“That showboat?” Dole said. “Jeez, what did we do to deserve this?”
“Graves describes himself as a defender of the oppressed,” McCabe said, and then regretted she had mentioned that when the commander fixed his stare on her.
“He might have been in the early days, McCabe. But now it’s all about him.” The commander rubbed the side of his nose and shoved up his horn-rimmed glasses. “Graves has been in touch with the mayor, threatening a press conference. The mayor has directed—let me rephrase that—has ‘strongly suggested’ to the chief that Mr. Redfield be released.”
McCabe waited to see if Lieutenant Dole would mumble his opinion of the mayor under his breath. He managed to contain his disdain.
* * *
McCabe happened to be in the lobby, talking to Angie Hogancamp, the second-watch desk sergeant, when Clarence Redfield and his defense team, old lawyer and new, left the station house.
Redfield looked about like she remembered him from the other couple of times she’d seen him in person: five ten or so; around 165 pounds, sandy hair cut short, but not a crew cut; short-sleeved blue T-shirt, khaki shorts, and canvas sandals. Nothing off-putting about his appearance. Nothing about the way he looked to suggest he had become a royal pain in the city’s and the police department’s butts.
He saw McCabe and nodded in acknowledgment of her presence. He didn’t look as if he was gloating, but she didn’t doubt that he was.
As they went out the door, McCabe heard attorney Graves suggest dinner at Jack’s Oyster House. That makes sense, she thought. They would have an excellent dinner. And if the mayor happened to drop in, as she sometimes did, they would be there to annoy her. Undoubtedly, that was what Graves had in mind. McCabe wondered if Graves intended to try to parlay his media exposure during the investigation into a run for mayor.
Mayor Beverly Stark was an anomaly in the history of Albany’s four-hundred-year-long old boys’ club. She’d been able to rise to power because of the departure of the former mayor to a federal post in Washington. And she had undoubtedly benefitted from the euphoria three years ago, when a woman had become president of the United States. That euphoria had long since faded, and after a hellish first term that had left her severely wounded politically, the president was probably going to yield the nomination to her vice president.
Meanwhile, in Albany, Stark’s survival as mayor was always in question.
“Catch you later, Angie,” McCabe said to the desk sergeant.
“Eating my spicy tofu sub,” Hogancamp said. “Since nobody invited us to go along to Jack’s.”
McCabe laughed. “You know how that goes. Nobody wants to hang out with cops.”
McCabe headed back down the hall to collect her ORB with her notes from the first two crime scenes. The profiler from the FBI office in Albany was due within the next half hour. The State Police was sending someone, too. That meant they had at least another couple of hours in store of reviewing the evidence and the meager leads from the first two cases and what they knew so far about what had happened to Vivian Jessup.
The Jessup autopsy was tomorrow morning, and then they would have confirmation that she had died of a lethal dose of phenol and was probably the killer’s third victim. In the meantime, they were operating on that strong probability.
But if this was their guy, Baxter had asked a pertinent question. Why hadn’t the killer left a flower at the scene? Why the change in pattern, including taking Jessup’s purse?
* * *
The commander had been called in for another meeting with the chief. The lieutenant was chairing the gathering of Albany PD detectives and the representatives from the other agencies. As the only detective who had worked all three cases, McCabe went over the interviews with family members and associates of the victims. She walked the newly established task force members through the crime scenes and summarized the autopsy reports on the first two victims.
The FBI profiler was up next. They listened as she offered her interpretation of the evidence.
When she was done, McCabe said, “I understand your theory about this, Agent Francisco. But could we go back for a moment to the killer’s choice of weapon? The phenol—”
“I heard what you said, Detective. Phenol was used by the Nazis during World War Two to execute Jewish prisoners. But there is nothing to indicate that the killer is targeting women because of their religion.” Francisco adjusted the cuff of her jacket. “As you reported, victim one was from a Protestant family, even though she had stopped attending church. Victim two was a lapsed Catholic.”
“Yes,” McCabe said, determined not to be intimidated by Francisco’s cool brunette self-confidence. “But the point I had intended to make when I mentioned the Nazis was not about the victims’ religion. What I was noting is that information about the Nazis’ use of phenol in the death camps is available on the Web. The articles I found provided a description of how the executions were carried out and even the amount of phenol used.”
“And?” Agent Francisco said. “Where does that take us in your opinion?”
“In my opinion, where it takes us is not to focus too quickly on the killer’s possible medical background.”
“I didn’t say the killer was a doctor or nurse, Detective. I was simply pointing out that a hypodermic is different from a gun or a knife. The killer didn’t strangle his victims. He stabbed them in the heart with a hypodermic filled with a deadly substance.”
“Phenol. Carbolic acid. A substance that is available to people who are not medical professionals,” McCabe said. “I’m not arguing with your reasoning, Agent Francisco. I just want to make sure we keep an open mind about other possible types of suspects.”
Whitman, the State Police investigator, spoke up. “I agree with that. And I’m not sure we should rush to rule out the Nazi aspect of this. Even if neither of the first two victims was Jewish, we could still have some kind of neo-Nazi tie-in. With Howard Miller out there holding his rallies, we could have a lone wolf on our hands. Someone who’s targeting women he’s decided aren’t fit to live.”
