Silent victim s-2

by C. E. Lawrence

  Diesel gave a single nod of his majestic head.

  "Let's just say that I too have 'sources,' and they are not always the most savory of characters."

  Lee stared at him. Diesel was full of surprises. For one thing, Lee had no idea that he was a bartender at the Jack Hammer; Diesel had told him less than a week ago that he and Rhino were working as hospital orderlies. He decided not to mention any of this, but wait and see where the conversation led.

  Butts too was looking at him, though it was more of a glare. He was looking less than enchanted by the evasive response. Lee knew the little detective hated witnesses who hid anything, and Butts was already beginning to show signs of irritation. The corner of his left eye was twitching, and he was tearing at a loose fingernail with his teeth.

  "Okay, okay," Chuck intervened. "Can you swear to us that you aren't hiding anything that might have a bearing on solving this case?"

  Diesel replied without hesitation. "On my mother's grave, if you wish."

  Butts opened his mouth to say something, but Chuck cut him off.

  "That won't be necessary, Mr.-Diesel. Just tell us what you saw that night, if you would."

  Diesel cleared his throat and intertwined his muscular fingers, leaning forward in his chair, his powerful shoulders straining against the material of his shirt.

  "It was approximately nine o'clock when Detective Krieger showed up at the bar."

  "Did you know who she was?" Chuck asked.

  "No, but I knew she wasn't a transvestite."

  Chuck frowned. "Really? How?"

  "Her Adam's apple was too small. It was possible she was a post-op transsexual, but I was pretty sure she wasn't." "Because-?"

  "Her hands. The surgeons do remarkable things these days, but they can't change the size of a man's hands. She had the hands of a woman."

  Chuck leaned back on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms, his face impassive, but Lee could tell he was impressed. Lee was pretty impressed himself. Diesel's composure and sangfroid made him an ideal witness-in fact, Lee thought, he'd make a damn good cop. He glanced at Butts, who was still frowning, chewing on his index finger as though it were his next meal.

  "So you noticed her when she came in?" Chuck prompted.

  Diesel smiled. "It was hard not to notice her. Apart from the fact that she was a good-looking woman, she was dressed to attract attention."

  He went on to describe the outfit she was wearing in such detail that Lee wondered if Diesel knew more than he was letting on.

  "I also knew she was a cop," he added.

  Butts frowned. "Really? How's that?"

  "My father was in the force. When you grow up around cops, you can spot them a mile away."

  "'Zat so?" Butts said, crossing his arms. "What precinct was he?"

  "The Ninth," Diesel answered without blinking. "Back when it was rough."

  "Okay," Chuck interrupted. "So did Detective Krieger have admirers?"

  "She did." He went on to describe the entire scene with Matt and Violet, giving every detail of the encounter, including introducing himself to Krieger.

  Chuck smiled ruefully when he heard the undercover name Krieger had given herself. "Lottie… like Lotte Lenya."

  "That's what Matt said," Diesel replied.

  "Interesting," Lee mused. "A working-class guy who knows who Lotte Lenya is."

  "Not unusual in that world," Diesel said. "Maybe not quite the icon Judy Garland is, but-"

  "I get it," Butts said. Finished chewing on the fingers of his right hand, he had started on the left one. "A fag hag. She was in that Bond film, wasn't she?"

  "From Russia With Love," Diesel replied.

  "Yeah," Butts said. "With the knives in her shoes! I remember that scene where she-"

  "Okay," Chuck said impatiently. "Can we get on with it?'

  "So you said both Matt and Violet are regulars?" Lee asked. "How long have they been coming there?"

  "I've only been there a month," Diesel admitted. "I have a day job," he said to Chuck, "but I'm moonlighting for some extra cash."

  "Okay," Chuck said. "So they've both been coming there for at least a month, then?'

  "Actually, Violet only showed up a couple of weeks ago. Never saw her there before that."

  "Okay, what we'd like to do is get a list of the credit card receipts, so-"

  Diesel shook his head. "It's a cash-only business. It's just too crazy in there to be dealing with credit card machines and receipts. Sorry," he added, seeing the disappointment on Chuck's face.

