Over My Dead Body

by Dave Warner

  He lifted his glass and the Englishman did the same. They shared a silent toast: to life, to the girls. He was pleased Percy hadn’t tried to interrupt, like he’d known his role was to just listen, knew Harry could never say the same words to his daughters. Holmes stood as Simone and Georgette rejoined the table.

  Harry said, ‘Be careful, you do that here, you’ll get a lecture on being a chauvinist.’

  Georgette’s phone buzzed.

  ‘That’ll be Spielberg,’ quipped Harry.

  Georgette read it, found Holmes’ eyes on her. ‘It’s Benson. He can see us.’

  ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ Benson’s hands were supplicant, as if he’d been lifted out of a Florentine painting. Lipinski leaned back on a bench, arms folded, unimpressed. Holmes thankfully remained silent. She’d just revealed she had been to lunch with Avery Scheer earlier in the day. ‘This is what I was afraid of,’ said Benson. They were up in the corner of the squad room where Benson was running the Noah task force. The minute Benson had appeared, Georgette could tell he’d got no confession from Coleman.

  Georgette said, ‘You were busy and we thought it too important to just ignore.’

  ‘We?’ Benson glared at Holmes.

  Far from intimidated, Holmes said, ‘You were fully occupied with your … suspect.’ Holmes dropped the word in the sentence the way a socialite drops a teabag into a trash can. Like it might splatter and get him dirty. Georgette felt obliged to ease the tension.

  ‘I’m sorry, Garry, but what could we do? Put yourself in our shoes: the book seemed a viable lead and then Avery Scheer called me and we thought … there’s no harm in meeting with him.’

  ‘No harm? Noah slashes women’s throats. And he could be Noah!’

  Holmes needled, ‘I suppose you are right. But we apologize for advancing the case while you were tied up. No doubt you would have got there eventually.’

  Benson trained guns on the annoying British frigate. Georgette threw herself across the line of fire.

  ‘If anybody is to blame, it’s me. I suppose I shouldn’t have accepted Scheer’s invitation to lunch. Percy knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Well, he should have. Who knows why Noah fixates on these particular women?’

  Georgette kept it rolling. ‘We found this in a bin in the study room of Walter Morris and Melissa Harper… it seems to be a group email for those attending the discussion group.’

  He took it carefully and studied it. ‘Only four people attended?’

  ‘That’s what Scheer told us and this would support that,’ she said.

  Benson pushed out a lip. ‘Of course they could have talked – shown the discussion paper to somebody else. And then there’s the book guy …’

  ‘Edwards,’ said Holmes. ‘Yes. You might want to look into him.’

  Georgette explained his appearance at the play. Benson wrestled with an invisible demon, pointed his pen at her.

  ‘See, this is what I’m talking about. If one of these people is Noah, you are in harm’s way. Did you tell him you were going to the play?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything on your Facebook?’

  ‘Not yet but Simone would have posted.’

  ‘So, if he knows you are sisters, it’s pretty easy for him to guess you’re going to turn up.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Benson rocked in his chair. ‘And despite that, we can’t say they are the only ones who have ever read this book, or parts of it.’

  ‘It would seem extremely coincidental,’ said Holmes, ‘that if Noah had some other copy, he waited for Scheer’s discussion group before beginning his activity.’

  Lipinski glanced over to see if he would try to dispute Holmes but Benson seemed to concede the point. Georgette decided not to mention the others, De Souza and Ross. It would not take Benson long to find them and it avoided … difficulties.

  ‘One thing we can tell you, there was a sexual harassment claim filed against Melissa Harper at her previous college by a female student but that was withdrawn. Nothing on Scheer or Edwards. Morris wrote a pro S&M piece for a student paper but that’s not illegal.’

  ‘You found this out already?’ Georgette was impressed.

  ‘Soon as you told me about the book. Even though I don’t believe that excludes Coleman.’

