Silent Victim (3 page)

“Here it is,” she said, producing a crumpled piece of paper.

He took it and opened it up. It was a clumsy version of the kind of ransom note you might see on a cheaply produced television crime drama. The letters had all been cut from different parts of various magazines and pasted onto a plain sheet of white paper. RetrIbuTion is coMinG, it read. Prepare
TO
me
E
t Your
F
Ate.” His first thought was that she might have created it herself, a ploy for the attention she had been seeking all her life to fill the cavernous hole in her soul. But a look at the terror in her eyes banished that thought from his head. She was genuinely frightened.

“Have you gone to the police?” he asked.

She waved off his suggestion as though it were an annoying insect.

“Jersey cops,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Let us know when someone tries to kill you, and then maybe we’ll be interested. Better yet—give us a call if you are actually murdered.”

“They said that?”

“More or less. They made it clear they didn’t want to be bothered.”

“So you came to me.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she moaned, the old petulance creeping into her voice. “Raymond—that’s my boyfriend—he’s really nice, but he’s just a restaurant manager. He didn’t know what to do either.”

At the mention of her boyfriend, Lee breathed a bit more freely.

“I mean, you work with the police, right?” she said, her blue eyes imploring.

“Well, yes, but we don’t have jurisdiction in New Jersey.”

“But can’t you—I mean, couldn’t you investigate this on your own or something, without telling them?”

“Well, I’m not a detective—”

“But you’re a criminal profiler, right?”

“I’m a forensic psychologist.”

“Right—but you profile criminals, don’t you?”

“Among other things. What do you expect me to do?”

“Find out who’s stalking me. Do a profile on him—or whatever it is you do.”

“Do you have any idea who it might be?”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “I’ve been trying to think of someone. My boyfriend before Raymond broke up with me, so I don’t think it’s him. And he was really sweet and everything, anyway.”

“Does Raymond know you came to see me?”

She looked at him and frowned. “Am I terrible to not tell him? It’s just that I didn’t want him to worry.”

Or get jealous in case you decide to try to seduce me again,
Lee thought, but he said, “You shouldn’t be keeping secrets from him right now—not when your life could be in danger.”

“So—so you think it is?” she said, her voice wavering between fear and hope.

“I think it’s possible, and it’s best not to take any chances. Anyone else it could be?”

“Well, I’m working as a waitress at the Swan Hotel in Lambertville, and I see a lot of people every day, but mostly it’s wealthy, middle-aged people, and they’re usually pretty nice.” She fished around in her leather knapsack. “Look, money isn’t a problem. I’ll be glad to pay you whatever you—”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t even know what to charge you anyway.”

“So can you—help me?” she said, her voice thick.

Lee was touched, in spite of their history together—or maybe because of it. She seemed so vulnerable—perhaps fear had humbled her. Without her usual arrogance, she was actually rather appealing.

“I don’t see what I can possibly do,” he said.

He glanced at his watch. It was after seven, and he was already late for his dinner meeting.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, rising from the couch, “but I arranged to meet someone for dinner, and I’m late.”

She jumped up from the chair as though she were on springs. “Oh, sorry—I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time!”

“Please don’t apologize. I’m just sorry I can’t help,” he said, fetching her coat from the rack and holding it open for her.

She slipped her arms into the sleeves and hugged the coat around her body, shivering, even though the room was quite warm.

“I—I wish you’d change your mind,” she said, looking up at him with an expression that was part lost child, part seductress. That was her specialty, the woman/child in distress, guaranteed to reel in a certain percentage of the male population. His friend Chuck Morton would be helpless to resist her, he thought—if he weren’t already tied up with his own personal Circe.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just—”

“I’ve missed you, you know,” she said, holding his gaze longer than necessary. He was afraid she was going to try to kiss him. But she just took his hand and pressed it between her own. Her hands were cold and smooth and dry, her grip surprisingly strong.

He disentangled his hands from hers and opened the door for her.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I think you should take the note you showed me to the police in Flemington.”

She gave a quick shrug and looked away.