  "I think we should go there this weekend," Lee said.

  Butts stared at him.

  "Chances are a lot of the same people will be there, and we can interview as many as possible."

  "He's right," Chuck said. "We wanted to try to keep a lot of the details out of the media, but-"

  "Good luck with that," Diesel remarked dryly.

  "Yeah, I know," Chuck agreed. "But as far as the Jack Hammer is concerned, the fewer of the patrons who make the connection that she was there working the case, the better."

  "But some of them are sure to see her picture in the paper."

  "I don't see how we can avoid that. But we won't tell the media she was there working undercover. That should buy us some time to conduct a few interviews."

  "As soon as you start questioning people, some of them are bound to put two and two together."

  "But until then, the fewer people who know, the better."

  Diesel scratched behind his right ear, the one with the tiny gold earring.

  "It's not like he doesn't know you're after him."

  "Yeah," Butts said, "but the less he knows about what we know, the better."

  "And what do you know?" Diesel asked.

  "I'm afraid that's classified," Butts shot back with satisfaction.

  Diesel shrugged. "I'm just trying to help, Detective." Butts didn't say anything, but as far as Lee was concerned, they could use all the help they could get.

  C HAPTER F IFTY-THREE

  After Diesel left, they talked about what should be released to the media and when. It didn't take them long to agree to leave out the fact that Krieger was working with them on the case-though some people would certainly draw that conclusion. Apart from that, they decided to give out as much information as possible, encouraging other patrons of the Jack Hammer that night to come forward. Diesel had promised to do what he could from his end, but he wasn't scheduled to work until the weekend, and he knew his customers only by their first names-or so he said. Lee believed him, but he could tell Butts wasn't entirely persuaded.

  Chuck leaned back to stretch his spine, groaning as his stiff muscles protested. "Is there anything you can add to his profile?" he asked Lee.

  Lee poured himself some more coffee. Awake since before dawn, he was flagging, and needed the caffeine. "I still think he's reliving some kind of childhood trauma, something very specific."

  "All right," Chuck said. "So how can that help us?"

  "If we can identify how he was damaged, we'll be that much closer," Lee said, taking a sip of coffee. It was strong and startling-like Krieger, he thought.

  "So how do we do that?" Butts asked.

  "Let's start with the signature aspects of each crime. What do they all have in common besides water?"

  "He leaves notes," Butts said.

  Lee took another gulp of coffee, feeling the caffeine trickle into his bloodstream. "What do they tell us?"

  "He's punishing the victims," Chuck answered.

  "Right," Lee said. "So there's a motive of retribution, of punishment."

  Chuck rubbed his eyes. "Punishment for what, though?" "Good question."

  Butts pulled a long string of red licorice from his pocket. It was limp and covered with lint. He brushed off the lint and chewed on it, a contented expression on his cratered face. In response to a glance from Chuck, he said, "Stomach's been actin' up. The wife says this will help. She's into all this natural stuff."

  "What
else do we have to go on?" Chuck asked. "Well, later he starts doin' the eyeball thing," Butts remarked.

  "Yes, but why? What does that mean?" said Chuck.

  "It has something to do with watching," Lee replied. "Being looked at."

  "Who would have been watching him like that?" Butts asked.

  "The most obvious answer would be a parent," Chuck suggested, picking up the glass paperweight on his desk and shifting it from one hand to the other.

  "His dad, maybe?" said Butts. "Maybe he disapproved of the whole cross-dressing thing."

  "Or his mother… but how would that fit with the water?" Chuck asked.

  "I have an idea," Lee said. He turned to Chuck, who was slumped in his chair, the glass paperweight dangling from his right hand. "Can I borrow your computer?"

  Morton rose from his chair and waved a hand toward it wearily. "Go ahead."

  Lee sat down at the computer. Butts followed him, still chewing on the piece of licorice.

  "What are you lookin' for?"

