The nanny murders (12 page)

“Beverly agrees that your input might prove valuable. So don’t worry about bureaucracy. You won’t be overstepping.”
Overstepping? What was he talking about? Politics? Professional protocol? Would it be a problem for an Institute art therapist to help police unofficially on a case in which a hotshot Institute psychiatrist/profiler was officially consulting? Actually, I’d never considered the repercussions of that. I wasn’t sure I’d care about them, even if I had.

I swallowed some Manhattan. It wasn’t a bad drink, once you got past the initial sweetness. The cherry in my glass peered back at me like a bloodshot eyeball. Detective Stiles sat silently in the maddening manner of a detective waiting for a suspect to spill his guts. Finally, I began.

“Actually, Detective—”

“Nick,” he corrected.

“Nick. I’m not concerned about what Dr. Gardener or anyone at the Institute thinks about what I do. I make my own choices.”

“Good. Still, it’s better not to step on bureaucratic toes. Trust me.”

Trust him? Was he crazy? With those eyes? They looked at me but took in everything, the whole room, even the part behind his back. How could anyone trust a man with eyes like that? Or that crooked half smirk that somehow made him look both tough and vulnerable at the same time? I sipped my drink, unable to recall what I’d started to say—what was it again?

Nick continued. “Look, all I ask is that you review the profile Beverly’s created. She’s very insightful; I think you’ll be impressed. And her thoughts might stimulate yours. Just see what it brings to mind.”

I nodded. My lips had begun to ache, an effect of the cocktail. It was stronger than I’d expected. I shouldn’t be drinking while working, even unofficially. I bit on them to stop the throbbing.

“Are you nervous?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re biting your lip.”

“So?”

“So, it’s normal to be nervous. Getting involved in something like this can be tough. Even scary.”

I looked up. Was I ‘getting involved’? Had he intended a double meaning? Or was he still testing my reactions? Or was I drinking too much? “I’m not nervous. Actually, I can’t wait to read the profile.”

His half smile appeared again.

“So, when can you talk to Beverly?” He watched me, waiting for my response.

Talk to Beverly? “I didn’t realize I had to—”

“Well, it would be best if she went over it with you personally. Filled you in. And you should dialogue. You’re colleagues, after all.”

Beverly Gardener was hardly a colleague. She was a phenomenon. A presence, a supposed genius endowed with perfect legs and startling green eyes. “Any time. First thing Monday morning?”

And with that, we were done with business. Not even past cocktails, and done. I searched for casual conversation unrelated to the missing women, but the cocktail was having an effect. My mind drifted, distracted by Stiles’s shoulders, his thick neck. I began comparing his Adam’s apple to the cherry in my drink, which was magically full again. I frowned, searching for a topic.

“Well,” I began. Good start. Keep going. “How do you like living in Philadel—” “You look upset.” “I do?”

“What’s on your mind?”

His bare chest, to be honest. Stop it, I scolded myself. There’s
more at stake here than your starving libido. I thought of Tamara and felt ashamed of myself. “What’s on anyone’s mind, these days? The nannies. Everyone’s upset.”

He uncrossed his legs and straightened his back. “Of course.”

“One of the missing girls,” I went on. “I know her.”

He sighed. “A disappearance can be tougher to deal with than a death.”

I pictured Tamara’s shining eyes, recalled her musical laughter. I took another sip, felt the liquor slide, sear my throat.

“But—damn, there’s no easy way to say this. Zoe, you need to be prepared for the worst, here. Chances are slim to nothing that your missing friend—or any of those women—is still alive.”

Tamara’s eyes lost their shine; her laughter choked to a stop. I felt the stab of my teeth jabbing my lip.

Stiles leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper. “If it’s any consolation, I think we’ll solve this one. Soon.”

“Why do you say that?”

His eyes darkened. “Because he wants us to solve it.” He took a drink. “Sonofabitch might not know it, but he wants us to.” “He wants to be caught?”

“I think so. At least, part of him does. He’s getting bolder. More brazen. Leaving evidence. Daring us to find him.” He paused. “Do you think that finger was left on your walk by accident?”

“What?” I gripped my glass, needing something to hold on to. What was he saying? That the finger had been dropped in front of my house on purpose? “You mean it wasn’t?”

