The White Carnation

by Susanne Matthews

  “Halliday … Are you certain? ... I’m on my way.” He ended the call. “I have to go. Promise me you’ll stay put.”

  Something in the way he reacted to the call set her reporter senses on high alert. “What is it? Was that call about the case? Something’s upset you, Rob. I know you well enough to know that.”

  “No. It wasn’t about this case, but I do have others, you know. It was the lieutenant. They’ve found a body.”

  “The Harvester?” she asked, feeling the flush of excitement at the prospect of an exclusive heat her cheeks.

  He sighed. “You know damn well I can’t answer that. Promise me you’ll leave your cell phone off until we know more about Lucy’s murder. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I know you don’t have to work. It might be a good time to take a vacation—get out of town, maybe go see your mother in Maine for a few weeks. I don’t like the idea this guy may come after you. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” Before she could answer, he left the apartment, closing the door forcefully behind him.

  Faye shook her head. Secrets, always secrets. They’d never stood a chance. Why hadn’t she realized that? Placing the dirty glass and mug on the tray, she carried it into the kitchen. It was almost eight. She opened the fridge and groaned. She’d forgotten to stop at the market. She settled for a sandwich and a glass of milk. Another night of feasting on peanut butter, and she’d go squirrely. When she finished her not-so-gourmet meal, she washed what few dishes she had, wiped down the counters, and turned out the light. She’d love to indulge in a glass of chardonnay, but fine wine was a luxury she could no longer afford. She settled for two fingers of cheap Irish whiskey.

  Outside, the lights of Boston glowed eerily through the fog caused by the falling rain. The night was as dreary as she felt. Memories of Lucy Green lying on the floor, her head twisted at an odd angle with the large red gash at her throat, crowded Faye’s mind, and her stomach roiled, threatening to return the sandwich she’d just consumed. What could the killer have been searching for? And Mary—missing? Pregnant? It was all too fantastic to be real. She felt like she’d stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

  She turned around and pulled her address book out of the drawer in the coffee table to look up Mary’s home phone number. Faye had her number in her contacts on her cell phone, but she was loathe to turn it on, Rob’s admonition still echoing in her mind. With stiff fingers, she keyed the number into the portable phone connected to the landline. The phone rang five times.

  “Hi! Muffin and I are busy out doing some fun thing that dogs and people do. You know the drill.” Mary’s voice was cheerful. Who else but Mary would name an English bulldog Muffin? Faye was getting ready to leave a message when a tinny voice came on and announced, “Mailbox full.” The call ended abruptly. Faye shivered.

  It made no sense. Mary religiously checked messages. Faye opened her email inbox. Nothing. Her friend always answered emails within minutes. Could she be missing like Rob had said?

  Mary, where the hell are you?

  Faye took a generous mouthful of the whiskey and let the smooth, slightly smoky taste warm her. Walking to the window, she stared out into the blackness of the night, seeing Rob as he’d looked less than an hour ago. Having him here had ripped the scabs off barely healed wounds. She could smell his aftershave lingering in the room just as it had fifteen months ago.

  They’d met when Mahoney, a bitter mobster who’d blamed her for the death of his son, had stabbed her. Rob had been doing a stint in major crimes and was first on the scene. There’d been something about him she couldn’t resist, and when he’d asked her out a few months after the trial was over, she’d agreed.

  God, that man could make her body sing! Lust, not love. She’d mistaken the one for the other, and after multiple proposals, despite her gut feeling, she’d caved and agreed to marry him. But their relationship had been anything but smooth sailing. How many times had they argued about her commitment to the story, to her career? He’d been assigned to vice, and often their professional paths crossed, creating problems in their personal lives. But the make-up sex was great. Against her better judgment, she’d chosen a date, but then the corruption case came up, pitting them against one another.