“Well, I tried. If something happens to me—”

“Take the note to the police,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

She gave a little laugh, like the tinkling of bells. “Yeah—right.”

And then she slipped out the door, leaving behind a trail of lilac perfume. He looked down at his hand and realized she had pressed a piece of paper into it containing her cell phone number. Hearing her quick, light step as she hurried down the stairs, he remembered from their days together in therapy that she always seemed to be in a hurry. He had a sharp, unexpected impulse to call after her—not because he was attracted to her, but because he was suddenly reluctant to let her venture out so unprotected into a wild and dangerous world.

Later, he would regret not heeding that impulse.

At first glance there seemed to be no connection between them.

A man in his twenties found floating in the Bronx River, cause of death: drowning. He was assumed initially to be a suicide.

Until the farewell note in his pocket was found to have been written by someone else.

A man in his forties found dead in his bathtub—a careless accident, perhaps. His hair dryer had fallen into the water, electrocuting him.

Except that he was bald.

It didn’t add up, and whoever staged the bathtub “accident” had to know it didn’t add up. Therefore, the clumsiness of the crime had to be taken as purposeful, and the manner of it as a challenge—no, a
taunt—to
the police. As for the floater—well, he wasn’t necessarily linked to the baldy in the bathtub, but there was that suicide note scribbled on the mirror in lipstick—
lipstick?
—that made the whole thing as fishy as the corpse the boys had pulled out of the river only two days before they found Baldy.

Chuck Morton had already come to these conclusions by the time he reached his office in the Bronx Major Case Unit on a warm morning in late August. He walked through the newly renovated lobby, across the polished marble floor to his cramped office in the back of the first floor. He plugged in his new automatic coffeemaker and added water and precisely six tablespoons of coffee, listening to the hum of the heating coil as it began to whir into life.

Charles Chesterfield Morton was a precise man. He liked his rituals at a certain time: black Kenyan coffee from Fairway first thing in the morning, with exactly one teaspoon of sugar and a dollop of cream.

His phone rang and he grabbed it.

“Morton here.”

“Ah, yes, Chuck … how are you?”

Morton scowled. He recognized the voice at once—it was Deputy Chief Police Commissioner Steven Connelly, a man he despised. A call from him first thing on a Monday morning couldn’t be anything good. And when Connelly called him by his first name, it was an especially bad sign.

Morton sank down in his chair.

“Fine, sir,” he said, “and you?”

“Great, just great.”

Morton ran a hand through his short blond hair.
Get to the point, for Christ’s sake.
He knew from experience that the more Connelly stalled, the worse the news he could expect.

“And your lovely wife—how is she?”

Morton suppressed a groan.

“She’s very well, sir—thank you for asking.”

The deputy chief cleared his throat.

“Have you picked your team yet for this drowning business on Arthur Avenue?”

“Well, sir, I—”

“I’m sending someone your way, Chuck, and I want you to take her under your wing, so to speak.”

“Yes, sir. Who is it?’

But before he asked the question, he already knew the answer.

“Elena Krieger. She just finished working undercover on the Strickley Affair, so I’m assigning her to you. She’s a specialist in linguistic forensics—one of the best in the department. You need someone who can decipher those fake suicide notes, right?”

Chuck had never met Elena Krieger, but had heard enough to convince him they weren’t going to get along.

But all he said was, “Yes, sir.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if the deputy chief was waiting for him to raise an objection.

“Okay, then,” Connelly said finally, sounding surprised that Morton wasn’t arguing with him. Chuck knew from experience that it wouldn’t do any good. Connelly cleared his throat again. “Who’s the primary on this one?”

“Detective Leonard Butts,” Chuck said.

“Oh, yeah, that funny little guy who chews on cigars?”

“Right.”

“Okay, Chuck, give me a full report as soon as you have anything, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, and hung up.

