Bleeders

by Anthony Bruno

  She laughed, a surprisingly girlish laugh for a hard-nosed executive. He found it titillating. He wondered what Natalie’s laugh had been like. He’d never gotten the chance to hear it.

  The elevator stopped, and the doors opened on an expansive living room with cognac-colored hardwood parquet floors and gold-and-ivory wallpaper in a fleur-de-lis pattern. The furniture was a tasteful mix of contemporary and antique—modern sofas and armchairs in colors that complemented the wallpaper and a grand fruitwood dining room table with matching arrow-back chairs. Large sliding glass doors led to a spacious roof deck with a magnificent view of the city to the east. The room was so sunny it almost seemed as if they were outside. He imagined that a grand salle in a European summer palace would be something like this.

  The security alarm beeped insistently as soon as the elevator doors had opened. Ms. Thayer went to a keypad on the wall, punched in a code, and the beeping stopped. Lassiter took note of the keypad’s location. These systems could be triggered to sound an emergency alarm. Couldn’t have that.

  She unhooked the leash from Sophia’s collar and the dog trotted off to another room, her toenails clicking on the hardwood.

  Goodbye, Sophia, he thought.

  “It’s my girl’s day off,” Ms. Thayer said, setting down her purse on a spalted maple hunter’s table and tossing her keys into a deep blue Murano glass bowl.

  Good of you to put the keys where I can find them, he thought.

  “You’ll have to have my coffee,” she said. “I make very good coffee, but if you want espresso or cappuccino, I’m clueless when it comes to using that machine. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, plain coffee is fine.”

  “Good. This way.” She walked across the living room, her heels not nearly as noisy as her dog’s toenails.

  The décor in the kitchen surprised him. Very white—blindingly white—with blue veined marble counter tops. He was sure it was all top quality, but the overall effect was a little too modern for his taste. Why pay top dollar for something that looks like it came from Ikea?

  She put a kettle on to boil and pulled down a French press coffee maker from the cabinet. “So I hear you’re going to be speaking at the Orchid Club tomorrow.”

  Lassiter took a seat on a high stool. “Yes, I am.”

  “I just might go to this one. Generally I avoid those meetings.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well, they usually degenerate into bitch sessions. Women with tons of money and no idea what to do with it. ‘My yacht is too small. I need a new one.’ ‘I gave Harvard ten million for a new building, and they still put my son on the waiting list.’ And the classic: ‘I don’t have any real friends. With all my money, people just don’t understand me.’ God, I can’t stand all that whining.” She spooned coffee beans into an electric grinder.

  “But I thought the Orchid Club was a support group for wealthy women, a place where you could freely discuss the kind of problems most people don’t understand.”

  The grinder started with a sharp crackle. “I’m not putting the club down,” she said, raising her voice over the whirring of the grinder. “There are some legitimate problems that only we seem to have, and it’s good to have a network of similar people to pool information and so forth. It’s just that some of those women can be so annoying.”

  Lassiter deliberately said nothing. A large part of his professional appeal was his discretion. He couldn’t afford to have his clients thinking he’s a gossip.

  Ms. Thayer looked at him over her shoulder as the grinder kept whirring. Did she expect him to voice an opinion? Perhaps she was testing him.

  She titled her head as she scrutinized him, and the light caught her eyes. They sparkled. Like Natalie’s. His yearning grew stronger.

  The grinder stopped and the room fell silent. She started to spoon fresh coffee grounds into the press. Wisps of steam snaked from the kettle, and he could hear the water starting to boil. She turned off the burner and started pouring into the coffee maker. The pungent aroma of dark roast filled the kitchen.

  “It was a good idea inviting you to speak,” she said. “Less time for bitching. So who invited you?”

  He slipped a hand into his blazer pocket while she concentrated on the coffee. “Cindy McCleery,” he said.

  “Oh, of course. She’s very active in the group. She’s one of your clients, too, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” He pulled out a vermilion silk scarf. He had six of them, all different colors and patterns, three in each pocket, folded flat for compactness. One for the mouth, one for each wrist, one for each ankle, one spare just in case.