  "Drownings-twenty years ago, in the tristate area."

  "How come?"

  "I think he may have had a trauma when he was still very young, involving water-probably a drowning."

  Butts bit off a piece of licorice. "That seems like a long shot."

  "I know. And that's even assuming it was reported."

  The detective frowned and pulled up a chair next to him. "Why wouldn't it be reported?"

  "If she was drowned by someone who knew her, it could have been covered up."

  "Like her husband, you mean," Chuck said, perching on the edge of his desk.

  "Exactly," Lee answered. "He could have done it and gotten away with it-said she went off with another man, that kind of thing."

  "But if the kid saw it happen, he would know," Butts pointed out.

  "Right," said Lee. "That kind of thing is bad enough when it's accidental. But if it was murder, and if his father told him to keep quiet, he would be replaying it over and over in his mind."

  Chuck put down the paperweight, stood up, and paced in front of the window. He looked animated for the first time all day. "So the reason he cuts out the eyes-"

  "He doesn't want her looking at him," Lee finished for him.

  "The way his mother did," Butts said.

  "Right," Lee agreed, still typing. He studied the screen, frowning. "This search is too general. We'd have to comb through every newspaper from that time period."

  "What about missing-person cases?" Butts suggested.

  "That's a good idea," said Chuck. "If he covered up her death, someone could have still reported her as missing."

  Lee typed some more, then shook his head. "It's still too general, even assuming he grew up around here. It's possible that he moved to this area at some point."

  Butts shook his head as if trying to dispel the image from his mind. "Jeez. You gotta be one sick bastard to put your kid through somethin' like that."

  "Not only that," said Lee, "but you are guaranteeing your kid will be-"

  "One sick bastard."

  "You know, this whole process kinda reminds me of bridge," Butts said, chewing on his licorice thoughtfully.

  "How so?"

  "Well, the wife has been playing lately, you know." "Yeah, so you said," Chuck remarked impatiently. "So when she opens with one no trump, for example, it's a code."

  "Right-she's telling her partner she has a certain number of points, and asking for information back," said Lee.

  "Yeah. So her partner answers in code, too-which she has to interpret. It all depends on whether he's a risky bidder or not. If he says two spades and he's a risk taker, it could mean one thing, but if he's a conservative player, it could mean something else."

  "And that difference can make or break the hand," Lee observed. "You miss just one trick and you go down."

  "Exactly. So part of the game of bidding depends on knowing your partner's personality, their strengths and weaknesses, and being able to guess what they mean by their bid."

  Chuck stared at him. "So?"

  "So this guy is talkin' to us in code-and it's our job to figure out what he's saying."

  Lee gazed out the window as the soft pink light of early evening settled over the city, bathing the buildings in a strangely beautiful glow. It was in such contrast to the conversation in the rapidly darkening room. A shiver started at the back of his neck and radiated outward. He wished that the only thing at stake were a card game, but if they continued in their failure to decode the messages the killer was leaving behind, another victim would fall to his implacable rage.

  C HAPTER F IFTY-FOUR

  Caleb looked around the coffee shop. It was a clean, well-lighted place, but he couldn't imagine Hemingway spending five minutes in it. The decor was black and white, from the checkerboard floor tiles to the sleek counter. Everything was hard, reflective surfaces, shiny as the hair of the pubescent rich girls who were gathered there. School would start in a week or so, and there they were, freshly tanned from their summer in the Hamptons or the south of France.

  They wore short flared skirts over bony-kneed coltish legs, but they also wore a smart, close-fitting self-assurance, a thick coating of self-esteem, smooth and sleek as their bouncy, well-cared-for hair. They moved among the short, squat members of the waitstaff as if they owned the restaurant-which, in a way, they did. Their parents were the monied classes of the Upper East Side, the highest average income bracket of any zip code in the country. Never mind Beverly Hills 90210, with its crude new money-these people were the true aristocracy, and their daughters knew it.

