Bone Thief

by Thomas O'Callaghan

  NAME AGE

  ADDRESS

  Married? Yes….. No…..

  Happily? Yes….. No…..

  How do you rate it?

  Poor….. Fair….. Satisfactory….. Excellent….. Going steady? Yes….. No…..

  How do you rate it?

  Poor….. Fair….. Satisfactory….. Excellent….. How often do you think of your first love?

  Once a night…..

  Once a week…..

  Once a month…..

  Why do you want to hook up with your first love?

  A journey down memory lane…..

  Revisit my first kiss…..

  Reminiscences of our first intimacy…..

  All of the above…..

  *** After reviewing your application, I’ll ask you to scan me a photo of yourself, Excited, along with Donny’s. It will help me find your first love. And you’ll let me know exactly where you were when you celebrated your first date.

  Lieutenant, he had their photographs. That’s how he stalked them. He knew where they spent their first date. That’s where he dumped them. Now, feast your eyes on my application:

  NAME Catherine Palmer AGE….. A woman never tells

  ADDRESS….. 278 Carroll Street. Brooklyn, New York

  Married? Yes….. No (X)…..

  Happily? Yes….. No…..

  How do you rate it?

  Poor….. Fair….. Satisfactory….. Excellent….. Going steady? Yes….. No….. (SORT OF)

  How do you rate it?

  Poor….. Fair (X). Satisfactory….. Excellent….. How often do you think of your first love?

  Once a night….. YOU BET!

  Once a week…..

  Once a month…..

  Why do you want to hook up with your first love?

  A journey down memory lane…..

  Revisit my first kiss…..

  Reminiscences of our first intimacy…..

  All of the above….. XXX It’s been almost nine

  years since our last kiss.

  Stay awake, Lieutenant!

  Dear Catherine,

  It’s soooo faaaabulous to know you, darling. Your reason for rekindling your first love is inspiring. I was touched. What a torch! Requests like yours are a thrill. Makes me glad I chose genealogy as my hobby. Next, give me the scoop on Donny. I want the low-down on the scrumptious hunk of burning flesh with the killer lips. Answer me this: Where did you and your lover-boy spend your first date? And now is the time to scan me his photo. Include some candid snapshots of your lovely face as well. For it’ll then be time to let the show begin. Remember, it’s magic. Keep your eye on the hat, young lady. Abra cadabra!

  Godsend

  “I have Lieutenant White from Technical Support on the other line. The kid’s right. The victim’s computers show correspondence with Godsend,” Margaret whispered. “Wait, there’s more,” said Driscoll.

  Catherine Dearest,

  Merci for the lurid details about you and the Donster. I’m tracking the hare as we speak. And thank you so much for the pix. Oh, that Donny, what shoulders, what deltoids, what lips! Oh, mon dieu! And your face. Eat your heart out, Julia Roberts. Speaking of his killer lips, are you getting yours geared up for that Kodak moment? It’s just around the corner. Stay tuned.

  Is mise le meas,

  Godsend

  “Is mise le meas! That’s Old Irish! Moira, get in here! Now!” he barked into the phone.

  There was no one on the other end of the line.

  “Moira? Moira? She’s gone.”

  “She’s off-line too. But, wait, she left you a message.”

  Driscoll and Margaret peered back into the screen.

  Gotta run. I work better under open skies. He’s trying to reach me now. Maybe we’ll catch a break. Remember, Lieutenant, the drop sites. They’re all part of his game. Don’t overlook the drop sites. Therein lies the link.

  Back on the job,

  Moira

  “Can you believe this kid?” Driscoll hit the phone’s redial button. After four rings, Seamus Tiernan’s recorded voice sounded in his ear.

  “Hi! You’ve reached the Tiernans. Sorry no one is available…”

  Driscoll hung up.

  “My God! What if…” Driscoll’s face drained of all color. “Margaret, could she be serious about trying to collar him?”

  “With her, anything’s possible.”

  “I’ve got to stop her.” He reached for his Burberry and headed for the door.

  Chapter 50

  The electronically amplified voice of Detective Vince Viallo still echoed in Margaret’s ear. He had reached her on her cruiser’s car phone to inform her that a bartender at The Lobster Trap had ID’d the photo of the Benjamin woman. She had come in to the restaurant alone, ordered a drink, and left alone. Disgruntled, Margaret pulled the Plymouth to the curb in front of the One Stop Pharmacy and got out. She made her way into the drugstore, a vast space flooded with white fluorescent lights. Approaching the store’s counter, she spotted the store’s proprietor, Gerard McCabe, who was offering a selection of condoms to a perplexed teen.

  “So, what’ll it be? Ribbed? Lubricated? Or do you want the ones with the little catchall pouch at the end?” McCabe asked.