  Faye knew he’d do anything to make detective, but she hadn’t realized that meant sacrificing her and his almighty principles. She’d never forget that oh-so-public scene at the police station. She’d been furious and humiliated when she’d discovered the information she’d published, using the material Rob had given her, had blown the top off months of undercover work into corruption in the mayor’s office. The DA had backed down under accusations of entrapment. Receiving roses from O’Malley, the Irish mobster exonerated by her story, had put paid to her career. The man denied sending her the flowers, but of course he would. The card read, I knew I could count on you, with no signature, but someone had drawn a shamrock, O’Malley’s trademark symbol, in the corner. In an election year, the implication of wrongdoing on his part had been enough for the mayor to ask for her head. Thank God the DA hadn’t filed charges against her for obstruction or the publisher hadn’t fired her outright. Being demoted was bad enough. There was always a chance she could get her old job back one day—a slim chance, but slim was better than none.

  The hell of it was she’d begged Rob for information. She’d been positive the mayor’s aide was in bed with O’Malley, and when she’d found the photographs in the file Rob had given her, she’d been too excited to do anything but gloat. He’d finally come through with something she could use. Too bad she hadn’t realized the damn pictures had been Photoshopped and she’d been set up. O’Malley was in New York City when the photograph was supposed to have been taken. He threatened to sue the DA, the newspaper, even her personally for libel. The paper published an apology and a retraction in the next edition.

  She’d stormed into the precinct and into the vice squad room just in time to see Rob’s fellow detectives congratulating him. Tears brimmed her eyes. It wasn’t just the loss of her hopes and dreams that caused this horrendous pain, it was knowing Rob had been a willing participant in it. The one lesson she’d learned from her father had been never to trust a man. Men always put their wants and needs above others’, even a wife and daughter.

  “You low-down, conniving bastard. I knew you were jealous of my career, but this? You set me up. I fell for it—lock, stock, and barrel. I’ve barely managed to hang on to my position at the paper, and from now on I’m on the local page. Are you happy?” She flung the engagement ring at him, catching him in the chin, and saw the drops of blood form on his skin.

  “Faye, what the hell’s wrong with you?” He touched his chin, the ring lying forgotten on the desk pad where it had fallen. “We busted Madame X. My promotion and transfer came through. I’m now a detective sergeant in homicide. The guys want to meet at Cheers.”

  “Sure, why not?” she responded, so angry she shook. “So tell me, Detective Sergeant, who paid you to feed me that information? Someone in the mayor’s office? Or was it O’Malley himself?” She laughed bitterly. “A vice cop in on a corruption scam. I didn’t see it coming. I should have. You had me fooled.”

  Her words and body language finally got through to him, and he frowned.

  “What the hell are you talking about? What am I supposed to have done this time?” His voice was deadly calm as the accusations sunk in.

  “Is this your handwriting?” She tossed the sticky note on the desk where it landed upside down. He reached for it and turned it over, confusion evident on his face.

  “Of course it’s mine. I stuck it on the caterer’s file that I left for you. How’d you get it? The file’s still on my desk.” He pointed to the manila folder.

  “It wasn’t on that file. You stuck it on the other file—the file with information on the O’Malley corruption case I’ve been working on—the information I used in my story, the story the paper published this morning. The police commissioner and the mayor are gunning for my head.
Damn it, Rob, I trusted you, and you threw me under the bus, for what? A promotion?”

  He grabbed her arms and held her. “Faye, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I am not jealous of your career; I just wish you’d give other things, like us, equal time. You get on a story, and I could drop dead, and you wouldn’t notice. For the record, I am not on anyone’s payroll, and I resent your suggestion I’d do something illegal to get ahead. That isn’t the way I work, and I’d have thought you’d realize that. I spent the last day and a half testifying in front of the grand jury. I haven’t been here in almost forty-eight hours. I haven’t even been home to change, and I most definitely haven’t seen the newspaper. What. File. Are. You. Talking. About?”

  She pulled away from him, yanked the offending manila folder out of her bag, and thrust it at him. “I hope you’re satisfied. You’ve ruined my career. No. You’ve ruined my life. You managed to do what Mahoney couldn’t accomplish—you’ve broken me. I never want to see you again.”

