Authors: Elizabeth Adler
What if there was a connection between the student killings and Suzie Walker’s? The killer had obviously
known Suzie’s movements, the way a stalker would. He had known she was on night duty and that the apartment would be empty. She had surprised him by coming home early. He ran his hand through his hair. The similarities worried him.
Technically, his shift didn’t start until eight that night, but he had already put in a day’s work by then, when the blowup of Suzie’s face came back from the lab.
“What do you make of that, Rossetti?” he asked, pointing to the dried blood mark on her forehead.
Rossetti peered more closely. “Looks like an imprint of something. Like something was stamped on her forehead.”
“Exactly. Only it wasn’t stamped. She fell forward onto it. Look at it again, Rossetti. See that—the two loops linked by a straight piece, the little bump in the middle. Doesn’t that bring to mind the famous curb-bit Gucci uses on their shoes? Rossetti, our man has expensive taste.”
“Just like the serial killer.” Rossetti’s astonished eyes met his. “But it’s a different type of crime. Unpremeditated, no abduction, no rape, repeated stabbings.”
“Think of this scenario, Rossetti. He had her marked out as his next victim. He was stalking her. He knew she was on night duty. Remember, she
lost
her keys. He didn’t have to break in to her cottage—he’d already had the goddamned keys copied. She came home unexpectedly, caught him there, and he panicked. He had planned to abduct her and kill her later. But he killed her then because he had no choice. She struggled, fought him, hit him with the heavy bag of frozen peas. He wasn’t used to that, and he savaged her because of it. It’s the serial killer, Rossetti. I’m certain of it. I feel it in my gut.”
Rossetti looked at him. “You think the chief is gonna go for this theory?”
“If you forget the style of the crime and that it wasn’t
premeditated, everything fits—from the knife to the expensive shoes. What else can the chief think? Our killer has struck again, Rossetti. It was a little earlier than he had planned, that’s all. We’ll wait until we get the rest of the evidence from forensics before we talk to the chief, but I’m betting on it.”
He didn’t get around to calling Mal that night, and when he finally got home she had left a message saying she guessed they were just missing each other and she was sorry. Harry thought it was pretty tough conducting a love affair over the telephone. Especially when the parties couldn’t reach each other.
Suzie Walker’s funeral took place at three o’clock the following day. The plain little Baptist chapel she had attended since she was a child was filled with mourners, including a large contingent from the hospital.
Harry noticed Dr. Waxman and others from the medical faculty, as well as those of the nursing staff who could get the time off, and representatives of the clerical and administrative staff.
The family were at the front of the chapel, dressed in black: the mother and father, the sister, and a younger red-haired brother, as well as grandparents and uncles, aunts, cousins, and childhood friends. The casket before the simple altar was loaded with pretty white flowers—peonies, daisies, roses, and baby’s breath—and tall candles burned beside it.
Harry and Rossetti stood at the back, and later, at the graveside, they kept discreetly in the background while Suzie’s simple casket was lowered into the earth. A police photographer videotaped the proceedings and the TV crews were also there. Mrs. Walker screamed, her husband grabbed her, and they leaned into each other, desperate with grief.
Harry closed his eyes, unable to watch. He reminded
himself that he had a job to do here. It was not unknown for a killer to attend the burial of his victim. Later, he would have to ask the family if they had noticed any strangers among the crowd. He doubted it—the killer would be too shaken up, shocked out of his precise routine into doing something risky, unplanned.
When it was over, he and Rossetti returned to the precinct. More news had come from the lab: pubic hairs had been found on the black lace panties and they were not the victim’s. And scalp hair had been found on the sheets: Caucasian, gray tinted black. It might be possible to get a DNA reading from the small particles of cell tissue still adhering to the root, but it would take time.
“Looks like you got it right, Prof,” Rossetti said, elated, as they went to talk to the chief.
Afterward they went to a bar and brooded over a beer, not saying much. Later they met up with the chief of police and the mayor at the local TV studio, while the chief was videoed for the six o’clock news, telling the public that the serial killer had struck again.
