Burning Time (34 page)

“It’s going to take a while. Why don’t you sit down,” April said firmly.

She could see he wanted to do it his way. He had been standing all this time by the machine. He seemed to have to think it over for a minute before sitting down at his desk.

“The doorman last night didn’t see her leave. That means she left before eleven,” April said patiently. “We’ll talk to the day doorman. We’ll try to find someone who saw her leave the building, set a time. If she met anybody, or someone stopped her on the street. If she got in a car. This is a busy neighborhood. Someone must have seen her. We’ll get a description.”

“But I
know
who it is, and he’s not going to keep her around while you’re busy setting times,” Jason said bitterly. “We’re talking about my wife and a man with a violent history. He’s going to kill her or rape her, or burn her.” His voice caught on the words. “Look, I’ll find her if I have to do it myself.”

April couldn’t help being impressed by him. He loved his wife, and he was professional. Like her, he was thinking all the time. He had been thinking from the beginning. He wasn’t completely helpless like everybody else.
She watched him pull himself together. It took only a few seconds.

“Can you trace her call?” he asked more gently.

“From the tape?” April shook her head. “The phone company does have the technology to print out the number a call is coming from, but it isn’t available to the police yet.”

“He’s from a lower-class neighborhood,” Jason said suddenly.

“What is the significance of that, Dr. Frank?”

“People tend to gravitate to what they’re used to.”

“Yes,” April said, still not getting what he meant.

“I’ve seen where he comes from. He’s very compulsive. That means he does the same things over and over.”

April nodded. How did that help? She raised a delicate eyebrow, afraid to seem stupid by asking the question.

“He’s quite regressed right now. He’s likely to be in a place that looks to him like the place he came from.”

“And you know what that place might be?”

Jason nodded. “The Bronx or Brooklyn sound right, where the houses are small and right next to each other.”

“Does your wife know the Bronx and Brooklyn at all?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s more likely to be Queens or maybe New Jersey,” she said.

Jason’s face fell. “New Jersey? What makes you think so?”

“Because of the sounds on the tape. She’s near an airport. She might see a bridge and hear an airplane in Newark. Or Queens. Not the Bronx or Brooklyn.”

“Jesus. Of course. He works at an airport. Lindbergh Field in San Diego. Yes, he’d be near an airport, but which one? There are at least three.”

April sighed. He was not going to follow her line of questioning. She decided to let him do it his own way.

“Why don’t you tell me about what you found out in San Diego, and we’ll take it from there.”

It was nearly two hours before April met with Sergeant Joyce again. She had the tape and a recent photo of Emma Chapman, as well as some yearbook pictures and a mug shot of Troland Grebs. She’d gotten the rap sheet of Grebs the day before and already knew what was on it: two convictions for arson and three arrests for assault. One was a bar fight and two were battery cases against prostitutes. It occurred to April that she might check to see if any prostitutes had been beaten up in the last few days.

The key turned in the lock, but Emma didn’t hear the door open or Troland come in. He was very tired. He was moving slower now. His plan was to go to sleep for a few hours and get started on her after breakfast. He was a methodical person, always did things the same way. He liked to have a shower and eat something. Then he liked to start his work. He could work as late as he wanted, but he always had to start in the morning when he was fresh.

He had already forgotten about the girl in the city. He was thinking about making it right. All the way back in the car he had been thinking about the brand. It was in his knapsack, very light aluminum. Airplane material. He’d had it made by one of the welders in the plant. He was very proud of it. He liked thinking about how he’d designed it, how he’d worked out the difficulties. He wanted something that would get very hot and was light. Not everybody could think of such a thing or get the wrinkles worked out.

And it hadn’t been so easy to get relocated in New York. He had important stuff that couldn’t be moved
around just like that. He had had to think about the best way of moving the torch and the gun. He had to decide whether to put the compressor in the suitcase or buy a new one here. He left the gun and the torch behind. He took the compressor in the suitcase, heavy as it was. What was easy was getting another gun and small butane torch here. He had a plan. He knew what he was doing.