  “Have you met Cindy’s father?” she said, still occupied with pouring. “I hear he’s quite a character.”

  “He’s a client, too.” Lassiter slipped off the stool, wrapping the ends of the long scarf tightly around his hands.

  “I’d love to meet him some day. He’s quite eccentric from what I hear.”

  Shut up, Lassiter said in his head. I don’t want to hear your voice. I want your hair and your eyes and your nice smooth skin, but I don’t want your voice. I want Natalie’s voice.

  “It’s wonderful what he does with all his money. It makes me feel a little guilty.”

  Shut up.

  “He does so much good in the world.” She set down the kettle and laid her hand on the plunger, applying gradual pressure. “Of course, I don’t have nearly the portfolio he does.”

  Shut up!

  Lassiter stepped closer.

  Click-click-click-click.

  Lassiter whipped his head around. Was someone here? Then he saw that it was just the little greyhound coming into the kitchen. Sophia stopped and shuddered, looking up at her mistress with pathetic eyes.

  Dumb mutt, Lassiter thought, scowling. He had to concentrate on his memories of Natalie. Couldn’t have a stupid little dog distracting him.

  Ms. Thayer looked down at her pet, her hand still on the coffee maker. “Oh, Sophia, what’s wrong? Don’t you have any food? Did Maria forget to fill your bowl?”

  “Stop talking,” Lassiter said in a low breathy growl.

  “Excuse me?” She looked puzzled and offended.

  Lassiter moved fast. In two graceful strides, he was right behind her, the scarf draped around her neck.

  She started to turn toward him, unaware of the peril she was in. “What’re you doing—?”

  “Stop talking!” He pulled the scarf tight, preventing her from turning, and yanked so hard she was on her toes.

  She clutched at her throat, trying to pry the scarf off her neck with her perfectly manicured nails, but he was much too strong. She gasped and grunted and snorted, most unladylike sounds. He hated hearing them. They weren’t sounds that Natalie had ever made. He held the scarf tight, concentrating. He knew from experience that this took skill. He didn’t want to choke her to death. Just cut off the carotid artery long enough for her to pass out. He had to control himself so as not to kill her. Not yet.

  She flailed and struggled, making awful pig noises. He yanked harder to quiet her down, and she kicked up, getting her feet up on the counter, hoping for some leverage to relieve the pressure, knocking over the French press. Hot coffee spilled over the counter top and dripped onto the white tile floor. He stepped back to keep it off his shoes. He didn’t want incriminating evidence getting on his person. All the while he held on tight until she finally went limp, melting into his arms.

  Sophia barked frantically, but it was no more than an anemic yip.

  “Quiet!” he snapped as he dragged Ms. Thayer by the armpits through the kitchen and living room and into the master bedroom.

  The walls were pale yellow, the bedspread an orange-and-green print of endless marigolds. He had to act fast before she came to. Sometimes a choke-out made the person un
conscious for only ten seconds or so. Fortunately, though, even when they started to come around quickly, they were always too groggy to yell or fight back.

  He hauled her onto the bed, and she slid easily on the polished cotton spread. The vermilion scarf dangled under her chin. He moved it to her mouth, opening her jaws and cinching it tight at the nape of her neck. The feel of her hair thrilled him. The gag pulled her skin tight and gave her face a gaunt aspect. He liked that. It reminded him of Natalie. He laid her head on a pillow and splayed out her limbs, hiking up her skirt to spread her legs. He pulled out the other scarves from his pockets and went to work, tying the first wrist with a jade-colored scarf and binding it to the bed frame. He’d learned to always bring extra long scarves that could reach the frame because he could never count on his bleeders having the right kind of headboard and very few had footboards. Traditional brass beds were perfect, but in twenty years he’d come across only one.

  He moved on to the other limbs, working quickly. A black scarf for the other wrist, a purple paisley and a brown-and-tan horse bridle print for the ankles.

