A Fatal Obsession

by James Hayman

  “Really? Her uncle?”

  “Yes. He’s a cop, a homicide detective with the NYPD. He said he’d look into it.”

  Zoe studied Bradshaw’s face for any sign of distress. There was none. Just a smug smile that was actually more frightening than anger, dismissal or dismay.

  “And did this homicide detective uncle ever look into it?”

  “I think he was checking out people named Bradshaw when poor Sarah turned up dead on a beach in Connecticut. Especially Bradshaws who might live in Connecticut. That’s where this house is, isn’t it? Connecticut?”

  “You figured that out. Clever you.”

  “Clever me.” Zoe knew she was pushing it, and if she pushed too far it might end badly. On the other hand, it might keep dear Tyler just a little off balance. And it might offer a clue that might somehow, someway lead to her escape. “I figured the Tyler Bradshaw he’s looking for had to be you? I mean, how many Tyler Bradshaws can there be? Or maybe it was just a similar-sounding name. Tyler Bradley? Tyler Bradford? Or maybe just a reversal. Bradley Tyler? Bradford Tyler. Something like that. Or maybe you’re not a Tyler at all. You’re just a John Doe. Is that your name? John Doe?”

  “You’re trying to fuck with my brain, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, my darling,” she said with a smile. “You’ve been fucking with mine from the moment you called out my name on the street. That’s why I thought you might enjoy me fucking with yours. I live to please, dear Tyler.” She turned and kissed him again. “But don’t worry. I made the whole thing up about the homicide detective.”

  “I’m so relieved.”

  “Her uncle is really an undercover CIA agent.”

  “A professional assassin?”

  “Why, I do believe he is.”

  The elevator stopped and the door slid open. In front of Zoe was a large, mostly empty basement space. Concrete floor. Blank concrete walls. They stopped in front of a steel door with a little window in front of it on the left. “Is that the door to the dungeon you threatened to lock me in if I misbehaved?”

  “No, that’s below this level. Further underground. My father had it installed as a place to lock me or Tucker for punishment after beating the shit out of one or the other of us. Sometimes both. Though he didn’t like us sharing the place. Thought we might have too much fun if we were there together. He preferred it for solitary confinement. Sometimes for a week or more.”

  “He really was an evil bastard, wasn’t he?”

  “He really was.”

  “So this is . . . ?” she asked, pointing at the steel door.

  “My wine cellar.”

  “No lock,” she noted.

  “No.” He shrugged. “No danger of the wine trying to escape.”

  “At least not on its own,” she answered. “But perhaps with a little help from its oenophile friends.”

  “Like you?”

  “Like me.”

  He pulled the door open. After a split second of darkness, half a dozen recessed ceiling lights came on, revealing a good-sized room. She’d never been in a proper wine cellar before. On one wall were what looked like temperature and humidity controls. Above her, an eight-foot ceiling. It was at least fifteen feet to the back wall, and all the walls were lined floor to ceiling by full wine racks. Hundreds, if not thousands, of bottles. In the middle of the floor were perhaps twenty unopened cases that she supposed were filled with more recently purchased bottles of wine.

  “And here I thought you were a whiskey drinker.”

  “Now how would you know that?”

  “You had a whiskey in your hand when . . . how shall I put it . . . our eyes met at the Laughing Toad. Scotch?”

  “No, bourbon. I’m surprised you noticed. Even more surprised you remember. In fact, you surprise me more and more. But the fact is I like my wines at least as well as my whiskey.”

  “But only good wines?”

  “Of course. You asked for a red. The best Bordeaux vintages are over there in those racks on the far end on the left. Pick out a couple of bottles you think you might like. They’re all excellent.”

  Zoe followed Bradshaw’s directions and randomly pulled out a bottle.

  It bore a cream-colored label with an image of a French chateau. Château Haut-Brion read the label. Premier Grand Cru Classe. 1966. 1966, Zoe thought. Same age as my father. These things must cost a fortune.

  “That’s a really good choice,” said Bradshaw. “Grab two of those and we’ll take them upstairs.”

  “Are they obscenely expensive?”

