Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Usually, the keys were easy to locate in the dark because of their bulk, but tonight she was having trouble. She frowned, peering into the recesses of the black leather bag, sweeping her fingers along the bottom. They were not there.
She glanced nervously over her shoulder. Not a soul was in sight. Apart from the sound of the rain bouncing off the sidewalk, there was silence. She checked the neighboring houses, but no lights were on. She hesitated, uncertain what to do, wondering where she could have lost the keys. The wind rattled the branches of the big old maple down the block, startling her. Fear pricked her spine. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, and, remembering the recent murder, her skin crawled. You never knew who was out there, watching, waiting.
Her fingers trembled as she unlocked the car door and climbed quickly back inside. She pressed the central lock and began to breathe again. She wished she had listened to her father when he had said she should get a cell phone in case of emergency. She switched on the engine, backed out of the parking stand, and spun out into the slick wet
street. Driving too fast, she shot down the road, past the parked cars and away.
He watched her go, smiling. Then he put down his binoculars and slipped on his raincoat. Of course he could have taken her then. She was there for the picking, ripe as a plum in summer. Except that wasn’t his way. He needed to know more about her first in order to enjoy her properly.
That was what the public never understood about him, he thought as he walked quickly through the rain and turned in at her gate. It wasn’t just the final act that was the pleasure. It was the buildup to it, the careful preparations, his cleverness at gaining access to the girl’s home, his peek into her life, into her personal things, into her cheap feminine soul.
He smiled with pleasure as he put her key into the lock and walked into her house. He stood in the dark, listening. There was no sound. He took a mini-flashlight from his pocket and shone it cautiously around. A cat’s eyes beamed redly back at him for a second. Then there was a faint scuttling sound, and it was gone.
He unbuttoned his raincoat and put on the thin rubber gloves, perfectly at ease. He would take his time, do a thorough job. Tomorrow, first thing, he would have a copy made of the keys. Then he would go back to the hospital and drop them in the parking lot in the spot where she had parked tonight. Someone would find them and hand them in. She would think she had dropped them carelessly. And he would be free to come and go in her house as he pleased. Until he decided her time was up, of course.
T
HAT SAME MORNING
, after Harry had left for Boston—and left her the photo-fit—Mallory had gone to the gym and burned off as much of her anger as she could, fighting for those wholesome, calming endorphins that were supposed to flood your body and your head with a sense of well-being—if you worked hard enough at it. It didn’t work. When she set out to walk to the office, she was still fizzing with rage and disappointment.
The aroma of roasting coffee slowed her footsteps. She hesitated. Then with a what-the-hell shrug of her shoulders, she stepped into the steamy little deli and ordered lox and cream cheese on a toasted sesame bagel and a large coffee. Then she waited, drumming her fingers impatiently on the counter, thinking how stupid she had been to trust Harry with her most personal memories, her deepest fears.
When the bagel came, she devoured it without a scrap of guilt, then continued on her way, blaming Harry for her indulgence with every step.
Her mood fluctuated between anger and sadness all day. Of the two, she preferred the anger. At least it was positive, though it was hard on her staff, who took the brunt of it.
“It’s not you,” she kept apologizing. “It’s just one of those days.”
“Morning after the night before,” Beth said, wagging a
knowing finger at her. Mal was wearing a dark-green sweater and skirt and black high-heeled boots. She looked good; if you discounted the shadows under her eyes and the tense body language. “So what time did he go home?”
“Who?” Mal asked too innocently, and Beth laughed.
“That may be your worst performance yet. But okay, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. I can wait.” She shuffled the papers on her desk into a tidy pile. “But this can’t, sweetheart. We’ve got some work to do, and I have to ask you to get your mind off whatever happened—or didn’t happen—last night, and switch over to Tuesday’s taping. You ready now?”
Mal nodded, but she said enviously, “You’re so lucky with Rob. You’re so well suited, so nice to each other.”
“Hah! You haven’t seen us going at each other. Like over who promised to pick up supper on the way home, when neither of us has done it, and we’re both tired after a long day, and there’s nothing in the house to eat, and I’m too exhausted to drag myself out and order something in a mediocre restaurant and then wait until it comes and finally not enjoy it when it does.
