Blood Red (31 page)

“Yes, but here, no one would bother me. Look how peaceful it is. No crowds, no panhandlers, no naked raving lunatics—­”

“There was just one naked raving lunatic and that was a few years ago.”

“That's one too many. Plus,” she continues, “there are no sirens, there's no construction . . .”

“Because the weather's crappy and it's a weekday.” He zips his coat as they get out of the car. “I bet this place is jammed at high noon on a Saturday in July.”

“I bet Central Park is jammed right now,” she returns, noticing an Apartments for Rent sign in the window of a mansard-­roofed mansion that houses law and dental offices.

Reading her mind, Barnes says, “You don't want to live there. It's got to be haunted.”

“Ghosts? Pfffft.” She shrugs. “That's nothing compared to what we've seen. And I'm not even talking about the naked lunatic.”

He can't argue with that logic—­which ordinarily doesn't stop him, but this time, he refrains. Instead, he points out that it's starting to snow.

“See that? It's just like I told you the other day. This isn't city snow.”

“Sadistic snow.”

“Right. This isn't sadistic snow. It's a Christmassy snow. Kind, gentle small-­town snow. You have to admit that there's something to be said for this Main Street USA stuff.”

“You have to admit that if you lived here, you'd never find a decent bagel, or a black and white cookie.”

“Sure I would. Look at that.” She points to a painted shingle hanging alongside the door of a bakery. “It's called the Gingersnap Sweet Shop. I think it's an omen.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, well, try finding San Shan soup and shredded beef with spicy Asian green chili leeks and white rice around here.”

“There's more to life than food, Barnes.”

“You're right. There's sex.”

“Leave it to you.” She rolls her eyes, grinning.

“Well, come on. Who are you going to date when you move up here? Them?” He points at a trio of elderly men chatting in front of the café, and another one getting out of an enormous white car. All are wearing the suburban great-­grandpa uniform: newsboy caps and galoshes.

“They're a step up from my dating pool back home. Anyway, don't worry. I'm not going to do it, because then there would be no one around to keep you in line.”

“I didn't even know moving here was an option until now.”

“Neither did I.”

Barnes shakes his dark head. “You'll never leave New York.”

He's right, of course. Yet as they walk down the steps to police headquarters, she can't help but compare it to the chaotic, strictly functional precinct back home. This one is housed on the basement level of a stately brick building that was once, according to a historic placard, an opera house. Now it's a movie theater showing an art house film that just opened in New York.

Five minutes later, they're seated in a cozy office with the darkly handsome Lieutenant Nick Colonomos and clutching fragrant, steaming beverages: coffee for Barnes, tea for Sully. Not whole leaf, but she had her pick of Earl Grey or chamomile. The chairs beneath them are vintage and upholstered, facing a sidewalk-­level window high in the wall. There are no bars on the glass, and beyond it, the locals are visible strolling—­not scurrying—­about their daily business.

Colonomos quickly briefs them on the case, then asks, “Did you find any evidence that Julia Sexton had a stalker in the days leading up to her murder?”

Sully and Stockton look at each other and shake their heads.

“Well, Brianna Armbruster was receiving gifts from someone calling himself her Secret Santa,” Colonomos informs them. “A neighbor says she saw someone lurking around her house on Monday afternoon.”

“What were the gifts?” Sully asks.

“Those bracelet beads the girls are collecting . . . you know what I mean? Painted, enamel, with little stick figures. Trinkettes, I think they're called.”

She shakes her head and Barnes informs Colonomos, “You're asking the wrong person. That's not really her thing.”

“What's not really my thing? I love bracelets, and beads. And . . . trinkets.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. I mean, I'm not going to wear that stuff to work, but . . .” She scowls at Barnes before asking Colonomos—­who really is drop-­dead gorgeous—­to tell them more about the beads.

He spins his chair around to face the polished wood console perpendicular to his desk. After pulling up an image on his laptop, he turns the screen to face them.

“This is the Trinkettes Web site, just to show you what they are.”

“You have to buy them online?”

“No, some higher-­end boutiques carry them, too, but they're still catching on so there aren't many. A store right here in town sells them and I have an officer over there right now.” He clicks from the array of painted enamel beads to a search screen and types something in, talking the whole time. “When we searched Brianna's locker at the high school, we found that he'd set out a whole treasure hunt for her. We confiscated a bead he'd hidden in the cafeteria. This is the one.”

He zooms in on an image of a stick figure depicted in a classic runner pose, with the word
Runner
etched beneath. “Her parents found another one in her bedroom. It was this.”

