“As long as I’ve known him.” She rattled the ice cubes in her glass and downed the rest of her drink.
The bar was called For Heaven’s Sake, a burger and beer place on Ninth Avenue in the West Fifties. Trisha was surprised Pete had picked it. Seemed too cheery for a hipster. A cozy golden-wood bar and light oak high-top tables. The clientele was mostly youngish and white collar, couples and small groups having late dinners. The Dave Matthews Band was on the jukebox. No gloomy lighting or dark booths in the back. And not a shamrock in sight. None of the usual cop bar accoutrements. Trisha had come to the conclusion that every town in America has at least one cop bar. New York must have at least a hundred, and Trisha felt as if she’d been in every one. It wasn’t that she was an alcoholic, but she was a fed, and when feds worked with local cops, they liked to take the feebies to these dingy establishments that had all the charm of interrogation rooms to see how tough they really were. Most experienced agents tried to avoid this ritual, but Trisha usually looked forward to it. She enjoyed watching the local yokels try to get her drunk, thinking a petite woman would sip white wine and get tipsy after one or two. These guys failed to realize that she’d hung out with rock musicians as a teenager and could drink with the best of them. The day she turned eighteen she had traded tequila shots with the Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards. He gave up before they finished the bottle, and she ate the worm. She didn’t drink like that anymore, but she had a fondness for straight bourbon. (Never Tennessee sour mash—too sweet.) Bourbon mellowed her out, but she never seemed to be able to get drunk because her mother’s death was never far from her thoughts and that always kept her sober.
Pete tipped back his glass to get the dregs. She had noticed when they had first met that he didn’t wear a wedding ring. She wondered if he was attached. He didn’t talk much about his personal life.
The bartender, a chunky white guy with blond dreads down to his shoulders, dropped off two more drinks. “Here you go,” he said. “You guys wanna see menus?”
Pete looked at Trisha. “You hungry?”
“Leave one,” she said to the bartender. “I might order something later.”
He grabbed a menu from under the bar and left it next to Trisha’s bourbon.
She lifted her new glass. “Cheers.”
Pete hoisted his pint. “Salut.”
Trisha took a sip and could feel liquid warmth trickle down her throat, hoping it would temporarily wash away the image of Mrs. Wexler’s corpse. But nothing that came in a bottle could erase a memory like that.
“So, Trisha, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Doesn’t the FBI have rules about agents dating other agents? Why does Krieger keep dogging you? Do you guys have a history or what?”
As a rule she avoided talking about her personal life with colleagues, but she and Pete had been joined at the hip for weeks, and she trusted him. She flashed a crooked grin. “No history. He just has a thing for me. I’ve told him repeatedly that I’m not interested, but he has a Teflon brain. Nothing sticks.”
“But because he’s your boss, you can’t get away from him.”
“Exactly.”
“Couldn’t you file a harassment complaint, something like that?”
“I could, but that’s risky. He outranks me, and if he challenges a review, I might end up the loser. If it got ugly, the brass might transfer me out of the Investigative Support Unit, and I don’t want that. I’m a profiler. It’s what I do. I don’t want to give that up.”
I can’t give that up, she thought.
“Hey,” she said, “mind if I ask you something?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Assistant Chief Franco. What the hell’s up with her?”
Pete shrugged. “Blond ambition. That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but what’s the deal with you? Why was she so keen on getting you away from me? It was like she was jealous. You two don’t have a thing going, do you?”
Pete coughed in the middle of a sip and had to cover his mouth to keep from spouting foam. “Me and Franco? You mean, like a couple? You’re joking, right?”
Trisha shrugged. “I don’t mean to pry, but… you know. Stuff like that does happen in the workplace.”
He coughed into his fist. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m gay.”
Trisha stared at him. She had no idea. “I thought you were, like, a hipster type.”
“There are gay hipsters.”
She leaned back and looked him up and down. “Damn. And I’m supposed to be good at figuring out people.”
“You’re not the first. Women hit on me all the time. Maybe I should work on being more flamboyant. Sing show tunes, talk with a lisp, something like that.”
She shook her finger at him. “The PC police are gonna get you for saying that.”
“Like I care.”
“So tell me. Am I wrong about Franco? Was she showing just a little too much interest in a detective second grade?”
“She’s a fag hag. She’s like one of those pigs they use to find truffles. Franco roots out all the gay cops, then tries to get chummy with them. Like it’s cool or something.”
“Her two assistants?”
Pete nodded emphatically. “Yup.”
“Son of a gun. I had a feeling the chubby one was but not the other guy.”
“Hey, I sure as hell don’t want to end up like them. They both started out as beat cops, believe it or not. She’s offered me special assignments working directly under her, but I’ve avoided it like the plague.”
“Good for you.”