  Caleb looked at the little sluts and imagined their parents roaming their roomy, multimillion-dollar apartments in their tailored Armani suits and Gucci loafers, pausing to deposit checks from wealthy clients or check on their blue-chip stocks before making lunch reservations at La Giraffe or Chanterelle. They owned the grand brownstone buildings they lived in and shopped in the expensive, exclusive boutiques of Madison Avenue. The immigrants from Ecuador, Mexico, or Peru who shined their silverware and washed their sheets came and went at their pleasure.

  Caleb stirred another spoonful of sugar into his coffee. He hated these girls, living in the cocoon of comfort and care available only to the very rich. He watched a couple of them talking, slouched around one table, laughing as they flipped their long, shiny hair off a shoulder, delicately fingering their tiny designer backpacks.

  They were disgusting, with their inbred complacency-that aura of self-satisfaction they had swallowed with their mother's milk, confidence absorbed through the placental fluid. These girls might not know who they were yet, but they thought they did.

  Caleb watched as a short, pug-faced Dominican busboy cleared the table, his face set in that deliberate expression of disinterest he had seen on so many workers. He wondered what the Dominicans and Guatemalans thought of these girls. Did they resent their financial, social, and genetic superiority, or were they just grateful to be in America, working for minimum wage while waiting on these princesses of privilege? He was always amazed at the goodwill and cheerful humor of New York restaurant workers.

  One of the girls, a coltish brunette in a pink sweater, bumped his table, then, catching his eye, giggled and whispered something to her friends. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, so aware of her superiority it took his breath away. Caleb stirred his coffee and took a sip. She is clearly a bad girl, and bad girls deserve to be punished.

  Caleb adjusted his stockings and straightened his wig. The disguise was a good one-no one had even glanced at him twice on the subway. He smiled as he smoothed his green tweed skirt. It was expensive and well cut-his mother would have looked good in it.

  C HAPTER F IFTY-FIFTY

  Caroline Benton waved good-bye to her girlfriends and sauntered out into the gentle atmosphere of the late summer evening. The sun was sinking into a salmon-pink sunset, the air soft as a caress.

  Pausing to wipe a few drops of moisture from her downy upper li
p, she stood at the bus stop, rocking back and forth on her heels. Never mind trying to get a cab this time of day, in this neighborhood-you might as well wish for a unicorn to ride home. She unzipped her Prada shoulder bag and dug around inside. The bag was lemon yellow, the leather buttery and soft, and it cost seven hundred dollars, which she thought was a bargain-though her father had rolled his eyes when he saw the bill on his Visa card. God, she thought, he could be so retarded sometimes, considering what he spent on that single-malt Scotch of his.

  Her fingers found what she was looking for, the pack of Marlboro Lights at the bottom of the bag. She wanted a cigarette very badly, but was afraid her stepmother would smell it on her clothes and hair-that woman had a nose like a bloodhound. Caroline didn't see why she should have to obey her, anyway. It's not like she was her real mother or anything.

  She squinted and peered down Madison Avenue, as if that would make the bus come faster. She looked around. She was the only one at the bus stop, so maybe it would be okay to have a cigarette after all. She could run right up to her room when she got home, claiming she had homework to do, and her stepmother would never be the wiser.

  As she was fiddling around in her bag for a lighter, a black limousine rolled up to the bus stop. It was a Lincoln Town Car, polished to a gleaming shine. Even the whitewall tires looked clean. The electric window slid down, and a young man leaned out. He was wearing a gray wool cap with a black leather brim-like the kind of hat you might see a cab driver wearing in an old movie on AMC or TCM, she thought.

  "You the one who called for a car service?" Caroline shook her head.

  He held up a clipboard. "I got the address here-says I'm to meet a young lady in front of this coffee shop."

  She looked back at the restaurant. No one was standing outside waiting to be picked up.

  "Any idea who it might be?" he said. "One of your friends, maybe?"

  In the back of her mind, she wondered briefly how he knew she had friends in the restaurant, but the thought never made its way into her conscious brain. Something else registered only vaguely in her pretty head: though it was August, he was wearing black leather gloves.