That’s
when a marriage can go on the rocks. Believe me.”
Despite herself, Mal laughed. “I think I’m glad I haven’t seen you.”
“You should be. It’s not a pretty sight.” Beth looked at her curiously, then patted her hand. “Sure you don’t want to tell me about it?”
Mal shook her head.
“I know Harry was still there when we left,” Beth persisted. “And Rob and I were almost the last to go.”
“He stayed over,” Mal admitted.
“Wow.” Beth’s eyes widened. “Was it that bad?”
“Of course not. Nothing happened. I just didn’t want to be alone. And no, it wasn’t bad. He brought me violets.”
“I saw them. Enough to stock a shop.”
“He’s not a man who thinks small.”
“That’s good. So what was the bad part?”
Mal shrugged. “He’s not interested in
me
, Beth. He’s interested in what I can do for him. So when he calls today, would you please tell him that I’m out, or I’m too busy to come to the phone, or some excuse like that?”
“Oh, come on, Mal, give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, any man who buys you a whole basket of violets can’t be all bad.”
“How about if he leaves the picture of the serial killer next to the violets—for me to find after he’s gone?”
“He did that? Poor devil.” Beth shook her head sympathetically. “He’s really on the outs. But what a waste of a lovely man.”
Mal glared at her. “Oh, for God’s sake, he teaches you to salsa, and you’re a pushover, just like Lara and the others.”
Beth stood up and gathered her papers. “For a woman who never wants to see the guy again, it seems to me you’re shouting about it too much. And isn’t that a touch of green I see in your eyes?” She slammed the door behind her as she left.
Nerves snapping, Mal got through her day. At six she put on her lipstick and her jacket and walked through to the outer office. Beth had not mentioned Harry again.
Mal stopped at her desk. “Any messages before I go?” she said too casually.
“He didn’t call, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s good,” she said, not meaning it.
“He’s still getting to you, isn’t he?” Beth said shrewdly. “Maybe you’d better take his call, after all.”
“What
call? I can’t even trust him to do that!”
Beth stared curiously at her. “Seems to me it’s yourself you can’t trust. What’s the matter, Mal? Seriously, what’s up?”
Mal swung her little black purse nervously by the strap. “It was so—so good last night, you know, friendly, nice. And then after he’s gone, I find the photo-fit. He didn’t mention he was bringing it, he didn’t say he was coming over to discuss it again. He just left it there for me to find. Afterward.”
“So what’s wrong with discussing the photo-fit, anyway? I mean, this was a terrible murder, and if it turns out that there is a serial killer on the loose, maybe you
should
try to help him.”
“But the photo-fit is no good.”
Beth frowned, puzzled. “Tell me, Mal,” she said, “how do you know the photo-fit is no good?”
“I—oh, I don’t
know
.” Mal subsided into a chair. She put her elbows on the desk, hiding her head in her arms. “I don’t know if the photo-fit is accurate, of course I don’t,” she repeated. “It—well, there was something about it that upset me. The expression in his eyes. It was too creepy, sinister.” She shuddered. “I don’t know if I’m ready to take on a serial killer, Beth.”
“I can understand that. But why on earth don’t you just tell Harry? I’m sure he’ll understand too.”
Mal doubted it. “Harry Jordan is a cop first and a man second. I believe the only thing on his mind is catching the killer.”
Mal thought Harry would call her that evening, so she made a point of being out. She had a date with some friends—a newscaster, his wife, and their new baby.
She brought flowers and a huge cuddly toy tiger and hovered over the baby. He was adorable, with a tuft of black hair and shoe-button dark eyes, and he lay quietly in his bassinet by the table while they ate. They quaffed a good bottle of wine, talking of their hard times on the climb up the TV ladder to fame and fortune.
“Sometimes, though,” Josh said thoughtfully, “I think that those early years were the fun times.”
“Only in retrospect,” Jane reminded him. “Sure we had fun, but isn’t it better when you’ve finally made it? I mean, you should know, Mal. You’re the big success.”
“It was no fun on the way up,” Mal said vehemently. “In fact, it was hell.” Then she laughed, embarrassed. “You know how it is when you’re a woman—discrimination, harassment.”
