She started to move away from him, but he pulled her back with a hand on her arm. She didn't want to look up at him, but she felt drawn to do so nonetheless. Her gaze locked with his. His expression was no more readable than before. His hand rose to stroke his knuckles across her cheek. “It wasn't like that, Alex, and you know it.”
She inhaled, willing her emotions to settle. It took all her willpower not to show him how much that simple caress affected her. Why did he have to be the only man to ever touch her like that, as if she were something precious deserving of his protection?
Unable to hold his gaze, she looked away. “Go home, Zach. Don't come back.”
“Alex.” He tilted her face up with a finger under her chin.
Reluctantly she looked up at him. His gaze searched hers. She knew what he wanted, but she couldn't give it to him. “Go.”
His expression darkened as if a shadow had fallen over him. What she saw there was not anger, but pain, more pain than she'd intended to inflict. She shut her eyes as he released her, knowing what he'd do. A few moments later she heard her front door slam. A moment after that, his car roared to life and screeched away from the curb.
She opened her eyes and went to the front door to lock it. That accomplished she leaned her back against the surface, exhaling heavily. All she'd wanted was to ensure that he left the past alone, but she'd hurt him badly, certainly more than she'd intended. She'd have to live with that.
She pushed off the door. She'd never get to sleep now. She might as well get back to work.
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Zach sat in one corner of the black leather sofa in his study with the lights out and a tumbler of scotch in his hand. He couldn't remember drinking any of it, but his stomach felt warm and rumbly in a way usually only achieved by the use of alcohol. He couldn't remember driving home from Alex's either, but he must have done so, considering he was here. He never should have gone to see her in the first place.
She'd been right about him; he had harbored an ulterior motive for seeing her, though not the one she suspected. Maybe if he'd been straight with her, she wouldn't have jumped to her own conclusions.
He sipped from the glass now. He might not have gone to Alex's place with any seduction plans in mind, but she was right about him remembering that night. Sense memories washed through him, heating him more than the alcohol did. It was the best and worst night of his life. She was a week shy of her eighteenth birthday. He had just turned twenty-two. He was too old for her, a fact that he remembered during saner times.
He remembered waking the next morning with her by his side, the shame that washed over him, knowing what he'd done. He didn't even have the excuse that he'd been drunk or so grief-filled that he hadn't known what he was doing. The only thing he had going in his favor was that he didn't made the first move.
He'd needed to get out of there, since he had no idea what to say to her when she woke. He'd put on his clothes and pulled whatever bills he had from his pocket and left them for her, not knowing if she had any money she could get her hands on. He'd left her a note, too, saying he'd call, but he didn't. Not at first. What could he say to her? The truth? That it had been a mistake?
It hadn't felt like a mistake. That was the problem. It had felt like the first right thing he'd done in a long time. But he couldn't allow what they shared to continue. He needed some distance to get himself together. By the time he finally returned her calls she wouldn't take his. A few days later she went back to college and that was that.
He'd never imagined she'd viewed the money as some kind of payoff. He should have, though. She'd never allowed him to give her anything without some kind of quid pro quo. He shook his head, remembering their last conversation. She'd tried to brush him off, saying they were even, so not to worry about her. He hadn't understood what she meant until now.
She'd told him that she didn't hate him, and he hadn't believed her. He saw now that she hadn't lied, but his thoughtlessness hurt her badly. To his mind, that was worse; it meant that after all this time the wound was still raw. Damn.
Not knowing what he was going to do about that, he downed the rest of the liquid in his glass and deposited it on the table in front of him. Maybe it was too late to do anything, but his prospects had to seem better after a night of sleep, not that he really expected one awaited him.
He climbed the stairs, pausing briefly at Stevie's door. Thankfully, she'd already been in her room when he got home. He hadn't done right by her either. He'd allowed her to stay in his home, in part because she needed to and in part because he wanted to find out what was going on with her. But for the most part, he'd ended up ignoring her in favor of Alex and the case he was working.
At least she hadn't used his home for a trysting spot as he'd first suspected she would. Good thing. He'd probably kill some boy who'd done with Steve half the things he'd done with Alex so many years ago. So what did that make him? Not only a cad but a hypocrite.
He sighed. He'd make it up to her this weekend when he had some time off. If he had some time off. He'd make time. He only wished he could solve his problems with Alex as easily.
