Silent Victim

by C. E. Lawrence

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The visit to Dr. Williams had left Lee feeling somewhat better—still shaky, but better. He was able to sleep, and woke up early the next day to rent a car so he and Butts could drive out to New Jersey and interview Ana’s coworkers at the Swan Hotel.

  Ana Watkins had no family left. Her mother disappeared years ago, and, as she had told Lee, her father had died recently. He knew from their sessions together that she was an only child. He also planned to track down the boyfriend, hopefully, and speak with him—anything to shed some light on what might have led to her becoming the third victim of a very bizarre killer.

  Butts met him at Enterprise Car Rental in Greenwich Village at nine o’clock, and within a half hour they were zooming west along Route 78.

  “Sorry I couldn’t drive today, Doc,” Butts said as they headed west, the skyscrapers of Manhattan looming behind them in the rearview mirror. “The wife always does Meals on Wheels on Wednesdays. You know—brings food to the old folks and stuff. She’s an RN, but gave it up when the kids were born. Still has that need to feel useful, I guess.”

  “Sure,” Lee said. “I think we all have that.”

  He and Butts drove in silence for a while, lulled by the motion of the car and the soft morning light falling on the blacktop, damp from a rain the night before. The water evaporated in wispy threads of mist as the air heated up and the sun climbed higher in the sky. To his relief, Lee had not awakened with any symptoms from the previous day’s attack, though his emotions were still close to the surface.

  As they approached the exit for Route 202, Butts said, “What I’d like to know is why do we have to put up with that Krueger dame?”

  “Krieger,” Lee corrected him.

  “Whatever.” Butts stared moodily out the window, tracing waving lines with his finger in the thick mist of condensation on the interior of the glass.

  “I don’t know the story behind it, but I’ll bet you Chuck Morton had nothing to do with it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Butts. “He doesn’t like her any more than I do. How about you—can you stand her?”

  Lee thought about it for a moment. “She sort of reminds me of my mother.”

  Butts shivered. “Jeez. Some mother.”

  Lee smiled. “She’s not so bad once you get used to her.”

  Butts reclined his seat a little and stretched his arms out over his head. “The scary part is that I just know my kids will be talkin’ about me the same way some day—if they aren’t already.”

  They said no more about Krieger, though Lee had a feeling this was not the last he would hear about her. A few miles from the Route 202 exit, Butts’s cell phone rang, and he dug it out of his jacket pocket.

  “Butts here.” There was a pause as he listened. “Really? That puts a new spin on things. Thanks a lot, Russ, much appreciated. Yeah, right—thanks.”

  He closed the cell phone and whistled softly. “That was Russell Kim from the M.E.'s office—the tox screen on our first two vics just came back.”

  Lee knew Russell Kim—a quiet, dedicated Korean pathologist known for his thoroughness and reliability.

  “Okay,” he said impatiently, “and—?”

  Butts paused for dramatic effect. “GBH.”

  “Jesus.” GBH, or gamma-hydroxybutyrate, was well known to law enforcement as the “date rape drug.” It was a soporific, and could be added to a mixed drink without the victim being aware of its presence.

  “Yup, one and the same.”

  Neither of them said what they were both thinking—that Ana’s tox screen results would be identical. Lee tried not to think about her last hours, but he couldn’t help it—he could only hope that perhaps the barbiturate effect of the drug had made the ordeal less horrible, but he wasn’t ready to bet on it.

  “That still doesn’t explain the lack of forced entry in the bathtub killing,” Lee said.

  “Right. Either the killer gives it to him somewhere else or follows him into the apartment and forces him to drink it there. Either way, we still have missing pieces.”

  Lee turned onto Route 202, leaving the interstate to cut straight southwest through the farm fields of central Jersey, heading down to the Delaware River town of Lambertville. His mother and his niece lived not far from where they were going, but he would be seeing them in a few days, and today’s trip was not about pleasure.