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. He asked if Coleman seemed the type who would read a book more than one hundred years old.

  ‘Frankly, I doubt he could read the X-Men. Judge for yourself.’ Benson found a file on his computer of the interview with Ricky Coleman. Coleman was mid-to late twenties, Afro-American, wearing a shiny Knicks jacket. He appeared tired, perplexed.

  ‘Why did you run, Ricky?’ asked Benson.

  ‘Cause you all were looking for me. Why you think? I know you got me in your sights for some shit. I ain’t hanging around.’

  ‘What were you doing in the church, Ricky?’ Lipinski this time.

  ‘What people usually do in church. Prayin’.’

  ‘You’re a changed man?’

  ‘Yes, I am a changed man. I did my time and I have repented.’

  They watched a few more minutes. Holmes indicated he had seen enough.

  ‘You know the book is in Italian,’ he said. ‘Does Coleman speak Italian?’

  ‘Says he doesn’t. But he wouldn’t have to. You know what happens, somebody tells some freak they read about this cool serial killing, and then that person tells somebody else.’

  Lipinski joined in. ‘Down the line it finally gets to the right freak and it all sings – in a bad way.’ Clearly the two of them had kicked some theories around.

  ‘You will investigate the phone calls of our suspects?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Persons of interest,’ corrected Benson. Georgette remembered a boy whom she sat next to in middle school pricking her with his compass. Benson’s tone reminded her of it now. ’Naturally we’ll check phone records, social media, anything we can that might give us some link to one of the victims.’

  Holmes said, ‘If he is following the book, Noah’s next victim will be a zebra. I’m sure your resources, as you say, are superior to mine but this is a list of all things zebra I was able to find.’

  He handed across his list. Benson regarded it as if it might be a trick but ultimately took it, and that, Georgette felt, seemed to suggest some form of truce.

  ‘Okay. I’m not going to take this any further but I mean it when I say, we’ll take it from here.’

  Georgette asked if he was planning to question the – she stopped herself from repeating Holmes’ mistake. ‘– persons of interest.’

  ‘Not at this stage. I’ve already got surveillance on them, better to see if that takes us anywhere. We’ll look into their phone records see if there is any interaction with the victims.’

  ‘What’s your impression of the four you’ve met?’

  Georgette was flattered to have her opinion considered.

  ‘Edwards seems … devious. I don’t trust him. You could imagine those women wouldn’t give him a second glance. Harper is, well, physically athletic. We didn’t interact with her much. Morris seemed relatively normal except for his sculpture: an avenging angel.’ She called on Holmes to help her with the detail.

  ‘And Scheer?’

  ‘I’m not sure if there’s a darkness in him or it is just his manner but he’s intense and intellectually arrogant. He’s the scariest.’

  Benson said he would have them all watched around the clock.

  ‘And we’ll find out the other two people at that seminar.’

  Georgette wanted to save them the time and trouble but didn’t dare.

  ‘Needless to say, you don’t mention this to anyone.’

  ‘Can we call you to check on progress?’ she asked in her most deferential voice.

  ‘I might be able to give you some very limited information.’

  ‘We’d appreciate that.’

  As they got up to leave, Benson called her
back and said quietly, ‘I don’t want anything to happen to you. Hopefully we nail this case and you and I can enjoy some social time.’

  She could feel the blood rising to the tips of her ears.

  ‘Sure,’ she said and walked to where a suspicious Holmes was waiting.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me to be very careful and said we were to leave well alone.’

  ‘After we’ve given him the best lead he has in his case. Typical.’

  It was near one. Outside the car you couldn’t see a face, just nylon hoods and knitted caps. How quickly the excitement of Simone’s play had faded. When they reached the apartment, Holmes insisted on going in first. She was beginning to truly comprehend the reality of her new situation. Once cleared to enter, she made sure the heat was up and asked Holmes if he would like a coffee.

