by Tim Stevens
“One o’clock,” said Teller. “Though they were expecting her there a half-hour earlier, to get set up. Before that, she was at the Greenbury Baptist Church hall in Sugar Hill. She finished there at approximately eleven thirty. Told them she was heading straight to this other appointment in Brooklyn.”
“So she got taken between eleven-thirty and twelve thirty,” said Venn. “That’s pretty tight. That’ll be a help.”
“We need to look at routes from Sugar Hill to Prospect Avenue in Brooklyn,” said Teller. To Harmony: “Did she have a car?”
“I don’t know,” said Harmony. “But she wouldn’t have driven across the city. Or even have taken a cab. She liked to get around on the subway and on busses. It reminded her she was part of the community.”
“So it’s the subway,” said Venn. He looked at Teller. “We need to get publicity out on this, and fast. Flyers and posters everywhere. TV and newspapers.”
“Yeah,” said Teller. “The press are about to run with the Fincher murder anyhow.” He stood up. “I’ll tell Abbot to get on it. We’ll call in the admin team early, put them to work.”
“A press conference would be a good idea,” said Venn.
“We’ve thought of that,” Rickenbacker said sharply.
Venn ignored her deliberately. To Teller he said: “Leave me and Harmony out of it, though. The public doesn’t need to know we’re involved.”
“Low profile,” Teller said. “I get it.”
Teller left the room. Rickenbacker took her time, but followed him, after a speculative look at Harmony.
Harmony stood up after a few seconds. “I need to call the rest of the family.”
“Harm,” said Venn. “Stay here awhile. Let’s talk.”
“Dammit, Venn.” The anger was back on the surface once more. “I don’t need coddling. We’ve got shit to do.”
“Harm,” he said again, more insistently. He stood between her and the door.
“You want me to go through you?” she snarled.
“No. I want you to sit down and listen to me.”
She didn’t sit down, but she remained standing where she was.
“Beth said she saw you at the hospital on Friday,” Venn said quietly. “She didn’t get a chance to come over and say hi. Is anything wrong?”
“Jesus.” She ran a hand through her cornrowed hair. “It’s like Big Brother.” She seemed to be debating with herself. Then she threw her hands up. “My father’s sick, okay? His heart, and his diabetes. I don’t get along with the old bastard, yet I’m the one he relies upon. The fact that he’s brought his problems upon himself doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.” She fixed Venn with a challenging stare. “So that’s it. Over and done with. Now can I get on and investigate my cousin’s murder?”
“Wish you’d told me before,” said Venn. “But I’m glad you have now.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Venn thought he’d better drop it, because she looked like she was holding herself together with an effort, and he knew she’d feel humiliated if he saw her break down. He stepped out the way.
“Meet you back at the office, our office, around nine, okay? We need to get Fil on board with this publicity stuff.”
“Uh huh.” Tight-lipped, she brushed past Venn on her way out.
*
Venn found Teller and Rickenbacker in the main office, looking at a series of photos fanned out on a desk. They’d been taken at the scene by the tech guys, and showed the dead woman, Alice Peters, from assorted angles, mostly in close up.
“Ligature mark,” Teller said, pointing at a picture of Peters’ neck.
“Yeah.” Venn hadn’t spotted it when he’d seen her lying there, but there was no doubt about it. A welt arced across her throat. It would probably have been an angry red under different circumstances, but the spell in the river had rendered it a bluish purple. The skin was slightly abraded, as if something thick had been used rather than a narrow cord which would have cut more deeply. Venn fingered his own neck, and saw the two FBI agents noticing, though they must have seen the scar before. He’d come close to getting garrotted himself a few months ago. By a woman, too.
“Her eyes aren’t bloodshot, though,” Venn said. “So, no strangulation. Just enough to subdue her.”
“There’s something else the CSI people mentioned,” said Teller. “When they turned her over, they saw marks on the back of her dress. They couldn’t be certain yet, of course, but they looked like grass stains.”
