Bone Thief (15 page)

The drive to Sheepshead Bay was a sluggish one. There was construction on the Belt Parkway at Ocean Avenue. Workers in overalls and hard hats were plugging potholes that the snows of last winter had carved into the asphalt.

She veered the Maxima off at Knapp Street and, turning right, headed for Emmons Avenue. Pulling up in front of a parking meter, she turned off the engine. She could feel the hammering of her heart. Flipping down the visor, she checked her eye makeup and took a deep breath.

When she entered The Lobster Trap, she was struck by the din of a hundred conversations in progress. She was momentarily disoriented but recovered as her eyes searched the bar for the telltale flower. There was no amaryllis on the bar. Was she too early? The grandfather clock at the end of the bar said otherwise. Maybe she should go back to the car, wait fifteen or twenty minutes, and return to the bar appropriately late, or perhaps she should make herself comfortable and order a glass of Chablis.
Could he have been detained?
she wondered. Maybe that glass of wine would settle her nerves, after all. She stepped up to the bar and ordered her drink.

The bartender smiled as he poured the wine into a stemmed crystal glass. She felt as if her femininity were exposed to the world. She hadn't been out to meet a man in eight years.

She glanced at her watch. What was keeping him? As she watched the second hand sweep past the twelve on the face of her Timex, a thought occurred. How much time was left on that meter? She believed there was a two-hour limit. Or was it one?

With purse in hand, she headed for the revolving door. As soon as she stepped out onto the street, she spotted him. He was standing there, facing the restaurant, a strikingly dressed man holding an amaryllis.

“Hello,” she said as her heart raced.

She stared at him, shock and bewilderment still ablaze in her eyes. The rope singed swollen flesh at her wrists and ankles, worsened by her futile attempts to loosen the restraints that held fast to the wooden chair.

Colm heard her mutter something through the plumbing tape. It was unintelligible, but her eyes flashed a threat. How audacious some of them remained, even at the end, he thought.

“You would have been a gracious dinner guest,” he said. “Unfortunately, given the circumstances, I thought it best to wait outside. It wouldn't have been wise to have us seen together, now, would it?”

Vengeful eyes stared back at him.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before you'd come out. Thank goodness you were alone. I wasn't sure what I'd do if you had brought company.” He pulled up a chair and took a seat across from her. “I hadn't planned this ending, you know. I kept thinking it might be OK to simply recover the beeper and be done with it. I even considered the thought of actually keeping my promise and sharing a meal with you. But my resolve dissipated and a more familiar yearning kicked in…pure rapture. You're sure to rival some of my most cherished trophies.”

Realization settled, in her dilated pupils as she watched him nonchalantly reach for the blade.

“OK, here's what we've got,” said Margaret, her voice strong, her eyes focused on Driscoll's, giving the Lieutenant the sense that she was OK with how things were. “Deirdre McCabe was hooked up at America Online. We got zip on Monique Beauford, our drifter. And the tea heiress, well, we're not sure what she used, although the whiz kid claims she had an account with Juno. The folks over at Juno list an A. Stockard on their books. But, their Internet service is free, so—”

“So they have nothing more than an A. Stockard. No billing address. No phone number.”

“You got it.”

“Juno. Netscape. I tell you, it's all Greek to me. Moira even
thinks
in another language.”

“You've gotta realize that these kids are miles ahead on the information superhighway.”

What was Margaret up to? Driscoll wondered. She sounded like she had become a fan of the technogeek.
She's just being contrary
, he surmised.

“The Internet is the tool of tomorrow,” Margaret continued.

“And possibly a killing field today.”

“I've been doing a little research. Thought I'd sharpen my skills.”

“And what did you discover?”

“Did you know that the Internet got its start as a project of the Defense Department? They had urged certain universities to link their computers in the name of scientific exploration. The idea caught on, and before anyone realized it, everybody, scholar, peddler and soothsayer alike, was linked. They're predicting 400 million cybersites by the next millennium.”

“And to think I thought George Orwell was a dreamer. Four hundred million sites?” Driscoll wondered. Then after a pause, he asked, “Could Moira be right about the killer luring his victims through the Internet?”

“She thinks she is.”

