TRACE - CSI Reilly Steel #5 (Forensic novel Police Procedural Series) (8 page)

Chapter 10

At Reilly’s request, Gary was trying to track down the boy Grace Gorman had been seeing when she went missing, Darren Keating. The guy had maintained that the relationship wasn’t serious. Of course it wasn’t. Grace had only been fourteen. Keating was fifteen. Nothing’s serious at that age. But it didn’t mean the guy didn’t know anything else about her disappearance.

Reilly had given him this work shortly after the meeting that morning. He felt like she was almost rewarding him for finding the third meal-related murder. He had been pleased to work on anything to do with the Grace Gorman cold case though, even something as mundane as this.

The truth was, he had dreams of being some kind of hero to Lucy. Anything that would finally get her to notice him in a way other than just her idiot workmate. He knew she wasn’t that kind of girl though; she would rather be her own hero. She didn’t go in for acts of chivalry. If he opened a door for her she would just stand and wait for him to go through it. But if he had anything to do with finding out what happened to her sister, she would definitely thank him.

But finding out what happened to Grace Gorman would be its own reward, too. Gary remembered what it was like to be fourteen; to be overwhelmed by the rush of feelings you suddenly had about everything, to be on the edge of everything beginning and to be unable to wait for it to happen. That shouldn’t be taken away from anyone. He had been bullied mercilessly when he was a geeky teenager and the joy and relief he felt when he came out the other side and realized those people had nothing to do with his life any more or how he felt, was immense.

Grace’s old boyfriend had a couple of aliases. He had been in and out of juvenile detention, and then prison. Gary had put in an ID request to the related justice departments to find out where he was now. He did an internet search to see if the guy was on any social media under any of his names, but there was nothing. Gary wouldn’t know what he was in for until he got the information back, but whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be big enough to make the papers.

He thought back to the house where they had found Grace’s necklace a few weeks back. It had just been a routine search, at first. Someone had reported an abandoned house, but the cops who searched it thought there was something off about it, and they had brought in the GFU.

By sheer luck, it had turned out to be himself, Reilly and Lucy who had searched the place. Well, maybe it wasn’t luck. Now Lucy would always have first-hand memories of that place: its starkness, the blood on the wall shining blue under the luminol, the boxes of wigs and the mannequins stacked up in the attic like bodies. Most creepily, there had been the trinkets hidden in the wall. Things belonging to women that had been picked up like souvenirs. Watches, hair clips, scarves, little things like that. The wigs themselves had been made of human hair. They were still being analyzed and matched to missing persons. It was a long process, and they didn’t know yet if any of the DNA found in the house matched Grace Gorman.

Gary refreshed his email and something from a friend at the Criminal Justice Department popped up. It read:

“Gary, my man, haven’t seen you in ages. Meet us for drinks on Thursday in town sometime? Re your boy Darren Keating, aka Derek Freeman. This guy has been in and out since age fifteen. Juvie records sealed as per norm but I’ll try to get something for you by end of week. He’s been arrested under a few different names so it’s hard to get a read on his sheet, but basically: armed robbery, assault of domestic partner, petty drug dealing and possession. He’s doing a longer stint in Mountjoy for battery and assault, again of his partner. Nasty bit of stuff. Will send through proper records by end of day plus any new info that comes in.”

Well, it wasn’t great news, but at least now they knew where Keating was. It would be easy enough to go over to Mountjoy Prison and interview him, if that’s what Reilly wanted. The bad news was that Lucy’s sister had been hanging around such scum before she died. Gary felt bad that Grace Gorman should ever have been in the same room as someone like this guy.

A knock on his door startled him out of his reverie. It was Lucy. ‘Want to go and grab a sandwich?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been doing background on the Armstrong case and it’s driving me mental.’

When they were sitting in the GFU café downstairs with egg sandwiches, milky tea and a blueberry muffin to share, Gary asked: ‘So, what’s getting to you about the Armstrong case?’

‘Just that Reilly’s having me go through all her emails. No offense to this girl, but they’re boring as hell. I know there’s some more salacious ones about her PR clients but those are blocked. I’m just doing the personal ones. They’re mostly like this: “Saw X last night. Funny guy, but a little lacking in other departments, LOL.” Or “See you for margaritas on Friday. Need to blow off some steam.” Rubbish like that. Nothing really revealing. Reilly’s going to be disappointed.’