They clinked glasses and drank to that. A new song came over the sound system, and she knew it immediately from the opening guitar riff, “Take Me Away,” one of her father’s hard rock hits from his wild and woolly days. It had become something of a drinking anthem and a standard in many tavern jukeboxes, right up there with George Thoroughgood’s version of John Lee Hooker’s “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” and Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places.” Her father had made a lot of money off that song, but she knew he wasn’t proud of it anymore. He had regrets about his younger days—the drugs, the drinking, the groupies. But he particularly regretted throwing that huge party when his wife was dying. He often blamed himself for selfishly creating the conditions that allowed the killer to strike. In her dark moments, Trisha agreed.
Michael McCleery’s whiskey baritone carried through the room, and Trisha scanned the crowd. Had someone played that to get her attention? A reporter? Some wiseass who had seen her picture in the paper? Drac?
“Something wrong?” Pete said. “You look upset.”
“No. I’m fine.” She took another sip, wishing she could get drunk for once and not think about anything.
“As long as we’re getting confessional,” Pete said, “can I ask you something else?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Pete’s expression turned serious. “I know how your mother died. That’s no big secret. But it’s kinda been the elephant in the room since we started working together.”
“I can see how you’d feel that way, but I don’t like to discuss the details. I—”
“No, no, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m just curious to know why you chose to join the Bureau and work on serial killer cases. I would think the daughter of a victim would run away from that kind of stuff.”
Trisha looked down into her glass and turned it like a dial. Other than her sister, she didn’t have any close friends, and she wasn’t one to pour out her soul. She wasn’t open like that. But there was something about Pete that put her at ease.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“No, it’s a valid question. I’m just trying to figure out where to begin.”
“So are you like Batman?”
“Sorry?”
“When he was a kid, Bruce Wayne saw his parents murdered by the Joker and that drove him to become the Batman, ace crime fighter.”
She coughed up a bittersweet laugh. “Yeah, I guess that’s about as good an explanation as any. And I always thought it was so complicated. In reality I’m just a comic book character.”
“I didn’t mean to be glib about it.”
“No, no, it’s true. That’s me in a nutshell.”
“Well, it’s not an unreasonable way to feel.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I guess in the back of my mind I keep hoping that one of these deviants will be the one who took Mom. Crazy, right? But that’s my deep dark secret. There, I’ve said it.” She exhaled a sad laugh and took another sip. She decided not to tell him about the Indian stripes. At least not yet.
“But what’re the chances you’ll find him? Do serial killers stay active that long? Your mother was murdered a while ago, right?”
“Nineteen eighty-nine. And you’re right. Most serial killers don’t have long runs. But there are some that do. Spectacularly long, like Chikatilo, the guy in Russia who killed over 50 women and children in a twelve-year period.”
“Maybe they don’t have good profilers in Russia.”
She shrugged. The bourbon enveloped her like a big warm hug. She finally felt relaxed. “I’ll tell you another little secret, Pete.”
He made a face. “What, are we girlfriends now? I should never have told you I was gay.”
“No, listen. I’ve never really shared this with anyone. This is my method for putting together a profile. Every case I work on, I treat the unsub as if he’s the guy who killed my mother. It keeps me motivated and focused. I’ll never burn out the way most profilers do.”
“Yeah, well, don’t tell Franco. She didn’t want you on this case to begin with. I heard she asked for someone else, but the Bureau insisted we take you.”
“Well, that explains a lot. She must think of me as damaged goods.”
“No, not with your batting average. She just doesn’t like capable women. Too much competition.” He sipped his Guinness. “So is that why you’re so good at this? Your mother inspires you?”
“Maybe.” A sly grin spread across her face. “Or maybe I’m just absolutely kick-ass terrific at what I do.”
“No ego here, huh?”
“None whatsoever.” She drained the last of her bourbon and sucked on an ice cube. “So now that you’ve plied me with liquor and gotten me to give up my most guarded secrets, I hope you’re happy with yourself.”
“NYPD interrogation methods. Very effective.”
“Worked with me.” She picked up the menu and gave it the once over. “How about a burger? I feel the need for red meat. Order something. It’s on Uncle Sam.”
“In that case I’m hungry.” He pointed to her glass. “Another round?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll switch to iced tea. No telling what I might tell you after three.”
“Well, tell me this. I’m curious. Is every murder that a serial killer commits psycho-sexually motivated? Do they ever kill outside of their fantasy?”
She tipped an ice cube into her mouth. “Only if they have to.”
“How do you mean?”
“To maintain his lifestyle, his cover, a serial killer will do whatever he has to so he can keep killing. Including murdering anyone he sees as a threat.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“Believe it. I wouldn’t be surprised if our boy Drac has done a few of those, too.
The sound of some 200 barking dogs reverberated off the brown-and-beige speckled marble floors and yellow tile walls in the warehouse-sized main room of the city animal shelter on the Lower East Side. The din was maddening, the pathetic keening relentless, a canine bedlam. The smell was a barely tolerable blend of urine, disinfectant, and animal fear.