  “I just want…uhh…uhh…” the disoriented youth stuttered.

  “Look kid, you’re nowhere near a decision. Do me a favor. Come back and see me after you’ve started to shave.”

  The youth scrambled toward the exit and vanished as McCabe turned his attention to Margaret.

  “They’re gettin’ younger and younger every year,” he sighed. “Tell me you’re the bearer of good news on the investigation.”

  She wished she was. She knew it would be of some comfort to this grieving husband. But the investigation, thus far, had produced more questions than answers. And here she was, about to ask another one.

  “This may seem like an odd question, Mr. McCabe, but where did you and your wife go on your first date?”

  “You’re right. That is an odd question. But our first date was no secret. We had dinner in New York City and visited the Empire State Building.”

  “You and your wife ever go to Prospect Park?”

  “No, not together. Why do you ask?”

  “We’re working on a theory.”

  “Does it have something to do with why you found her body in the park?”

  “In part.”

  “Well, we were never there together, that’s for sure. Listen, my mother-in-law dropped off a box of my wife’s stuff. From when she was a kid. She thought I should have it. I’m not ready to open it, though. Maybe you’d like to go through it?”

  Margaret nodded.

  McCabe sauntered into the storage room and returned with a cardboard box. He handed it to Margaret.

  “Maybe it’ll help,” he said.

  The box was crammed with memories of a young girl’s adolescence. Class pictures, two teddy bears, several folded sheets of looseleaf containing handwritten notes between best friends, a pair of soccer trophies, her high-school ring. Margaret picked up an embossed notebook and leafed through it.

  It’s about her first love, she noted, excited by her find. A Caribbean man…parents didn’t approve…had to hide their love away. Look at this, she wrote a poem:

  Our special time hovers,

  Be still my pounding heart.

  Soon to rendezvous as lovers,

  Entwined forever, not to part.

  Passion beckons to the lake.

  By cascading water,

  My heart, my soul, to take

  Amidst sweet laughter.

  The boatkeeper’s made departure.

  The swans and clouds are at rest.

  Let us treasure the rapture

  Of our borrowed love nest.

  I’ll bet my next promotion that love nest is the Swan Boat House in Prospect Park, Margaret thought. She grabbed her mobile phone and dialed Driscoll’s cellular number.

  “Driscoll here.”r />
  “Any luck finding Moira?” she asked.

  “None. I’ve been sitting on the Tiernan house all morning. The place was empty until Mrs. Tiernan came home with her groceries. I told her I was trying to reach her daughter and I think I managed to keep my anxiety in check. She told me Moira doesn’t have any close friends. She’s likely to be alone. Just her and her goddamn satellite computer off somewhere in cyberspace. She could be anywhere. I alerted the local precinct. Cedric is informing the Task Force, and every other precinct in a twenty-five-mile radius. She has me very worried.”

  “I can hear it in your voice.”

  “My Nicole had her moments. But this kid is something else.”

  “She must open old wounds. I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you. So what did your visit with McCabe produce?”

  Margaret told him of her discovery.

  “The whiz kid strikes again. She was right about the Benjamin woman, and that poem makes her right about Deirdre McCabe. Margaret, I want you to get back to that body piercer on Houston. See if he further corroborates Moira’s theory about the drop sites. I want to know if he has any idea why Monique Beauford’s body was found nailed to a boardwalk in Rockaway Beach.”

  Chapter 51

  Margaret pried open the aluminum door to Lester Gallows’s trailer.

  “Oh Jeez! You’re back?” said Gallows, as Margaret marched herself into his emporium.

  “I wanna hear it again,” she said.

  “You’re like a fly on shit.”

  “Let’s hear it. Tell me about the last time you saw Monique.”

  “What’s to tell?”

  “You got it on with her. Right?”

  “I already told you that.”

  “What else can you tell me about her?”

  “The bitch was kinky.”

  “What’s kinky?”

  “Her pussy was laced with silicone.”

  “Implants?”

  “No. Beach sand. The slut pulls out this pouch. I figure she’s goin’ for a condom. Instead she pours out a handful of sand. She rubbed it in before we screwed. It was like fucking sandpaper. My cock was in heaven!”

  “She tell you why she got off on sand?”

  “Told me the first time she got laid was under the boardwalk.”

  Margaret grabbed her cell phone and quickly relayed the information to Driscoll.

  “That’s another special drop site,” Driscoll’s voice reverberated in Margaret’s ear. “We’ve got the boathouse in Prospect Park, the water under the Brooklyn Bridge, and now the boardwalk. Moira’s batting a thousand.”

