He was, of course, speculating. But you had to start somewhere. They were pulling in all known sex offenders in the area, but the interviews had turned up no one of interest. He slid another crime photo of the victim out of the folder, looked at it for a long time.
Why would the killer put himself at risk, he wondered, by dragging Lorraine Winters' body into an alley in the early morning hours? Someone could easily have spotted him. City workers, someone working the night shift, jogging in the park. It was obvious that he drove her there because he needed a ride back from wherever he'd killed her. But why take her with him? Or at least leave her in the car? The trunk would have been the obvious place.
He'd run it by his partner.
"Symbolic maybe?" Aiken said. "Telling the world she's an Alley cat. A whore."
"You're assuming he's that clever."
Lorraine Winters, the latest victim had been at Delveccio's with a girlfriend from work earlier that night. A kind of celebration of Winters' good news.
"She got a call from an agent and she was getting ready to head for L.A. for a screen test," Deborah Miller, the honey-blond said, trying to hold back the tears. Despite the swollen eyes and red nose, she was an attractive young woman, a girl-next-door type. "She was planning to move there," she told him.
He asked her if anyone had offered to buy them a drink, but no one had. They spoke to none of the male patrons, only to each other. "She was so excited about the screen test. We both were. That's all we talked about. Lorraine was gorgeous, but she also had major talent. She could sing and dance as well as act, a triple threat. She played the lead in all our school plays and musicals. Being an actress was her dream, and she was hungry to make it a reality. She was always sending out photos and resumes. I knew it was just a matter of time."
They were sitting in his office. She began to cry again, and O'Neal slid the box of tissues sitting on the desk, toward her. He waited until she got herself together, then he asked her if she recalled anyone in the bar that night who looked at all suspicious. "I need you to think carefully. Someone sitting alone, maybe."
"No. No one. At least I didn't notice."
"Anyone hanging around the parking lot when you left?"
"Not that I saw. We hugged good-bye and I wished her luck." She looked about to crumble again, but didn't. Staring off into space, she said, "I can't believe she's gone."
He asked about boyfriends, anyone she might be leaving behind on her rise to stardom. Someone who might have felt resentful at being cast aside. But there was no one, she said, her friend was totally devoted to her career. Casual dates now and again but that was it. No one special.
That didn't mean it worked both ways, though, did it? he thought now, closing the folder. Maybe one of those 'casual' dates took things seriously. Felt spurned when he found out she was leaving town. Leaving him. But hate her enough to kill her? Well, someone did, that was damn sure.
"Please find whoever did this to my friend, Detective," Deborah Miller had said before she left the office. "And put him where he can never hurt anyone else."
He promised he would.
The department had released the victim's body to her family for burial. The autopsy was completed, all pertinent information recorded. She died of strangulation.
Fifteen
It seemed the whole town of St. Simeon turned out at Eternity Gardens for Lorraine Winters' funeral. She was their rising star, filled with promise, her life cut down before she could make good on that promise. To her family of course, their loss was beyond measure.
The victim's two younger sisters stood on either side of their mother, supporting her so that her legs wouldn't crumble beneath her. The sound of her pain was hard for Tom to hear. Her husband stood behind her, a slender man with glasses, strain evident on his lined, ashen face, a hand on his wife's shoulder. Detective O'Neal saw through the girls and their mother, how Lorraine Winters would have looked in life. And wanted more than anything to keep his promise to them, and to Deborah Miller, Winters' friend since childhood. To all of them. To catch this monster before he killed again.
There'd been a light, cold rain overnight and the smell of wet grass and earth mingled with the sweet flower fragrance. The skies were gray, low. But it wasn't supposed to rain again, at least not for the next few days.
He scanned the faces in the crowd, trying to hone in on the one mourner who wasn't a mourner at all, but a spectator, one who had come to revel in the fallout of his handiwork. He wouldn't be the first killer to show up at the gravesite of his victim. It apparently gave them an extra rush to see the devastation they'd caused. A sick power trip. But no one caught Tom's attention.
And then his eye fell upon Deborah Miller, standing with a young man who had his arm around her. She was weeping softly. They stood just behind Mrs. Winters who was silent now, pale and gray as her husband, as her daughters, each in their turn, went forward and placed a rose upon the casket.
He looked away, could see his partner up on the hill near a giant oak, discreetly photographing the solemn gathering from every angle. They would go through the photos later, on their own. Then they would show them to the family, hoping one would stand out from the rest. Good luck. He knew damn well it wasn't going to be that easy. This wasn't a movie, to be wrapped up neatly and tied with a bow at the end of two hours. But he could always hope. A break wasn't impossible.
When next he glanced in Glen's direction, the camera was hanging idly about his neck, as he took notes, like the director of a play. Fitting in a perverse way. Anything significant? Glen was sharp. Had he spotted something out of place? Someone? Was the perp here? Enjoying the proceedings? Tom focused in more tightly on the male mourners. Men alone. Not that that would prove anything.
Maybe that guy in the brown leather jacket? Yeah, something familiar about him. Tom felt a rush go through him. Tall. Dark blond hair, longish.
The minister finished his prayer and closed the book, kissed it… a ritual. Maybe more. A light gust of wind blew a thatch of gray hair across his scalp and he finger-combed it down, nodded to two men in dark suits standing at the gravesite.
Seconds later, a shovel of dirt hit the coffin with an ominous rattle, causing something to break inside Mrs. Winters', her anguished sobs carried to him, lay heavy on his own chest. He heard himself sigh. At last, the funeral was over and people were wandering back to their cars in small groups, or by fours and twos.