  ‘First, we need to do something. Stand here.’ With his hands about her waist he placed her by the table. It was the first time he had handled her firmly but gently like that and it felt … well, good. In a smooth, stunningly quick movement, Holmes seized a spoon off the table and lunged at her, stopping the spoon handle an inch from her neck while his left hand strapped her in position better than any seatbelt. She’d not even had time to blink.

  ‘When I seized you from behind in your laboratory, your lack of any adequate response revealed you would have scant chance of protecting yourself from one determined to harm you. You say you have no firearms expertise, and your reflexes leave much to be desired should you be subjected to a knife attack. It simply won’t do, Watson. I’ll not have your death on my conscience. Now, how do you think you would get out of this situation?’

  ‘My best idea would be to leave anybody over one hundred frozen solid.’

  ‘Ha, ha, droll, Watson. As I’ve mentioned, in wit you have the edge over your great-great-grandfather. In the question of self-defense, however, you are inferior.’

  ‘He had the benefit of a war, so unless you are going to pack me off to the Middle East …’

  ‘No such extravagance is required. You are going to learn everything you need to know right here, in this room, tonight. Let us waste no more time. In a frontal attack like this, you block …’ he demonstrated, ‘… and then drive with the heel of your palm.’

  He took her hand and demonstrated the action required against his chin. Her mind should have been on the necessity to defend her life but when their hands touched and she felt his stubble on her hand and looked into those eyes burning with intelligence and earnestness, there was nothing but the most pleasant tingling from her neck to her toes. And when he swung her round and pressed his arm across her chest and drew her to him, his warm breath on her, that very same stubble pricking her neck and sending a delicious shiver along her spine, she lost her breath. It shouldn’t have been like this but it was. His manliness excited something deep and primal inside her. Perhaps because he feared injuring her, he suddenly relaxed. She felt his chest contract in the way a cry is stifled and he unhanded her and asked with great solicitude if he was being too rough.

  ‘Not at all,’ she answered.

  ‘If you would rather we postpone –’

  ‘No. I think it extremely important you school me to defend myself. Please, continue.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said and, looking about, settled on the umbrella stand in the doorway. He seized two umbrellas and tossed one at her, which she managed to catch.

  ‘Hand to eye is good,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see you in slips.’

  Had she misheard him? For the first time he seemed suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘It is a cricket term, Watson.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and wasn’t certain whether she was disappointed or not.

  ‘The beauty of bartitsu is that with so much as a stick, or an umbrella, we can even the odds against a physically stronger foe. Have you ever fenced?’

  ‘Once, in the school play of Romeo and Juliet. I played Tybalt.’ Simone of course had been Juliet. Even now it galled.

  ‘You are a fast learner, Watson. I taught your great-great-grandfather and I have no doubt I can teach you.’

  One could only hope. She watched him demonstrating pivots and thrusts, thought of how he had been holding back so as not to harm her, and such restraint and gentleness touched her and frightened her too, because she knew just how easy it would be to wish for more, and just how often our wishes go unrequited.

  Each flake of snow was like manna from heaven. It was as if God were personally rewarding him for his diligence and months of hard work. How wonderful it had been earlier this evening to be that close to her you could smell her perfume. Would he smell her fear like he had with the other? There was no erotic satisfaction for him, he was simply the executioner charged with bringing about true justice, because sometimes justice slipped, missed the mark. He had known that of course for many years but what he’d not understood was that it was simply a challenge to rectify that, not a sentence that could never be overturned. Those who cared, it became their challenge, their burden; instead of self-destruction that did nobody any good, it was incumbent on them to enact justice.