  “The Haut-Brion? Yes. Obscenely. Eleven thousand dollars a case. I bought two cases at auction in Paris. Sadly, the bidding went a little higher than I wanted it to. But good wines are something of a hobby with me.”

  Zoe was certain she’d never tasted a wine that cost anything like a thousand dollars a bottle. “Have you shared any of these wines with your previous . . . what shall I call them? Prisoners of love?”

  Bradshaw’s eyes narrowed. His voice turned suddenly cold. “Don’t be sarcastic, Zoe. I don’t care for sarcasm. Or condescension. In fact, I hate condescension.”

  “I’m sorry, Tyler. I thought you’d find the term amusing.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She stood on her tiptoes, leaned in, and gave him another kiss on the lips. “I’m actually beginning to like you. Really. Perhaps I enjoyed our rendezvous in the shower more than I realized. Or perhaps I’m just suffering from the Stockholm syndrome. Although I’m not sure I’d feel this way about any other kidnapper. Maybe we should call it the Bradshaw syndrome. Are all your wines this expensive?”

  Bradshaw stared at her for a moment, as if trying to gauge whether or not he was being played. Finally, he seemed to relax. Took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I’m glad you feel that way about this kidnapper.”

  “Are all your wines this expensive?” she repeated.

  “No. Some are. But others are quite reasonably priced. A hundred dollars a bottle or less. But you shouldn’t worry about things like that. You are, after all, my guest. What’s mine is yours.”

  “And I will try to be a good guest,” she said, holding the two bottles of wine by the neck, one in each cuffed hand, and wondering what her chances might be of raising them over her head and clubbing him with them. Not terribly good, she decided. Not handcuffed like this. And not with a guy eight inches taller than she was. Zoe turned and left the wine cellar with Bradshaw directly behind her. They went back to the elevator. And then back up to the main floor.

  He directed Zoe to the large living room and told her to sit in one of the two oversized easy chairs placed on either side of a massive fireplace loaded with logs. He sat across from her. As if by signal, a second man entered the room. Was this the younger brother? Zoe thought it likely. He certainly looked younger than Tyler. Zoe guessed no more than his early twenties. He was also much smaller. No more than five foot five or six. Still, there was an obvious resemblance between them. But there was something not quite right about the man’s face. A blankness of expression. As if he was brain damaged. Not Down syndrome. But something.

  “This is my brother, Tucker.”

  Zoe smiled and held out her hand. “Hello, Tucker. I’m Zoe.”

  Tucker looked at Zoe’s proffered hand but didn’t reach out to shake it. “Hello,” he said. The word came out flat. No smile. No expression. The blankness remained.

  Zoe tried to break through. “Tucker and Tyler?” she said. “Your parents must like names starting with T.”

  “Forty-one thousand, one hundred and fifty-nine.”

  “What?”

  “Words starting with T,” said Tucker. “Not counting names.”

  “Sadly, our parents are no longer with us,” said Tyler. “Tucker, be polite and say hello to our new guest. This is Zoe.”

  Tucker offered Zoe a small bow. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  Zoe smiled and said, “It’s very ni
ce to meet you as well.” Yes, there was something definitely wrong with Tucker. Autism? Asperger’s? She had no idea. But in spite of whatever it was, there was also something gentle about him.

  Tyler handed his brother the two bottles of wine. “Tucker, would you please open one of these for us and put the other on the side table?”

  Tucker took both bottles over to a drinks cupboard. Took out a corkscrew. Opened one bottle. Poured a bit of wine in one glass like a sommelier waiting to find out if the wine should be sent back. Then he handed it to Tyler, who sniffed and nodded. “Excellent,” he said.

  Tucker then poured a full glass and handed it to Zoe. Filled Tyler’s glass, and without saying another word he turned and started to leave.

  “Wait,” Zoe called.

  Tucker stopped.

  “Aren’t you going to join us, Tucker?” asked Zoe. Tucker turned and looked back at Zoe with a frown.

  “I’m afraid Tucker doesn’t feel comfortable around people. He especially doesn’t feel comfortable around women. Especially young, pretty women.”