Gary laughed. ‘You forget that I had to go through those emails too. But I have to say, I didn’t give them the same excruciating attention. However,’ he said, ‘I did get a look at some of the more interesting ones about her clients.’

‘Don’t hold out,’ she said.

‘I am a bastion of professionalism,’ Gary teased. ‘No way are you getting actual names. But let me say this: a daytime RTE talk show host, who has made his empire on advising others? Has fallen off the wagon, and is into gambling and drugs in a big way.
And
, an actor from our most beloved TV soap has been caught cheating on his wife, again. It was all pretty grim stuff. No wonder the girl needed to blow off some steam.’

Lucy shook her head. ‘I just feel like it takes someone fairly shallow to do a job like that. Half of those people shouldn’t have their dirty business swept under the rug for them. Why shouldn’t they have to face up to the things they’ve done, like everyone else?’

‘You’re probably right,’ he agreed. ‘They don’t deserve more of a break than anyone else. I don’t think Jennifer Armstrong was shallow though. Everyone has an inner life that’s inaccessible to everyone else Luce. She probably felt just as lonely and confused and disgusted with the world as everyone. But she had a job to do.’

Lucy stared at him. ‘That’s pretty philosophical, for you.’

‘Ouch. I’m not all good looks and laughs, you know. I do actually think about things now and then.’

‘Yeah, I see that now. I know you’re right. I’m just easily distracted lately. Thinking about my sister’s case makes everything else seem petty.’

‘Yeah I can’t imagine how difficult it must be. But Reilly’s really trying to help. She’s got me working on some stuff as we speak. She’s looking out for you.’

Lucy blushed a little. ‘I know she does. I know she’s trying to help me… but I feel like she’s asking too much of me. It’s hard enough to go through all of this again without her asking me to do hypnotherapy. I feel like I’m being accused of something.’

‘That’s not Reilly’s way and you know it. You were a kid when Grace went missing, but you were closest to her. You know from our work with kids that they often blank things out, especially unpleasant things. No one’s blaming you.’

‘It’s just, when we went for that drive, out to my old house, I started to remember all this terrible stuff that happened. How unhappy Grace had been and stuff like that. If I remembered that, just from going for a drive, what will happen if I undergo hypnotherapy?’

Gary took her hand gently. ‘Maybe nothing. Maybe there is truly nothing else for you to remember. But if there is something, even if it’s horrible for you to think about, if it helps find out what happened to Grace, it’s worth it. That’s why we are all here, Lucy. To find things out, so people can get on with their lives. You and your family deserve that too.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I just wish it wasn’t so damn hard.’

Chapter 11

When the restaurant’s potentially lethal dessert arrived and was set with reverence on the table between Reilly and Chris, they both hesitated. Reilly could see the unnatural yellow of the fruit oozing over the lava cake.

‘Well, it certainly
looks
toxic,’ said Chris. ‘I’m game if you are.’

He raised his eyebrow at her, and suddenly deciding to throw caution to the wind, Reilly couldn’t help but take up the challenge. Wielding her fork, she said: ‘OK see you on the other side.’

Normally she wasn’t much of a dessert fan. But this, this was something else. The tart bite of the fruit set off the white chocolate cake perfectly. When their forks pierced the middle, molten dark chocolate flowed out onto the plate. It was luscious. Reilly completely forgot that they were eating a fruit that was potentially poisonous.

‘Well, that was pretty amazing,’ said Chris, when the plate was clean. ‘I thought you were going to stab me with the fork for that last bite.’

‘I would have,’ said Reilly, ‘but …’ Her temperature soared as suddenly, an intense feeling of nausea washed over her. She got up from her chair and moved quickly to the bathroom, where she was afraid she might throw up. Could the antimine still be in her system from before, and the desert had re-activated it or something? But no that wasn't possible. The wave subsided and she splashed water on her face in the sink, the cold of it reviving her somewhat. Then, her temperature subsiding, she looked in the mirror at her pale face, feeling much better. When she got back to the table, a large man was sitting with Chris. He was dressed head to toe in a black uniform. Reilly guessed this must be the chef.