“So she was taken down outdoors,” said Venn. “Or dragged outside after she was killed.”
Teller gazed at the photos some more. Without glancing up, he said: “You think this was personal? That the killer knew Peters was related to one of us?”
“It’s crossed my mind,” admitted Venn. “But I don’t see how. It’s got to be coincidence.”
Rickenbacker said: “You’ve got to take her off the case.”
Both men looked at her. Venn said, “Who? Harmony?”
“She’s too close to this,” said Rickenbacker. “You know the rules. You don’t investigate a crime against a relative.”
“She’s not a close relative,” said Venn. “Harmony barely had any contact with the woman. You heard her.”
“And you saw her,” Rickenbacker said. “She’s cut up about this. She’s a liability.”
Venn took a step sideways so that Teller was no longer between him and Rickenbacker. She turned to face him. Squaring up.
“Detective Jones is part of my team,” said Venn. “If I stay, she stays.”
“Then maybe you and Sergeant Jones both need to go,” Rickenbacker answered coolly.
“All right.” Teller stepped between them once more. He looked from one to the other. “Judgment call, guys.”
Venn continued to stare Rickenbacker down. She didn’t flinch.
“She stays,” said Teller. As Rickenbacker flicked her eyes to his face, he held up a hand, looking at Venn. “But Fran has a point. If Jones shows any signs of unprofessionalism, she’s out.”
“She won’t,” said Venn.
Chapter 16
In all his years as a cop, Venn had never ceased to be amazed how quickly a story spread.
The first editions of the morning papers ran with the Fincher murder. The latest killing, that of Alice Peters, didn’t feature, because the papers had already been printed by the time the body was discovered.
But the radio breakfast shows talked about little else.
By ten a.m., the news bulletins on TV and the radio and the Internet were headlining with the link between the murders. Same MO. Same distinctive sigma brand on the victims’ foreheads.
The press ate it up like candy.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Fil Vidal at his computer. “The online chat forums are crashing. The switchboards are jammed with callers.”
Venn knew what that was all about. People were ringing in with sightings and clues, the vast majority of which were either mistaken or else downright bogus. Or they were panicking, demanding to know how the NYPD intended to protect them and their families from the vicious killer stalking the streets of the city. It would simmer down once the initial excitement had worn off.
Venn had returned home to shower and shave and change his clothes. He’d caught Beth finishing off her breakfast before she headed out to work. Quickly, he filled her in.
“I’ll be at the press conference later,” he said. “But out of sight.”
“Pity,” she said, kissing him. “I’ve always thought you’d look good on TV.”
He watched her go. For the first time in months, she seemed at ease. Back to her old self, after the turmoil of the last six months. And for the first time in almost as long, he thought they had a chance together once again.
Damn, but it felt good.
He got to the Division of Special Projects office a little before nine. Fil Vidal was already there, as was Harmony. She didn’t avoid his eyes, as he thought she m
ight, and she looked more composed, as if she’d made a conscious effort to get herself under control.
“You speak to your family?” Venn asked.
“Yeah. Her dad took it hard.”
Venn didn’t ask her if she wanted to take some personal time. He figured she’d be insulted.
Fil had been at work for ninety minutes already. He’d been monitoring the news and the publicity the FBI had been putting out, as well as entering the particulars of the killer’s latest victim into his statistics program and starting to cross-reference them with the details from the other three murders.
Nothing had come up yet.
The press conference was due at eleven. Teller and his team had moved fast, securing the press office at One Police Plaza, the NYPD’s headquarters. Venn had noticed a greater than average density of helicopters in the sky as he’d driven in to work. He anticipated that the international media would be there as well as all of the domestic heavy hitters.
“You coming along?” he asked Harmony.
“I figured I’d stay here and help Fil,” she said. “Not really in the mood for watching Teller and that Rickenbacker creature schmoozing with journalists. Besides, we can watch it on TV here.”