McCabe cast a glance in Lieutenant Dole’s direction. He nodded, apparently agreeing that she had been right not to allow Agent Francisco to hijack the theory-building process.
Agencies might cooperate, but their own turf wars always lurked beneath the surface. Especially when the representative from one agency came in arrogant.
Baxter caught her eye and winked.
McCabe sat back to listen to what Whitman was saying about hate crimes.
* * *
The storm was sweeping in when she left the station house at nine. Driving along, Central Avenue, McCabe caught glimpses of homeless men who had taken shelter in the doorways of shuttered stores. Overhead, against a flash of lightning, she saw the question streaming across Radio KZAC’s bulletin board: ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE DARK?
“What now?” McCabe mumbled to herself. “Radio on. KZAC.”
KZAC was known for its provocative stunts, from scavenger hunts for lists of highly unusual objects to sending listeners out with KICK THE RASCALS OUT signs in front of the legislative offices during the most recent state budget deadlock.
“Okay, I get that,” Larry Coffman, the radio host, was saying. “But come on, Clarence. Do you really believe we have a serial killer out there? I mean you’ve been telling us about Jack the Ripper in London in 1888. This is Albany, New York, in 2019. And we may have three dead women. But only two of them seem to have anything in common. And we don’t even know yet how Vivian Jessup died.”
“But we do know she was murdered.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it was the same killer. I mean, the first two victims, maybe. Both in their twenties. They could have both hooked up with the same crazy guy. But then we’ve got a third victim. A Tony Award–winning actress who was in her forties. Born in England, not Albany. Don’t serial killers always choose the same type of victim? And if the same guy killed the first two women but the third was don
e in by someone else, then by definition we don’t have a serial killer, right? A serial killer requires three or more victims.”
“And would that be any better? That we have two killers? We still have three women butchered. And according to the Albany PD, that should not be happening. According to the police, there are surveillance cameras on every corner, at every stoplight, on many of the buildings that we walk past, keeping us safe.”
“And that’s your real point, right? That’s this whole ‘Watching Albany to Keep You Safe’ surveillance program isn’t working. It isn’t keeping us safe.”
“That’s exactly my point, Larry. If this surveillance program were functioning as the police claim, it would be difficult, if not impossible, for a killer or killers to prey on women without being seen and apprehended.”
“As I recall, you said in your thread that there are technical problems, that with the solar flares, the system has been malfunctioning and isn’t being properly maintained.”
“That’s right, Larry. After investing money the city didn’t have in a system that isn’t working, the police department is understaffed. There aren’t enough officers out on patrol. What it comes down to is that the APD and the mayor have given citizens a false sense of security. Every citizen in this city, particularly women, should be afraid to be out in the dark at night. We should stay home at night with our doors locked.”
“Isn’t that giving the streets at night over to the criminals?”
“Yes. I’m afraid it is. But what choice do we have? It’s the best we can do until we can find a way to fix a criminal justice system that’s broken.”
“Clarence, as always, it’s been enlightening. Thank you for joining us. What about it, citizens of Albany? Are you afraid of the dark? KZAC Rangers, why don’t we make that your assignment for tomorrow. Stop your fellow citizens on the sidewalk and in stores, talk to your neighbors. Ask them if they feel safe going out on the streets of Albany at night. Ask them, ‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ Then let us know what kind of responses you got.”
“Radio off,” McCabe said, leaning forward to see through the rain. The street lights overhead swung and swayed in the wind. “Thanks so much, Larry. And thank you once again, Clarence Redfield.”
She was exhausted. Ready for food, a shower, and bed.
But when she saw her brother’s van in the driveway, McCabe almost kept driving. She wasn’t sure she had the energy left to deal with Adam tonight.
She listened for a moment to the rain pounding against the roof of her car. Thought again about the broken umbrella she had forgotten to replace. Then she opened her car door and made a dash for the house.
She shoved the front door shut against a gust of wind.
“That you, Hank?” her father called from the living room.
“It’s me,” McCabe called back.
“Come in here. Your brother’s here.”
“Be there as soon as I dry off. It’s pouring out there.”
In the half bath, McCabe used a hand towel to scrub at her face and hair. She hung her wet jacket on a hook on the door.
Her father was sitting on the sofa, slippered feet up on the coffee table and a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Her brother had pulled his wheelchair up beside him. They were watching a soccer game.
“Hi, you two,” she said. “Sorry I missed dinner.”
“We saw the news,” Angus said. “I guess that answers my question about whether we’ve got a killer on the loose. First those two girls. Now Vivian Jessup. You got your hands full with this one.”
Adam turned his head toward her and smiled slightly. “We heard that interview with the crime beat threader, too. Are we safe in our own beds tonight, sis?”
The black patch over his left eye stood out, rakish, against his café au lait skin. Eight years her senior, Adam had inherited a biracial variation on their father’s Scots-Irish coloring and hawkish good looks. He’d also inherited their mother’s ability to deliver subtle verbal jabs.
“Safe enough, bro. Cool Jolly Roger,” she said, indicating the tiny white emblem on his eye patch.