“Let me ask you.” He leaned forward so his face was close, his voice low. “You’re a therapist. You know Freud’s theory that there is no such thing as an accident.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Okay. Let’s back up. The abductions began several weeks ago. Since then, they’ve occurred more frequently, in increasingly
open and more public settings. And the kidnapper’s leaving evidence now, whereas he didn’t at first. Consciously? Maybe, maybe not. At some level, he may be sabotaging himself because he wants to stop but can’t. Or he might just be carried away by his sense of invincibility. Either way, he’s accelerating, losing control. Getting sloppy. Making mistakes.”

“But to make more mistakes, won’t he have to take more women?”

Half his mouth twisted fleetingly. “He’ll definitely try. We’ve got a serial killer here, and as you know, those guys are pretty consistent.”

As I knew? What did I know? I’d taken a college course years ago on criminal psychology and read the textbook chapter about serials, but mostly what I knew about serial killers I’d learned from television. Detective shows. I knew, for example, that serial killers followed patterns in their crimes. I knew that some thought they were obeying a higher power who ordered them to kill; others believed their murders were altruistic, that they were eliminating “sinners” to cleanse the world. A third group simply got off on power. They got high, often sexually aroused, by having the power of life or death over their victims, terrorizing them, taking their lives.

“So what do you know about this one?”

He winked. Winked. “Read the report.”

I stared at the red orb in my glass. Now it resembled a blood clot.

“Look, for now, let’s just say he wants to be somebody. Someone famous. In the headlines. His ego’s been fed by the news coverage. He’s begun to think he can get away with anything. He’s getting arrogant. Soon, he’ll go too far and give himself away. Question is, how many more women will he kill first?”

It was a somber thought. “And the finger? You said it might not have been left accidentally.”

“Accidentally or deliberately—either way, where it was found still means something. At the very least, it means the guy was in the area. He didn’t just find his victim there; he also left a piece of her there after he killed her. Which indicates he’s got a place there. Locally.”

He paused, letting that thought sink in.

A guy in the area. Who had a place there. Did he know me? Had he chosen to leave the finger at my front curb instead of, say, the one next door? Why? And the other finger—the one found on Washington Square—had he left that deliberately, too? According to Stiles, he might have. But who could it be? Neighborhood faces raced through my mind. Victor, Charlie. The new neighbor, Phillip Woods. There were a lot more I didn’t know by name, people I passed every day. People who came and went at different hours than I did. Night people. And what about Coach Gene? Or the mailman? Or the guys in Jake’s construction crews—hadn’t Angela said one of them had been bothering her?

“Look, can we talk about something else for a while? Behave like normal people?” He half-smiled. “I’ve been living with this case 24/7. I need to take a break. To pretend to be a civilian. How about we enjoy the ambience? Try to have a civilized meal. Is that okay? I think it’ll be good for both of us.”

“Of course. I understand.” But I didn’t, not entirely. Were we supposed to suddenly pretend that we were just two people out to dinner, that local women weren’t being killed? That I might even know the guy killing them? Besides, what were we supposed to talk about? I clutched my drink, eyeing a nearby painting of a gondolier steering his boat along a Venice canal.

“Tell me about yourself. Who is Zoe Hayes?”

I blinked. Zoe Hayes? It was simple dinner conversation, but it seemed that I, not the murderer, was now the person to be profiled. My lips felt thick and boozy, too heavy to form answers, reluctant to give away information. I stalled, sipping my
Manhattan, wanting to jump into the gondola and be rowed away.

“Tell me. Where did Zoe grow up? Where did she go to school? Why did she become an art therapist?”

Loosen up, I told myself. Relax. Give the guy a break. “Baltimore, Cornell, because she doesn’t paint well enough to survive as an artist.”

Half his face laughed.

“And you? Who’s Detective Nick Stiles?” Tit for tat. “He’s this.” He shrugged, pointing to himself. “Just what you see.”

“Not fair. I answered you.”

“Okay. Fair enough. Be more specific. What do you want to know?”

I should have thought before I spoke, but I didn’t. I just blurted out a question, without gentleness or tact. “What happened to your face?”

SEVENTEEN

I
NSTANTLY,
I
REGRETTED MY QUESTION
.
“SORRY—IT’SNOT
my—”

“Took a bullet,” he said. “No need to apologize. Took a bullet in the jaw, hit a nerve. Actually, before that, I used to be good-looking.” He smiled.