  She turned and headed toward the stairs.

  “Faye, wait! I’ve never seen this.”

  She hastened her steps and rushed out to her car, driving off without a backward glance.

  The memory faded, and she downed the last of the whiskey, surprised to find the taste of her tears mixed with it.

  She hadn’t seen him again until today. He’d tried to call, but she refused to listen to him. Her mother had begged her not to be rash, but she’d cancelled the wedding, sent the dress to consignment, and tried to ease the pain of a heart left shattered in a million pieces by burying herself in whatever work they gave her, no matter how menial it was. But it hadn’t worked. That was okay—it matched her career, and every debutant knew your accessories had to match.

  Mary had come up to Boston, a forty-ounce bottle of her favorite Irish with her, and they’d cried and cursed men and popular rock stars who failed to realize how much their fans adored them.

  Faye turned away from the window and swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Rob had sworn he hadn’t left that file for her, but her name had been on the damning sticky note. He’d admitted writing the message. Who else would have done it? It was true it wasn’t the caterer’s quotes she’d expected, but he’d promised there would be a surprise inside the folder for her, too. It was definitely a surprise.

  Sure, she knew how stupid she’d been. At the very least, she should’ve called him and confirmed that she had the right file, but not when she thought she had a scoop. Even a rookie would have known enough to verify the information, but she’d been so sure—especially since it came from Rob and fit the theory she had about who might be involved in the corruption scandal. It had been too good to be true, and when something was too good to be true, it usually wasn’t.

  She’d said such terrible things at the time, accused him of being a dirty cop, for God’s sake. There was no way she could take that back, and apologizing for saying it in the first place meant admitting she’d gotten it all wrong, and she wasn’t ready to do that either. He wasn’t off the hook. No one could explain where the damn file had come from, and since he hadn’t even bothered to look into it …

  What she wanted to do now was have a good, old-fashioned pity party, but she didn’t even have any ice cream. How could you have a pity party without ice cream? Get over yourself, Faye. It wasn’t the first time you got screwed, and it probably won’t be the last.

  Her computer chimed. Hoping it was a message from Mary, she hurried across the room. There were two emails—the first from Sloan, reminding her to give Tina Jackson her research and to have the engagement story on his desk by noon. She took great pleasure in blowing a raspberry at the computer before deleting the message. The second message was from Jimmy and consisted of two photos of deer—one a doe and a fawn, and the other a close-up of the fawn nursing.

  She laughed at Jimmy’s message:

  Deer musk seems to be a turn-on for this lovely lady and her new daughter, but I’ll choose a different scent for the social set. Sorry, no nibbles at Tina, but she didn’t like my cologne either. See you Monday.

  Faye closed the email program, but logged on to the newspaper’s server. While Rob hadn’t confirmed the body found tonight might be another of the Harvester’s victims, she knew he was working the case. In fact, knowing Rob as well as she did, his comment was as good as a yes. That monster was the most notorious serial killer since the Boston Strangler. She shivered as if someone had walked over her grave. She reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey and added some to her glass.

  The Examiner had coined the nickname Harvester six months ago after the last body had been found. The police were being incredibly tight-lipped about details, but apparently, all of the victims had gone missing in their third trimester and died shortly after giving birth. Abel had likened him to a farmer reaping a crop, only the crop was newborn babies, and since no infant bodies had turned up, people were speculating like crazy. Most believed he was selling them overseas. Healthy children commanded quite a price on the black market.

  A frisson ran through her. Rob claimed Mary was pregnant, but he hadn’t given her a time frame. She hadn’t seen her friend since October, so Mary could be anywhere from six weeks to six months. Faye downed the whiskey in a gulp.