Both men turned to her with a concerned look. ‘Madam,’ said the chef, ‘I hope you were not unwell. Is everything is ok?’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘I’m just recovering from a tummy bug and probably shouldn’t have eaten quite so much, but your food was delicious. Please, let’s continue.’

The chef looked somewhat mollified but Chris continued to give her worried glances throughout the rest of the conversation.

‘We’ve sought you out because you are one of the most knowledgeable authorities on this particular substance,’ said Reilly. ‘I understand that you went to Asia to receive personal training in the preparation of Joker fruit?’

‘Yes,’ said the chef. ‘My wife and I went there ten years ago. She cooks also.’ Chris and Reilly exchanged a glance. A female killer perhaps? Not exactly part of the profile. But you never knew. Plus, not to make too many assumptions, but this guy looked like a teddy bear. It was hard to imagine him cooking up deadly potions for young women.

‘Do you use the fruit often?’ asked Chris.

‘Only in season. In Asia they mostly use it in savory dishes, to provide a sweet counterpart. It is very popular in Cambodia especially. There are many accidents though. It isn’t regulated, so any person can serve Joker Fruit and sometimes it is prepared poorly.’

‘People die?’

‘Some,’ said the chef. ‘The poison works very slowly, so most people are able to realize the symptoms and have their stomachs pumped. But it can cause bad nerve damage once it had stayed in the system for some days. Some people are never the same.’

‘A few days?’ said Reilly. ‘How much would it take to kill someone in a matter of hours?’

‘I can’t say for sure,’ said the chef. ‘I studied it for culinary purposes only. All I learnt about the seed is that you should throw it away. But it does have a reasonably strong outer shell that encases the poison. Once in the stomach, the shell is worn away by stomach acid and the poison begins to seep in slowly.’

‘Have you ever seen it made into antimine?’

‘No. I have not seen it in that form, thought I have had the process described to me. The shells must be cracked open and discarded, the poison poured out. It must go through a process of purification, where it is mixed at a high speed and made very, very fine. It is hard to do.’

‘Can you show us the Joker fruit?’ asked Reilly.

The chef nodded. ‘Come with me.’

They followed him into a kitchen that was not like a usual restaurant kitchen. Smaller, cozier, more like someone’s kitchen at home. He picked up a large, thick-skinned fruit and held it out to Reilly. It was an odd, ridged shape, almost square.

‘I am the only one who can prepare it in our kitchen,’ said the chef. ‘It is not dangerous if you know how to do it.’

‘Where were you last Friday night?’ asked Reilly. Already she knew the question to be pointless. This wasn’t the killer.

‘I was here,’ said the chef. ‘I finished early and then I took my wife and children to a movie. Am I in some trouble?’

‘No, no trouble at all,’ said Chris. ‘Thank you for your time. It’s been very informative.’

‘So,’ said Reilly afterwards, as Chris navigated the late afternoon traffic back to the GFU. ‘Let’s go over what we know so far. Our victim, Jennifer Armstrong, was a career woman who frequented dating sites. She was killed after eating a well-prepared meal laced with antimine. The fact that her death was reasonably quick indicates that the antimine was prepared professionally. There were no seeds in her stomach, which backs up this assumption. We have two previous instances from before, which were sloppier but still hold some of the same calling cards: professionally prepared meal, non-violent death, potential fetish held by the killer for the victim’s bed. Not much to go on.’

‘I think the bed thing is less of a fetish, and more of a compulsion,’ said Chris.

‘OK Freud,’ said Reilly. ‘Still, we need something else. I’ll check in with the crew when we get back, see if they’ve come up with anything from the trace. We just have to keep ploughing through.’

He looked sideways at her. ‘I would tell you to go home and rest after that little incident back there, but I have a feeling you won’t take to that too kindly.’

‘You’re right about that,’ she said, embarrassed afresh. ‘I don’t want to hear another word about it. I’ll admit I was worried for a minute but I must just have a stomach bug. I don’t need to go home and rest. I need to get something concrete in this case before it drives me mad.’

‘I hear you,’ said Chris. ‘Maybe we’ll strike it lucky. Maybe Kennedy actually did something useful at lunch, other than eat the biggest burger he could find.’

In fact, Pete Kennedy had discovered a thing or two while eating at Jumbo’s. He had found the burger restaurant he had been missing all of his life: the burgers there were big, juicy and delicious and they came with a serve of beer battered chunky fries. If this was heaven, then he was in it.

