“Do you think Helen wore a size six?” he asked as soon as he saw me. “Because I think maybe she was a size six.”
“No,” I replied. “She was too busty.”
He looked at me, puzzled. I made an explanatory gesture. He blushed, then averted his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Did you know that I was asking about her shoe size?” he muttered, staring at the ground. “I was asking about her shoe size.”
“Oh, geez, sorry.” Pretty adorable really, watching him flush up like a radish over nothing. “Size six, huh?” I remembered the shoes I’d seen in the girl’s closet. “That sounds about right.”
“I think she was a size six,” Darcy repeated, still flapping his hands nervously. “At first I thought maybe her mother was a size six. But I saw her feet when she came to the door and they were like boats.”
I giggled. I thought I was allowed, since my feet were also of the boatish variety. “Why were you wondering about Helen’s shoe size?”
He pulled me into the garden, behind a row of hedges, then crouched down and pointed. Behind the hedge, close to the house itself, there was a faint but discernible impression in the soil. A footprint. The tread looked like some kind of spiked-heel number.
I looked up. We were directly beneath Helen’s bedroom window. There was a drainpipe attached to the wooden siding that could provide some support. Not that much was really required. Her window wasn’t that high off the ground.
Thanks to Darcy, I had a pretty good idea how Helen could walk on the wild side on nights other than Friday. Even if her mother did make sure she was in bed at ten and locked the doors.
“You’ve got a good eye, Darcy. That looks like it could be a size six. Maybe seven.”
“Six.”
“Well, to be sure, we should-”
“It’s six and five-twelfths inches long. That’s a size six.”
I’d been around this wunderkind long enough to know not to argue. “Let’s get some plaster out of my car and make a cast.”
“And after that?”
I grinned. Something about this guy brightened my spirits, just being around him. “I think you’ve earned a custard. Don’t you?”
He grinned excitedly. “Very Excellent Day! Very Excellent Day! Are you going to try the Strawberry Mash?”
“Maybe. What about you? Vanilla Toffee again?”
“I usually have Vanilla Toffee on Wednesdays and Strawberry Mash on Thursdays, unless there’s a new flavor, and then I substitute the new flavor for whichever flavor on my list has the most letters in its name. If there’s a tie, I cross out whichever one comes last in the alphabet, unless the Thursday falls on the last day of the month, ’cause then I reverse the alphabetical order and…”
He was so close. She was the third and final offering, and once he was done with her his work would be complete. He had crossed the Rubicon. The Golden Age would soon be upon them.
“You hurt me,” he said as soon as Lenore opened her eyes.
It was a long while before she could reply. Her eyelids fluttered as she slowly shook off the soporific. She parted her lips, then worked them slowly, soundlessly, as if taking them for a test drive. She tried moving other parts of her body and soon found that she could not.
He watched it all, reading her emotions as they raced through her head. Her first instinct was panic, but she stifled it. Even in this dazed state, she was smart enough to realize a cool head would be required if she was going to save herself. Her next emotion was anger, but that too she managed to sublimate. She thought that he was probably some kind of sexual deviant-how could she know?-and that she was more likely to survive by acting submissive and helpless. And waiting for her opportunity.
It was more than a minute before she actually spoke. “I-I’m sorry. I can see your hand is sore.”
“I don’t mean there,” he said. He placed his injured hand over his heart. “I mean here.”
“I-I-I’m sorry,” she said. She must be tired, lethargic from the drug. But he still sensed that she was playing him, exuding vulnerability until she had enough strength to make a break for it. Poor little offering.
“There was no justification for that sort of behavior,” he said firmly. “You forced me to retaliate in kind. I was not pleased.” He lowered his head. “I abhor violence.”
“I-I guess I just panicked.”
“So you did.”
“Why can’t I move my arms or legs?”
“I’ve given you a little something.”
“Is it… permanent?”
“It will wear off altogether soon, if I don’t give you another dose.”
“I-I’d rather you didn’t.” She was laying it on a bit thick now, he thought, with the stuttering and plangent baby-girl vocalization.