  Chapter 52

  Driscoll was mindful of what Moira had said in her last communication: that she worked better under open skies. But it had begun to rain. And on rainy days, Mrs. Tiernan had told Driscoll, Moira liked to frequent any one of a half-dozen coffee shops in the area surrounding her home. There, she could sit uninterrupted for hours, while she pounded away on her laptop.

  Over the last two hours Driscoll had personally visited all of the neighborhood’s coffee shops but had failed to find Moira, and none of the shop’s employees remembered seeing a young girl that fit Moira’s description. He left his card with each store manager in case the girl stopped in. Seated behind the wheel of his idling automobile, he watched the rain collect on the Chevy’s windshield. He grabbed his cell phone and placed yet another call to the Tiernan household. When Seamus Tiernan’s answering machine kicked in, he disconnected the call. Disheartened, he returned to his office, where he discovered he had e-mail. Pulling up a chair, he focused his eyes on the computer’s amber screen and grew sick with worry as he read the following volley of electronic communications:

  Catherine,

  I’m mystified! I’m baffled! I’m stumped! I’m striking out on my search for candied-lipped Donny. What, has Don Juan mastered the cloak of invisibility, or had he never had an identity? I’d loathe to think that you made him up. That wouldn’t be fair play. Would it?

  Godsend

  Godsend,

  You must be a joker. Made him up? That’s ludicrous! Could it be you’re not the magician you claim to be? I suggest you get a new wand. Donato Tesorio was! And I predict, is! I suggest you give it another shot. Your best shot!

  Catherine

  Catherine,

  No. Your Donny was never spawned, except in your twisted imagination. I charge you with three counts of Cyber-fraud. First: Fabricating an identity. Second: Criminal trespass of the Internet highways, with intent to misrepresent. Third: Downright bad netiquette. I swear, by the power of the gods Ram and Pixel, I will drag you in chains to the ecumenic council of mighty Magellan On-Line. There you will be stripped of your hard drive, chained to your joystick, and burned. May they impound your modem for all eternity, you cyber-sinner, you.

  Godsend

  Godsend,

  Let’s cut the doo-doo. I know who thou art. Nailing the bitch to the boardwalk was a coup. Nine Inch Nails wailed for you that night. What a romantic. You have such a way with women. Exalt, oh shadow of the night! It is I, and I alone, who knows your lair. And while New York’s Finest unravel the puzzle, I, the cybermole, will burrow close to your wormy heart. In the Internet inferno, Dante has programmed a new circle for the likes of you. Your gigabyte brain will fry for all eternity.

  Catherine

  Catherine,

  A villain thou art. You’ve cost me much insomnia, you mite on the back of a giant tyrannosaurus. Demons of earth, awaken! I am forced now to hunt you in cyberspace, for all eternity. Tell me, oh Enlightened One, how did you find me? Answer that and I will make you rich like Croesus.

  Godsend

  Godsend,

  I am the pathfinder, Shiva’s third eye. I scuba the currents of the Net like a Maui native on Hawaiian breakers. Tell me, do the bones make good bouillon, or do you bury them like feral dogs?

  Catherine

  Chapter 53

  Behind the Statue of Liberty, the setting sun was gilding the sky, igniting a conflagration of primary colors that painted the Manhattan skyline in scarlet and gold. But this vista was lost on the solitary figure seated on a wooden bench on the upper deck of the South Street Seaport, staring at the screen of his Lynksys wireless-powered laptop.

  “Do you bury them like feral dogs?”

  The words loomed on the screen, taunting him. Never had an insult cut so deep. Colm slammed closed the laptop, flung the computer into the water that bordered the Seaport, and marched toward the parking lot where he had left the van.

  Her last message had dismantled him. He felt like tracked prey. He thought about his pursuer, this woman who had navigated the Internet in search of his bait. The fact that she had found it infuriated him, for her intrusion had now made it necessary for him to find another lure.

  He stopped. A smile slowly emerged on his face. He had not been found. She had only found Godsend, who was now resting thirty feet below the surface of the East River. His only inconvenience would be having to find some other way to select and attract future collectibles. The realization consoled him, but when he finally reached home, he was tired and listless. Inside the house, he collapsed on the living-room sofa, where he soon began obsessing over the loss of his last quarry. The pleasure of the Benjamin woman had not alleviated the pain of losing the young girl at the mall.

  There was solace under the house. With his trophies, he would find consolation. He made his way down to the cellar. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he heard his mother’s voice. “The young honey got away from you at the mall, didn’t she? And now ya got another filly onto ya. A computer-literate filly, no less. You cyberghoul, you! Can’t you do anything right?”

  “Whatcha gonna do now?” nagged his father.

  “You’ve made a mess of it for sure,” his mother scolded. “The police’ll be all over you soon.”

  “And I’ll find a way to be all over them!” he screamed. “Now, shut up, both of you!”