Sam Banerjee, short and compact, in a nicely tailored, dark bronze suit and silk tie followed Lassiter who wore an old pair of jeans and a faded black polo shirt. Endless rows of cages lined the walls, and the floor was crammed with free-standing cages arranged cheek by jowl. Every enclosure contained a frantic dog, almost all of them mutts of one kind or another, the most popular variety being the tan or brown pit bull mix—triangular head, pink tongue, fierce mouth, sorrowful eyes.
“Why did we have to meet here?” Sam Banerjee shouted over the racket.
“I volunteer here,” Lassiter shouted back.
And the noise will foil any kind of recording device you might be wearing, my friend.
“This is giving me a headache,” Banerjee shouted.
Lassiter pointed to a hallway at the rear of the building. When they entered it, the barking subsided, but the yowl of cats could be heard. They passed several rooms filled with stacks of cages housing cats, mostly adults, some young ones, a handful of kittens, some mangy, some in good shape.
“This way,” Lassiter said, pointing to the end of the hallway. “It’s quieter down here.”
A scowl was frozen on Banerjee’s face, but Lassiter ignored his foul mood and kept walking. At the end of the hallway he pushed through a gray heavy metal door. The temperature rose dramatically as soon as they stepped inside. Dry heat radiated from a sheet metal box large enough to hold two cars parked end-to-end. The front had a waist-high door and a control panel on the right side. The floor was littered with black plastic garbage bags, each one partially full. Lassiter shut the door, cutting the decibel level in half.
“Why are we here?” Banerjee had the curt bark of an angry chihuahua.
“I told you. I volunteer here.”
“Doing what, for God’s sake?”
“I play with the animals. Comfort them before they’re put down.” He nodded toward the metal box.
Banerjee’s eyes bulged “This is where they… they—?”
“Yes. This is where they burn the bodies.” He pointed out the row of metal garbage cans near the rear of the incinerator. Each one brimmed with ash and crushed bones.
“Oh, my God. This is barbaric.”
Lassiter shrugged. “There are just too many animals. Very few are adopted. In a perfect world we would care for all these poor creatures, but… well, it’s not a perfect world.”
“So why do you waste your time here?”
“I love animals. They shouldn’t die unloved.”
The little man snorted his disapproval. “Can we get down to business, please?”
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“I think you know what’s on my mind. My fee. It’s disgraceful. By my estimate you have earned over fourteen billion dollars as a direct result of confidential information I have provided. I cannot continue with this arrangement at this level of compensation.”
Lassiter nodded, sober-faced, as if he were taking it all in, but inside he was outraged. He had paid Banerjee over $140 million. Not chump change by any means. How the hell much did he need? What would it take to make him happy? Lassiter knew Banerjee’s kind. When it came to money, there was never enough.
“I propose a new arrangement. An equal partnership. I feel my contribution is that valuable.”
Lassiter kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t noisy enough in the crematorium to foil a good recording device.
“There’s nothing to think about, Gene. What’s fair is fair. And I know about a few of your other insider deals. I could go to the SEC. I don’t think that’s something you want.”
Lassiter felt the heat of the oven buffeting his face. He deliberately kept his eye off the 24-inch pole syringe he’d left on the floor under the one of the plastic bags waiting
to be incinerated.
“Please don’t force my hand, Gene. I’ve thought this through. I’m not bluffing. I will turn you in if you refuse to be reasonable.”
Reasonable. That had to be a joke. Banerjee had no idea what reasonable was. The man would never understand why Lassiter did what he did. He needed to use insider trading to make better than average profits for his clients. And one client in particular. Michael McCleery. He had to keep Michael and his daughter Cindy as clients because they were his conduit to Trisha.
But Banerjee wasn’t the first tipster to give him trouble. There was that snippy blonde reporter from the Wall Street Bulletin. The little tramp was good at seducing CEOs and wheedling valuable information out of them, then selling her pillow talk to Lassiter. But she got greedy and threatened to turn him in if he didn’t pay her substantially more. Lassiter glanced at the row of garbage cans. He’d brought her to this room, too.
“Are you even listening to me?” the chihuahua barked. “You’re not listening.”
Lassiter wandered toward the garbage bags. “Do you know how animals are put down?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you know the process?”
“Yes, of course, everyone knows that. Two injections. One to anesthetize the animal, the other to cause death.”
“The first shot, the anesthesia, is like sleep. Deep paralyzing sleep. They seem dead, but they’re not. They’re actually very aware of what’s going on. You can see it in their eyes. It’s the cruelest part of the process. That’s when I hold them, even though they can’t feel it. But I think they can sense that I’m there for them, that they’re not alone.”
“You can make soup with them for all I care. Stop avoiding the issue. I want more money for my efforts. I deserve it.”
Lassiter stooped down and picked up the pole syringe. “Do you know what this is?”
Banerjee frowned. “I don’t know and I don’t care.”
Lassiter focused on his crisp white shirt. His pulse was slow, his breathing shallow. A coiled viper on a rock in the sun.
Bleeders Page 12