  Taking the other’s life had been physically demanding, even with the element of surprise, and he wouldn’t deny it, there had been, even at the height of the act, a voice urging him to let go, loosen up his grip, give her a chance. But of course, he couldn’t, everything had been written before either of them had been born. Georgette would go the same way but with an ironic touch. That was most important. Perhaps it had been foolish of him to allow even the slightest chance that she might be saved but no, she wouldn’t be saved, and then those little flourishes would be oh so much more bitter for the ones who remained. To think if only their eyes had been open and they had been more careful, they might have saved her. Which was the whole point. Negligence is no less blameful than a wilful act. Not in his mind. Turner was an obstacle forcing a change of his initial plans that had made him think outside the square. Now, not only had he found a way around that, it had made him realize he could double down. First you slash the Achilles, then you stab through the heart. He almost felt like calling for a drink.

  Almost.

  But no, he would not weaken, find himself down in the gutter where he had wallowed. It was a new him, unrecognizable. He chuckled at that. Well, that was enough gloating. It was time to move things along. He opened the freezer and stared down at her, that blue tint, like the snow outside. Sometimes life imitated art. Or in this case death. Oh, the irony was delicious.

  18

  She watched Holmes going through the boiled egg ritual but today it felt very different. Everything felt different, or to be more precise, didn’t produce feelings at all, like she was a camera on the wall recording herself. That she’d barely slept was no doubt a contributing factor. Apart from anything else, the feelings she had experienced the previous evening were thoroughly unprofessional but she was honest enough to admit there’d barely been a single thorn of moral dilemma keeping her awake. No, it had all been about him. Whether he had felt anything like she had, whether what she’d felt with his breath on her neck, that thrill, was genuinely because she was attracted to him; or whether Simone had been bang on and she was merely Frankenstein falling in love with himself and his own cleverness by projecting that onto his creation.

  But Holmes wasn’t her creation. He was simply a man she had brought back from limbo. A very special man, but nonetheless a man. He had insisted they begin the day with a quick refresher bout of bartitsu. She would have preferred something more hand-to-hand.

  ‘There you go, Watson, a reward for your excellent retention of last night’s lesson.’

  He delivered the egg with a flourish. Disappointingly there seemed to be not a trace of any reciprocal conflict within Holmes. Her spirit was returning from its wandering around the ceiling, slipping back into her body. She worried about her breath. Should she brush her teeth now? A bit silly as they were about to eat.

  ‘I suppo
se you stayed up?’ she said sinking her teeth into toast. The television was on but she had the sound turned down. You could predict the commentary anyway. The pictures showed snow had fallen, street sweepers. The streets were already pretty well cleared. An isolated fall, not a blizzard.

  ‘Only for three or four hours.’

  It was ten past eight now. He’d probably managed three hours sleep. The female anchor on the news had unbelievably thick and lustrous hair with a fresh knitted woolen cap perched on top. How could you extend credibility to anybody who looked like that? In comparison, she felt bald. The anchor also had long slim legs but that was one area where Georgette felt no inadequacy. Her legs were long and lean, her butt was firm, despite not having worked out since that post-Vance burst.

  ‘Then you slept like the Congo?’ she prompted.

  ‘More like one of the octogenarians in the Lord’s Long Room on a summer day when tiny gnats drone and young men take their womenfolk punting. Sorry, it all means nothing to you but sometimes I can almost make-believe that you are your great-great-grandfather sitting opposite me.’

  She forced a grin. Felt like crowning him with the toaster. This was terrible. There was no reciprocation here. She’d turned hopefully down a street only to find it was one-way with a huge lorry steaming at her.

  Her phone rang. Holmes was immediately alert.

  ‘Benson?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Hi, Dad. I was going to call you later, fill you in on Benson.’

  ‘I know what went down with Benson. He was just here.’ Harry did not sound pleased. Shit. She had been going to ease him in on it today. Why did Benson have to stick his nose in?

  ‘We just fished a dead woman out of the East River near Astoria Park. I’ve got the crime scenes until they work out who is free to run the case and I’m freezing my ass off. Benson came down to have a look but it’s not one of his. He wouldn’t say what was wrong about it.’ It must have been missing Noah’s mark. Benson was still keeping that in a closed fist. You let that out, the press would be onto it and everything would be …