“OK, I promised her I'd look into her theory, so let's pull the computers available to the McCabe and Stockard women and have the guys over at the Computer Investigation & Tech Unit see if they can match up any common Web sites, e-mail messages, or instant messages. If they can establish any sort of common link or IP address, then we may have something to run with.”

“I'll call Lieutenant White over there. He has a thing for me. He'll see to it they get on it right away.”

The desk phone purred. The Lieutenant grabbed it. “Driscoll, here…Uh-huh…We'll be right there.”

Margaret stared at him, her face a question mark.

“Victim number four's a floater. She just washed ashore under the Brooklyn Bridge. Let's go.”

 

From the right lane of the bridge, Driscoll could make out a cluster of emergency vehicles on the span's Brooklyn side.

He exited at Court Street and circled around to the waterfront. A yellow police ribbon marked the zone closed to the public. Brooklynites watched uniformed police officers and plainclothes detectives explore the area. Driscoll and Margaret flashed their shields and stepped under the ribbon, and onto the sandy shore.

The bridge, colossal in its architecture and straddling the river in its massive concrete and brick pontoons, cast an ominous shadow over the crime scene.

“What a dreary place to die,” Margaret muttered.

“Awesome, is more like it,” Driscoll said, assessing the bridge's huge expansion cables.

“I think they're waiting for us.” Margaret gestured to the Forensics Team, the local precinct's squad detectives, and the members of the Harbor Patrol that were gathered around the victim's boneless remains. The headless corpse lay three feet from the shoreline. The hands and feet were missing as well.

An older detective walked over to where they were standing. Driscoll recognized him, but couldn't remember his name.

“Chief of Ds called. Says we should turn this one over to you, Lieutenant.”

“What have we got?” Driscoll asked, approaching the human wreckage.

“Two strollers discovered the floater a little after ten this morning. They're back at the house now, but they really didn't see anything. Guzman is taking their statements. I'll have the DD5s hand-delivered to your office as soon as they're typed. Other than that, there's not much to go on. From the looks of it, she wasn't killed here. And the fact that she's bloated up like that says she's been in the water for some time.”

Driscoll hunched over the flotsam. He scanned the body and the immediate area for a driver's license or some other form of ID. There was none to be found. But his eye detected something. There appeared to be some sort of marking on the victim's right arm.

“What's that?” he asked.

“What's what?” the older detective responded.

“Get the ME over here, and the Crime-Scene guy with his camera,” Driscoll ordered.

The Lieutenant knew not to touch the body. Floaters were delicate, and if not handled correctly would either explode in your face from all the gasses built up inside, or fall apart like tenderized meat. Better to let the experts handle the corpse. The cops in the Harbor Patrol were good at it, but the ME was better.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” It was Jasper Eliot, the Medical Examiner's assistant.

“You see something? Right there on the forearm? Looks like a tattoo or something? Can you make it out?”

Eliot gingerly moved the remains of the body to expose the forearm. “This, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, that's it. Crime Scene, get a closeup of that. I want it blown up and at my office in an hour.”

The Forensics photographer took several shots from different angles. When he was finished, Driscoll leaned in to get a closer look. “Son of a bitch.” he grumbled.

Driscoll knew in an instant what he was looking at. This psycho liked to ID his victims, and this poor woman's ID was etched into the skin of her forearm. It was a barely readable inscription, in black ink:

L t w For t r M m ry
1041944

“Margaret, our killer is playing with us. He left us a clue. He wants us to decipher its meaning.”

“Looks like a tattoo to me. With some of the letters rubbed off.”

“What do you think? Should we send this down to Quantico? Maybe their Hieroglyphics Unit can tell us what it means.”

“I don't know, John. Santangelo will have your head if he finds out you invited the FBI into the case.”

“I know, but how many more women have to die just because he's too proud to ask for help?”

“Good point.”

“OK, see what you can do to decipher it yourself, but, as soon as the photographs come in, express mail a set down to Quantico. Who do we know that works with the Feds?”

“Cedric knows a guy on the Joint Drug Task Force.”

“Good. Have Cedric get a hold of his buddy and ask him to make a call for us. See if Hieroglyphics can work on this and keep it between us.”