He had thought about the whole picture, and he thought about each little piece of it. For a while he considered getting some handcuffs. Handcuffs were the professional way to go. But he didn’t like them. After what happened to him when he was a kid, he didn’t want to touch them ever again. Decided against them. Anyway, even though they looked professional, you couldn’t kill somebody with handcuffs, couldn’t get them positioned right on a sofa, or a bed.

Willy agreed the nylon ropes were better. Troland told Willy how he liked knots. Liked wrapping the package. He talked to Willy about things like this, arguing the case for and against the different ways to carry out the plan. He was talking to Willy now, telling him he was all ready to go. He just needed a few hours of rest before starting.

He had decided he wasn’t going to tattoo the whole, whole torso, like he did the other girl. Because if he did that, he might get to the end and not want to spoil the tattoo part with the brand part. Better plan to leave a place for it right at the beginning. He decided to draw it in so he’d know exactly where it went.

He didn’t look for the girl. He wasn’t thinking about her. He was thinking about the transfer paper, about leaving a place for the brand, getting everything just right when he was setting up. It wasn’t until he almost tripped over her that he realized she wasn’t where he left her.

“Oh, shit.”

She was on the floor, lying there face-down like she was already dead.

“Fucking shit!”

He was horrified, couldn’t believe it. Had he fucked up and killed her before he left? He didn’t remember killing her. Why would he do that when he had a plan, wanted her awake for the whole thing? He wanted to talk to her and show her everything. That was the important part to getting it right. She had to know how good he was.

No way he would kill her first. Maybe somebody else killed her. He squatted down, furious with her for dying, himself for leaving her, and whoever might have killed her while he was gone. Who would do such a thing?

He leaned over and put his hand on the back of her neck. Her skin was warm. Now that he looked at her he could see that she was still breathing. He couldn’t believe this. What the—He looked back at the ropes. Four pieces, three lying on the floor and one on the sofa. What kind of shit was this? How did she get loose, and what was the matter with her now?

Jesus. The bitch was making trouble for him. “You stupid bitch,” he said. “What’d you think you’re doing?”

He turned her over and got even madder. Her mouth was slack, and she didn’t move at all. She wasn’t dead, but she might be dying. Jesus, he didn’t need this after all his trouble. Maybe she was faking.

“Get up, bitch,” he told her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I got a plan. I’m doing you a favor here. I’m taking care of you. You’re not going to die on me. Just get that straight.”

All the time he was talking to her, he was looking her over for injuries, poking at her warm body. It was a little clammy now, not as fragrant as before. This irritated him. He didn’t want her dying and releasing all that body stuff
for him to clean up. That was all he needed. For her to die and make a mess before he had the plastic laid out. Before he was ready.

He moved her around carefully. If he bumped her on the edges of things, she’d bruise and the tattoo wouldn’t look good. That was what he liked about her right from the first, the expanses of fresh, well-cared-for flesh. Now he had to clean it up before he even got started.

He examined her all over and got excited again handling her. He wanted to do some stuff to her, but wanted her awake. Shit. He didn’t see anything wrong with her. Except for the bump on the head and a little scratch on her forehead, there wasn’t anything.

He decided the sofa was no good. He had to move her. He picked her up and moved her to the bed in the other room. Laid her back against the pillow so she looked like she was just sleeping. Yeah, that was better. Now he could sleep with her. That was good. He hadn’t thought of that before. If he kept her with him all the time, he could keep her alive. He could touch her whenever he wanted. He started thinking about biting her and shoving it in her and making her scream. It made him desperate to wake her up.

He got some water and poured it down her throat. After a while she started choking.

“Hi, honey,” he said when she finally opened her eyes. “We got a busy day. Don’t do that again.”

Sanchez rewound the tape and turned to April. There was a long silence. Already there were eleven people on the case, combing the neighborhood with the photo of Emma Chapman and hastily made sketches of Troland Grebs. The blowup of his photo in the yearbook would take a little longer.