  “This part of Jersey is real pretty, isn’t it?” Butts mused as they cruised past fields of grazing cows and horses. The sun sparkled on the damp meadows, the long grasses catching the yellow morning light in sprays of silver and gold.

  “Yeah,” Lee agreed. But his mind was not on the beauty of the summer morning. He was thinking of the grim necessity of their task—to learn what they could about the life of a young woman whose time had ended far too soon.

  The Swan Hotel was an eighteenth-century building tucked in between taller structures built a century later on Main Street in the former factory town of Lambertville, which hugged the valley between the Delaware to the west and the hills rising to the east. Lee knew the town well. When he was growing up it had the appearance of a hardbitten working-class town gone to seed. Lambertville was originally a hub on the D&R canal, but with the advent of the trucking industry, canal and rail traffic slowed to a trickle, and the town dried up.

  Just across the Delaware was the hamlet of New Hope, Pennsylvania, accessible by car or by a footbridge spanning the river. With its thriving gay community, boutiques, cute restaurants, and B & B’s, many lodged in eighteenth-century buildings, it was a major tourist destination. Lambertville, its bulkier, lumpy cousin, watched from across the river as New Hope rapidly went from chic to gawdy, and then finally passé. Tourists still flocked to the overpriced boutiques and restaurants—Lee secretly continued to enjoy several of them himself—but the pronouncement among locals was that New Hope was hopelessly prettified, had been overrun by tourists, and—worst of all—had lost its authenticity.

  Meanwhile, on the Delaware’s eastern shore, Lambertville was discovering itself—but without the sense of excess that had doomed New Hope to the scorn of local residents. Young professional couples were buying the handsome, sturdy town houses and fixing them up. Local businesses popped up like mushrooms after a spring rain. The town was slowly shaking off its years of depression and realizing that ugly ducklings too could become swans—and with a minimum of fairy lights, purple shutters and lime-green window boxes. (Lee liked New Hope, complete with purple shutters and fairy lights, but never would have admitted this to his mother, who represented the mainstream, local conservative taste. She had not shied away from pronouncing the harshest possible verdict on New Hope: it was, that horror of horrors, so tacky.)

  Central to Lambertville’s renaissance was the Swan Hotel. A low wooden building dating from 1743, it had been built as a tavern, and, in the late 1950s, was returned to its original use. It quickly became a gathering place for groups of aging Yale graduates, whose rivalry with their fellow Ivy Leaguers from Princeton, just a few miles to the east, was well known. On any given night when Lee was a teenager, you could hear the inebriated strains of “The Whiffenpoof Song” coming from the piano bar at the back of the first floor.

  Lee always thought it was an insipid melody with even worse lyrics, but those middle-aged Yalies loved it, and sang it, he suspected, just to encourage the inevitable rebuttal of the Princeton tiger song from their arch rivals, who also frequented the piano bar. The Princetonians never failed to take the bait: they would leap to their feet, red-faced from brandy and clogged arteries, and reciprocate just as unmelodiously, braying like the donkey from the Bremen Town Musicians.

  The reason Lee came to the Swan was the piano player, a stocky local plumber who was a great favorite of the well-heeled clientele. A bulldog of a man with a face like Ernest Borgnine and sausages for fingers, he pounded the hell out of that baby grand piano. He could play anything—Rodgers and Hart, Gershwin, Bacharach, Beethoven. He could play by ear
and he could play from sheet music—from Lee’s boyhood perspective, there was no limit to the man’s talent.

  Now, as he swung the rented Saturn into a parking spot in front of the hotel, he was gripped with nostalgia for those sweet days of youth when he was attending Princeton and would come home for holidays. He and Laura would go together with their mother to Lambertville to eat at Phil and Dan’s Italian diner, then head over to the Swan for an hour or two of music. Laura had a pretty singing voice, and sometimes she would sing a solo, while Lee sat in the corner gripping his beer mug, silently urging her voice not to crack on the high notes, his chest full with pride in his pretty sister. He knew Fiona, too, was proud, though she was always sparing in her praise, true to her Scottish character.

