Now or Never (3 page)

“Do we know her name?”

“They’re working on it. She had no identification on her, no purse, no keys. Nothin’.”

Harry nodded; there were thousands of young women in Boston, but both the other victims had been students and the odds were that this one was too. It would make the search easier. He expected that they would know her identity within hours.

He drained his coffee cup and looked around for the machine. “I’m gonna get some more coffee, hang around here for a while just in case we—
she
gets lucky. Why don’t you check in at the precinct? Let them know where I am, and see how they’re doing on her identity and whatever else is going down.”

“Will do.” Rossetti unfurled himself from the wall. He looked Harry in the eye. “Don’t take it personal, Harry. You’re just the cop doing his job.” He slapped him affectionately on the shoulder as he strode off down the gleaming, antiseptic-smelling corridor. “Never would have taken you for the emotional type. You should save it for the women. They love all that over-the-top stuff.
Madison County
and Clint Eastwood and all that.”

Harry smiled. “And how would you know, Romeo?”

“Casanova, y’mean—too old for Romeo.” His laughter echoed through the death-stalked corridor as he walked briskly away.

Harry paced the corridor for an hour. He went downstairs and ate a bacon and egg sandwich in the cafeteria. Then he came back and paced some more. At noon he stepped out and walked Squeeze around the corner, where he bought a ham and Swiss on rye from Au Bon
Pain. He shared it with the dog and gave him a bowl of water, then returned him to the car.

The dog settled down on the backseat again, his head on his paws, his pale blue eyes gazing reproachfully up at Harry.

“It’s a cop’s life, Squeeze,” Harry said as he slammed the door. “I warned you when you took me on, this is what it would be like.”

They were the same words he had said to his wife ten years ago, but they hadn’t saved his marriage.

The uniformed cop guarding the door had changed. “Afternoon, sir,” he said, saluting. “Officer Rafferty. I’ll be on duty until eight
P.M.
, sir. And Dr. Waxman is in with the victim now.”

The doctor was standing at the foot of the bed studying her charts. He glanced around as Harry entered.

“How’re you doin’, Harry?” He smiled. They were old acquaintances, veterans of a decade of trauma victims.

“Pretty good. What about her?”

“She regained consciousness briefly, about ten minutes ago.” He sighed regretfully. “At this point I’d be inclined to say it’s a triumph of spirit over matter. She’s stabilized, for the moment.” He shrugged. “Anything could happen.”

Harry stared at her, willing her to wake up again. He ran his hands through his still-uncombed hair. “If she comes round, will she be able to talk?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, though I’m not sure I’d advise trying it.”

Their eyes met. “It may be our only chance to get him,” Harry said quietly. “She might know him. If she talks, she might save others.”

“We’ll see.” Dr. Waxman slipped his charts back into the slot at the foot of the bed. “I’m needed down in Emergency. Are you going to keep vigil?”

Harry nodded.

“See you later, then.”

Harry took a seat on the straight-back chair beside the bed. He looked at the girl, then glanced uncomfortably away. He felt like a voyeur, watching her sleeping. Only hers wasn’t real sleep. It might be a death watch.

He stared at the ceiling, then at the jagged peaks and valleys that were her vital signs, blipping on the monitors in the corner. He was a good cop, a tough cop, but this helpless young woman had gotten to him.

There was a knock on the door and Rossetti poked his head in. “Thought I’d find you in here.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. “Her name’s Summer Young. She’s twenty-one years old and a senior at Boston U. Her home address is in Baltimore. Her roommates missed her—they got worried when they spotted her old Miata in the library parking lot. The doors were unlocked. The key was in the ignition, and her book bag was on the seat. They called the police.”

Harry nodded. The scenario was exactly as he’d expected.

“The parents are on their way,” Rossetti added quietly. “Be here in a couple of hours.”

They stared silently at each other. They both hoped for her sake that it would be sooner.

“Latchwell’s waiting outside,” Rossetti added. “Just in case.”

Harry’s head shot up. Latchwell was the photo-fit expert. He could put a face together from the vaguest description. Sometimes he seemed to conjure it from thin air, honing it down, refining and redefining it:
“thinner lips—no, his mouth turned down sort of like this; bushy eyebrows—no, less bushy … black eyes … well, maybe not black, dark though, and kind of shadowy
…” Latchwell had helped catch many a criminal with his uncanny expertise.