“You know what I don’t understand.” He swiveled around in his chair, facing her and the small tape machine on her desk that was closer to him than her. He was wearing a blue shirt with a darker blue tie, gray trousers of some undefinable fabric, and the sad expression that always made April feel she’d done something really wrong.

She lifted her shoulders a tiny bit to indicate she had no idea.

“I don’t get you,” he said. “One day we’re working a case together, hanging out on a limb a little bit, and I think maybe we’re onto something.”

She frowned. What was he talking about? They weren’t onto anything. As of last night, they didn’t know a thing
except that the woman was not where her husband wanted her to be.

“I mean, trust. Working together like a team.” Sanchez looked at her intently, his mustache quivering just enough to show he was agitated.

Her brow furrowed even deeper. Trust was not a word she was comfortable with. She had a lot of trouble in those training sessions where you had to fall down and let somebody catch you. Not so good to let somebody stand behind you, even a cop.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he demanded.

“What?” Her phone rang. She let it ring.

“We go out on something,” he said. “We have something to eat. We’re talking about it, working it over in our minds. Like the two of us, you know? And the next day I come in, you’re already out of here. Not a note, nothing. What am I supposed to feel, huh?”

He looked offended. Angry, too.

She tried to look angry right back and almost immediately had to look down. Angry right back was not something she was good at. “Feel?” She wanted to scold him. You don’t have feelings when you’re a cop. She shook her head. “You have two things mixed up.” She reached for her phone. “Detective Woo,” she said.

“It’s Jason Frank.”

April looked at her watch. It had been only twenty-five minutes since his last call. “Yes, Dr. Frank.”

“Were you able to get those pictures duplicated?” he asked.

“We’re working on it,” she replied.

There was a pause.

“Is there anything new?” he asked.

Sanchez moved restlessly in his chair while she focused on her conversation.

“I know how you’re feeling, Dr. Frank,” she said soothingly. “It’s terrible to have to sit around waiting for news, but I promise I’ll call you as soon as I have anything to report.”

“Listen, I’ve been thinking. Is this something the FBI should be getting involved with?”

“Do you think you’d have better luck with the FBI than the New York City Police Department?” she asked without a trace of a smile.

“I wasn’t questioning your expertise. I was just thinking that kidnapping is a federal offense.”

“Yes, it is. But the FBI doesn’t step in on every missing person case, even if there is a suspected abduction. Have you received a call asking for ransom?” April asked, suddenly.

“No.”

“Then try to give us a little time, Doctor. We have a lot of people working on it.” She looked up at Sanchez. At that second he wasn’t looking at her.

“I can’t. I told you it’s too serious. We don’t have much time,” Jason Frank was saying.

“Believe me, Doctor Frank. We know how serious it is. We’ve brought people in.” A lot of them. Right then the squad room was filled with blue uniforms and detectives, rushing around, coming in and out of the field. Coffee cups everywhere. It was hard to breathe, much less hear anything on the phone. The place had become a war room.

“We have to find her soon,” Dr. Frank pressed. “I’d like to come and help.”

That was the last thing she needed. “You
are
helping. You’re helping a lot,” April said, trying not to get annoyed. He couldn’t just come in and help. It didn’t work that
way. And the more he distracted her, the less time she had to concentrate on it.

“I’ll meet with you very soon,” she promised. “But right now you have to let me do my job.”

“One hour?” he said.

“I can’t give you a time. I’ll call you when I have something. That’s all I can promise.”

He had no answer for that. April finally had the space to hang up.

Now Sanchez was looking at her.

“What are you looking at?” she demanded, exasperated.

“We were having a conversation.”

“Mike,” she said, lowering her voice. Right above her head two blue uniforms were distributing the sketches of Troland Grebs to new arrivals. “You got two things all mixed up.”

Sanchez poked the smaller uniform, an earnest-looking female, bulging out of her pants. “Hey, why don’t you do that over there.” He pointed across the room toward the door.