  Butts followed him into the building, grunting as he swung the heavy oak door closed behind him. The Swan was much as Lee remembered it, though the low ceilings and dimly lit rooms felt more claustrophobic than they had when he was a boy.

  It was still an hour away from lunch, so the place was quiet. The maître d', a slim, dark, Middle Eastern man, led them to the atrium, a recent addition on the side of the building, to wait for the manager, who was expecting them. Lee was pleased to see that this part of New Jersey was finally acquiring a more multicultural look. When he lived there it had been very white—and very WASPy.

  They settled themselves by the window, underneath a greenhouselike structure with potted plants on the inside and creeping vines along the outside of the glass. The sound of softly flowing water came from a stone fountain in the back of the room, and the effect was calming and peaceful.

  They didn’t have long to wait. The manager rushed in, a worried look on his face. Lee had told him over the phone that something had happened to Ana, but had not gone into specifics.

  “Hello, I’m Sayeed El Naga,” the manager said, shaking their hands. He too was dark and, judging by his name and accented English, from the Middle East, but unlike the elegant maître d', he was small and balding, with a compact body and nervous, eager energy. He had a darkly handsome face, with large dark eyes, full lips, and very white teeth. He exuded personal warmth and goodwill.

  He pulled up a chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and looked Lee earnestly in the eyes. “You said you have something to tell me regarding Ana. So let’s not waste time—what is it, please?” His tone was polite but firm, as though he expected something less than the truth from the encounter.

  Lee met his gaze. There was no point in trying to soften the blow. El Naga had asked for the truth, and it would be a shock no matter how he said it. “Ana is dead. Her death has been classified as a homicide.”

  El Naga fell back in his chair as though he had been shot. He stared at Lee without speaking, his mouth open. Finally he said, “When—how? Who did it? Where did you find her?”

  Butts stepped in. “They found her yesterday, in the river.”

  “The Delaware?”

  “No,” said Lee, “where the Harlem River meets the Hudson.”

  “What was she doing there?” said El Naga.

  She was coming to see me, Lee wanted to say, but the time of death hadn’t yet been conclusively determined. It was harder to pinpoint with victims who had been in the water for some time, as Ana had.

  “We don’t really know yet,” said Butts. “I wish we could tell you more, but we’re trying to figure it out ourselves.”

  “Ana hated the water,” El Naga said. “She told me that once,” he added apologetically.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Lee said gently.

  “Yes, yes, of course—anything.”

  “Did she have any enemies that you know of?” Butts asked. “Anybody who expressed a dislike for her, or who had a reason to harm her?”

  “No, I can’t think of anyone. She was a little strange, you know, had an odd way about her, but she was a good worker, and got on reasonably well with the rest of the staff.”

  “What about customers?” said Lee. “Was there anyone who acted suspicious or inappropriate with her recently?”

  El Naga furrowed his thick black eyebrows and chewed on his lower lip. “Let me think. This is a pretty upscale clientele, you know,” he said defensively, as if the restaurant itself were a suspect.

  “Yes, I know,” Lee reassured him. “I used to come here when I was a boy.”

  El Naga’s face brightened momentarily. “Really?”

  “Yes—I grew up not far from here.”

  “It’s very nice here, isn’t it?” El Naga said. “I like the countryside so very much. I still can’t get used to snow, though—it is quite different where I come from.”

  “Yeah, and where’s that?” Butts asked.

  “Egypt—Cairo. Very noisy, very dirty, very polluted, don’t you know? I much prefer it here—I have even bought the snow boots for this winter.”

  “So was there anyone you can think of who came here who might have acted strangely toward Ana?” Lee prompted.

  El Naga’s face grew serious again. “No … oh, wait, yes—there was someone, about a week ago. I remember Ana telling the maître d’ that if he ever came again, would he please give him to another waitress.”

  “Did you get a look at the guy?” Butts said eagerly.