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Officer Joe Morgan approached the black Ford Escort station wagon reported stolen two days ago with a sense of trepidation. It wasn't that the gruesome scene he expected to find would unsettle him, but because of what it would mean: He wouldn't be getting to his girlfriend Rhonda's house any time soon.
Damn. This spot hadn't been worth a damn since the former mayor Giuliani had decided the new sheriff needed to clean up the town. He'd turned Times Square into a haven even Disney could love, and even here in the hinterlands of the Bronx hadn't been immune. Morgan supposed that was for the best, but he missed the days when he could roll by for a quick hand job as quid pro quo for leaving the ladies to their business. Now only the occasional down-on-her-luck hoochie ventured over to ply her trade in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler pulled off the highway or with a patron of two motels on the strip.
Back in the day there had only been weeds and woods out here to tell the tale, but in the last couple of years a string of new houses and almost houses had replaced the wilderness. The Escort was parked next to a set of doorless, windowless houses. The large and low-slung full moon lent the structures a mournful look, like wailing, openmouthed faces.
A shiver went up Morgan's spine and he shook himself to dilute its effects. He'd been doing this job for ten long years, seen more shit before nine o'clock than most people did all day. But from the minute they'd received the job to check out an abandoned car matching the day's hot sheet, he knew what they'd find.
He lifted his flashlight and almost laughed, since the first thing he noticed was a baby's car seat on the backseat. Real terrifying stuff. He took another step forward, adjusting the flashlight to survey the front seat. The light shone on a girl's face, bruised, cut, her hair wild and matted. He tilted the beam lower down on the woman's nude body and swallowed. Just like all the others.
He focused the beam of his flashlight on the face again. Even with the bruising, he could tell she was young, maybe fifteen, with long black hair. For some reason he thought of his kid sister, a sophomore in nearby Cardinal Spellman High School. If anyone had done to her what some bastard had done to this girl ... Even in his own mind he couldn't complete the thought. Unconsciously he crossed himself.
“You got anything?”
Morgan gritted his teeth. Why his chickenshit partner, Jenkins, had to rouse himself out of the car just in time to startle the crap out of him he didn't know. Annoyed, he said, “Call it in. It looks like we've got another one.”
Jenkins trotted back toward the car without looking in the window.
“Putz,” Morgan muttered as he rounded the front of the car to the passenger's side. He doubted any woman could survive what this bastard had done to this one. Besides, whoever had attacked her seemed to like his women dead when he was through with them. But he opened the unlocked door and felt for a pulse at the base of her throat.
He straightened away from the car, calling Jenkins.
“What's up?” Jenkins called back.
“Better tell them to send a bus,” Morgan said. “This one's still alive.”
Eleven
Zack parked his car where the uniformed officer stationed at the outer perimeter of the crime scene was directing and got out. A series of news vans had already set up camp a little bit behind him. Several other uniforms kept them from charging the scene. Good. After finally falling asleep somewhere around three in the morning, he'd been awakened less than a half hour later and told to come here. Despite what happened in her apartment earlier, he'd called Alex to see if she wanted to get a look at the scene, knowing she'd have a hard time getting in without a police escort. Either she'd slept through his call or she wasn't there. It was the latter possibility that soured his mood, though where she went and what she did, now more than ever, was really no concern of his.
He ducked under the yellow barrier tape that was tied to a chain-link fence, stretching to a street sign at the curb, then stretching lengthwise seemingly to infinity. His goal was the inner perimeter, the small delineated section of the street where a black station wagon, nearly identical to the one Ingrid Beltran had been found in, sat. The stretch of sidewalk between the two perimeters was lousy with uniforms, techsâall the usual suspects at a crime scene, plus a few brass, probably looking for an opportunity to press flesh with the media or whoever else might be around to gladhand.
McKay was standing on the inside of the inner perimeter, his back to Zach. Zach hadn't spoken much to the other man since their morning meeting a couple of days ago. Smitty had been happy to fill the higher-ups in on the turn their end of the investigation had taken, and Zach had been happy to let him do so. The less he said to McKay, the better, considering Zach disliked this guy for so many reasons that had nothing to do with his treatment of Alex.
To Zach's mind, McKay was hiding somethingâchiefly his reason for having such a hard-on for Thorpe. Every cop had the ability to develop tunnel vision when he thought he had the right suspect in his sights. But with McKay it seemed to be something different. From the beginning he'd focused on nothing else, not even something as rudimentary as discovering if any of the victims were linked. While Zach didn't quite buy that Thorpe wasn't involved, he was willing to keep his options open. Unfortunately, he wasn't the one running the case.