Keeping the guy in the brown leather jacket in his sights, he followed him to a dark maroon sedan, memorized the license plate number. He reminded him a little of William Hurt, in the early years. Intense type. And then, as the guy eased his car out behind the train of cars, he remembered where he'd seen him. He was one of the tenants they'd interviewed at the rooming house on Peel, where only weeks ago Lorraine Winters had lived.
Sixteen
Harold had taken to bringing Caroline day old cakes and what she didn't eat, she secretly shared with the squirrels in the park, her favorite place to sit and read. Goldman's bookstore was a good place too. Mr. Goldman, with his neat gray beard and kindly smile, encouraged his customers to sit and read by providing chintz-covered chairs, three of them, at the far end of the store.
"Welcome, welcome," he greeted her that first day she entered his establishment. "Lots of books here, take your time. You look like a young lady with a real appreciation for books. Amazing, isn't it? The words of generations of writers long gone preserved for our enlightenment and enjoyment. When we read their books, they are alive again, through us. If you need help, you tell me."
Mr. Goldman liked to talk about his books and about those who wrote them, and Caroline liked listening to him. The sight and smell of so many books, both old and new, was almost overwhelming, and Caroline felt like the proverbial kid in the candy store.
She ran her fingers down the spines of many of the books and breathed in their new book smells. She liked the old books too, trapping the years between their yellowing, musty pages, many of which were dog-eared. Goldman's bookstore reminded her of St. Simeon Library which she frequented as a girl. She would sit at the big, round table near the window with the sun streaming in, and read, often books her father would not have approved of had he known. She would use the excuse of having to research a paper for school, and it had served her well. Her pleasure in the books, though, was always stained with guilt. But despite that, the library was her haven, a place where she could live vicariously through characters in a book, and travel to far-off lands on a magic carpet of words.
After some deliberation, she chose a hardcover copy of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, and at Mr. Goldman's urging, sat in a chair at the back and read the first few chapters. Then, clutching the book to her, she took it home to finish it, to feel that it was really hers. She had read To Kill a Mockingbird in school, she remembered, and the class had had to write a report. She had loved the book. Now she had her very own copy.
Seventeen
Nurse Addison was right; it was lovely to sit in the park and read. But it was getting colder now, especially in the early mornings. The walk to work sent her through the restaurant door shivering, fingers tingling with cold. Which was why on this Friday night after work, she'd decided to spend some of her savings on a winter coat, hat and gloves. And with only a little prodding from the landlady. "You look half-frozen, Caroline," she'd said. "You need to get yourself some warmer clothes—something other than that blue jacket."
There actually was a coat in the window that had caught Caroline's fancy. A double-breasted navy pea coat.
Natalie's Boutique was only a short distance from Frank's, and as she opened the door the little bell above her head made its sweet sound, silvery and tinkling.
The saleslady, Natalie Breen, with her carefully made-up face and pale smooth hair swept up high on her head, recognized her at once. Caroline had learned she was the owner. Today she was wearing a bronze, tailored suit and silky ruffled blouse underneath. She beamed a smile at Caroline, making her feel welcome, as the little bell had.
Caroline ended up purchasing the navy peacoat she had admired in, along with white knitted scarf and gloves and a knit tam with navy trim and tassel. She also bought low-heeled, comfortable shoes. Though the shop wasn't large, Mrs. Breen carried a little of everything in stock.
As she left wearing her purchases, her own jacket and shoes shoved in a bag, the little bell above her head made its sweet sound. A happy sound that belied the dark twist of fate her patronage of the little shop would set in motion.
***
Caroline knocked on the landlady's door. It was rent day and she had the cheque in her hand.
Mrs. Bannister opened the door, gave her a surprised look and stepped back. "My, my, you look just like that Mary Tyler Moore on the television. You oughta go out on the sidewalk there and throw your new hat in the air. On the other hand, I don't see you as a girl who would do that," she chuckled, as if the very idea were preposterous. "Might do you some good if you did, dear. You're much too serious. Anyway, you look lovely. And a hell of a lot warmer."
"Yes, I am warm. Thank you."
Mrs. Bannister laughed and Caroline only sensed why; it had something to do with how she expressed herself. Seeing what must have been confusion on Caroline's face, Greta Bannister quickly apologized for laughing. "It's just that dead pan look you sometimes get, Caroline. You're such an innocent. Come have tea, even if you don't need warming up. I could use someone to talk to. Harold's working late."
One of the cats had had kittens, little gray balls of fluff with blue eyes and pink noses, and Greta took her into the den to show them off. Picking up the tiniest one, she handed it Caroline. It felt like a tiny cloud cupped in her hands, and she held it to her cheek. Greta told her she could have one if she liked. "Just as soon as they're-weaned from their momma."
Caroline, stroking the kitten, was momentarily ecstatic at the offer. The joy dissolved almost at once. "No, no thank you." She handed it back, practically pushing it at Greta.
The landlady shrugged and gently placed the kitten back in the box with the other three. "Well, there's no rush. Maybe you'll change your mind."
They had tea while she wrote her out a receipt, and soon Caroline went up to her room.
***
Caroline stood before the mirror above the dresser in her room and stared at herself, in her new outfit, backing up to see as much of herself as she could.
She looked nothing like Mary Tyler Moore, the perky actress whose show she rarely missed if she could help it. Even at the hospital, no one ever jumped up to change channels when Mary was on, like they did during other shows.