Suzie’s smiling young face appeared on the screen, followed by film of her funeral that afternoon. Then the mayor said his piece about safety in his city, and that they had evidence and expected to make an arrest soon. Harry and Rossetti stood respectfully in the background looking grim, handguns bulging under their jackets.
Immediately after that, Harry called Myra the dogwalker and asked her to take care of Squeeze. Then he drove to Logan and took the next shuttle to La Guardia.
He called Mal before takeoff and left a message: “It’s six thirty and I’m just about to board the shuttle. I’ll be at your place around eight fifteen, with a little luck. I know it’s short notice, but I hope you’re going to be there.” He hesitated, then added, “I need you, Mal.”
* * *
Just as Harry was boarding the shuttle, the man was returning home from work. He waved to a neighbor as he drove slowly down the street, then pulled into the driveway and into the garage. He went through the same routine with the locks and bolts, scanning the rooms as he walked through them for anything untoward. There was anxiety in his eyes this time, almost as if he expected to find a couple of police officers taking his house apart, searching for evidence.
It was the knife that bothered him. He remembered distinctly putting it in his pocket before he left. But now he couldn’t find it. He wondered where he might have dropped it. He had searched the car and retraced his own trail from the garage through the house. He could have dropped it in her house, on the street, anywhere. And if he had, he knew the police would have it by now.
Worried, he went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and stared at the usual meager contents, as though expecting the knife to be where he usually kept it.
He poured vodka liberally into a tall glass, omitting the ice this time, then went into the sitting room and switched on the TV.
He stood in front of the set as the world events unfolded, gulping the neat vodka. He was hungry, since he had been too agitated about the knife to go to his usual bistro for supper. Instead, he had picked up a sandwich. He went back into the kitchen, came out with it, took a bite, and stood in front of the set again.
There she was! Suzie Walker was looking directly into his eyes. He swallowed a piece of cheese that had gotten stuck in his throat. “Cunt,” he groaned, “cheap lousy bitch. Just look what you made me do.”
He was still spitting invectives at her when they rolled the video of the funeral. Then the chief of police came on, and the mayor. He listened, mouth agape, when they said they had definitive evidence that the man who had killed
Nurse Walker was the same man who had killed the three young students.
“Go carefully in this city,” the mayor warned all women. “And do not go alone. Be aware, and when you go out, stay in a group. We do not expect the killer will go free for long. Everything points to an arrest very soon.”
His legs buckled, and he sank into a chair. The sandwich dropped unnoticed onto the immaculate carpet, staining it.
He licked his dry lips and told himself they had to be lying. Even if they had the knife, there were no prints—he had washed and dried it carefully afterward. And he had worn rubber gloves, been meticulous about that. He had left: nothing else, he felt quite sure.
They were trying to calm the public’s fears by saying an arrest was imminent. No one had seen him that night except Suzie. All they had was the knife, and that was clean.
He sighed, relieved. They were bluffing. He was absolutely certain they did not know his identity.
He switched off the news, then noticed the sandwich and the mustard stain on the carpet. Cursing under his breath, he hurried to the kitchen to get the spot remover. He hated mess.
M
AL COULD HAVE DANCED
for joy when she got Harry’s message. She canceled her plans to go to the theater with friends and dashed out to pick up some food.
She was in the kitchen preparing salad dressing when Harry arrived. He stepped out of the elevator and into the hall with the Venetian mirrors and soft pale rugs, and she ran to greet him.
He was wearing the black leather jacket, the jeans, and a blue shirt. He was unshaven, his dark hair was rumpled, and there was a tired look in his eyes. She thought he was the sexiest man she had ever been lucky enough to set eyes on.
But what she said was “Glad you made the effort—sartorially, Harry.”
He groaned. “Give me a break, Malone, will you? I’ve come straight from work, traveled hundreds of miles to see you.”
“Then I hope you like what you see.”