McKay turned around as Zach approached. McKay's usual dour expression deepened. “Where's your friend?”
He didn't doubt McKay referred to Alex, but he seemed to be implying Zach would have Alex with him since they were together to start with. Either he was fishing for information or he was looking for a punch in the mouth. Zach wouldn't dignify his question by giving him either. “What have we got?”
McKay shrugged, perhaps signaling he'd given up on that line of thought. “A break for a change. This one's alive, though just barely.”
As they spoke, McKay led the way around to the passenger side of the car. “And for a change,” McKay continued, “given the amount of blood the car seems to have been the crime scene as well.”
A series of lights had been set up around the vehicle illuminating the interior of the car enough for blood to be visible on the passenger seats, the floor mats, even the dashboard. Now, that surprised him. Why would Thorpe or whoever resort to using a stolen vehicle to commit this type of crime unless his usual spot had become unavailable to him? Or maybe he was becoming more desperate or disturbed? A killing now was certainly off his usual pattern. With these types it usually took something to set them off, both initially and later on.
In the beginning, a personal blow like a wife of girlfriend leaving, the loss of a job, or some other wrong might start a killer on his path. But no kill was ever as perfect or thrilling as imagined. The high of stalking and finding a victim often led to depression after the kill was made. That only started the cycle all over again.
This killer, whoever he was, had gone off his pattern, both in the location of the killing and the duration between them. But the killer finally had the media's attention, something he hadn't aroused before. And there was another difference, too. This victim had been left alive. Had that been intentional or had the killer slipped up? With any luck she'd survive long enough to give them some of the answers they sought.
“What hospital was she taken to?”
“Jacobi. Trauma center.”
That's where Zach would head when he left here.
“Detective Stone?” he heard someone shout.
Zach turned in the direction of the voice. “Yes.”
“There's a woman here who says she needs to see you. Alex Waters.”
So she finally roused herself from wherever she was and decided to show up. “Let her through.”
He followed the officer's departure until he reached where Alex stood waiting. The officer held the tape for her to duck under, then pointed in his direction. She walked toward him with confident, unhurried strides, but even when she reached him she didn't look directly at him.
“I got your call,” she said by way of a greeting. “What have you got?”
“Same as before, it looks like. The victim had already been transported to the hospital before I got here, but from the information we have, she was done the same wayâblows to the face, strangulation, and her right breast removed. But this time the vehicle appears to be the primary crime scene.”
As he spoke, they walked around to the passenger side of the car. Alex nodded, pulling a pair of surgical gloves from her pocket and putting them on. “Can I borrow your flashlight?” she asked.
He'd forgotten he still carried it until that moment. He offered it to her. She took it from him and turned it on, shining the beam on the passenger's seat, starting at the headrest and moving downward.
He wondered what she was thinking as she shifted the beam to examine other parts of the interior. For one thing, she didn't seem the least disturbed by the amount of blood saturating the upholstery. He'd done some checking of his own and discovered she wasn't a psychiatrist, an MD, but she held a PhD in forensic psychology from Adelphi University. Her consultation work on several grisly crimes explained the lack of squeamishness, he supposed. If anything, she seemed intent and curious.
A moment later she took a step back and looked up at him. “Something isn't right here.”
Something about this scene bothered him, too, but he'd rather she give her take on what she saw before offering his. “What do you mean?”
“For one thing, the mirrors are intact. The rearview is smashed, but that could have happened during a struggle. Was that detail ever reported in the papers?”
Honestly, he didn't know. The smashed mirrors were what lead McKay to single out Thorpe in the first placeâthe similarity in crime scenes. But now he knew where she was going with this. “What else?”
“The headrest.”
She shone the flashlight on it. The rest was made of some porous material that had once been tan but was now soaked through with blood. “What about it?”
“I'm just wondering how badly the girl was beaten. That's an awful lot of blood and if it came from a face wound it would probably flow down the body, not back toward the headrest, unless maybe the seat was back. Otherwise I would think that would be more consistent with a wound to the back of the head.”
He could see her point. “So maybe this one didn't come as willingly as the others.”
“Even so. A few of the girls had burn marks on their arms consistent with having a stun gun used on them. If that's true, why would he need to resort to whacking one of his victims on the head?”
That was another question for which he had no answer. “You don't think the same guy who killed the other girls did this?”
