Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217)

by Deaver, Jeffery

  “We’ve got two vics and a lunar motif.” Often, an astronomical reference meant that the killer was planning to strike multiple times. “He’s got more on the agenda.”

  “Hey, why d’you think I’m here, Linc?”

  Rhyme glanced at the beginning of his missive to the Times. He closed his word-processing program. The essay about Before and After would have to wait.

  Chapter 3

  A small sound from outside the window. A crunch of snow.

  Amelia Sachs stopped moving. She glanced out at the quiet, white backyard. She saw no one.

  She was a half hour north of the city, alone in a pristine Tudor suburban house that was still as death. An appropriate thought, she reflected, since the owner of the place was no longer among the living.

  The sound again. Sachs was a city girl, used to the cacophony of urban noises—threatening and benign. The intrusion into the excessive suburban quiet set her on edge.

  Was its source a footstep?

  The tall, red-haired detective, wearing a black leather jacket, navy blue sweater and black jeans, listened carefully for a moment, absently scratching her scalp. She heard another crunch. Unzipped her jacket so her Glock was easily accessible. Crouching, she looked outside fast. Saw nothing.

  And returned to her task. She sat down on the luxurious leather office chair and began to examine the contents of a huge desk. This was a frustrating mission, the problem being that she didn’t know exactly what she was looking for. Which often happened when you searched a crime scene that was secondary or tertiary or whatever four-times-removed might be called. In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to call this a crime scene at all. It was unlikely that any perpetrators had ever been present, nor had any bodies been discovered here, any loot hidden. This was simply a little-used residence of a man named Benjamin Creeley, who’d died miles away and had not been to this house for a week before his death.

  Still she had to search, and search carefully—because Amelia Sachs was not here in the role she usually worked: crime scene cop. She was the lead detective in the first homicide case of her own.

  Another snap outside. Ice, snow, branch, deer, squirrel . . . She ignored it and continued the search that had started a few weeks earlier, all thanks to a knot in a piece of cotton rope.

  It was this length of clothesline that had ended the life of fifty-six-year-old Ben Creeley, found dangling from the banister of his Upper East Side town house. A suicide note was on the table, no signs of foul play evident.

  Just after the man’s death, though, Suzanne Creeley, his widow, went to the NYPD. She simply didn’t believe that he’d killed himself. The wealthy businessman and accountant had been moody lately, yes. But only, she believed, because he’d been working very long hours on some particularly difficult projects. His occasionally dour moods were a far cry from suicidal depression. He had no history of mental or emotional problems and wasn’t taking antidepressants. Creeley’s finances were solid. There’d been no recent changes to his will or insurance policy. His partner, Jordan Kessler, was on a business trip to a client’s office in Pennsylvania. But he and Sachs had spoken briefly and he confirmed that while Creeley had seemed depressed lately he hadn’t, Kessler believed, ever mentioned suicide.

  Sachs was permanently assigned to Lincoln Rhyme for crime scene work but she wanted to do more than forensics exclusively. She’d been lobbying Major Cases for the chance to be lead detective on a homicide or terrorist investigation. Somebody in the Big Building had decided that Creeley’s death warranted more looking into and gave her the case. Aside from the general consensus that Creeley wasn’t suicidal, though, Sachs at first could find no evidence of foul play. But then she made a discovery. The medical examiner reported that at the time of his death Creeley had a broken thumb; his entire right hand was in a cast.

  Which simply wouldn’t’ve let him tie the knot in his hangman’s noose or secure the rope to the balcony railing.

  Sachs knew because she’d tried a dozen times. Impossible without using the thumb. Maybe he’d tied it before the biking accident, a week prior to his death, but it just didn’t seem likely that you’d tie a noose and keep it handy, waiting for a future date to kill yourself.

  She decided to declare the death suspicious and opened a homicide file.

