The White Carnation (9 page)

She finished showering and dried her hair. The red highlights gleamed in the bathroom light, and she decided not to tie it back today. She reached into the hair accessory basket she kept on the counter and pulled out a wide, black, stretchy hairband. She secured it in place and let her hair fall down her back. She hadn't worn her hair down like this in months. She put on her makeup, bemoaning the fact she'd have to buy another compact and a tube of her favorite lip gloss, an expense she really couldn't handle this month, especially now that she'd lost her favorite jacket as well.

Since Rob wasn't due for almost two hours, she donned her red silk robe and took a seat at the computer, wrote her story about the engagement tea, and sent it to Sloan along with a note stating that she had suffered a personal loss and wouldn't be returning to work next week. She had holiday time coming to her, and she was taking it. Feeling generous, she emailed Tina the information she'd gathered on the price of dog food and accessories. Everything else she'd researched had been done after hours, on her own time, and was her own property whether Sloan liked it or not.

Someone knocked on the door. She looked at the clock: seven forty-five. Rob was early, but with the Harvester case, he was probably under more pressure than usual. Well, she'd let him in, but he'd have to wait while she dressed.

It had been the one thing that had endeared her to him when they'd started dating but almost drove her crazy near the end. Time was fluidic for Rob—he could as easily be two hours late as two hours early—and he didn't always remember to call. She hurried to the door, eager to pump him for information about Mary and Lucy. If he had no news about them, then he might let something slip about the Harvester—not likely, but a reporter could always dream. Faye opened the door without checking the peephole. The puff of smoke from the flower on the clown's tuxedo jacket caught her by surprise and before she could cry out, everything went black.

• • •

Rob checked the time on his alarm. Nine thirty. He was late.
Damn! Faye's going to kill me.
He hurried into the bathroom, shaved the day-old scruff off his face, and took one of his famous three-minute showers. He slicked his wet hair back, splashed on some aftershave, wincing when it burned his sensitive skin, and grabbed a pair of boxers, jeans, and a golf shirt. He put on socks, strapped on his ankle holster, and slipped his feet into loafers. He wasn't officially on duty today, so the suit could stay on the hanger. He bundled the gray suit he'd worn yesterday, hoping the combination of blood from Faye when he'd held her and rain hadn't ruined it. He'd drop it off at the cleaners near the precinct. Holstering his Beretta, he went into the kitchen.

The coffeepot had come on at six as usual and had turned itself off a couple of hours ago, leaving its cooling contents slowly congealing in the clear glass pot. He poured a cup of his homemade tar into a plastic coffee mug and shoved it in the microwave to heat. As soon as the microwave chimed, he pulled out the cup, slapped on the lid, and headed out to his car.

The late-model Chevy was parked in the designated spot where he'd left it when he'd gotten in after two. Saturday morning traffic in Boston was usually light, but this morning, for some reason, the cars were bumper to bumper. As he crawled along Tremont Avenue on his way to the Longfellow Bridge, he recalled his conversation with Tom last night. He couldn't remember his partner ever being so negative about a theory, especially one that made sense when they had nothing else to go on. Come to think of it, Tom had been acting strange ever since they'd gotten the Harvester case.

The time displayed on the dashboard said almost ten thirty—he was an hour and a half late. He'd forgotten to check the records for Faye's new landline number. He'd tried her cell before leaving the apartment, but like last night, she hadn't answered.
You told her to turn the damn thing off,
his conscience prodded, and he shook his head.
The one time she listens to me …

After what seemed like hours instead of the thirty minutes it was, Rob pulled into the parking space he'd used the previous night. He quickly exited his vehicle and almost ran up the stairs to the second floor. She was going to be pissed, that damn Irish temper of hers no doubt raging out of control by now, making a bad situation even worse.
Of all the times to screw up...