Elena Krieger had risen quickly through the ranks to become sergeant, then lieutenant, and now detective. Oh, she was brilliant—and comely enough, so everyone said—tall and red haired and curvy and all the rest of it, but that didn’t cheer him up one bit. Connelly’s solicitous manner made Chuck suspect that he had slept with her. He pictured the deputy chief’s skinny legs poking out from striped boxer briefs as he was straddled by a red-headed Amazon in a push-up bra. The image made him shudder.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Morton barked, gazing with dismay at the mounting pile of paperwork on his desk.

Sergeant Ruggles poked his pink, bullet-shaped head through the door.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Message for you, sir—came in just as you arrived.”

Ruggles had recently joined the NYPD after a stint as a beat cop in London. His accent was pure North Country, with the wide vowels and truncated consonants of that part of England. Chuck still hadn’t gotten used to how polite he was.

“What is it?” he said.

“Detective Krieger called to say she’s on her way and will be here in half an hour, sir.” Morton frowned.

“The Valkyrie rides again,” he muttered. “Damn.”

Ruggles’s pink forehead crinkled. “Excuse me, sir?”

“That’s what they called her at Brooklyn South.”

“On account of her being German, sir?”

“That—and other things.”

Ruggles coughed delicately.

“I’ve heard she’s very … good looking, sir.”

“Yeah, sure—a goddamn Teutonic goddess.”

He looked up at Sergeant Ruggles, who was still lingering uncomfortably at the door, his thick fingers wrapped around the door handle.

“That’s all, Sergeant,” he said stiffly, and Ruggles withdrew, stumbling over his own feet as he backed out of the room.

Chuck frowned and opened the case file in front of him.

A lot of what he did as captain of the major cases squad was calculated to intimidate, impress, and control those under him. He kept the real Chuck Morton deeply hidden. Squad commander was a role, and the script had been written long ago by people other than him. He knew that his success depended upon following it carefully: he must be strong, decisive, and, when necessary, intimidating.

For example, he liked Sergeant Ruggles, and had they met in a bar, might have asked him about his weekend, but as his superior officer he maintained a cool distance between them.

The coffeemaker on the windowsill, a recent gift from his wife, began to spit and pop, and the smell of freshly brewing coffee infiltrated the room.
Krieger.
How appropriate. He remembered enough from his college German to know it meant “warrior” in that language.

The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up and growled into the receiver.

“Morton here.”

“Hiya, Chuck—it’s Rob Murphy.”

Rob Murphy had worked with Krieger at Brooklyn South, and had just about blown a gasket, according to Tanya Jackson, his ever competent and eavesdropping sergeant.

“What’s up, Rob?”

“I hear the Valkyrie is headed your way.”

“You heard right. Any advice?”

“Yeah. Play your cards close, and don’t take any crap.”

“I hear you worked with her on the Strickley Affair.”

“Jesus Christ, Chuck, I never came so close in my life to hitting a woman.”

The Strickley Affair was a delicate matter involving a corruption sting on a local union official. Krieger was working undercover, but had threatened to blow it all sky high when the official’s son hit developed a crush on her and started following her around. He was beginning to get suspicious just as they finally collected enough evidence to round up the whole lot of crooks.

“Let’s just say that Krieger wasn’t exactly a team player,” Murphy added.

“Thanks,” said Chuck.

“Let me know how it goes,” Murphy said.

“Okay,” Chuck said, and hung up. The room suddenly felt overheated; he rolled his shirt sleeves up over his muscular forearms and opened his collar.

There were rumors that Krieger had been transferred because of Murphy’s insistence he would never work with her again. And now Chuck was stuck with her just as he was about to investigate two very bogus-looking suicides.

He stared glumly at the full coffeepot on the windowsill. Normally he looked forward to this moment, when he could relax and enjoy a fresh cup of coffee after the long commute to the office. He had even splurged and bought some Jamaican Blue Mountain to mix with his Kenyan AA, but knowing he was about to meet the Valkyrie took away his enthusiasm.

Chuck poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip, but it tasted bitter.

There was another knock on the door—sharper this time, brisk and businesslike. Chuck took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

“Come in.”

He smiled grimly.
Let the games begin.