up this place—not with what she’s paying.”
When told the amount, Grant completely understood it was a deal one couldn’t pass up, even if you lived in a distant country where half the year you couldn’t sleep because the sun never set.
“That’s why as far as building management is concerned, there’s a tenant—Gretchen-married-name-Fletcher—and I’m her sister back home after attending college at Oxford, where she picked up a bit of an accent.”
As they climbed the four flights to the walk-up apartment (Rachel considered it good exercise), she reiterated what she’d told him on the subway ride uptown.
“I absolutely can cancel my dinner plans. They’ll totally understand.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. I can use a quiet night to hear myself think.”
She used two different keys to undo a pair of locks, then opened the door.
“Make yourself at home.”
The entire apartment was maybe a touch bigger than his room at the London. It consisted of a living room with a designated “kitchen area,” a barely-able-to-squeeze-into bathroom and an adjacent bedroom the size of a tiny walk-in closet. Grant was happy to see that even though his daughter was living practically on top of herself, it looked quite comfy, and he told her as much.
Rachel took his bag and placed it on a small couch that rested beneath the only window. “It folds out easy enough. I’ve got a set of sheets and blanket tucked away in the bedroom closet.”
“I’m sorry to put you to all this trouble.”
“Really, Dad, it’s not a big deal.” She pointed at the fridge. “Help yourself to anything. There’s also a stack of menus in the top drawer—you can get anything delivered here within thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’m just going to get the bed stuff. Be right back.”
She took two steps and disappeared. The place was that small.
Even though the apartment was full of Rachel’s things and some that Grant presumed belonged to the Norwegian transplant, it didn’t feel cluttered. The bookshelves were lined with paperbacks and an occasional hardcover bestseller. Two tiny plants served as bookends and Rachel had managed to keep an orchid alive by placing it in a corner of the window that got morning light. A few framed art posters hung on the walls—the obligatory one any millennial had from a Met show, but Grant was pleased to see the Tate Modern represented as well.
He peeked into the well-stocked fridge—there was certainly enough on the shelves to fashion a meal (sandwich and salad fixings, Chinese takeout cartons), along with a corked half-filled bottle of chardonnay. He found the menus Rachel mentioned—there must have been thirty different cuisines available within in a ten-block radius—and opened a cupboard to discover a box of English breakfast tea.
He found a kettle under the sink, filled it with water, and set it atop the stove. As it heated up, he continued his unguided tour, moving toward a corner where a small table served as the dining area and Rachel’s makeshift office.
Her laptop was open beside a bottle of water and a box of little cookies in the shape of bunny rabbits. Grant couldn’t resist trying one. The bunny was actually tasty enough that he feared its mates might join it in his stomach later for a postmidnight snack. The kettle whistled him back to the kitchen and he prepared the tea. A couple of sips later, he crossed to a wooden chest against the wall opposite from the window.
The smallest Christmas tree Grant had ever seen was perched on it. Barely two feet tall, Rachel had decorated it with a few ornaments, blinking colored lights, and a gold star to top it off. Grant reached out to touch it, wondering what kind of synthetic material it was made from. He was surprised to find genuine pine needles.
“It’s real, believe it or not,” said Rachel behind him.
He turned to see that his daughter had changed into jeans, a T-shirt, and a pullover sweater. She’d taken down her hair from the professional bun she’d worn at the precinct and put on fresh lipstick.
God, she looks like her mother, thought Grant—remembering the girl he had fallen in love with all those years back in London.
“They have some even smaller,” she continued. “Space is at a premium in Manhattan—especially at Christmas.”
“At least you didn’t get one of those pink-colored ones with the fake snow.”
His eyes were drawn to a gold ornament. The light above the stove reflected off it, causing it to glitter. He carefully lifted it off the tree. It was a small cameo that had the tiniest picture imaginable inside. It was of a smiling woman who looked like Rachel, holding a baby girl with two ribbons in her hair—one green, the other red for the holiday. There was an etched inscription opposite the photo.
Merry Xmas. ILY. R.
“I remember when you gave her this.”
“I think I was nine. Maybe ten.” She shook her head, trying to make light of it. “A silly arts and crafts project.”
“She loved it so much. I didn’t know you had it.”