  “Oh dear,” said Zoe. “Well, I hope I can get you to like me, Tucker.”

  Tucker angled his head and stared at her as if he was trying to comprehend what she wanted him to do.

  “That’s all right,” said Zoe. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  Chapter 25

  The so-called large conference room at the Seventh Precinct was barely big enough to accommodate all the members of the task force assigned to investigate what were now officially designated as serial killings. McCabe looked at the people milling around in the room. Other than Astarita, he didn’t recognize anyone he knew from his past life.

  “All right, folks,” Art said, “let’s everybody sit down and get to work. We have a lot to go through. As you all know, Chief Pryor has organized this task force to focus on what is turning out to be the most serious serial murder investigation this department has faced in many years. You’ve each been selected by your precinct commanders based on your experience and expertise in homicide investigations. Some of you have already been involved in the search for Jacobs, Wingfield and Wolski. Some of you are new to the case. The four precincts chosen to work on this are the home precincts of all five known victims. Three confirmed homicides. Two missing persons. We believe it’s possible, though by no means certain, that our killer lives in one of the neighborhoods in Lower Manhattan covered by the First, the Sixth, the Seventh and the Ninth. I’ve sent each of you copies of all investigative reports compiled so far on all three murders and both missing person cases, including photographs of all five victims and crime scene photos of the three bodies found so far. I assume you’ve all taken the time to read and digest these reports and to familiarize yourselves with the details of the case. If any of you haven’t bothered to do so, please let me know now so I can arrange with your precinct commanders to have you replaced by someone more interested in the case.”

  Astarita looked around the table with a don’t-fuck-with-me look on his face. No one else in the room moved a muscle.

  “Good. I’ve also e-mailed you the names, job assignments and contact information of all the other members of this team, including Judge Edward Welker, who will be available to you 24/7 to sign warrants as needed.”

  McCabe looked around the room. There appeared to be eighteen people on the task force, not counting Astarita himself. Three evidence techs. One IT guy. One medicolegal investigator. Ten NYPD detectives—one team from each of the precincts where the victims had lived; seven men and three women. Also present at the table was Special Agent Andrew Babson from the FBI whose job was to serve as liaison between the task force and whatever resources the team might need from the Bureau. Based on appearance, ages seemed to range from early thirties to late forties which meant no rookies.

  “Since some of you may not know or have worked with one another, I’d like you all to briefly introduce yourselves,” said Astarita.

  They went around the table. Maggie and McCabe were the last to speak.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. My partner Detective Margaret Savage and I are on special assignment with this task force. As for background, I formerly put in ten years with the NYPD and am currently the head of homicide investigations for the Portland, Maine, Police Department. Detective Maggie Savage is both my partner and my senior investigator. Having worked extensively on homicides with both Lieutenant Astarita and Chief Pryor in the past, I’ve been asked to join this task force along with my partner because . . . well, I’d better leave the explanation to you, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks Mike. The answer is quite simple. During the years he was working here in New York, Sergeant McCabe achieved one of the highest murder clearance rates of any detective in the department. We are lucky he’ll be available to help us out on this. Detective Savage is Sergeant McCabe’s longtime partner and will be his partner in this investigation.”

  Detective Renee Walker, a tall, attractive African-American investigator from the Sixth, was the one who asked the question they were probably all wondering about. “Am I right in guessing,” she said, “that Sergeant McCabe might just be related to our most recent victim? The young actress, Zoe McCabe, who was abducted last night? And if he is, might that explain his interest in this case? If so, I have to tell you I’m not real comfortable with having him or his partner working on it. We’ve got plenty of good people right here in New York without bringing in one of the victim’s relatives all the way from Maine.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective Walker. I appreciate your frankness, but both Chief Pryor and I have taken Sergeant McCabe’s relationship with the latest victim into consideration. Moreover, having worked with him numerous times in the past, we both feel comfortable that he and Detective Savage will act professionally and make a positive contribution to this investigation. If you are unhappy with this arrangement, let me know now and I’ll ask your captain to replace you with another detective from your precinct.”

