Bleeders

by Anthony Bruno

  She glanced down at the headline, and without warning the thought of Drac, the real person out there in the shadows, made her chest tighten. She forced herself to take several deep breaths. Unlike her hard-nosed colleagues in the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit, serial killers scared her. Really scared her.

  “So tell me,” Adele said, sidling closer. “Does this guy Drac really drink their blood?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t talk about that,” Trisha said, recovering her composure. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “I heard he doesn’t bite their necks. He takes it right from the heart. But I don’t understand. How could a person bite into another person’s heart? Unless he, you know, butchers them first. You know what I’m saying?”

  Trisha maintained a professional smile but had no intention of answering any questions relating to Drac. Rumors typically spread like wildfire whenever a serial killer surfaced. Drac’s modus had not yet been leaked to the press, though there had been a lot of unfounded speculation, included his supposed predilection for drinking human blood. That was one thing he didn’t do.

  “You know,” Adele said, “we lost one of our members a few weeks ago. Linda Martinson. She made her money in computer chips or something like that. Nice woman. I don’t think she liked me all that much, but so what. Terrible to have to die like that.”

  Trisha knew all about Linda Martinson. She’d studied the crime-scene photos in detail, the victim on her back in her own bed. Blood had soaked all the way through to the box springs. Shoulder length coffee-brown hair, lifeless blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. The same coloring as the two who had preceded her. The same as Trisha herself.

  “Hey.” Trisha’s sister Cindy walked over. “Nice to see you’re making friends.”

  Cindy was two years older than Trisha and looked nothing like her. She had light brown hair and topaz brown eyes and was much taller, like their father. Trisha was petite. Their disparity had spawned endless off-color jokes at the dinner table when they were growing up about their mother with the mailman and their dad having love children with his groupies. But more than just looking like their father, Cindy was without question his favorite. After making a small fortune with a start-up search-engine company, she’d sold it to manage Dad’s charity, which was worth close to a billion.

  “I see you’ve met my sister,” Cindy said to Adele Cardinalli.

  “She seems like a very nice young lady.” Adele’s catty tone implied that she didn’t think the same of Cindy. Maybe Cindy was one of those members who called Adele the Ravioli Queen behind her back.

  But Trisha wasn’t interested in chitchat unless it led to useable information about Drac’s victims. “So why do you call your group the Orchid Club?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation. “Sounds like a garden club.”

  Adele threw up her hands and chortled. “Well, what are we supposed to call ourselves? The Filthy Rich Ladies Club? The Rich Bitches Society? Broads With Bucks? We try not to draw attention to ourselves, dear.”

  “I like the jacket, Adele,” Cindy said, eyeing the gold lame. “Sort of Elvis meets Michael Jackson.”

  Adele blew her a kiss. “I love you, too, Cindy. By the way, I think your sister really is lovely, but I thought we weren’t allowed to bring guests.”

  “This is special,” Cindy said. “Trisha is doing research.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “This Drac scumbag targets wealthy women, like our Linda, so Trisha wants to observe us to see what’s different about us, what this killer sees in us—”

  “Cindy?” Trisha opened her eyes wide, signaling her sister to shut up. “Too much information.”

  “Oh, look who’s here.” Adele pointed across the room to a tall man in a dark suit, pastel blue dress shirt, and solid blue tie, standing with a circle of women. “Later,” she said as she rushed off to join the group. The women seemed to be hanging on this man’s every word, and one had undisguised bedroom eyes for him. A cougar on the prowl.

  “So who’s the stud-muffin?” Trisha asked. He was good-looking, but she wasn’t all that impressed. Too skinny and too neat. Clean enough to eat off. She liked her men a little more rugged.

  “That’s Gene Lassiter,” Cindy said.

  “Dad’s money manager? That’s him?” Trisha had heard a lot about Lassiter, but they’d never met.

  “Wealth manager,” Cindy corrected. “He works for a lot of the members.”