“She gave it to me that Christmas, right after she found out . . .”
Rachel broke off as her voice caught. She gently took the cameo from Grant and rehung it. Grant’s eyes strayed to the framed photographs on either side of the tree. A few featured Rachel with secondary school and college friends Grant vaguely remembered dropping by the house. The others were either of Rachel and her mother—or just Allison.
Grant couldn’t help but notice that one person was missing. Him.
“Rachel—” he began.
“No, Dad. Don’t.”
“I just don’t understand . . .”
“I’d really rather not talk about it. Please.”
But now that Grant had opened the door, he couldn’t bring himself to close it. Not yet—not without giving it one more try.
“No one loved your mother more than me, Rachel. You must know that.” Grant felt himself start to tremble deep inside. “But if there’s one person I’ve ever loved more than her—that would be you.”
Rachel started to turn away. Grant placed a hand on her shoulder.
At least she didn’t brush it away.
“I can’t imagine what I said or did to drive you away. Whatever it was, I didn’t mean it. The only thing I can say is that I’m truly sorry. But I’m completely in the dark here, Rach—and have been ever since I—”
Grant stopped and corrected himself.
“Ever since we lost your mother.”
“It’s really complicated, Dad.”
Grant’s eyes flickered. “So, I did do something . . .”
“No. It’s not what you did. It’s what . . .”
Rachel threw her hands up in clear frustration and moved away from her father, who couldn’t recall a more heart-wrenching moment in his entire life.
“What? What did I do or not do?”
“I can’t tell you,” Rachel replied. There were tears in her eyes now.
“Why not?”
“Because I promised Mom that I wouldn’t!”
Suddenly, he couldn’t have felt further away from his daughter if they’d been back on opposite sides of the Atlantic instead of three feet away from each other.
When Rachel finally broke the silence, her voice had softened.
“Please listen to me, Dad. Nothing either of us can say or do will bring her back. We both know that.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I miss her as much as you do—every single damn day. But we have to get on with our lives.”
“I realize that but . . .”
“. . . but reopening old wounds won’t help us do that.” She pointed toward the bedroom. “You might not believe this, but when I woke up this morning, I was the happiest I’ve been in a long, long time. Probably since Mom passed away.”
She turned back to face Grant. “And I’m pretty sure it’s because you’re here.”
Grant stood there speechless.
“I’m actually glad to see you, Dad
. I’m happy to help you do something important.”
Grant was finally able to find his voice. “It means so much to me too.”
“So can’t we start with that?” The plea was now in Rachel’s eyes and voice. “Can’t we just begin there and see what happens next?”
“I’ll do whatever you want, Rach. I just want you in my life.”
Rachel gave him a grateful nod. It wasn’t quite the “I do too” he would have hoped for, but in that moment, he’d gladly take what he could get.
She picked her purse off the chair and moved back over to Grant.
She leaned in and gave him a small peck on the cheek.
“I shouldn’t be very late,” she told him.
Then she was out the door—leaving a stunned Grant still holding his hand up to the side of his face. As grateful as he was for the ice melting, he couldn’t stop thinking about one thing.
What had Allison forbidden Rachel to tell him?
An hour later, it was still the only thing on his mind.
Grant had tried reading a dozen books he’d picked off the shelves and had barely gotten past the title pages or dedications. He’d made up the sofa bed, plopped himself down on it, and tried finding something on television to distract him, but unless there was a reality show called What Your Daughter is Keeping from You and How to Find Out What It Is, that wasn’t going to work either.
More than once he’d passed the open laptop on the table. He could practically hear it beckoning him.
Austin, come over here and see what I have for you.
He resisted the temptation to pry and gobbled up a handful of bunny rabbit cookies instead.
That’s when he knew it was time to go out.
A subway ride and two-block walk later, Grant was back at his now-regular table at the Astro Diner with the ever-present Phyllis there to serve him. He ordered one of the shakes Frankel loved so much. Phyllis tried to tell him that was no dinner for a grown man and she was right. The shake was rich and tasty but, coupled with the bunny cookies, it was too much; he left half the glass. He thanked Phyllis, left her a tip twice the amount of the bill, and then ventured back into the cold December night still in search of some semblance of holiday cheer.
The Last Commandment Page 13