While he ate his burger, he got chatting to the waitress. Kennedy could always get a pretty girl to talk to him. His intentions were pure: he just liked to chat. He wasn’t threatening or sleazy.

‘You like working here?’ he asked the waitress.

She looked young, with curly brown hair and full pink lips. He had the feeling, looking at her sleepy eyes and the agitated way she kept moving her hands that she might not look young for much longer. A user.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Better than some places. They don’t shout at you here.’ Her accent was thick.

‘You from England, love?’

‘I am, yeah.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Manchester.’

‘Great place.’

‘I miss it,’ she admitted. ‘I thought that I’d come to Dublin and something good might happen, but I just fell in to this job, these people. It’s just like being back home, only I have no money and no family.’

‘You could go back,’ he said. ‘No shame in that.’ She smiled hopelessly, and he leaned forward. ‘I heard a girl who worked here got killed a couple of months ago? Do you know anything about that?’

‘You the grease, or something?’ Her demeanor changed suddenly, she got suspicious.

‘No, nothing like that,’ Kennedy lied smoothly. ‘Truth is, her father was a friend of mine and I’m just asking around for him. As you can imagine, he’s disappointed that no one’s been arrested.’

‘Well,’ she said, relaxing again. ‘We all are, aren’t we? ‘Specially as we know who done it, an’ all,’ Her accent slipped into her Manchester vernacular now that she was familiar with him.

‘Who was that, then?’

‘Harry McMurty. Used to work here. Real piece of work, he was. Used to try and get into all our pants, but only Rose would let him. She must have been mad. I mean, he’s handsome, sure, but just a real rat?’

‘Yeah, I know the type,’ said Kennedy. ‘So why didn’t the cops get him?’

‘Bloody fluff couldn’t catch their own arses if you ask me,’ she said. ‘Useless as anything.’

‘I agree with you,’ he said staunchly.

‘They said they hadn’t enough evidence. But here we all were saying it weren’t no one else but him. And they let him go. He’s got some fancy job over at Hammer and Tongs now. Smooth talker.’

‘Hammer and Tongs? What’s that?’

‘Real fancy place over on Baggot Street. Tuck your napkin into your shirt, wipe your nose for you that kind of place. He’s the head waiter or something. Wants to be maitre’d.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Kennedy. ‘You’ve been a real help.’

‘I hate that bugger, I do,’ the girl said with sudden vehemence. ‘I know Rose wasn’t much and a dreamer to boot but she were one of us and she didn’t deserve to what happened. I hope that rat gets it.’

‘We usually get what’s coming to us, pet,’ Kennedy said, getting up to leave.

‘Not that I’ve seen. It’s them willing to walk over the rest of us that get the cream.’

Kennedy left her a big tip. She would need it, poor girl. He’d seen so many like her, heading for disaster, but having two young daughters himself, he wanted to save them all.

The world was a harsh place, sucking in and spitting out young ones like that who were too young to stop it. It was a terrible shame.

Back at the GFU, he met up with Reilly and Chris in the lab.

Kennedy didn’t have anything against the blindingly impressive results that DNA could give them. But he still favored good old-fashioned detective work. He preferred to think of the stuff done here as a kind of alchemy, something magic. Not anything that these kids had to put hours and hours of work into. Just to extract the DNA from a single hair.

‘OK,’ said Gary, filling them in, like the show-man he was. ‘We managed to extract a single piece of hair from the bed at Jennifer Armstrong’s and compared it to the DNA of the two men who came forward and admitted to dating Jennifer. No match. But,’ he said, ‘and this is where you’ll want to give me a big kiss, it does match the DNA taken from the previous crime scene with the bed imprint in common. It’s a match. Your guy was at both scenes. And who knows how many others. Nothing from last month’s anitimine-related one unfortunately. Problem is we don’t have enough trace left to keep testing. We need to keep the rest to match against any real suspects.’

‘You’re a magician all right,’ said Kennedy. ‘Are you ready for that kiss?’

They all laughed. Reilly was relieved to have something to go on finally, but it only confirmed her worst fears.

With a stab of familiar resignation in her stomach, she acknowledged that they were dealing with a serial killer.