  Ms. Thayer started to come around. She moaned and opened her eyes a bit. The room was bright, like the rest of the apartment, and he could see her eyes peeking through the moist slits of her lids. This excited him further. Natalie’s eyes had been like that. Moist slits. But not because he had choked her. No, not Natalie.

  Ms. Thayer coughed, struggling to get a clear breath. Her eyes shot open, and she stared at him, terrorized. He would have preferred if she’d been groggy, but it didn’t matter. He focused on her dark tousled hair and the color of her eyes. He stood at the foot of the bed, taking her in as if he were standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, overwhelmed by the magnificent sight. He thrust his head back and sucked in deep breaths to keep from passing out from the rush of joy and fear and reenactment. He felt as if he might explode.

  He knee-walked onto the bed and straddled her at the waist. She thrashed her head, straining at her bonds, shouting at him through the gag.

  “No, no, no, you’re wrong,” he said. “I don’t do that. I would never rape anyone. Never. “

  But she didn’t believe him and she bucked like stallion, arching her back and bouncing her head against the pillow.

  He ran his fingers under the lapels of his blazer and pulled out a six-inch spinal needle attached to a long plastic tube that he’d tucked away there. He dangled it over her face. “This is what I do,” he said.

  She furrowed her brows, showing her confusion.

  “This is a spinal needle,” he said. “See? The needle is longer than a hypodermic. It’s what doctors use for spinal taps and such.”

  She struggled harder and screamed through her gag, her face blotched from the exertion, but beyond this room no one could hear her. Her hair was matted with sweat, and he didn’t care for that. Natalie’s hair had been lovely till the end.

  He doubled the tube and held it in his mouth as he gripped the neckline of her dress with both hands and yanked, popping the buttons. He clawed at her slip, ripping it open to her navel. He then pulled up her pale blue bra and exposed her breasts. They were small but shapely, and he noticed that she had freckles on her chest. Just like Natalie. This unexpected discovery made him shiver with excitement. This was going to be wonderful, he thought. He was light-headed with anticipation.

  He took the tube out his mouth and held the needle between his fingers.

  Yip! Yip! Yip!

  He turned toward the yelping. The little greyhound stood in the doorway, shaking.

  “Please go away, Sophia,” he said with genuine concern. “You don’t want to see this.”

  But the dog didn’t move, and Lassiter ceased to care. He was thinking of other things, concentrating on making this as perfect as possible. He wasn’t even concerned that he’d be losing one of his best clients. That didn’t matter. He had plenty of clients.

  Ms. Thayer cried and begged and thrashed, tears smearing her makeup. But no one except Lassiter and the dog heard her.

  Chapter 2

  FBI Special Agent Trisha McCleery stood at the edge of the banquet room with a glass in her hand, observing the gathering of elegantly dressed women as they mingled and chatted. It was a regular monthly meeting of the Orchid Club. She took a sip of her club soda—she was on the job, trying to blend in—as she scanned the room on the top floor the Hotel Gansevoort, a classy boutique hotel in what used to be Manhattan’s meatpacking district. It was an oasis for the rich, the privileged, and sometimes even the famous. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a commanding view of the night sky over the Hudson River and the lights of New Jersey on the other side. Clusters of square-back sofas and armchairs with plush gray suede upholstery were arranged around smoked-glass and black-iron coffee tables. At the far end of the room, a semi-circle of black wood straight-back chairs was arranged around a podium for the evening’s speaker.

  Trisha watched the women as they sipped wine, cocktails, and sparkling water while ignoring the canapés offered by the wait staff, most of them preferring not to partake probably because they were dieting or didn’t like to be seen eating. Observing people was what Trisha did.

  She took note of the women’s clothing—tailored, tasteful, and expensive. At least half of them wore dark pants suits that accented their jewelry—gold link bracelets, discreet diamond pendants, gold shield earrings. Most of the others wore trim jackets and skirts in muted colors. The hairstyles and dye jobs were all top shelf. No helmet heads here. Straight hair appeared to be the preference, either in a chin-length bob or a shoulder-length flip, ash blonde and dark chestnut the most popular colors.