  But it was shaping up to be a tough case. The rule in homicides is either they’re solved in the first twenty-four hours or it takes months to close them. What little evidence existed (the liquor bottle he’d been drinking from before he died, the note and the rope) had yielded nothing. There were no witnesses. The NYPD report was a mere half-page long. The detective who’d run the case had spent hardly any time on it, typical for suicides, and he provided Sachs with no other information.

  The trail to any suspects had pretty much dried up in the city, where Creeley had worked and where the family spent most of their time; all that remained in Manhattan was to interview the dead man’s partner, Kessler, in more depth. Now, she was searching one of the few remaining sources for leads: the Creeleys’ suburban home, at which the family spent very little time.

  But she was finding nothing. Sachs now sat back, staring at a recent picture of Creeley shaking the hand of someone who appeared to be a businessman. They were on the tarmac of an airport, in front of some company’s private jet. Oil rigs and pipelines loomed in the background. He was smiling. He didn’t look depressed—but who does in snapshots?

  It was then that another crunch sounded, very close, outside the window behind her. Then one more, even closer.

  That’s no squirrel.

  Out came the Glock, one shiny 9-millimeter round in the chamber and thirteen underneath it. Sachs made her way quietly out the front door and circled around to the side of the house, pistol in both hands, but close to her side (never in front of you when rounding a corner, where it can be knocked aside; the movies always get it wrong). A fast look. The side of the house was clear. Then she moved toward the back, placing her black boots carefully on the walkway, which was thick with ice.

  A pause, listening.

  Yes, definitely footsteps. The person was moving hesitantly, maybe toward the back door.

  A pause. A step. Another pause.

  Ready, Sachs told herself.

  She eased closer to the back corner of the house.

  Which is when her foot slid off a patch of ice. She gave a faint, involuntary gasp. Hardly audible, she thought.

  But it was loud enough for the trespasser.

  She heard the pounding of feet fleeing through the backyard, crunching through the snow.

  Damn . . .

  In a crouch—in case it was a feint to draw her to target—she looked around the corner and lifted the Glock fast. She saw a lanky man in jeans and a thick jacket sprinting away through the snow.

  Hell . . . Just hate it when they run. Sachs had been dealt a tall body and bum joints—arthritis—and the combination made running pure misery.

  “I’m a police officer. Stop!” She started sprinting after him.

  Sachs was on her own for the pursuit. She’d never told Westchester County Police that she was here. Any assistance would have to come through a 911 call and she didn’t have time for that.

  “I’m not going to tell you again. Stop!”

  No response.

  They raced in tandem through the large yard then into the woods behind the house. Breathing hard, a pain below her ribs joining the agony in her knees, she moved as fast as she could but he was pulling ahead of her.

  Shit, I’m gonna lose him.

  But nature intervened. A branch protruding from the snow caught his shoe and he went down hard, with a huge grunt that Sachs heard from forty feet away. She ran up and, gasping for breath, rested the side of the Glock against his neck. He stopped squirming.

  “Don’t hurt me! Please!”

  “Shhhh.”

  Out came the cuffs.

  “Hands behind your back.”

  He squinted. “I didn’t do a
nything!”

  “Hands.”

  He did as he was told but in an awkward way that told her he’d probably never been collared. He was younger than she’d thought—a teenager, his face dotted with acne.

  “Don’t hurt me, please!”

  Sachs caught her breath and searched him. No ID, no weapons, no drugs. Money and a set of keys. “What’s your name?”

  “Greg.”

  “Last name?”

  A hesitation. “Witherspoon.”

  “You live around here?”

  He sucked in air, nodding to his right. “The house there, next door to the Creeleys’.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Why’d you run?”

  “I don’t know. I was scared.”

  “Didn’t you hear me say I was police?”

  “Yeah, but you don’t look like a cop . . . a policewoman. You really are one?”

  She showed him her ID. “What were you doing at the house?”

  “I live next door.”

  “You said that. What were you doing?” She pulled him up into a sitting position. He looked terrified.

