Mrs. McGruder had stocked the pantry and refrigerator for her with lots of cold cuts and cheeses, a couple of casseroles, flavored water, vegetables—actually, anything she could wish for. She’d need to tell Mrs. McGruder she would see to things now, maybe ask if she could come to clean every couple of weeks.
She pulled out some ham, a slice of Swiss, and homemade rye bread, and ate standing at the island. After she washed up, she went upstairs. Her old bedroom simply hadn’t felt right, and so she decided to take over her grandmother’s huge suite. Along with updating the kitchen, her grandmother had redone her bathroom. It was an incredible space now, done in greens and cream, the tiles on the sink and floor green and yellow with splashes of pale blue, with matching towels and rugs. The Jacuzzi was nearly as large as her bed at the condo.
She sat in that humongous Jacuzzi, its jets going full blast, for a good long time. Afterward, she put on her pajamas, shrugged into a tatty chenille robe, and brought out the box with her workout clothes and shoes.
There were so many things to do that would take great gobs of time—clothing to unpack and arrange, books to go through, laundry—so much laundry to do—so many decisions to make. She held a pair of gym socks in her hand, simply stared down at them, not knowing where to put them, and began to cry. She was crying not only for her father but at the ending of a whole part of her life. There was no turning back, no changing what had happened. Life happened and would continue to happen. What would the rest of her life be like?
She didn’t know, but she knew there had to be something in this house to give her a clue as to what had happened here. She would find out why her grandmother had murdered her husband. And you saw it, Dad.
She couldn’t imagine it.
CHAPTER 9
Philadelphia
Chilly’s Bar
Tuesday night
Ruley had served three tours of duty and been wounded twice in the Vietnam War, and come home to find that his four siblings and many of his friends despised him for fighting in an immoral war. A few days after his plane landed in Philadelphia, he bought a six-pack of Bud and a lottery ticket, the only one he’d ever bought in his life. He won a bucket load of money. His family and friends tried to do a one-eighty when they found out about it, but he decided he wanted new friends and he’d make his own family. He hung up on all the scammers who wanted to take good care of his winnings for him and bought lots of long-term bonds and a bar he named Chilly’s, after a buddy of his who’d stepped on a mine in the war. He married and fathered four kids, all married with kids of their own now. He was set.
Chilly’s Bar was a popular hangout with the young professional crowd in a neighborhood once filled with industrial buildings turned into lofts, artists of every medium imaginable, and run-down bistros. It had been gentrifying for more than fifteen years now, and the lofts were giving way to high-end apartments for account executives, and more coffeehouses than Seattle.
Chilly’s had changed right along with the neighborhood. It was low-key now, a place to stop after a long day at the office. Ruley liked the pleasant hum of conversation, the good manners. He hadn’t had to break up a fight in Chilly’s for a good ten years now. He was looking complacently over the Tuesday-night crowd, most of them white wine drinkers. The wine from his top-end wine list made him lots of money, much more than he’d made years before when he’d had to push light beer. Chilly’s, he thought complacently, no longer smelled like stale cigarette smoke, bless the lawmakers.
A young woman he’d never seen before came in alone. She was tall, pretty, and well dressed, and when she bellied up to the bar, she smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile, but it didn’t reach her pretty brown eyes. There was some kind of trouble, he thought, behind those eyes of hers. She looked over his specialty Tuesday-night wine list and ordered a Peridot Vineyard chardonnay that cost twelve dollars a glass. Ruley asked her if she was new to the neighborhood. She’d been visiting the police station a block over, she told him, closed her eyes, and took a huge gulp of the very fine chardonnay. Not a happy camper, Ruley thought. He told her his name was Ruley and shook her hand when she said her name was Liz.
As the night wore on, Chilly’s regulars sauntered in for their prebedtime drink. Ruley knew all their faces and most of their names. Lately he often heard them sharing horror stories about losing their credit lines or other business catastrophes, and he shook his head about it. Things never changed. Only the young sharks still talked urgently about their plans for expansion and higher market share. That never changed, either.