  She brought up the newspaper’s archives and searched for everything they already had on the Harvester. Details were sketchy because the police were concealing evidence as they always did in these cases—it was the only way to weed out the nuts coming forward, confessing to the crimes, and stalling the investigation. Abel was frustrated because he was being stonewalled at every turn. He’d even had the nerve to ask her to call Rob and see if he’d give her anything. She’d quickly disabused him of that idea. She’d be the last person Rob would throw a bone to. Look at what had happened with the last tip he’d given her.

  Faye sighed. She should call Abel and give him a heads up, but Rob hadn’t said where they’d found the body, and since she couldn’t be sure it was another of the Harvester’s victims, the last thing she wanted to do was piss Abel off by sending him on a wild goose chase.

  She opened a new document, then copied and pasted pertinent details from the newspaper’s database into it. She opened three other documents, one for each victim, noted the locations from which they’d disappeared and where the bodies had been dumped. She added the dates they’d been reported missing, who’d reported them, and the dates the bodies had been found. Something about the dates seemed familiar. She examined the photographs. All of the victims were white, in their mid-twenties to early thirties. Two were brunettes, one a dark blonde.

  All three women could have been sisters—they bore an uncanny resemblance to one another—and yet none of them were related, nor had they known one another. None of them had lived less than fifty miles from the other either, but the resemblance was there, and the more she stared, the easier it was to see. It was in the bone structure … oval faces, high cheekbones, small noses, and unblemished complexions.

  The women all lived alone, in apartments or condos, and had good careers, but there was no way they’d have met professionally. The only common ground seemed to be the fact that they’d vanished in the third trimester of their pregnancies, had given birth recently, and no grieving partner had come forward to beg for his child. Rob’s comment about artificial insemination echoed in her head, but she dismissed it. Surely the police would’ve found a common clinic or practitioner by now. Rob was thorough. If there was a simple connection, he’d have found it.

  Mary, pregnant? Well, stranger things had happened, but she couldn’t imagine Mary undergoing that procedure, and since the other way involved a man …

  She grew warm thinking of Rob and the sessions they’d had burning up the sheets. The events of the day and the whiskey were getting to her. The last thing she needed right now was to turn into a horny, maudlin drunk.

  Faye took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the task a
t hand. So, the middle image, the second victim, was Tracy Volt, a graphic artist who was just beginning to make a name for herself. I’ve seen her somewhere, I’m sure of it, but where?

  Rob’s refusal to answer her question earlier implied her guess about the call had been correct and the Harvester had struck again. According to the Harvester’s MO, he kept his victims at least a couple of months before killing them. She checked the missing person’s registry for single, white women between twenty-five and thirty-five in the New England/New York state area, missing for three months or less. Twelve names came up. She narrowed it down to career women who lived alone and came up with a list of nine names. She brought up the photographs and stared at the women, bringing her list down to three who most closely resembled the type—a redhead, Coretta Lincoln, twenty-seven; a blonde, Meredith Howard, twenty-five; and a brunette, Malinda Stevens, twenty-nine. Although Meredith was the youngest, the fact that she was pregnant was included in the details.

  On a quick check for other missing pregnant women, the name Ruth Hamilton came up. She’d been missing for more than six months. Faye immediately saw the physical similarities and added Ruth’s name to the file. Any one of them could be the Harvester’s latest victim or his next one. Reluctantly, she added Mary’s name to the list, praying she was wrong and all of this was just a stupid coincidence … but while Mary might’ve been a little heavier, she fit the profile to a T.

  Shivering, Faye put all the documents into a new folder and labeled it. Opening a new document, she made notes about everything she knew concerning the Green murder. She’d beg Sloan to let her have this story and kiss Abel’s ass from here to kingdom come if he’d support her. I found the body, damn it. That should carry some weight.

  She saved all the files to a USB drive, shut down the computer, and carried it into her office to recharge. Pulling out the USB drive, she slipped it into a porcelain doll’s rag body. Since she often took this laptop to work and left it on her desk, she wasn’t taking chances. I’ve lost one story to Tina; I’ll be damned if I’ll lose another.