  “Really. I just assumed he was an older guy from the way you talked about him. Fat and bald in a pinstripe suit with suspenders.”

  Cindy shook her head. “No, that’s him. Brains and looks. He’s the one who’s done wonders with Dad’s portfolio.”

  “I know.” Trisha seldom paid attention when her father and sister discussed money, but Lassiter’s name did come up a lot. He apparently performed miracles with the investments he chose, but that was Cindy’s and Dad’s thing, not hers.

  “You should get to know him,” Cindy said. “I think you’d like him.”

  Trisha gave her a wary look. “Are you gonna try to fix me up? Again? Don’t bother.”

  “I’ll stop when you find your Mr. Right. He’s out there somewhere.”

  “Oh, please. You sound like a Sex and the City rerun.”

  Cindy took her sister’s arm. “Come on. Just come meet him.”

  Trisha slipped out of Cindy’s grip. Years of martial arts training, particularly in aikido, had made getting out of the most hostile grips second nature for her. “Why should I meet him?”

  “Well, for one thing it’s polite. He has done a lot for Dad. And then there’s the matter of your inheritance.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “He handles all of Dad’s money, his entire estate. Someday when Dad’s not with us, you’ll have to deal with Gene. It would be nice to meet him sooner than later, don’t you think?”

  Trisha didn’t like thinking about her father’s death, even though she knew it would happen someday. They didn’t always get along, but the thought of losing him was unbearable. She was still struggling with the loss of her mother.

  “Okay, fine,” Trisha said. “I’ll meet Mr. Lassiter. But just do me one favor.”

  “What?”

  “Stop trying to fix me up. It’s getting old.”

  Cindy raised her palms in surrender. “Whatever you want. I’m just looking out for my little sister, that’s all.”

  “Like that time we played beauty parlor and you cut off my pigtails when I was, like, three?”

  “Well, I tried to tape them back on, didn’t I? God, you will never let me forget that.”

  “Someday, my dear. But not yet.” The sisters burst out laughing and hugged.

  Then Cindy’s face turned serious. “I worry about you.”

  “Why?”

  “You chase serial killers for a living, for God’s sake.”

  “I don’t apprehend them. I never even meet them. At least not the ones at large. I do crime scene analysis. I look for clues that will tell me who they are and where they are. But I give my findings to the cops and let them do the dirty work.”

  “Still, it’s creepy.”

  “I find it very interesting.”

  “Yeah, and I know why.”

  Trisha sighed. “Let’s not get into that again, okay?” She took her sister by the elbow. “Come on, let’s go meet Mr. Lassiter.”

  They crossed a large Persian-style carpet, veering around the wait staff. Lassiter was surrounded by four women—the brunette cougar, two middle-aged blondes, and Adele Cardinalli. The blondes were nearly identical in appearance—spa thin with straight shoulder-length hair. They each wore Chanel jackets with the signature fringe though not in the same color or fabric. One was talking, gesturing with both hands as if she w
ere weighing grapefruits. She was sharing a story with the group, but her eyes were glued on Lassiter.

  “So here’s the thing,” she said. “I have the townhouse here in Manhattan, a pied-a-terre in Paris, a small ranch near Jackson Hole for ski season, the old beach house in Maine, and a place in the Keys I bought last year. So what am I doing looking at property in New Mexico? Am I out of my mind?”

  “That’s a lot of bathrooms to clean,” Adele Cardinalli quipped, but the others reacted with tight smiles. They were more interested in hearing Lassiter’s opinion.

  “Well, it depends on the property, of course,” Lassiter said. “Real estate isn’t nearly what it was a few years ago, but it’s not a bad investment. And you don’t have to think of every acquisition as an investment. Love is a factor here.”

  “How so?” the woman asked.

  “If you fall in love with a place, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have it if it’s within your means.”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, we don’t need to worry about that. My tastes aren’t that extravagant.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Trisha whispered in her sister’s ear.