  “I saw somebody inside. I thought it was Mrs. Creeley or maybe somebody in the family or something. I just wanted to tell her something. Then I looked inside and saw you had a gun. I got scared. I thought you were with them.”

  “Who’s them?”

  “Those guys who broke in. That’s what I was going to tell Mrs. Creeley about.”

  “Broke in?”

  “I saw a couple of guys break into their house. A few weeks ago. It was around Thanksgiving.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No. I guess I should have. But I didn’t want to get involved. They looked, like, tough.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was outside, in our backyard, and I saw ’em go to the back door, look around and then kind of, you know, break the lock and go inside.”

  “White, black?”

  “White, I think. I wasn’t that close. I couldn’t see their faces. They were just, you know, guys. Jeans and jackets. One was bigger than the other.”

  “Color of their hair?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long were they inside?”

  “An hour, I guess.”

  “You see their car?”

  “No.”

  “Did they take anything?”

  “Yeah. A stereo, CDs, a TV. Some games, I think. Can I stand up?”

  Sachs pulled him to his feet and marched him to the house. She noted that the back door had been jimmied. Pretty slick job too.

  She looked around. A big-screen TV was still in the living room. There was lots of nice china in the cabinet. The silver was there too. And it was sterling. The theft wasn’t making sense. Had they stolen a few things as cover for something else?

  She examined the ground floor. The house was immaculate—except for the fireplace. It was a gas model, she noted, but inside there was a lot of ash. With gas logs, there was no need for paper or kindling. Had the burglars set a fire?

  Without touching anything inside, she shone her flashlight over the contents.

  “Did you notice if those men had a fire going when they were here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  There were also streaks of mud in front of the fireplace. She had basic crime scene equipment in the trunk of her car. She’d dust for prints around the fireplace and desk and collect the ash and mud and any other physical evidence that might be helpful.

  It was then that her cell phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen. An urgent text message from Lincoln Rhyme. She was needed back in the city ASAP. She sent an acknowledging message.

  What had been burned? she wondered, staring at the fireplace.

  “So,” Greg said. “Like, can I go now?”

  Sachs looked him over. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but after any death the police conduct a complete inventory of everything in the house the day the owner dies.”

  “Yeah?” He looked down.

  “In an hour I’m calling Westchester County Police and having them check the list against what’s here now. If anything’s missing they’ll call me and I’ll give them your name and call your parents.”

  “But—”

  “The men didn’t steal anything at all, did they? After they left, you went in through the back door and helped yourself to . . . what?”

  “I just borrowed a few things is all. From Todd’s room.”

  “Mr. Creeley’s son?”

  “Yeah. And one of the Nintendos was mine. He never returned it.”

  “The men? Did they take anything?”

  A hesitation. “Didn’t look like it.”

  She undid the handcuffs. Sachs said, “You’ll have everything back by then. Put it in the garage. I’ll leave the door open.”

  “Oh, like, yeah. I promise,” he said breathlessly. “Definitely . . . Only . . .” He started to cry. “The thing is I ate some cake. It was in the refrigerator. I don’t . . . I’ll buy them another one.”

  Sachs said, “They don’t inventory food.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Just get everything else back here.”

  “I promise. Really.” He wiped his face on his sleeve.

  The boy started to leave. She asked, “One thing? When you heard that Mr. Creeley killed himself were you surprised?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Why?”

  The boy gave a laugh. “He had a seven-forty. I mean, the long one. Who’s going to kill themselves, they drive a BMW, right?”

  Chapter 4

  They were terrible ways to die.

  Amelia Sachs had pretty much seen it all, or so she thought. But these were as cruel means of death as she could recall.

  She’d spoken to Rhyme from Westchester and he’d told her to hurry to lower Manhattan, where she was to run two scenes of homicides committed apparently hours apart by somebody calling himself the Watchmaker.

  Sachs had already run the simpler of the two—a pier in the Hudson River. It was a fast scene to process; there was no body and most of the trace had been swept away or contaminated by the abrasive wind flowing along the river. She’d photographed and videoed the scene from all angles. She noted where the clock had been—troubled that the scene had been disturbed by the bomb squad when they’d collected it for testing. But there was no alternative, with a possible explosive device.