Sully's eyes widen as he zeroes in on the design: a stick figure crowned by long crimson curls and etched with the word
Redhead
.

 

From the
Mundy's Landing Tribune
Archives

Lifestyles

October 1999

Historical Society Acquires

Conroy-­Fitch Mansion

When she stepped in to helm the Mundy's Landing Historical Society upon the retirement of her great-­aunt Etta in 1956, Ora Abrams inherited a subterranean closetlike office, a heap of unpaid bills, and a trove of artifacts relegated to numbered bins in a cramped space between the boiler and the janitor's sink.

She also inherited her aunt's fondest dream—­one that wasn't meant to come to fruition in Etta Abrams's lifetime. But it's about to be realized in her niece Ora's. Housed for nearly a century in the basement of the Elsworth Ransom Library, the society is at last about to move into a home of its own with the purchase of a grand stone mansion that dates back to the late nineteenth century.

Built in 1891 at 62 Prospect Street on the site of the former Penrod Hotel, which burned to the ground several years earlier, the home was a lavish wedding gift from banker Barnaby Fitch to his bride, Edith Conroy. Childless and widowed young, she bequeathed the home to her only heir, great-­nephew Rudolph Conroy, a concert pianist. Mr. Conroy resided there until his death in 1985, leaving it to his longtime companion, Kenneth Stone, from whose estate the historical society purchased it. “Over the past eight years, the profits from our annual summer fund-­raiser have exceeded my wildest dreams,” she said, “and not only were we able to buy this lovely property, but we'll be able to put some much-­needed work into it.”

Ms. Abrams detailed planned restoration and renovation, including plumbing and electrical updates and tearing down a crumbling carriage house to make room for a parking lot. While the home itself will remain as period-­authentic as possible, she envisions building an annex equipped with state of the art technology, where the society can hold event-­related meetings, seminars, and panel discussions. For now, however, she's focused on moving the exhibits to the new quarters in time for next summer's convention.

“Aunt Etta would be thrilled about this,” Ms. Abrams noted, adding, with perhaps a glint of a tear in her gray eyes, “And so, of course, am I.”

 

Chapter 17

R
owan was hoping the sing-­along in what was once the Conroy-­Fitch mansion's music room would banish “I Would Die 4 U” from her head. It's been playing in the back of her mind all morning, ever since she thought about the time she ran away to the Prince concert in Hartford.

But as Ora jauntily plays carols on the upright piano, Rowan finds that “I Would Die 4 U” mingles discordantly with old favorites like “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” which has suddenly taken on an ominous significance.

She can't stop thinking about Jake, and the conversation she's going to have with him the moment she sees him. It feels wrong that whatever is about to unfold with Rick will have happened before Jake even has an inkling about it.

“You better watch out, you better not cry,” she sings, well aware that Santa Claus isn't the only one who's coming to town.

In the midst of the cacophony, the strange mourning brooch on her coat catches her eye every time she moves her head, standing out like a scarlet letter. Is that what the sender had intended? Had she branded herself an adulteress when she unwittingly pinned it on? Has he—­whoever
he
is, if not Rick—­been gloating from afar? Or, God help her, from nearby?

Her instinct was to hurtle the brooch into the bushes when she took it off outside after she discovered what it was. But it's evidence, just like the cookies and the snow globe. She has to show it to Noreen. Plus, sharp-­eyed Ora Abrams would immediately notice that it was missing. With great reluctance, she pinned it back on before reentering the mansion.

At last, the sing-­along is over and it's time to move on to the kitchen for cookies and cocoa. Again, Rowan goes through the motions, chatting with the chaperones and their hostess as the students descend on the treats.

“You know, Rowan, you really should consider volunteering here next summer during the convention,” Ora tells her. “It's the hundredth anniversary of the murders, and the town's three-­hundred-­fiftieth birthday, and we'll be opening the time capsule that was buried in 1916. We're expecting record crowds. We need all the help we can get.”

“Mmm, maybe I will,” she says absently.

“I hope so. I'll be training the extra guides, and with your built-­in knowledge of our history—­and your last name—­you'd be a big hit. We really need more locals to be involved so that we can keep it from becoming . . .”

“Aren't all the volunteers local?” Bari asks when she trails off.

“Pardon my phrasing—­I should have said
natives
,” Ora says, fixing her with a gaze that informs her that the
natives
distinguish themselves from the collective population.