  Lassiter continued, “Well, you all know how I feel about these things. There’s worth and then there’s value. Worth is about resale and return on investment. Value is what it means to you personally. That’s why some things have value to you far beyond their market value. If you find a property that touches your heart, it will have personal value for you.”

  The other Chanel blonde crossed her arms and nodded. “Interesting.”

  “But before you buy,” Lassiter said, “send me the particulars and let me weigh in. Just to have another opinion.”

  “Oh, I will,” the first blonde said. “I wouldn’t make a move without your input, Gene.”

  Everyone laughed, and Trisha wondered why. Was it an ironic statement? Or was there some sort of sexual innuendo? Somehow these people didn’t seem like ones who would joke like that in public, almost all of them executives and self-made multi-millionaires.

  She took a close look at Lassiter, wondering what they saw in him that she didn’t. He did have a warm smile. And crinkly eyes. Actually she had to admit he was kind of cute. No, more than cute. Handsome. But in a gentle way. Sort of a cross between George Clooney and Hugh Grant. He wasn’t wearing a ring. Maybe he was gay.

  “Gene?” Cindy edged into the group. “Gene, I want you to meet someone.” She opened the way for Trisha. “This is my sister. Trisha, Gene Lassiter.”

  He stopped paying attention to the others and looked right at her. “Well, we finally meet,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you.” He extended his hand.

  Trisha took it and assessed his grip. It was a Baby Bear grip. As Goldilocks would say, not too hard (the way most men shook hands), not too soft, just right.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, too, Mr. Lassiter,” she said.

  “Please. Call me Gene.”

  “All right… Gene.”

  He isn’t so bad, she thought.

  Lassiter could feel electricity in his veins.

  Okay, let go of her hand, he told himself. Don’t fawn. Don’t gush, Don’t obsess. Be normal.

  He ended the handshake and gave her the smile he gave all the women here. Cordial but professional. But on the inside he was ecstatic. A flash flood of savored memories and anticipated pleasures roared through him. At long last here was the women he desired most. Natalie’s daughter. He had hoped that working for Michael and Cindy McCleery would someday lead him to Trisha. The other women he’d killed were just substitutes. Place markers. Stop gaps. Second-rate recreations of the experience he had wanted for so many years, the experience he would have with Trisha.

  “My father speaks highly of you,” Trisha said. Clearly she was fishing for something to say, tossing him a boilerplate conversation starter.

  “Well, I’m happy to hear that,” he said with practiced modesty. “But in reality I’m honored to be working for him. He does so much good work. All I do is make money.”

  And kill women.

  The blondes laughed knowingly. As if they knew anything.

  “All he does is make money,” the Ravioli Queen said a little too loudly. “Ha! That’s all.”

  He smiled and doled out eye contact to the ladies like Halloween candy but was barely paying attention to them. Trisha was the one, just Trisha. She was finally within reach.

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Gene,” Cindy said. “Admit it. You’re a financial genius.”

  “Enough,” he said. “You’ll give me a big head.”

  He looked at Cindy, amazed at how different the sisters were. But that was good. If she’d looked even remotely like Trisha—a fair-skinned, blue-eyed brunette—he might have lost control somewhere along the line and killed her, and that would have spoiled everything. In his mind Cindy had always been just the conduit who would lead him to Trisha. That’s why he had worked so hard cozying up to the Orchid Club—to meet Cindy and ingratiate himself with her father so that one day he would meet the elusive Trisha, the girl he’d seen out her mother’s window over twenty years ago.

  A waiter came by with a tray of poured wineglasses, red and white. “I have pinot noir,” he said, “and sauvignon blanc.”

  Some of the women replaced their empty glasses with full ones. Lassiter took a glass of red. “Cheers,” he said.

  The women lifted their glasses. “Cheers.”

  He took a sip and let his gaze slide toward Trisha who appeared to be drinking club soda.