  She collected the killer’s note, too, partly crusted with blood. Then she’d taken samples of the frozen blood. She noted fingernail marks on the pier where the victim had held on, dangling above the water, then slid off. She collected a torn nail—it was wide, short and unpolished, suggesting that the victim was a man.

  The killer had cut his way through the chain-link fence protecting the pier. Sachs took a sample of the wire to check for tool marks. She found no fingerprints, footprints or tire tread marks near the point of entry or the pool of frozen blood.

  No witnesses had been located.

  The medical examiner reported that if the victim had indeed fallen into the Hudson, as seemed likely, he would have died of hypothermia within ten minutes or so. NYPD divers and the Coast Guard were continuing their search for the body and any evidence in the water.

  Sachs was now at the second scene, the alleyway off Cedar Street, near Broadway. Theodore Adams, midthirties, was lying on his back, duct tape gagging him and binding his ankles and wrists. The killer had looped a rope over a fire escape, ten feet above him, and tied one end to a heavy, six-foot-long metal bar with holes in the ends like the eye of a needle. This the killer had suspended above the victim’s throat. The other end of the rope he’d placed in the man’s hands. Being bound, Adams couldn’t slide out from under the bar. His only hope was to use all his strength to keep the massive weight suspended until someone happened along to save him.

  But no one had.

  He’d been
dead for some time and the bar had continued to compress his throat until the body froze solid in the December cold. His neck was only about an inch thick under the crushing metal. His expression was the chalky, neutral gaze of death but she could imagine how his face must have looked for the—what?—ten or fifteen minutes he’d struggled to stay alive, growing red from the effort, then purple, eyes bulging.

  Who on earth would murder in these ways, which were obviously picked for prolonged deaths?

  Wearing a white Tyvek bodysuit to prevent trace from her clothes and hair from contaminating the scene, Sachs readied the evidence collection equipment, as she discussed the scene with two of her colleagues in the NYPD, Nancy Simpson and Frank Rettig, officers based at the department’s main crime scene facility in Queens. Nearby was their Crime Scene Unit’s rapid response vehicle—a large van filled with the essential crime scene investigation equipment.

  She slipped rubber bands around her feet to distinguish her prints from the perp’s. (Another of Rhyme’s ideas. “But why bother? I’m in the Tyvek, Rhyme, not street shoes,” Sachs had once pointed out. He’d looked at her wearily. “Oh, excuse me. I guess a perp would never think to buy a Tyvek suit. How much do they cost, Sachs? Forty-nine ninety-five?”)

  Her first thoughts were that the killings were either organized-crime hits or the work of a psychopath; OC clips were often staged like these to send messages to rival gangs. A sociopath, on the other hand, might set up such an elaborate killing out of delusion or for gratification, which might be sadistic—if it had a sexual motivation—or simply cruel for its own sake, apart from lust. In her years on the street she’d learned that inflicting pain was a source of power in itself and could even be addictive.

  Ron Pulaski, in uniform and leather jacket, approached. The blond NYPD patrolman, slim and young, had been helping out Sachs on the Creeley case and was on call to assist on cases that Rhyme was handling. After a bad run-in with a perp had put him in the hospital for a long stay, he’d been offered medical disability retirement.

  The rookie had told Sachs that he’d sat down with Jenny, his young wife, and discussed the issue. Should he go back on duty or not? Pulaski’s twin brother, also a cop, provided input too. And in the end he chose to undergo therapy and return to the force. Sachs and Rhyme had been impressed with his youthful zeal and pulled some strings to get him assigned to them whenever possible. He later confessed to Sachs (never to Rhyme, of course) that the criminalist’s refusal to be sidelined by his quadriplegia and his aggressive regimen of daily therapy were Pulaski’s main inspiration to get back on active duty.