Adam tilted his head. “A gift from a friend.”
“Female, of course.”
“Of course.”
She went behind the sofa and kissed her father’s bald spot. “Something smells good, Pop. I hope you saved me a plate.”
“Jerk chicken and rice in the oven. Salad in the refrigerator,” he said. “Bring a tray in here. I want to hear about this serial killer.”
“I’m too tired to talk about it, Pop,” McCabe glanced at her brother. “Why don’t you tell him all about your latest breakthrough in your lab?”
“Already have,” Adam said. “We’ve been waiting to hear about your adventures, Sherlock.”
“Sorry, I really am too beat to talk,” McCabe said. “First, I’m going to have a bite to eat, and then I’m going to drag my weary body upstairs and…”
When she turned, Adam was watching her from his turbocharged state-of-the-art wheelchair. A brain wave–controllable product of his work in his lab.
He seemed to prefer the chair rather than the exoskeleton that allowed him to walk on legs he could not feel.
He said, “Yeah, you look done in, sis. You should go on up and sack out.”
“But not before you tell us what’s going on,” Angus said.
“In the morning, Pop,” McCabe said. “You can interrogate me during breakfast.”
“Guess I’m going to miss that,” Adam said.
McCabe paused. “You could stay over and join us for pancakes.”
“Thanks, but we’ll have to make it another time. A lady’s expecting me.”
“In that case, I guess you’re going to have to rely on Pop for any details he can pry out of me. Carry on with your soccer game, guys. I’m going to go find sustenance.”
9
Walter Yin stood in the hallway, listening to his wife Casey’s soft voice soothing their seven-year-old son. Yin was no good at coping with a child’s fears. But she always knew what to say.
“Okay?” she said.
Todd giggled the way he did when she tickled his neck.
“Okay?” she said again.
“Okay, Mommy.”
“Sleep tight, June bug.”
She came out, lowering the light in Todd’s room but leaving the door ajar.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked.
In a flash of lightning, Yin saw her smile.
“Waiting for you,” he said. “I need tucking in, too.”
She tucked her arm in his and they went down the hall together. He breathed in the floral scent coming from her hair.
“Tired?” she asked. “Interesting day or all paperwork?”
“One of those offbeat cases that Sean loves. An ex–major-league baseball player. Used to be big-time, nobody important now. But a couple of professional thugs paid him a visit.”
“Why did they do that?”
“He’s not talking. But Sean’s determined to find out what happened, even if the victim won’t cooperate.”
“Sean cares.”
“Too much sometimes. So what did the school shrink say about that picture Todd drew?”
Casey’s hand squeezed his arm. “She said he seems to be having some issues with being a cop’s kid.”
“Since when?”
“Since a couple of months ago, when he heard in a special bulletin that two cops had been shot during a traffic stop.”
Yin sighed. “So what are we supposed to do?”
“Talk to him.”
“And say what? That detectives don’t get shot at?”
“Well, that’s what you always tell me.”
* * *
Pettigrew picked up one of the action figures from the table in his living room: Swede Jorgensen with a baseball in his hand. Pettigrew had been collecting since he was a kid and he and his dad used to go to ball games together. Walk out through the tunnel and come out into the daylight of
the stadium, green field and blue sky, the players warming up.
Until today, he had never seen Swede Jorgensen in the flesh. Only watched him on television or listened to the game on the radio.
Pettigrew put the Jorgensen action figure down beside the one of Pete Rose.
He padded out to the kitchen in his leather bedroom slippers and opened the refrigerator. It was stocked with the food that he had picked up from the shopping list that Willow had given them after the last cooking class, but he didn’t feel like tackling any of the recipes tonight.
Milk, a little nutmeg, a little whiskey, and he’d be good to go.
Carrying his drink into the living room, Pettigrew stretched out on the sofa.
The fourth game in the series had been rained out.
Sighing, Pettigrew shuffled through his music files and settled on Vivaldi. Volume low.
He knew he should count his blessings. At least he wasn’t the primary on the serial killer case. Hannah was beginning to show the strain from that one. Too early to tell if Baxter was going to be any help.
Pettigrew took a long sip of his milk and whiskey punch and set his mug on the coffee table. He settled into a more comfortable position, spine sinking into the cushions.
He was almost asleep when his ORB buzzed. He picked it up and said hello, heard her voice say, “Sean? Did I wake you up?”
He touched the screen, bringing it into view mode.
She was smiling at him.
He sat up on the sofa, rubbed at his eyes. “Ellie, what…” He cleared his throat. “Elaine, why are you calling?”
His ex-wife, sitting in a hotel room somewhere, said, “I’ve been thinking about you. I’m going to be in the City in a couple of weeks. I thought I might take the train up to Albany and maybe we could have lunch or dinner or whatever—”
“Sorry,” Pettigrew said. “I’m going to be busy.”
“Sean, I—”
He closed his ORB, cutting her off. He stretched out on the sofa again.
“Better,” he said to himself. “That was better.” Of course, she would probably still show up. But he was doing better. At least this time, she hadn’t been quite so sure of her welcome.
The Red Queen Dies Page 6