Undaunted, Bari jerks Rowan back into the conversation. “So Ms. Mundy, as a teacher in our district, you don't find it the least bit inappropriate to take part in an event that celebrates the deaths of innocent young girls?”

“What? No, it isn't—­”

“It's not a celebration, my dear,” Ora cuts in sweetly, but her gray eyes have hardened into flint as she addresses Bari. “It's a commemoration. That's very different.”

“Not really. We moved here last summer and I was shocked at what I saw. All those ­people invading our town, talking and laughing like it was one big . . . party.”

Invading our town?
Our
town?

“Whenever ­people come together, even to mark a solemn occasion . . . there are going to be moments of enjoyment,” Miss Abrams tells her. “Have you never been to a Memorial Day parade or barbecue?”

As Bari claims that she has not, Rowan reminds herself not to say or do anything she'll regret later. This might feel personal, but it's nonetheless a professional situation.

She picks up a tree-­shaped cutout cookie from the platter to keep her mouth busy. Iced and painstakingly decorated, it's probably delicious, but it tastes like the flour and salt dough she'd used to make ornaments as a kid, and the cocoa chaser might as well be water.

All she can think about is what lies ahead.

Noreen is on her way to Mundy's Landing.

So is Rick.

If he isn't behind any of this . . . who is?

W
hen Sully's cell phone rings with a call from the precinct, she quickly excuses herself from Lieutenant Colonomos's office.

The waiting room beyond has hardwood floors, plaster walls, and dark wood moldings. The furniture is entirely devoid of plastic, metal, and particle board. Nice. Really nice. Not just nicer than the precinct, but nicer than Sully's apartment—­and a hell of a lot bigger.

She answers her phone. “Detective Leary.”

“Where are you?” It's Jin Kim, the on-­duty desk sergeant.

“In Mundy's Landing.”

“Okay, listen. A call came in to the tip line a few minutes ago about the case you're working.”

“The Sexton case?”

“Right. Some guy said he had some information and he wanted to talk to you.”

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing. Not a damned thing, other than that he wanted to talk to you and only you.”

“Why?”

“No clue. But he wanted your personal number.”

Her heart is pounding. “Did you give it to him?”

“No! I told him to call back in five minutes and I'd patch him through. He agreed. Can you sit tight until he calls back?”

Of course she can.

“Did you get his name, location, anything like that?” she asks Jin.

“He was on a cell phone and he tried to block the number, but of course we traced it right away.”

“Of course.” Cakewalk compared to some tech-­related tasks.

“It was a Jersey area code. We got his name.”

“What is it?”

“It's Richard Walker.”

T
he final segment of the historical society tour, after the cookies and cocoa, takes the class into the small modern annex behind the kitchen. It feels strikingly ordinary after the sumptuous mansion.

Everything about the meeting room is monochromatic and rectangular: the furniture, windows, tile floor, drop ceiling, and beige-­painted cinder block walls.

“All right, boys and girls,” Miss Abrams says, “now we're going to see how well you were paying attention. We're going to divide into two teams and play a trivia game.”

Predictably, Amanda Hicks immediately waves her hand in the air. “I want to be a captain!”

“No captains,” Rowan says firmly. “We don't do schoolyard picks.”

Predictably, Bari Hicks protests. “Why not? It's the only fair way to do it.”

“Because it's
not
fair. It's a popularity contest, and someone always has to be picked last.”

“So? That's life,” she says, apparently confident that her own daughter would be among the first chosen.

Somehow, Rowan refrains from telling her that the opposite would be the case, but it's getting more difficult to control her temper when she's already under enough duress. She excuses herself from the room after the kids count off numbers, odds versus evens, and line up on opposite walls for the showdown.

Outside, snow is coming down harder. She turns on her phone again.

There are no new texts and no messages. But that's not why she's here.

She takes a few deep breaths in an ineffectual effort to steady her nerves, then shakily dials Jake's number.

“W
hy you?” Barnes asks, predictably, when Sully tells him and Colonomos about the tip line caller's request. “We were both mentioned by the media in connection with the case.”

“Yes, but I'm the one with the sparkling personality.”

“You're also the one with the red hair.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

She and Barnes exchange a long look. He's obviously thinking the same thing: that the caller, Rick Walker, might very well be the killer.

Her phone rings right on cue.

She picks it up immediately. “This is Detective Leary.”

“Hello there, Detective.” Rick Walker's voice is mid-­range, pleasant, unaccented. There's music playing in the background.

“With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

Ignoring her question, he asks one of his own: “Where are you?”

“I'll tell you if you tell me.”