“I’m just glad I have all this instead,” Jane said, yawning from lack of sleep and the demands of her new way of life. “Everything’s a learning process, but I can tell you, Mal, this one is best of all.”
Later, when she left, Mal took the memory of the evening with her. It was a soundbite of reality in her unreal world. A woman as a mother, a baby to care for, the animal warmth of the relationship between the couple. Their apartment, once done up in cool minimalist chic, had evolved into a proper home, as solid as any in suburbia. Compared with theirs, her own busy life seemed empty. She envied them their happiness and their child.
Back home again she checked her messages. There was E-Mall—all business—but no friendly red blink on the answering machine. Harry hadn’t even called.
The photo-fit was still on the table where she had thrown it. She picked it up and studied his face again. Then, shuddering, she ripped it to tiny pieces and threw them into the fire. Black smoke curled from the paper, finishing forever something that had never begun.
She took a shower, put on a T-shirt and a pair of pink boxers, and brushed her hair and creamed her face. The TV news flickered in the background, detailing the daily horrors, but she wasn’t listening.
Then the newscaster said, “The City of Boston is on the lookout for a serial killer today, after the DNA samples
found in the bodies of three young women victims were proven to match.”
A photograph of a pretty young woman took the place of the newsreader.
“The latest victim, Summer Young, was twenty-one years old, class valedictorian at her local Philadelphia high school, and premed at Boston University. Like Mary Jane Latimer and Rachel Kleinfeld, she was abducted and raped. She was left: for dead on a lonely beach.
“The Boston PD have issued a photo-fit of the suspected killer. They ask that if you know this man, or have seen him, please contact them at the number appearing now on your screen. All calls will be treated with utmost confidentiality.”
Suddenly the screen was filled with the photo-fit, while the newscaster gave details of his estimated height and build and the vehicle he was driving.
“The face of the suspected murderer of Summer Young, Mary Jane Latimer, and Rachel Kleinfeld,” he concluded. “Again, anyone who can help trace him, call the Boston PD immediately.”
Mal realized now why Detective Harry Jordan hadn’t called her. He had gotten the killer’s picture on national TV. He didn’t need her anymore.
A
T SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING
, Harry wheeled the mountain bike back through Louisburg Square. Squeeze trotted, panting, at his heels. They had taken the eight-mile Greenbelt Bikeway from Boston Common, ending at the Franklin Park Zoo. He would have liked to have gone on longer, but as usual there was no time.
He left the bike in the hall, got a bowl of water for the dog, who drank it noisily, then grabbed the phone and called Mal. He couldn’t wait to tell her about the networks picking up on the case. He frowned, disappointed, as the machine answered.
“I called,” he said quickly. “Catch you later.”
Then he leaped into the shower, ran an electric razor over the stubble, dressed quickly, and whistled for Squeeze. He was walking out of the door when he remembered. He strode back to the bathroom, ran a comb quickly through his hair, and was on his way out again in seconds.
Ruby’s was still full of last night’s nicotine as well as the beginning of today’s quota. He took a seat at the counter and ordered coffee, two eggs over easy, ham steak, and home fries with a toasted bagel, wondering exactly how much secondary cigarette smoke he inhaled daily with his breakfast. And with the odd snack during the day and the occasional after-hours beer, and sometimes at supper as well. Then he told himself it was irrelevant because he
wasn’t about to give up Ruby’s. He didn’t remember eating yesterday, and he was starving.
Doris wasn’t on duty this morning, so the dog went without his tasty treat. He squeezed into the narrow spot between the stool and the counter and settled down to wait.
Harry gulped down the coffee, asked for a refill, then walked to the pay phone near the entrance. He called Mal’s number again, and again he got the machine.
He smiled; she always sounded as though she were hoping someone would call—
please leave me a message, even just a little one
. She was terribly insecure, though you would never know it to look at her. It was her own well-kept secret that she had shared with him and no one else.
“It’s seven thirty, earlybird,” he said. “I guess I missed you. Hope you survived the mini-hurricane yesterday. I’ll catch you at the office later.”