Rob lifted his hand to knock, but at the first brush of his knuckles, the door popped open as if it had been improperly closed. The latch assembly on the door knob had a habit of sticking unless you made sure you twisted the knob completely back into alignment. He was supposed to have replaced the knob—hell, the new one was still in his toolbox. Obviously, she hadn't changed it either. Anger replaced his guilt. Couldn't she listen just once?

“Faye, I told you to keep the damn …” he said loudly, pushed open the door, and stopped dead in his tracks, stunned by the chaos and the litter of papers on the floor. Instinctively, he reached for the gun in his ankle holster. This place looked way too much like the Green apartment to be a coincidence. All of last night's farfetched ideas, those he'd shared with Tom and the ones he was still considering, seemed more plausible than ever. Dread engulfed him.

Faye! Where's Faye?

Rob's heart pounded so hard he thought it would burst through his chest, but the blood in his veins had turned to ice, and it couldn't do its job. His breathing slowed, his lungs unable to suck in the air he needed to survive. “Faye! Faye, where are you? Answer me, damn you!”

His senses on high alert, fear foremost in his heart, he moved farther into the loft and along the hallway. He looked into her office. Like what he'd seen so far, the room had been trashed. Her collection of antique porcelain dolls, their heads shattered, lay in the debris on the floor along with the red mug he'd seen last night. Her computer was there, too. The tech guys down at the station might be able to recover something, but he doubted it. The apartment was cool, but sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back.

“Faye!” he called again, slowing as he approached her bedroom door, afraid of what he'd find in there. Would she be lying on the floor, broken like the dolls she'd loved? Would her throat be slashed like Lucy Green's, her eyes open and accusing in death? He all but stopped breathing when he saw her. “Oh God, Faye!”

She was in bed, the blankets tucked up under her chin, seemingly asleep, but she was a light sleeper and he'd been bellowing at the top of his voice. Even if she'd had a migraine—and considering what she'd found yesterday, it was possible—there was no way she'd overdose on something. She hated taking drugs of any kind. It went hand in hand with her hatred of hospitals. Even going there to get a story took a lot out of her.

She was either dead or unconscious.

Moving to the bed, he knelt beside it and reached over to check her carotid pulse. He placed his fingers in the appropriate places and let out the breath he'd been holding when he felt its steady beat. Unlike the Harvester victims, she was pale, the freckles on her skin standing out against the waxy whiteness of her face. Was her pulse slower than it should be? The rise and fall of her breathing was scarcely noticeable. He moved his fingers upward and touched her cheek, the one thing guaranteed to rouse her from the deepest sleep, but she didn't respond, not even a twitch. How long had she been like this?

Her freshly washed hair was spread across her pillow as if someone had purposely placed it that way. Faye never left her hair loose when she slept, hated it when it got in her face, and she was a belly sleeper. Lying on her back like this was a pose—like the Harvester's victims. His heart stopped. He lowered the sheet. Faye was bare, her hands folded together under her breasts, in the same pose he'd found the victim last night.

Naked! Faye never slept nude, not even when they'd been together overnight. It was some strange quirk she had. What if there was a fire, and they had to leave suddenly? She'd be damned if her neighbors would see her
au naturel
. He bent closer to smell her, searching for the ammonia he associated with the Harvester's victims, but instead the familiar aroma of her strawberry-scented shampoo and body wash filled his nostrils. Pulling the blanket up, he took a deep breath to suppress the panic building within him.

Calming himself as best he could, he considered the situation analytically, the way he needed to for Faye's sake. If his theory was right, and he was sure it was, Faye was the Harvester's next victim. The monster had plans for her before he killed her, and this might be the first of them.

He was almost certain Lucy Green's killer had tossed the place, but a messy killing like hers didn't really fit what he knew of the Harvester. So, why did he do it? Rage? Had not finding what he wanted at Lucy's set him off? Made him act out uncharacteristically? Could they be looking at someone with multiple personality disorder? A callous killer who destroyed violently, without regret, living inside a neat freak who posed his victims almost lovingly? It was possible. Whoever had destroyed Faye's apartment had taken the time to bathe her and put her to bed, like a loving parent would do to a child. But the place was a mess, and Faye hadn't been sanitized, which meant they might get lucky and recover DNA from her.