“Then I won’t.”
“Really?”
“I give you my word. No more injections.” He paused. “It won’t be necessary.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you feel that way. Um…” She batted the lashes over those lovely Asian eyes. “Sir? Am I naked?”
“You are. Cap-a-pie. And let me just say-never have I had an easier time removing someone’s clothing.”
“So you’ve… you’ve done this before?”
“Once or twice.” She was testing, exploring. To his surprise he saw that she was already able to move the fingers of her right hand, just a bit. A strong girl, this one was.
“Are you a dentist?”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t have a degree. But I am not without skill.”
“Are-are you going to remove my teeth?”
“No, dear.”
“Are you going to remove… anything?”
He sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid I am. I do regret it. But it’s essential.”
“What… are you going to take?”
“Your head.” He revealed the axe she had discovered in the truck. “I should never have left this lying about. That was inexcusable.”
“Please don’t,” she said. Her voice was tiny, almost invisible.
“I have no choice, my darling.”
“I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”
“That’s most generous of you. But I can’t accept your offer.” He closed his eyes. “ ‘Vainly had I sought to borrow, from my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore.’ ”
“Don’t, sir. Please don’t hurt me.”
“ ‘For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.’ ”
“Please.
Please!
”
He smiled at her. “ ‘Nameless here forevermore.’ ” And then he raised the axe over his head.
12
Got to work without incident, thank God. Took a little more than I should’ve before I brushed my teeth, but it was right there in the open bottle, and I had to be sure I could work without distraction today, without that stifling, panicked feeling, without my temper getting out of control. I mean, it was one thing to be drinking last night. You needed something to get you through all those bizarre Poe stories. But in the morning? I probably shouldn’t have…
Damn them all. I can handle it. I can handle it. It’ll wear off in an hour or so, and I am not going to make a habit of it. It was just this one last time…
I slid behind my desk, bound and determined to avoid the obvious stereotype. Sure, I know the cliché. The FBI comes to town and the local cops get bent out of joint. They’re coarse and resentful. The Feebs are all cool, steely-eyed authority. There’s a lot of chatter about jurisdiction-wait, no-“turf.” That’s the way it’s supposed to happen, in TV shows and movies. And, unfortunately, in real life.
But I wasn’t getting sucked into that trap. I didn’t need any more problems and I certainly didn’t need anyone filing negative reports on me. I had to keep my job and to stay on my best behavior, at least until that custody hearing. So I was prepared to suck it in and be deferential. Why not? We were both trained professionals. Psychology was a fluid science. Two professionals could hold differing opinions and neither necessarily be wrong. There was nothing threatening about it, no harm in having a partner.
Just so I was the one who caught the killer.
Maybe half an hour later, Granger strode superciliously to my desk, avoiding eye contact, white shirt in tow. I braced myself for the inevitable fatuous remark.
“And this is the former Lieutenant Pulaski whom you’ve heard so much about,” he said. “She has been working on a temporary basis as a consulting profiler. Up until now, anyway.”
Subtle, Granger. Very subtle. I stood and held out my hand.
Then my eyebrows rose, of their own accord. I was prepared for the Fed to be cool and authoritative. I was not prepared for him to be hunky.
“Patrick Chaffee, Behavioral Science Unit. Good to meet you, Lieutenant.” His grip was firm but not oppressive. He was a couple of inches taller than me, which is saying something. He had a kind face, a friendly one. He seemed relaxed, at ease. Not like he was planning some macho squeeze play.
“Call me Susan. And just for the record, I’ve been working as a behaviorist for-”
“Oh, I know, I know,” he said, still shaking my hand. “I’m familiar with your work on the Wyndham case. I read your report in the American Academy Journal.”
“You did?” I said, totally nonplussed.
“Absolutely. It made the rounds at Quantico. First-rate work. Thorough and innovative.”
Did I say he looked like a nice guy? Obviously, he was the spawn of Satan. “We got lucky on that one.”