“Will do.”

“All right. Call everybody over here.”

Margaret rounded up the precinct detectives, the Harbor Patrol, and the Crime-Scene investigators. Once everyone was gathered in one place, Driscoll said, “Listen up, everybody. The first thing I want to know is where this body came from. Then, how did it get here? Harbor Patrol, contact the Coast Guard. Have them check their high-and low-tide charts and consider the currents. See if they can determine where she may have been placed in the water. At least have them give you an educated guess. “Crime Scene, wait here until the tide goes out. Then I want you to collect every scrap of paper, every bottle cap, and every speck of trash that's left on the beach, and process it. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

Driscoll turned to the senior detective. “You and your squad, go with the body to the morgue. I want the autopsy done today. Make sure that everything is done right and that nothing is overlooked. Let me know what the autopsy reveals. If there was water in her lungs, I want to know about it. That sick bastard may have watched her drown before he cut her open. Or he might have dissected her first and dumped her from some boat. See what's in her stomach. Maybe that'll lead us somewhere. I want the whole ball of wax. Got it?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I'll call you as soon as it's done.”

“That'd be good. Thanks for your help.”

Driscoll's face turned somber as his eyes caught sight of the Forensic Team bagging the remains of the fourth female victim. “We gotta catch this guy, Margaret. He's beginning to tread on my dreams.”

Margaret hurried into Driscoll's office to report her findings. She had stolen Quantico's thunder. She had broken the code herself.

“I've got the missing letters,” she said, authoritatively. “ES, E, GE, HE, E, and O. The full inscription reads: “Lest We Forget Her Memory, 1041944. Our “Jane Doe” is Jewish. I traced her through the Holocaust Survivors' Bureau using the number. It's a date. Not only do they maintain records of the survivors, but they also reveal a wealth of information about their descendants.”

“The autopsy of her remains says she's too young to be a Holocaust victim, herself,” said Driscoll.

“But her grandmother wasn't. Florence Tischman died at Auschwitz, October 4, 1944.” Margaret gave Driscoll photocopies of the documents she had gathered at the Holocaust Survivors' Bureau.

“And, she had a child,” Driscoll surmised.

“Maxine. Born in 1942. The camp was liberated by the Red Army. The Red Cross inherited the babies. Maxine arrived in New York in 1946, as a ward of the Jewish Rescue Mission. She was later adopted by a family in Brooklyn, where she lived for the rest of her life. In 1964, Maxine Cooperman gave birth to a daughter, Sarah. She's our victim.”

“Why the tattoo?”

“We'd need to ask her that one. My guess would be strong allegiance to family.”

“The poor woman. Her mother escapes the Gestapo, but Sarah can't manage to dodge our murderous madman.”

“Sarah had a child. A young boy.”

“Where's the father?”

“Works as a banker. In Tel Aviv.”

“And the boy?”

“Sarah's mother-in-law, Anita Benjamin, had called in a missing person. She's sure to have some information on the boy, and hopefully some knowledge of Sarah's last known whereabouts.”

“You'll be following up with her?”

“My next order of business.”

“Margaret, you beat the Feds at their own game. How does it feel?”

“Great!”

“While we're on the subject of feelings, are you OK with how things are? Between us, I mean?”

“I should be asking you that question. You're the one who's bearing all the emotional stress. Stress you don't need to carry, I might add. I do have one question, though.” There was that rapid heartbeat again.

“Fire away.”

“Have you given any more thought to what I said about Colette's take on this?”

“You mean about me seeing other women?”

“This woman!”

The notion blindsided Driscoll. She certainly got right to the heart of the matter. He had to admire her directness. “What we shared the other night was wonderful. I forgot I could feel so good. The truth is, I do have strong feelings for you. I'd be lying if I said I didn't. But, I still need more time to think things over.”

Margaret gazed into the Lieutenant's eyes. “John, I appreciate your being frank with me. I really didn't know what to think. You've seemed so distant lately. I thought you had some regret over what happened between us. I'm happy to hear you don't.” A smile erupted on Margaret's face. She took Driscoll's hand. “Take all the time you need to sort things out. I'm not going anywhere.”

It was Driscoll's turn to smile.