“Either that or something drastic has happened in this situation, something to push him further over the edge. Aside from being off his schedule, this scene is a mess. Sloppy. If nothing else, this killer has been meticulous so far. Your guys didn't find so much as a fiber to link back to him. I'm sure crime scene will have a field day with this.”
With any luck, Thorpe had gotten sloppy and there would be some evidence here that would lead them to wherever he was hiding out. At worst, they had a copycat on their hands, one who might be as dangerous as Thorpe himself.
“After you left, I did a little reading. I finished the printout on the Amazons.”
That was the first mention she'd made of how they'd left things. “What did you find out?”
“I was wondering what happened to them,” she continued. “Apparently their decline started when Heracles I killed Hippolyte, the queen of the Amazons. One of his labors was to retrieve her belt that had been a gift from Ares, the god of War. When she wouldn't give it up, he ran her through with a sword and took it. Things went downhill for the Amazons from there.”
Zach thought about it for a minute, wondering how that information might fit in with what they knew. “Wouldn't it make more sense for him to have stabbed the women, then, if he imagines himself to be this Heracles?”
“Maybe. What were they strangled with?”
“Inconclusive, so far. Probably some sort of leather strap.”
“Or a belt?”
Zach shrugged. “Maybe.”
“There's something else. Heracles took the belt as one of the twelve labors that, if completed, would make him one of the gods, an immortal. How do humans become immortal these days?”
“He wants his fifteen minutes of fame.”
“More than that, I'm sure. How do you think he'll feel if this isn't his handiwork?”
Zach didn't want to contemplate that prospect too much. They already had a dangerous crazy on their hands. What that madman might do if shown up by someone of lesser talent he couldn't begin to guess. With any luck, the girl, if she awoke, might be able to give some information that would help them one way or the other.
“Where did they take the girl?” she asked.
At least their thoughts on the case seemed to be flowing the same way. “Jacobi. I'm heading there in a few minutes.”
“I'd like to go with you, if you don't mind.”
He didn't. What he did mind was that she still hadn't really looked at him. He didn't really blame her for that, but it bothered him nonetheless. “Give me a minute, and then we'll go.”
He walked over to where McKay and the captain stood to relay what he and Alex had discussed. It didn't surprise him to find that McKay was unconvinced that anyone besides Thorpe could have done this. The captain seemed a bit more open-minded.
“You'll be at the hospital when she wakes up?” the captain asked.
He noticed the captain said “when,” not “if.” Zach wasn't holding out that much hope, not after seeing the amount of blood in the car. If Alex was right about the head wound, that would be another thing to contend with. “I'm going there now.”
“Is she going with you?” That came from McKay, who gestured toward Alex with his chin.
Zach couldn't tell if the captain had missed the venom in McKay's voice, but Zach hadn't. He plastered a fake smile to his face and said, “Yeah, I might need someone who knows what they're doing once I get there.” Without another word he walked back to where Alex waited for him.
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The only indication that he noticed the two of them walking away was the slight smile he allowed to stretch across his face. Otherwise, he stood at the post he'd been assigned, his body rigid, simulating vigilance. Half the cops in the Bronx had turned up, some in uniform and some without, at the prospect of another hit by the Amazon Killer. Half the neighborhood had turned out, too. He'd been snagged for crowd control.
He smiled remembering how he'd acquired the uniform. He hadn't intended to kill its owner. That was The Mirror's fault. He'd strangled him from behind, not wanting to soil the uniform, which he'd thought might come in handy one day. He'd been right again. No one had questioned the authenticity of the badge he had pinned to his chest or his right to be there.
Even she'd walked right by him without noticing. Even now he imagined he still smelled her perfumeâthe delicate musk of arousal mixed with a good dose of fear. The arousal wasn't his doing, not yet. That belonged to the other, but the fear was his. He inhaled, imagining her scent flowing into his nostrils, invading his lungs, circulating through his body until there wasn't a pore, or vein or capillary, that wasn't taken over by her. His body hardened as he thought about it.
Maybe he should pay her a visit. He let the pleasure of that prospect wash through him for a moment before he tamped it down. There would be time for that, but later. She would come to him and then he'd know the time was right.
The crowd shifted, reminded him of his supposed duty. A police tow truck had arrived to transport the vehicle to the police lab where it would be photographed again and every fiber, blood spatter, and hair would be analyzed. He wondered how long it would take them to figure it out or if she had already. He hadn't seen it in her face or caught the whiff of it in whispered conversations, but soon he'd know. They'd lead him to the answer and then he'd strike.