*
Venn strode through the crowds assembled outside the Plaza, brandishing his shield like a talisman. On his way to the conference room he met David Kang, his captain, who had an office at HQ.
“Joe,” he said. “We need to catch up some time.”
“Sure, Cap.” Teller and Rickenbacker would already be there, he knew, going over their prepared statement and drafting answers to the questions they anticipated.
As if reading his mind, Kang said, “They cooperating with you? The feds?”
“Mostly,” said Venn. “Couple of personality clashes.”
“Harmony?”
“Right. And Rickenbacker.”
“Cats in a sack,” Kang said knowingly. Venn winced. That kind of sexist talk could scupper a person’s political ambitions. And Kang was ambitious, that was for certain.
Venn wondered whether to tell Kang about Harmony’s connection with Alice Peters. He decided it could wait till later.
“You have any serious problems with them, you let me know,” said Kang. “I’ve got a commitment from the Commissioner that we’re on board with the feds on this.”
“I won’t hesitate,” Venn said.
He entered the conference room through the side doors. The place was heaving, and marshals were herding people into position, wrangling with cameramen who were objecting to their equipment being treated so disrespectfully. The raised podium at the front spanned the width of the room. Venn saw the police commissioner at the lectern, flanked by Teller and Rickenbacker.
At a couple of minutes after eleven by the clock on the wall, the commissioner tapped the microphone and the clamor in the room hushed with eerie suddenness.
The commissioner said a few words of introduction before introducing Special Agent Teller of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Teller took the mic. He was looking the part: smart but not too slick, with an air of gravity about him.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he said. “At just after three thirty this morning, the body of a woman was found on the bank of the East River in Brooklyn. The woman has been identified as Alice Peters, a teacher and community worker. Ms Peters was, the evidence suggests, murdered. We believe the circumstances of her killing are the same as those found in three other homicides in New York City over the last five weeks. The FBI’s conclusion is that these killings are the work of a serial murderer.”
The room erupted in a dazzle of camera flashes and shouted questions. Teller allowed the wave to rise and then ebb, before he continued.
He gave a succinct account of the murders: the victims, the method used, the sigma brand on the foreheads. Venn watched journalists thumbing their phones and tapping their tablets frantically. He was vaguely amused at the frenzy of activity. Like a bunch of sharks jostling to snap at a bloodied carcass.
At one point, Teller handed over to Rickenbacker. She came across as confident, sassy, and, Venn had to admit, rather cool. The media would love her. She related what they thought they knew about the killer. It was probably a woman, acting alone or in conjunction with somebody else, likely a man. She was thorough and methodical, covering her tracks with efficiency. And she was, of course, highly dangerous.
Their spiel went on for twenty minutes. At the end, Teller stepped up once more and invited questions. As usual, the big guns got first bite: the TV networks, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal.
“Is there any lead on the pattern of the killings?” asked a reporter from NBC. “The timings, the demographics of the victims, the sigma symbol?”
Teller said, no, there wasn’t. Not yet. But the Bureau was following a number of promising avenues.
Fox News wanted to know if the spate of murders might be related to the Mayor’s recent initiatives to secure the early release from prison of hundreds of first-time offenders. Teller said he couldn’t possibly comment on that.
The questions began to peter out as the assembled journalists started to get a feel for exactly how much the two FBI agents were prepared to divulge, which wasn’t all that much. A few hands remained raised.
Rickenbacker pointed to a small, pugnacious looking guy near the back, just along from where Venn was standing.
The man said: “Eric Benson, Metropolitan Gazette. Is it true that the latest victim, Alice Peters, is a relative of one of the detectives investigating the murders?”
The room froze.
The murmuring started up a second later, as everybody craned round to stare at this interloper.
The murmurs turned into a rising swell once more, and the cameras began flashing with a vengeance.
Venn stared at Rickenbacker and Teller in turn.