  Trisha wore one of her many black pants suits and a light blue open-collared blouse. Her clothes weren’t even remotely in these women’s league, but she didn’t feel deprived, and the color of her shiny dark brown hair was natural. At 34, she had no gray to cover. And though she didn’t have the kind of classic good looks many of these women had—either naturally or surgically acquired—Trisha was comfortable with the way she looked and would give herself a B+ and maybe even an A-on the occasional good hair days. She just wished she could find an appropriate eligible man who gave her the same high marks.

  “Canapé?” A waiter appeared at her side with a silver tray. He was young, blond, and good-looking—an actor between gigs, she guessed. He explained his offerings. “Crab mousse on endive. Miniature filet mignon skewers—”

  “No pigs in blankets?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Little hot dogs in flaky pastry? With mustard?” She kept a straight face and watched him trying to figure out how to respond. Should he be snooty or accommodating? In this crowd he had no way of knowing how rich and powerful she might be.

  “I… I can ask the chef—”

  “No, no, I’m just kidding.” She took a skewer.

  He looked relieved, offered her a napkin, and moved off with a nod. He was probably new at this. He’d have to get used to rich people making strange requests and kicking up a fuss when they didn’t get exactly what they wanted.

  The morsel of steak came with a slice of marinated crimini mushroom on a clear plastic toothpick. She loved red meat and took it all in one bite. It was delicious and made her hungry for a whole filet. She wandered toward the bar table as she chewed. The bartender smiled at her, and she smiled back, but she plainly didn’t need a refill because her glass was mostly full. She found a cozy corner for observation a few steps away.

  Someone had left a copy of that day’s New York Gazette on the bar table. She could have read the headline from across the room it was so big—WHERE’S DRAC? The subtitle was smaller but more disturbing. Dracula Killer Still At Large—Cops Clueless.

  And that’s why I’m here, she thought, clenching her fists and smothering the start of a panic attack. She was good at suppressing her fears. Usually. />
  A female voice came over her shoulder. “So what’s with this Drac guy?” A plump bejeweled hand pointed at the newspaper.

  Trisha followed the gold-lame sleeve of a waist-length jacket up to the woman’s face. A fluffy cloud of dark hair encircled her head, and fields of sparkly emerald eye shadow accentuated startling green eyes. A little heavy with the makeup, Trisha thought, but when she got a better look at the woman’s short, thick body and her aged hands, she realized that the woman was older than she appeared. Mid-sixties, Trisha guessed, even though her face could have passed for mid-forties.

  “Adele Cardinalli,” the woman said with a distinct “New Yawk” accent, thrusting out her hand. She lowered her voice and leaned toward Trisha. “These bitches call me the ‘Ravioli Queen’ behind my back. Like I care. I made a bundle on raviolis. And manicott’, lasagna, eggplant parm, all that stuff. I’m not ashamed.” She rolled her big eyes and fluttered her hands, rattling her bracelets—gold charms on one wrist, rubies on the other.

  Trisha shook her hand. “Trisha McCleery. Nice to meet you.”

  “Oh, my God! Cindy’s sister? I read about you somewhere. You’re working on this thing.” She pointed at the Drac headline.

  Trisha sighed. In the press’s insatiable quest to make news out of no news, one of the other tabloids in town had reported that she had been assigned to assist the New York Police Department’s Homicide Squad in their Drac investigation. Nothing inherently newsworthy about the Bureau assigning a profiler to help local law enforcement with a tough case—it happened all the time. What made this slightly newsworthy was that she was the daughter of 1970’s rock idol turned social activist/philanthropist, Michael McCleery. He’d been a prolific songwriter with a gift for creating catchy tunes and had made a fortune licensing his works. But then in the ‘90s, he’d had a social awakening and decided to fund a foundation dedicated to eliminating childhood poverty worldwide within a generation. But that had absolutely nothing to do with her profiling sick puppies like Drac, and these so-called journalists all knew that.