Placing his gun on the bedside table, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1. State your name and the nature of the emergency.”

Rob assured himself Faye was still breathing and focused on the operator. “This is Detective Sergeant Rob Halliday, Boston PD, badge number two three seven six. I need an ambulance and an investigative unit at The Tannery on Riverside Drive in East Cambridge, loft six. The place has been tossed. The victim is unconscious. The perpetrator has left the scene.”

“Right away, Detective. What's the victim's name?” The woman's voice was steady, keeping him anchored to the task at hand.

“Faye Lewis. This is her apartment. I didn't notice any sign of forced entry.”

“Cambridge PD and paramedics have been dispatched to your location. Would you like me to contact Boston PD as well?”

“Not at this time. I'll call in. I wasn't on duty today.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me, Detective?”

“Her pulse seems slow, and her breathing is shallow.”

“I'll convey that information to the paramedics. They should be there shortly. Please stay on the line until help arrives.”

Rob put down the phone, keeping the line open as requested, and stood. There were so many things he should be doing as a police officer, but all he could do was stare at her. He'd let this happen. Even without the connection to the Harvester, he'd known the man who'd killed and trashed Lucy Green's place might have Faye's name and occupation, and if you had that information, thanks to the Internet, finding an address was surprisingly easy. And if the Harvester had been stalking her as he now suspected, he'd left her alone and unprotected. Without Tom backing him up, it would've been impossible to get the lieutenant to authorize a unit to watch her, especially when they were talking across jurisdictions. Still, he should've tried. But beating himself up about what he'd missed, what he'd done wrong, wouldn't help Faye or anyone else.

Forcing himself back into detective mode, he gazed around him, examining the room, hoping to find answers to what had happened. In here, as elsewhere, the contents of the drawers had been emptied onto the floor. Through the open bathroom door, he saw more signs of a search, but like in her office, things had been destroyed. He moved into the smaller room to get a better look, to see if there were pills there that might identify what Faye had been given, but the only prescription drug he saw was the package of birth-control pills on the floor. The multicolored blister pack had been crushed under foot. Had they set him off? So much damage. So much rage. Rob was grateful the anger had been taken out on things rather than Faye, but why? What was the bastard looking for?

Back in the bedroom, broken glass crunched beneath Rob's feet. He bent to pick up a frame and turned it over to stare at their engagement picture. Holding the broken frame in his left hand, he carried it back to the side of the bed. This wasn't just about Lucy Green's murder and the Harvester now—it was personal. It was about Faye. Somehow Lucy Green and the Harvester were tied together, just as he'd told Tom, and Faye was right in the middle of it. Regardless of their history, he owed it to her to find the man who'd done this.

Last night, his partner had doubted his theory. Well, if Tom needed proof. Here it was.

He reached for Faye's hand, noted how cold she felt, and squeezed her fingers. If people in a coma could hear those talking to them, maybe someone in a drug-induced state could, too.

“I swear I'll find the bastard who did this to you, Faye. You have my word on it.”

The sound of sirens approaching warned him he'd soon have company.

“Operator, the police are here. Thank you,” he said into the phone and ended the call.

“Detective Halliday?” a voice called from the entrance.

“Back here at the end of the hall.”

The paramedics' boots slapped the hardwood floor. The men rushed into the room, one of them with a medical bag in his hand. He moved over to the bed and looked down at Faye. “How long has she been like this?”

“I don't know. I found her about ten minutes ago.”

“Does she have a history of drug use?”

“No, she didn't even like taking headache medication.”

“Thank you, Detective, I'll take it from here. The police will have questions for you.”

Rob nodded, torn between the need to do his duty and his desire to stay with Faye. As always, duty won. He picked up his Beretta and left the bedroom to meet with the uniformed officers coming into the apartment.