Rossetti glanced uneasily at the girl. “I guess I’ll get back to the squad room. Gotta talk to those fishermen.”

Harry nodded. He wanted her parents to get here; he wanted them to gather their girl up in their arms, tell her it would be all right, that she would be fine, that she would get over this. But he didn’t believe it.

A few minutes later, when she opened her eyes and looked straight at him, he was shocked.

“Hi,” he said softly. “I’m Detective Harry Jordan. You’ve been hurt, but you’re safe now. Your mom and dad are on their way. You’ll be okay.”

Her mouth twisted as she tried to form a word.
“Bastard,”
she whispered.

He nodded. “Tell me, Summer, do you know him?”

She attempted to shake her head, flinching as pain rippled through her body. Her lips formed a silent no.

Harry hated himself for pushing her, but he had to do it. “Did you see him? Can you remember?”

She frowned, struggling. “Soft,” she whispered. “Hands.”

The nurse pushed the beeper, signaling Dr. Waxman. Placing a finger on the pulse point at the girl’s throat, she frowned. “Enough,” she whispered.

Harry nodded—he knew he couldn’t take it any further now. He looked at Summer one last time. She seemed to be making a great effort to speak and he leaned over her to catch her whispered words.

“Eyes,” she said in a voice like a sigh, “dark … staring …”

He waited, but her eyelids drooped and she lay still again. As he watched, a tear slid suddenly down her pale cheek. “Brave girl,” he whispered. “Brave Summer. You’re going to be all right.”

Dr. Waxman came in as he was going out. “That’s enough, detective,” he said tersely. “The parents are being helicoptered in now. It’s their daughter, their turn.”

Harry nodded. “Let me know if anything happens. I’ll be back at the precinct.”

Latchwell was exchanging views on the Celtics versus the Knicks with Officer Rafferty. He glanced eagerly at Harry as he opened the door. “Ready for me?”

Harry shrugged. “All we’ve got is dark staring eyes.”

“Well, it’s a start.”

“That may be all we get. Thanks, Latchwell. Sorry for wasting your time.”

“All in a day’s work.” Latchwell shouldered his equipment and strode off.

Harry’s cell phone rang. It was Rossetti. And it was bad news. The fishermen had been no help. Their memories were just a blur, more concerned with the girl than with the man.

Harry told the officer on duty he could reach him at the precinct, then headed back to the car.

Squeeze heard him coming. He stuck his nose through the window, his feet scrabbling on the tan coach-hide seats. Harry snapped on the leash and took him for a long walk.

The dog sniffed the street corner and the lampposts, yipping excitedly, but for once Harry didn’t notice. Two young women were dead, another was in critical condition, and he was no closer to finding the killer than he had been a year ago.

He turned back to the car, dropped Squeeze at home, fed him and took off again for the precinct. It was going to be a long night.

Five hours later, the call came through. Summer Young had died without regaining consciousness.

D
ETECTIVE
R
OSSETTI DROVE
his five-year-old BMW too fast down the dark street near the waterfront. Tires screeching, he swung into the empty lot that served as parking for the Moonlightin’ Club. He checked the time: it was one thirty
A.M.

Flinging open the car door, he headed for the club. Lights spilled from the windows, and as he stepped inside, he was hit by a wall of sound.

Rap blasted from enormous speakers, bouncing back from the walls, hitting the rafters and hurling down again. The young black guy manning the snack bar grinned hello as he walked by, and others high-fived him cheerfully. He grabbed a cup of coffee and walked through to the gym. It was jammed, even this late.

The Moonlightin’ Club had been donated anonymously to the city in an effort to get kids off the streets and off crack, and Rossetti and Harry were two of the many cops who gave their free time to help run it. The club had four rules: No discrimination. No drugs. No weapons. No gangs. Whatever the kids were up to in their own world, they were neutral when they came to the Moonlightin’ Club and its gym.

The rules had been broken many times but the club still staggered along. Sometimes Rossetti thought they were winning the battle—like tonight, when fifty or so young men were working out or playing basketball instead of
shooting up or shooting each other. The basketball team even had a couple of possible rising stars—they were hot and they were good, and the desire to win had overtaken the temptations of the streets. Every little bit helped.