He blew air through his lips. “There’s no such thing.”
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got all the files you’ll want to see. I’ll clear out and let you dig in.”
“I’d rather you walked me through it.”
Yet another surprise. “You would?”
“Absolutely.”
My eyes narrowed. “So… when you say you’re from the FBI, would that be the one in D.C.? In the J. Edgar Hoover Building? Or is this perhaps some kinder, gentler FBI?”
He laughed. “Let me clarify, okay? This is still a Vegas PD case. Two killings, weird as they are, aren’t enough to put it on our threshold. I was just asked to help. Although with you on retainer, I’m not sure why they bothered.” He flashed his smile, the sort of smile that turned George Clooney into a twenty-million-a-flick property. “Think we can work together?”
My chin rose slightly. “Possible.”
Granger looked disgusted. “I’ll leave you two psychos alone,” he said, chuckling quietly at his own nonjoke. Nebbish.
Patrick clapped his hands together. Did I mention that his eyes were blue? Oh, man, his eyes were blue. Vivid, liquid blue. “Shall we get started?”
As it turned out, he wasn’t reading anything until he had a shot of java in him. A man after my own heart. Literally, I hoped. I took him down to the kitchen. Despite his initial generosity to me and my favorable first impression, I thought it was important to set a few ground rules.
“Let’s just get this straight up front,” I said, passing him a Styrofoam cup filled with the brackish stuff that passed for coffee around here. “You may be the big-shot FBI behavioral specialist. That’s okay, I can respect that.”
He took it straight-no cream, no sugar. Brilliant. “I sense a
but
coming.”
“But I know my stuff, too, even if I didn’t train at Quantico. I’ve been working this beat for nine years and I’ve earned my propers.”
“Understood.”
“So let’s skip the usual business of lording it over me because you’re fed and I’m not. I’ve studied John Douglas’s work on sexual killers, all the interviews, all the compare-and-contrast. Hell, I’ve read every word the man wrote.”
“I was trained by John Douglas.”
“And I’m not inexperienced. My work has led to the capture of twenty-seven sexual or habitual offenders.”
“Excellent. I’ve caught forty-two, myself.”
“And I am up-to-date on the new research in my field. I read the Behavioral Science Unit’s annual report from cover to cover. I read last year’s twice.”
He smiled. “I wrote it.”
I leaned back in my chair. “You’re doing this to me on purpose, aren’t you?”
“And loving every minute of it.” The twinkle in his eye was irresistible, even though every instinct in my body told me I should resist.
“They gave you the scoop on me, didn’t they?”
“I’ve seen your resumé, yes.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I watched his eyes carefully.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know.”
“That your father was a cop-till he was murdered? And the case remains unsolved.”
“That was a long time ago. What I’m concerned about…”
“The drinking?”
I nodded.
“I’m okay with that.”
“Not a problem?”
“Long as you’re sober when we’re working, I don’t figure it’s any of my business.”
“You aren’t afraid I’ll relapse and destroy the case or something? Everyone else is treating me like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
He shrugged. “I might have a little more perspective on this than they do. I used to be hooked on heroin.”
“Heroin? You?”
He spread his hands. “See? Least booze is legal.”
“Heroin?”
He nodded. “But I kicked it. You will, too.” He crumpled his empty cup in his fist. “Tell you what. Let’s hold off on the files. Show me the crime scenes. Take me to the house where the first victim lived. We can read papers later. Make it a late night. Maybe an all-nighter.”
“Sounds great.” I headed toward the door.
“So,” he said, stopping me. “You think we can work together?”
What could I say? I gave him my best squinty-eyed, tell-me-no-lies look. “Did you really have a heroin habit?”
He grinned a little as he led the way out. “You’ll never know.”
After two burials, a hanging was almost exhilarating. He had allowed himself to have fun with this one-why not? If the eyes of the world were going to be focused on his work, as it now seemed evident they were, he should make the most of it. He should see that the word was given to those with the perspicacity to understand it. And for the rest-well, at the very least, he could entertain them.