Rickenbacker’s face barely twitched. Teller, on the other hand, looked rattled.
Rickenbacker ducked her head to the mic first. “We’re not at liberty to comment on that.”
Venn had worked crowds before, during a stint on riot duty when he was a junior cop in Chicago, and he’d learned when a mob was out of control and the best tactic was a graceful retreat.
It seemed Teller had that instinct, too. He said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That’ll be all for now.”
Venn watched the two agents disappear through the exit.
He thought: son of a bitch.
A few seconds later, his phone began to ring.
Chapter 17
“She did it,” Harmony hissed. “It was her.”
“We don’t know that.” Venn strode rapidly through the building toward his car outside. The crowd in front was epic, and he shouldered his way through without finesse.
“Admit it, Venn. Admit it. You know I’m right.”
He’d wanted to approach Teller and Rickenbacker right away, but he knew they were being mobbed right now and he wouldn’t get close.
“I think you’re probably right, Harm,” he said. “But I need to talk to them both first.”
“They’ll take me off the case now,” said Harmony. “They’ll say they can’t risk a scandal. Shit. She’s really screwed me now.”
“Stay there, will you?” Venn said, climbing into his Jeep. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
He hung up before she could reply.
On the way back to his office, he called Teller’s cell number. He got voicemail, and said, “Call me ASAP.”
His phone rang as he was getting out of the Jeep. Venn said: “Mort. Did Rickenbacker leak that to the reporter? About Harmony being related to Peters?”
Teller had clearly been expecting the question. He said, slowly and carefully, “I know what it must look like, Joe. But she swears - swears - she didn’t.”
“That sounds like bullshit to me.” Venn walked toward the building. “Where are you now?”
“Still at One Police Plaza. Just got free from
the crowd. Christ, you won’t believe how they’re -”
Venn cut him off: “Come by my office, okay? Both of you.”
Teller sounded taken aback. “Whoah. Hold on. You’re summoning us -”
“Just get here, okay? Rickenbacker needs to make nice. To Harmony’s face. And mine.”
He found Harmony wearing a groove in the office carpet with her pacing. Earlier, she’d looked like a caged animal. Now she resembled a wounded one. Wounded, and murderous.
“That underhand, egotistical snake,” she spat. “Five minutes with her, Venn. Give me five minutes alone with her in a room. I’ll get her to admit it.”
Venn held up a hand. “We need to play this cool,” he said. “They’re coming round here. Her and Teller. You won’t get anywhere if you go head to head from the word go. Remember your job. You’re a detective. Watch her body language. Don’t rile her. Let her incriminate herself.”
From over at his desk, Fil Vidal said: “You want I should step outside?”
“No,” said Venn. “We’ll need a witness.”
*
The FBI agents arrived almost an hour later, by which time Harmony had calmed don to a brooding simmer. Teller looked weary. Rickenbacker wore the same air of nonchalance she’d displayed at the conference. But Venn thought the stale cigarette odor around her was stronger than before.
Venn said: “Good conference. You handled it well.”
“Cut the small talk,” said Rickenbacker. Facing Harmony, she said, “No, I did not tell the Staten Island Gazette, or anybody else, that Alice Peters was a relative of yours.”
“How’d they find out, then?” said Venn.
She looked at him pityingly. “They’re reporters, for crying out loud. The Gazette is a low-rent rag. They live for this kind of scurrilous detail. The moment they learned about the Peters killing, they’ll have been sniffing around for an angle.”
Harmony shook her head vigorously. “I don’t buy it.” She took a step forward. She was still far from invading Rickenbacker’s personal space, but her jabbing finger was intrusive enough. “You made it clear you wanted me off the case from the start. Both of us, but me especially. Maybe you can’t handle the fact that I’m another chick, and you feel threatened. Maybe, I don’t know, you’re just a racist. Whatever your problem, lady, you’ve gone about this in a pretty obvious way.”