He spotted Harry leaning moodily against the wall, watching the players racing up and down the court. His thick dark hair was tousled from running his hands through it, a habit Rossetti knew his partner had when he was agitated. His clothes looked as though he had slept in them, and his lean face was shadowed with stubble and exhaustion.

Rossetti guessed he had been at his desk, hashing and rehashing every detail of the three murders. He knew it was anger that kept Harry there, and he’d bet it was only pure trembling adrenaline rage that kept him on his feet now. He’d also bet he was no further along than he had been six hours ago, when Summer Young had died.

He sauntered up behind him. “Somehow I guessed I’d find you here.”

Harry turned. Rossetti had the usual paper cup of coffee clutched in his hand like a permanent fixture. His sharp Italian linen jacket, dark pants and fresh white shirt were immaculate and Harry suddenly remembered he hadn’t even showered that day, let alone changed clothes. He was still wearing the same jeans and shirt he had flung on at five o’clock that morning.

“I feel disgusting,” he said, scowling.

Rossetti grinned. “You look disgusting, Prof. But the dog looks just fine. How y’doin’, Squeeze? Got any secrets to tell me about your master? We need a line on him, boy. You know, the truth about his private life? What’s he do when he’s not working? Women, booze—that kinda stuff?”

Harry laughed. “When am I
not
working, Rossetti? Tell me that.”

“Rarely. And that may be your problem, Prof. Now
look at me. I quit my shift at eight thirty, had a drink with the guys. A hot date at nine thirty, a good meal, a little lovin’—it makes a difference to a guy’s life. So? What did
you
do?” He held up a warning hand. “No, don’t tell me. You had a beer and a burger at Ruby’s. Then you went back and tried to unravel the serial killer’s psyche all by yourself. Waste of time, Prof, waste of time. You need a little fun in your life to sharpen you up. And then a good night’s sleep.”

Harry sighed regretfully. “You’re right, of course. And I didn’t solve the murders. But I can’t get this one out of my head. Her last words were to
me
. ‘Bastard,’ she said.”

He straightened up, shook his head to clear it. “Ah, what the hell, Rossetti. Forget about sleep. How about you and I hit Salsa Annie’s? I’ll buy you a bourbon and let you tell me the story of your life, while we raise our blood pressure with a little music.”

He held out his palm and Rossetti slapped down on it. It was Harry’s favorite club and Rossetti figured his partner could work off his anger with a little hot dancing. “Done,” he said, heading for the door. “All this pure physical exercise stuff at two in the morning is too much for me anyhow.”

The second dawn Harry had witnessed in twenty-four hours was breaking when they swung their way out of Annie’s a couple of hours later. Humming to the music in his head, Harry salsaed across the street to the parking lot.

“Just like Gloria Estefan,” Rossetti said, grinning, as he lit a cigarette.

“Thanks for the compliment. And for your company. Good night, Rossetti.”

“’Night, Prof.” Rossetti got into his BMW, turned on the ignition, and combed his hair in the rearview mirror. He could see Harry reflected there. He was sitting in the Jag with the dog next to him, holding the steering wheel
and staring into space. He watched him for a couple of minutes; then Harry climbed out of the car again.

“Rossetti!” he yelled. “Hey, Rossetti!”

He stuck his head out of the window. “Yeah?”

“Get your ass over here, man. We’re off to Rockport.”

Rossetti yawned loudly. “Rockport, Massachusetts?”

“No, you jerk. Rockport, Illinois. Where d’you think, Rockport? Just get your smart Italian butt over here. We’re going back to talk to those fishermen again. And while I’m driving, you can get on the radio and tell them to get Latchwell up there right away. Those guys
saw
him, Rossetti. They’re the only ones, apart from the dead, who did. They’ve
got
to remember something about him, about his car. It’s up to us to jog their memories.”

M
ALLORY
M
ALONE READ
the brief newspaper report on the rape and murder of Summer Young in the limo on the way to Kennedy airport, about the same time that Harry and Rossetti were on their way to interview the fishermen who had found her.

She read it again, carefully, noting that the police were linking the killing to the deaths of two other young women in Massachusetts in the past eighteen months.