When he was finally ready to take a break at the bar, he asked Cindy, his second daughter, to take over. “Keep an eye on Liz,” he told her. “She’s in a funk.” When he was walking toward his backroom office, he noticed a young man he’d never seen before come into the bar. He looked for the world like a throwback to the old neighborhood with his black beret, his black clothes on a rail-thin body, and his slouchy walk. Didn’t this guy realize he was out of his time, that his effete look had been gone at this bar for more than ten years now? Ruley shook his head and walked into his office. Taxes, he thought. He was always paying some hand that was sticking in his face—city, state, feds, they all had lots of big hands.
Cindy was serving Liz her second glass of Peridot chardonnay when the guy next to her asked if he could buy it for her.
Liz Rogers looked the guy up and down and liked what she saw—namely, that she was bigger than he was and could beat him up if the need arose, which it probably wouldn’t. She liked his thin white face, his dark eyes, and the beret that covered long black hair. It was a big plus that his hair didn’t look greasy. Good hygiene in a guy was always a plus.
Cindy kept half an eye on the two, as she did everyone who sat at the bar. The young guy bought the woman a refill of the same fine chardonnay that made her dad’s cash register cha-ching with pleasure. They chatted, Cindy saw, and looked rather cozy after about an hour.
Because this was a professional neighborhood, even the young people began to straggle out at about ten o’clock, some with a bit too much of Ruley’s fine wine in their bloodstreams. A wine hangover isn’t any big deal, Ruley always said, and besides, they were young, they could drink themselves stupid nightly for ten years and still get up with a smile the next morning and go to work. Hit forty and it’s a different story. They’d learn.
Ruley was coming around the end of the bar when he saw the young man walking close beside Liz of the beautiful smile as she swayed out the front door.
She’d drunk only three glasses of wine; she shouldn’t be weaving around like that. He frowned. Maybe she couldn’t hold her drink, but still, something wasn’t right. What was it?
Liz Rogers was happy, and that was good, even though she knew well enough life would be grim tomorrow morning when she had to face reality again, and that reality was her mother. She’d had to bail her mother out of jail yet again, this time for shoplifting at Marnie’s, an upscale clothing boutique, and so she’d decided to stop at Chilly’s Bar, only a block over from her mother’s condo. Their wine was expensive, but then Todd—with two d’s—had come in and lightened her load and listened to all her woes, and paid for a glass of the swank white wine.
She had really dumped on him, bless him, and he’d told her he’d walk her home. She’d meant to tell him she didn’t live in this neighborhood, that her mom did, but she forgot. When they stepped outside Chilly’s, she took a breath of the cold night air and realized she had to cut this nice man loose and get a taxi.
She smiled up at Todd and pulled out her cell phone. “I’ve got to call a taxi.”
“Why? You live right here in the neighborhood. I’d love to walk you home, Lizzie.”
“Nope, this isn’t my neighborhood; it’s my mom who lives here.”
There was a slight pause, then he said, “Then I’ll take the taxi with you and walk you up.”
“Nah, that’s too much trouble; don’t bother.” No sooner had she spoken than she felt a wa
ve of dizziness and a sudden sick feeling twist in her stomach. Great, this was all she needed after dealing with her mother and the cops and a low-life bail bondsman named Lucky Tasker.
“Are you okay, Liz?”
“Something hit me—I felt like I was going to fall over. Sorry, Todd, it’s been a long day.”
She dialed for a taxi. Ten minutes, she was told, and smiled up at Todd. “I think I’ll go back into Chilly’s and stay warm, wait there.”
“Let’s stay out here. I’ll keep you warm.”
She felt nausea roil in her stomach, threaten to come up into her throat. “I’m going to be sick, Todd. I’ve gotta get to the bathroom.”
But he had his hand on her arm, pulling her back. The streetlight was ten feet away, and shadows were hanging long and deep, and as black as the lacy underwear she’d just bought on sale.
Why was she thinking about her underwear? She felt another wave of nausea and jerked as hard as she could, but he didn’t let her go.