  The look Renee Walker and a couple of the other detectives gave Art made it clear they definitely were not happy with Charlie Pryor’s decision. But none verbally objected. If the department’s chief of detectives wanted McCabe and Savage on the team, that’s the way it was going to be. After a brief silence, Art continued. “I also want to make it crystal clear that if anybody from the media asks any of you about Sergeant McCabe’s participation or anything else having to do with this case, your response will be no comment. No other words will pass your lips. All press inquiries, and there will be a lot of them, will be referred to our dedicated media liaison, Lieutenant Joe Wolfe at One Police Plaza. Any information you uncover that you feel should be released to the press will go through me and from me on to Wolfe. Period. End of discussion.

  “All right, now let’s get down to business,” said Astarita. “First, I expect each of the teams assigned to this case to e-mail me a daily progress report. If possible I’d like to receive these reports by six p.m. every evening. The only legitimate excuse for missing that deadline will be that you are in active pursuit of a suspect or suspects.” Astarita added another few rules of the road before asking, “Any questions?”

  No one responded. “Good,” he said. “Now let’s review what we’ve got so far. Not counting Nakamura, whose death was almost certainly collateral damage, we’ve got four other victims. Three actresses. One ballet dancer. All four performed in public. It is likely that watching them perform is how the perpetrator made his selections.”

  For the next forty-five minutes Astarita summarized everything that had been learned about the case and tried to answer any questions any of the team members might have.

  “If the bad guy targeted the women he wanted after watching them perform,” said Patrick Hong, one of the detectives from the Ninth, “we ought to start by checking ticket sales for the ballets Jacobs appeared in and for Ronda Wingfield’s and Zoe McCabe’s stage performances.”

  “Agreed,” said Astarita. “We’ll discuss
that a little later in this meeting. Before we do,” he said, turning to the MLI, “is there anything you want to add about cause and manner of death?”

  “Nope,” said Jonah Eisenberg. “It’s all in the handouts, including my opinion on manner, method and time of death.”

  Astarita picked up. “The body of victim number one, Ronda Wingfield, was discovered a week to the day after she disappeared. Her body was apparently pushed from a car on Vestry Street between Washington and Greenwich. Not far from a bar named Sketch’s where she was known to hang out. When found she was wearing the same dress and shoes she wore for her most recent Broadway performance in a revival of Cole Porter’s Kiss Me, Kate. A neighborhood canvass hasn’t turned anyone up who claims to have seen her being thrown from the car.” Astarita kept going, describing all the details and known facts regarding the murders of Wingfield and Sarah Jacobs and the disappearance of Marzena Wolski. “As you know, Wolski’s still missing,” Astarita said, “but given that the unsub has now grabbed somebody new, I have a nasty hunch we could be finding her body fairly soon. Apparently it only takes this guy a week to ten days to get bored with his previous prize and then to go out after a fresh victim.”

  McCabe didn’t like to think of Zoe as a “fresh victim” but he held his tongue. “Which brings us to our fourth and hopefully final kidnapping. Zoe McCabe.”

  Astarita gave a detailed summary of what went down at 121 Clinton Street early that morning.

  “Anything else you can tell us?” asked Patrick Hong.

  “Nothing that’s not in the reports I sent you. All four victims are . . . were . . . young and single. We have two confirmed dead. Wolski is the youngest at twenty-two. Zoe McCabe is twenty-four. Sarah Jacobs was twenty-one and Ronda Wingfield was the oldest at twenty-eight. Two were brunettes. Two blondes. All slender. Tall or short doesn’t seem to matter to the killer. Wolski, was the tallest at five-ten. McCabe and Jacobs both five-eight. Wingfield five-two. Judging by the photos I sent you, I think you’d all agree that McCabe and Wolski would both be considered unusually beautiful women. Jacobs and Wingfield were both attractive but not exceptionally so. All lived in the same general area. One in the West Village. One in SoHo. One in Tribeca. And now, counting Nakamura, we have two who lived on the Lower East Side. Obvious similarities? All disappeared while they were either in their apartments or on the way home to their apartments after a performance or, in Jacobs’s case, a fancy party.”