He looked her up and down as she twirled in front of him, giving him her best smile. She was wearing a long silky skirt with a pattern of tiny blue flowers in a color that matched her eyes, and a tight black scoop-necked top. Her feet were bare, and there was a Band-Aid on every pink-nailed toe. A white cook’s apron covered a great deal of her, and she fairly crackled with vitality and joie de vivre.
“I like the apron,” he admitted cautiously, “especially if it means you’re doing the cooking.”
“I am.”
He wanted to eat her up, not dinner. She kept on looking at him. He said, “Doris told me I don’t eat right. She said I need a good woman to cook for me.”
“Doris said that?”
“Yeah. I told her it would be bad for Ruby’s business, but she told me it would be good for my cholesterol.”
She threw him a mocking look. “Now we’ve got that out of the way, won’t you please come in?” She stepped to one side and waved him inside. “My home is yours, detective.”
He walked toward her, then stopped in front of her. “Sartorially and otherwise, you look … adorable,” he murmured, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her on the nose. “Definitely adorable, even if you do smell of garlic.”
“At least it’s not Bactine.”
“It never was.” And then he clutched her to him and kissed her properly.
She had that wonderful sensation again of being lost in his arms, not knowing anything else but the way his lips felt on hers, the pressure of his hard body as he gripped her.
“Oh, Mal,” he said, finally taking his lips away and dropping kisses into her hair, her forehead, her closed eyes. “I need you.”
Her eyes shot open. She leaned back in his arms, staring at him, thrilled. “It’s like
adorable
,” she told him. “No one has ever said they
needed
me before.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Well, this guy does. It’s been a long, hard few days.”
She led him into the sitting room, eased off his jacket, maneuvered him into a comfortable chair, and asked if he would like a glass of champagne.
“Got any bourbon?” He looked wrecked, dead-eyed, exhausted.
She nodded. She wondered what could have happened between Sunday evening when she left him and now. She went to the sideboard, put ice in the glass, and topped it up with Jack Daniel’s.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
She looked doubtfully at him, her head on one side. “I read somewhere—it must have been
Cosmo
, because they know all that kind of stuff—that when your man comes home tired, the best way to his heart is a good meal. So I seem to have got it right this time. I’ll busy myself in the kitchen while you put your feet up and listen to some soothing music.”
She changed the CD from Santana to a Mozart concerto, turned down the volume, smiled at him over her shoulder, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Harry wasn’t even hungry, although he hadn’t eaten. He was just glad to be here with her. He needed her. In more ways than the one she had assumed he meant.
He sipped the bourbon, savoring the sweetish flavor on his tongue. The aroma of something good came from the kitchen, and the soft music crept into his mind, soothingly, as she had intended. A feeling of well-being came over him, and if it were not that she was so close and so on his mind, he might have fallen asleep.
She came back into the room silently on bare feet. He said wearily, “I’m sorry, Mal. I shouldn’t have come tonight, I guess, but I just wanted to be with you.”
She sat at his feet and rested her head against his knee, happy he was there. “Feel free, any time.”
With an effort he shook off the events of the past few days and brought himself back to the present. “What I need,” he said with a smile, “is a really good meal. I’m eager to know how the chef at this high-class establishment rates.”
“Follow me, sir, please,” she said, taking his hand.
The round table in the kitchen was set for two, with Matisse-blue linen placemats and the sunshine yellow and blue plates. A green salad sparkled in a glass dish. There was walnut bread and a slab of sweet French butter, and spinach fettuccini with a fresh tomato sauce topped with tiny vegetables. The candles were lit, and a bottle of white wine was chilling in an ice bucket on the console.
Harry looked at the feast, then at Mal. “You did all this?” he marveled.
She nodded. “You’d better taste it before you give out compliments.”
He poured wine into their glasses and held her chair for her.
“Madame la Chef.”
He kissed her as she sat down, and her lips clung to his.
“We’ll never eat at this rate,” she murmured breathlessly.
“Oh, yes we will. This is wonderful, Mal. And you got it just right. I never would have thought of it, but it’s exactly what I feel like eating.”
She served the salad, offered him bread and butter, and watched anxiously as he tasted the pasta.