“Look, Todd—” Her words were loud and slurred. Clear as a bell, she heard her mother’s dead-drunk voice slurring insults at her—mean, vicious insults—and it scared her so badly it gave her focus, sharpened her brain, and she saw everything very clearly. She said slowly, on eye level with him, “You son of a bitch, you drugged me.” She slammed her fist into his face. He didn’t have time to duck the blow, but it didn’t have much punch because she was weaving around like a drunk, wanting to puke but too scared, too furious with this jerk, to get sick yet. Todd grabbed her hand and pulled her arm down to her side. “No, Lizzie, it’ll be all right, you’ll see. I wouldn’t drug anybody. Let’s walk, okay? You’ll feel better, you’ll see.”
Not on your miserable life. She pulled her arm free and dug her nails in his cheek as he tried to jerk his head out of the way.
He yelled, stumbled back, and clapped his hand to his bleeding face. He screamed an obscenity at her and came toward her. What was he doing? She saw him pull a length of wire out of his jacket pocket. Wire? Liz threw back her head and screamed until she vomited. Then she swiped the vomit from her mouth and kept screaming. She felt like she was dying, her stomach twisting in on itself, and her head was spinning, but thank God, Todd was running away now, holding his hand to his face. She sank to her knees and saw the bartender from Chilly’s running toward her and shouting, “Hey, what’s going on? Liz, you all right? I knew it; I knew that guy wasn’t right. I called the cops; they’re on their way.”
Liz didn’t answer him. She fell onto her side, unconscious.
CHAPTER 10
Philadelphia
Sacred Heart Hospital
Wednesday
“Ms. Rogers, I’m Agent Lucy Carlyle and this is Agent Cooper McKnight, FBI. First I’d like to say you’re a very smart woman.”
Smart? Liz didn’t feel smart, she felt like she’d had a boulder dropped on her. Her stomach felt like the lining was burned through, but hey, she was alive, and she’d hurt that creep who’d drugged her, sent him running, so maybe that was smart. She found herself smiling up at the woman with her gorgeous hair in a thick French braid. So many shades, what was the color? Chestnut, that was it.
“We’d like to hear exactly what happened, if you feel up to it.”
“I already spoke to a police officer this morning.”
They heard a man clear his throat in the doorway. Coop looked over to see a guy about his own age, his dirty blond hair standing straight up, his light blue eyes bloodshot, but he looked near to snarling. Coop raised an eyebrow.
“I’m Dr. Medelin. I wasn’t told Ms. Rogers had visitors. The police have already questioned her, so I don’t see any reason for you to hassle her more, it’s too soon, and she needs to rest.”
Coop flipped out his creds. “We’re FBI, not local police. We, ah, don’t hassle people, and we only shoot them when we have to.”
Lucy grinned, but Dr. Medelin didn’t. “FBI? For a mugging? Come on now, give her a while, she needs rest after what she’s been through.”
Liz was appalled when her voice came out as a skinny little whisper. “Dr. Medelin, it’s okay. I’m fine. I want to tell them what happened. Hey, they’re federal, it must mean I’m really important.”
Dr. Medelin paid no attention to either Lucy or Coop, simply walked to Ms. Rogers and examined her eyes, then laid two long thin fingers over her pulse, listened to her heart. “If you’re sure, Ms. Rogers?”
“Oh, yes, I want this jerk nailed, and these guys look like they’re the ones to do it.”
Dr. Medelin left, saying over his shoulder they could have five minutes, no longer. Lucy smiled. In her experience, doctors were more territorial than monkeys.
Liz looked up at Lucy. “I’m not all that smart. You want the truth? It was my mom’s voice that saved me.”
Lucy cocked her head to one side. “Tell us,” she said.
“. . . I was so appalled that I was slurring my words like my mother when she’s drunk, which is usually every day, it snapped me back into my brain for a minute and I realized he’d drugged me. I went after him, got him good that second time and drew blood. I couldn’t believe he came at me with some kind of wire. I screamed my head off.” She gave them a big grin, then swallowed. “I was throwing up, and screaming. The bartender, Ruley, came running. Then I passed out.”