  On duty no doubt, he thought, quickly looking away. He could have tracked her down and found her on his own, gotten her alone and done his thing. But that’s not what he wanted. He envisioned so much more with her. He didn’t want to do it just anywhere. She was the one, for God’s sake. It had to be perfect. The setting, the ambience, the details—it had to be as close as possible to the scenario he cherished. It had to be so accurate he would feast on the memories for the rest of his life the way he had feasted on his memories of Natalie. Trisha had to be Natalie.

  “So what’s your secret?” Trisha asked.

  His eyes shot open in mid sip. He cleared his throat. Could she have read his mind?

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s your secret for making money? Your investment strategy.”

  “Oh.” A relaxed smile passed over his lips. “Patience. You always have to be patient.”

  “Interesting,” she said.

  He is cute, she thought. And different. More to him than meets the eye. Of course, a lot of men a good fakers—frogs that stay frogs even after they’re kissed.

  Cindy touched Lassiter’s elbow. “Gene, I don’t want to rush you, but it’s after seven. If you’re ready, I think we should get started.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Trisha felt her Blackberry vibrating in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at it. “Excuse me,” she said to the group and walked back to her secluded spot near the bar table.

  She faced the wall and pressed the Send button. “Hey, Pete, what’s up?”

  “He did it again.” The voice on the other end sounded annoyed.

  “Our favorite unsub?”

  “Yeah, blood boy. I’m at the crime scene. 708 Park. Between 70th and 71st.”

  “I’ll be right there. Don’t let anybody touch anything.”

  “You mean we can’t play Twister with the body until you get here?”

  “That’s not funny, Pete. I’ll grab a cab and be there soon.”

  She hung up, her heart beating fast, acid dripping through her stomach. Another victim. She always felt this way when there was a new one. It was anger, outrage, and feeling scared shitless. Fear that someday she’d become a victim. Just like her mother.

&nbs
p; “Is it him?”

  The urgent whisper in Trisha’s ear startled her, and she whipped around to see Adele Cardinalli hovering over her shoulder.

  Adele’s eyes were wide. “You’re being called to a crime scene, right? I can tell. Your face is so serious. Is it Drac? Did he strike again?”

  Trisha could see why some might not like the “Ravioli Queen.” Too pushy.

  “Ms. Cardinalli—”

  “Don’t be silly. Call me Adele.”

  “Adele, please tell my sister I was called away. Tell her I’ll call her later.”

  “Sure, but just tell me. Is it Drac?”

  “Thank you.” Trisha ignored the question and walked toward the exit. Across the room Cindy was at the podium, introducing Gene Lassiter to the group. He caught her eye and waved goodbye. She smiled and nodded, slipping into the hallway where she broke into a trot, heading toward the elevators.

  So long, Trisha, Lassiter thought. Give my regards to Ms. Thayer. See you soon.

  Chapter 3

  Trisha stared at the murdered woman on the bed, oblivious to the three NYPD crime-scene techs in khakis and navy-blue polo shirts, taking photos, dusting doorknobs, and combing the carpet for hairs and fibers. The sickly sweet smell of decomposing blood was in the air. Trisha’s stomach jangled with spasms of pain. Her first thought was always the same—that could be me. She imagined Drac hovering over her, her arms and legs tied down just like this woman. His breath was foul, and he stank of body odor. He was barely literate, more animal than human, liable to do anything at any moment. But sometimes she imagined him as just the opposite—neat, methodical, controlled. A pure sadist who followed a careful routine. A demon who took his time and relished the agony he caused. In her mind she could see the killer’s body, but the face was always out of focus. She squeezed her eyes shut, steeling herself for the work at hand. She couldn’t give in to her fears. Not now.

  The springtime cheeriness of the décor offended her. It seemed insulting to Laura Thayer, the victim. On her back, her head sunk deep into the pillows, her eyes closed, but her repose didn’t look anything like sleep. The twisted position of her head was unnatural. It would have caused a neck cramp if she were alive. She seemed to be in the middle of a nightmare, her arms positioned symmetrically at her sides, hands placed palm down, feet together. The ugly red ligature marks on her wrists and ankles showed that she had been bound before she died.