I smiled back. “Is that a fact?”

“No, I guess not.” Again, a shy glance down at his drink. Shyness didn’t suit him; it was like a jacket that was too small. But there he was, wearing a tight, bashful half grin.

“Who shot you?”

“That’s your second question. It’s my turn again—” “No, you asked three at once—”

Our eyes met. His were twinkling. Then not. The twinkle hardened, sharpened to a gleam. “A woman.” I didn’t know what to say.

“It was a domestic thing. Woman found out her husband was leaving her,” he answered. “So she shot a cop?”

“So she started shooting. Shooting him, me, herself. Killed herself.” “Damn.”

“Yeah, well.” He gazed past me, into air. I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s a long time ago. People get pissed and make bad decisions.
They don’t think things through. Anyhow. That’s what happened.”

“What about the husband? Did she kill him, too?” “No, actually, the sonofabitch survived. She was a lousy shot. He was lucky.” “So were you.”

His eyes shifted. Obviously, the subject made him uncomfortable.

We were both quiet.

“I’m sorry.” Damn. Why had I asked that question? “No need.”

“Well, no matter how it happened,” I said, “I like it.”

His attention returned to me. “Like what?”

“Your face. The way you smile. It’s kind of sexy.” Lord, had I really said that?

“You think?” Nick’s half grin opened slowly, gladly. Too genuine to belong to a cop. “Well, good.” He crossed his arms and gave a half smile. “And now, it’s my turn again.” He waited, coplike, for me to squirm. To anticipate what was coming.

My glass was still full. Or full again. How much had I had to drink? My hand held the stem, ready for the next round. Nick fired his next question, and I fired mine, each answer exposing more, peeling away more layers, revealing more of ourselves.

I learned that he was the eldest of four brothers, half Italian, half Jewish, parents both dead, a dozen nieces and nephews. He was a graduate of Columbia, had a master’s in psychology, played football in high school, and rowed crew in college, liked to ski and snorkel, wore a size thirteen shoe. His marriage had ended badly, without children.

I’m not sure what I told him. I was aware of caution, careful not to tell him everything. I said I was an only child but didn’t mention my parents’ divorce or my mother’s early death. I told him about marrying Michael but glossed over the mess of our
divorce. I described the euphoria of adopting Molly, not the anxiety of parenting on my own. I said that my father was still living but skipped the detail that we hadn’t talked in years.

I was aware that we’d become, somehow, more than cowork-ers, but I didn’t know what. As we talked, at one point, strong fingers covered my hand. Large, warm fingers. I chewed my lip, took a breath. “Santa Lucia” drifted over white-linen-covered tables. I cleared my throat, trying to decide what to do, but couldn’t. I held still until my hand began to throb. Was I supposed to leave it there and let him hold it? Or take it away? What did it mean, his hand on mine? Was he just making casual contact, or was it something else? My neck felt hot, and my sweater began to itch. Stiles—Nick—was talking, but his words swept past me, phrases without meaning.

“. . . new . . . stranger ...job...you...glad... comfortable . . .”

Oh my. The hand lifted, releasing mine. I grabbed my Manhattan glass, which, incredibly, was full.

“What? Did I scare you? It’s okay. Don’t be frightened. As you get to know me, you’ll see that I don’t have time for games. I size people up pretty fast; it’s my job. Observing. Figuring people out. And at the moment, I’m observing you. Want to know what I see, so far?”

I nodded, feeling a little like a lab animal.

“Beyond the superficial sparkling eyes and jolly laugh, I mean. In Zoe Hayes, I see somebody real. Don’t get me wrong—she isn’t easy to get close to. She’s guarded. But once she puts the guard down, she’s real. No pretenses or hidden agenda. She’s good-looking, smart, funny, and—hell, I gotta tell you, Zoe Hayes is good company. A miracle happened tonight. I actually relaxed. Believe me, that doesn’t happen often. Certainly not since I started working on this case. I needed an evening like this, Zoe. Thank you.” He smiled briefly, then looked away, into his glass.
I took another sip; liquor eased into my blood, numbing my aching lips. Who was this guy? Why didn’t that little speech seem corny? Was he a player, adept at handing out lines? Or just a lonely cop, honestly enjoying his evening?