  “Sadly, no. It was a very busy Sunday brunch, you see, and I was helping out in the kitchen. One of the cooks was away and we were short-staffed. I’m so very sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he added, looking dejected.

  “No, thank you for what you’ve told us—it could be very helpful,” Lee said. The man was so earnest and eager to please that Lee wanted to reassure him.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Butts said. “Do you happen to have the phone number of her boyfriend—what’s his name again?” Lee had told him the boyfriend’s name was Raymond, but Butts sometimes liked to get information out of people that he already had, just to see how they reacted to the question.

  “Uh, it’s Raymond, isn’t it? Raymond Santiago. Yes, I think I do—I believe that’s the number she gave me as an emergency contact.”

  “So you never met him?” said Lee.

  “No. I believe he picked her up from work once or twice, but I don’t know if he ever came inside the restaurant. He’s the day manager at the Black Bass over in Lumberville—he might be working the lunch shift today.”

  El Naga arranged for them to talk to the rest of the staff, most of whom had been working last week’s Sunday brunch. Apparently it was one of their busiest meals of the week. The only person who got a look at the customer in question was the maître d', whose name was Assaf Hussein.

  “I wish I had gotten a better view of his face,” he said, “but the man was sitting with his back to me. I can tell you this: he was rather tall, but slight of build, so I was surprised that Ana felt threatened by him at all. He was not an imposing-looking man, from behind, at any rate.”

  “What about hair color, race, that kind of thing?” Butts asked eagerly.

  “Well, he was definitely Caucasian,” Hussein said. “His hair was quite straight and rather light in color—sort of a light mousy brown, I think. From the back he didn’t seem to be at all the kind of man who stood out in a crowd. I meant to get a look at his face as he left, but he slipped out quietly while my back turned, I’m afraid. It was quite a busy day, even for a Sunday.”

  “Did she ever mention him again?” Lee asked.

  “No, she didn’t. She worked three shifts later that week but never mentioned him again to me. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he said. “I really liked Ana. She was troubled, you know, but I had a sense that her life was beginning to turn around, and I was glad for her. Terrible for a thing like this to happen to such a young person.”

  “Yeah,” said Butts. “It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lee and Butts decided to push on to Lumberville and drop in on Raymond Santiago at the Black Bass. They declined Sayeed El Naga’
s invitation to dine at the Swan as his guests. It seemed inappropriate to take advantage of his hospitality at a time like this, especially after interviewing the staff about their murdered colleague.

  Butts had his regrets, though. As they climbed into the dark green Saturn sedan, he said, “It sure smelled great in there. Sorry we couldn’t stay.”

  “It just didn’t feel right to me,” Lee said as he started the engine. “Don’t you think it would have been uncomfortable?”

  “Yeah,” Butts sighed, buckling his seat belt. “But it sure smelled great.”

  Lee circled around the back of town before heading west over the bridge to Pennsylvania. Lambertville looked prosperous but relaxed on this Tuesday in late August. He saw children playing on the wide sidewalks, riding their bikes or Razor scooters, and others splashing in plastic pools on grassy side lawns. School would be starting in a week or so.

  Lee remembered the feeling of wanting to fill the final glorious days of summer with as much activity as possible.

  As he turned onto the bridge across the river, Butts said, “I wonder what that was we smelled cooking. God, it smelled great.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Lee said. “But don’t you think it would have been weird to stay?”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Butts agreed, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Lee suggested. “If we can, we’ll eat at the Black Bass, okay?”

  Lee turned north on the River Road, which would take them to Lumberville, to the Black Bass Hotel.

  Lumberville was a hamlet tucked along a narrow strip of land on a section of the Delaware where the river lay far below sheer rocky cliffs on one side, while on the other side the wooded hills rose abruptly and steeply from the town. Settlers in the eighteenth century had managed to carve out a bit of town, which consisted of little more than a general store, a few houses, and of course the legendary Black Bass Hotel.