“Very clever, Detective,” he croons in a tone that sends shivers down her spine. Not good shivers. Creeped-­out-­by-­a-­psychopath shivers.

“Do we have a deal, then?” she asks him, recognizing the background music.

It's U2. “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.”

Bloody . . .

She wonders if he's trying to send her a message.

“You'd have to promise to be honest with me if we do this, Detective Leary.”

Sully looks at Barnes, who nods.

“Absolutely. And you'd have to promise to be honest with me.”

“Of course, although . . . promises. Promises are never quite as convincing as proof. Do you agree?”

“Absolutely,” she says again.

“Well, you really are brilliant. We can text photographs to prove our locations. Make sure that yours is a selfie. I'd dearly love a photo of you.”

“And I'd love one of you.”

He laughs. “Nice try. A photo of my surroundings will have to suffice.”

“It wouldn't prove anything unless you're in it.”

Barnes jots something on the pad and shows it to Colonomos as the caller laughs again, saying, “Now that would be stupid of me, wouldn't it? To send you a picture of myself? I enjoy my anonymity. Really, I do.”

Yeah, so did I
, she thinks grimly, realizing she's going to be looking over her shoulder until they catch this guy.

Colonomos nods at whatever Barnes wrote on the pad. Barnes slides it toward and mouths,
Keep him talking.

The call is being recorded, of course, back at the precinct, and they'll be attempting to trace it. The longer she keeps the guy on the line, the better.

“If you sent a photograph, how would I even know you took it right now?” she asks. “It could be any old picture stored in your phone.”

“You're right. It could. I have to admit, you're very, very clever, Detective.”

The way he says it suggests that he's certain she's not as clever as he is.

We'll just see about that.

She glances at the note on the pad in front of her, and nods at Barnes and Colonomos.

“Okay,” she says into the phone, “here's what I want. I want you to pull up a map on your phone that can show GPS coordinates of your location. And then I want you to take a screenshot and send it to me.”

“A screenshot?”

“Yes. One that shows a bull's-­eye of your location, and it has to be time stamped, obviously.”

She fully expects him to refuse, well aware that the NYPD would instantly put out an APB and, given the population-­dense tri-­state area, probably have an officer at just about any location in the city or its suburbs within seconds. There are so many security cameras in the area that even if it took a few minutes to get a live person on the scene, they'd have a virtual eye on his location right away and track him if he tried to get away.

“Fair enough,” he says, to her surprise. “You tell me, and then I tell you.”

“No, you tell me, and then I tell you.”

“I may be accommodating, but I'm not stupid, and neither are you. You first. And I want a photo. Deal?”

She hesitates for only a moment, glad she's well over a hundred miles away from the city and the New Jersey suburbs where his phone is registered. It's not as if he's going to materialize here in a matter of seconds, even if he is by chance responsible for Brianna Armbruster's disappearance.

“Deal,” she says.

“Good thinking. Where are you?”

“I'm in a little town in upstate New York called Mundy's Landing.”

The statement is met with silence, followed by a long, hard laugh—­and then a click.

“Bastard,” she whispers.

A moment later, her phone buzzes with an incoming text.

It's a screenshot of a map—­with a GPS bull's-­eye located a few blocks away, right here in Mundy's Landing.

I
t takes Jake a few rings to answer Rowan's call, and when he does, he sounds harried. “Hey. What's up?”

“Where are you?”

“Don't tell me you forgot again.”

“No, I mean, I know you're in Saratoga Springs, but I meant . . . are you in the meeting?”

“We broke for lunch. We're about to go back in. What's up?” he repeats.

“I just needed to talk to you about something. It's important. Otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered you there.”

“What is it?”

Hearing the impatience in his voice and the hubbub of background voices, she knows she made a mistake. Why did she think it was a good idea to have this conversation over the phone? Especially when he's in the middle of an important sales meeting?

“Never mind. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—­”

“Are you okay? The kids?”

“The kids are fine,” she says quickly.

“You're not fine, though.”

“How do you know that?”

“I didn't, but you just confirmed it. What's going on?”

“Nothing. I'll talk to you when you get home tonight.”

“It's not nothing, Ro. I can tell by your voice. And I won't be home until really late. Tell me.”

His tone is so gentle, despite the fact that he's in the midst of an important meeting. She opens her mouth to tell him to forget it, but a choked little sob is all that comes out.

“Hang on.”

She hears him tell whomever he's with that he has to step outside, and the background noise fades away.

“Okay,” Jake says quietly, “you're scaring me. Are you sick? What's going on?”