Coop leaned over. “That was very well done of you. Not only did you save yourself, you’re going to help us nail this guy when we catch him. You’ve given us DNA from the skin you scored off his face with your fingernails. You’re a heroine, Ms. Rogers, a big whopping superstar.”
Liz studied their faces. “Why? This wasn’t a stupid mugging? Hey, you’re FBI, and that means something really heavy is happening here. What?”
Coop said, “The man, Todd, who bought you the drinks and wanted to walk you home, has murdered five women that we know of to date. Have you heard the news stories?”
Liz swallowed, nodded. “But—that was him? Oh, my.”
“But you saved yourself,” Coop said, and patted her hand when it looked like her eyes were going to roll back in her head. “You’re going to be okay.”
After another fifteen minutes of running her through what had happened again, asking questions every way they could phrase them, asking them again, and waving away Dr. Medelin when he came back to the room and frowned at them, they knew her bucket was empty. Lucy said, “We understand you gave an excellent description of this guy to a police artist. We’ll get back to you on that.
“You did really good, Liz. With the lovely DNA you got for us, we’re closer to bringing this monster down.”
“Weird thing is, like I told you, it was my mom who really saved my bacon. She’s so messed up, and now—what’s a daughter to do?”
“Keep bailing her out, I guess,” Lucy said, and smiled down at her.
“Nah,” Coop said. “You owe her something better. It’s time for some tough love. Send her to rehab, tell her it’s that or jail time.”
They left Liz Rogers humming in thought. They passed Dr. Medelin coming out of a patient’s room on a dead run. A nurse, Nancy Conklin according to her name tag, said, “Poor Mark, the E.R. called a code. He’s been on call for twenty-six hours now.”
“I didn’t know doctors still had such grueling schedules,” Lucy said.
“He’s a first-year resident,” and Lucy supposed, that said it all.
“He looks sleep deprived,” Coop said.
Nurse Conklin said, nodding, “Imagine how many patients suffer from that fact. Liz Rogers now, Mark’s been hovering over her even though he knows now she’s going to be okay. I think he’s interested in her, not that he’s got a second to spare away from this place. Sometimes life’s a bummer.”
Coop thought of Medelin’s exhausted face and didn’t hold out much hope for him.
CHAPTER 11
Hoover Building
Thursday afternoon
Savich handed a folder to each agent seated around the CAU confe
rence, and walked back to the head of the table. He looked at each of them in turn, pausing at Lucy and Coop. “I have to say that what you have in front of you is about as unexpected as discovering that smoking cigarettes led to the extinction of the dinosaurs. As you know, Liz Rogers scraped her nails down our Black Beret’s face. We’ve been waiting for the forensic genetics people to finish their DNA testing. They’ve turned around with the fastest prep and analysis time I’ve seen for DNA typing, and we’ve run the results against our national database.” He paused for effect, and every agent at that table sat forward.
“The closest match is Ted Bundy’s DNA.”
Savich saw disbelief, astonishment, shaking heads, and heard snorts, gasps, and comments like “That’s just plain crazy” and “You’re making that up, Savich, to make sure we’re on our toes.”
Savich raised his hands, palms flat. “This isn’t a joke. Incredible as it seems, Ted Bundy’s DNA is the closest match.”
Coop said, “The Ted Bundy? You’re not putting us on?”
Savich smiled. “Yes, it’s the Ted Bundy.”
Coop sat forward in his chair. “But he’s dead, Savich, electrocuted. Late eighties, wasn’t it?”
Ruth said, “Yeah, he was electrocuted in Florida in 1989 for his last murder. He had more than ten years of appeals before they pulled the plug on him.”
Jack Crowne, who studied serial killers, said, “He eventually confessed to more than thirty murders, but no one believes the number was that low. He was forty-two when he was electrocuted. They have his DNA profile?”
Savich said, “They typed him and entered him in the database, in case we found any more of his crime scenes after he died.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 135
