The Night Caller (13 page)

Coop sat inside Seconds where it was warm and looked out the window at the dark waters of the cold bay. The wooden deck on the other side of the glass was closed for the winter, chairs and tables stacked neatly against one of the restaurant’s outside walls and weighted down so the wind wouldn’t claim them. After a vegetable plate meal that even Maureen would approve of, Coop was sipping coffee and observing the lights of passing ships, remembering sailing one summer in his youth. It was a different world for them out there away from shore, he thought, a dream between sea and sky, and when they returned to land it was like waking.

“You’re getting to be a regular,” Billard said, sitting down opposite him.

Coop shifted his weight so he was facing Billiard. “I thought you were on duty tonight.”

“On duty here,” Billard said. “There was a schedule change at the precinct to accommodate higher brass. Somebody’s daughter having an out-of-town wedding.” Realizing his reference to a daughter might have been painful to Coop, or perhaps seeing something in his expression, Billard looked sheepish and said, “Sorry, Coop.”

“Not your fault, Art. Happens all the time.”

“But while we’re on the subject,” Billard said, “Quinones at the One-Oh-Five called me about the Ann Callahan murder.”

“He didn’t seem to mind Deni and me being at the crime scene,” Coop said.

“He wasn’t unhappy about that. But it didn’t set too well with him that you and Deni talked to the family. It seems that Mom and Dad Callahan somehow got the impression you were with the police.”

“We didn’t tell them that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Billard smiled. “At least you didn’t deceive the sister.”

Coop said nothing, sipped his coffee.

“Would you rather have a beer?” Billard asked.

“Yeah. But I’ve gotta stay on my diet.” He could hear in his mind Dr. Gregory urging him to appreciate the importance of exercise and diet. He’d told the doctor he was doing okay with the diet, but exercise was a different story. Some day soon, when he had the time, he’d start jogging. He’d told the doctor that. Dr. Gregory had smiled, knowing Coop was lying even if
he
didn’t know it. “You’d be amazed how many of my patients have coatracks that look just like treadmills,” he’d said.

“Coatracks…” Coop muttered.

“Huh?” Billard was staring at him.

“Nothing, Art. Thinking out loud. Go ahead with what you were saying.”

“Quinones brought me up to date on the Callahan murder,” Billard said, still looking at him a little oddly. “Cause of death was a thin blade to the heart, after the victim was knocked unconscious. No skull fracture, but enough of a blow behind her right ear to black her out. Also, it appeared her clothes had been unbuttoned so she could be fondled; then they were buttoned back up.”

“Being there…it reminded me of when I found Bette,” Coop said. “There was something about the way her body was positioned, with the hair fanned out, the hands folded, almost lovingly.”

Billard was observing Coop somberly. “Whoever killed the Callahan woman came away clean,” he said. “No fingerprints, toothmarks, or footprints.”

“Deni’s theory is we have a serial killer smart enough to do his murders in different cities and vary his methods, so the crimes aren’t connected.”

“Ann Callahan and Bette were both killed in New York,” Billard pointed out.

“So was Ellen Banta.”

“Five years ago,” Billard reminded him.

Coop had to acknowledge that. He wondered if Deni had affected his judgment. Had he become partially blind? Was he screening out any information leading away from the longtime serial killer theory?

“You think it’s possible a family member is responsible for Ann Callahan’s death?” Billard asked. “As well as Bette’s?”

As well as Bette’s?
Coop stared at him. “Why do you ask that?” But he knew. Billard must have seen the ME’s report.

“The victim’s mouth, anus, and vagina were clear of semen or anyone else’s blood or saliva. Nothing that might provide a DNA sample. But there was St. Augustine.”

“Oh, Christ!”

“Keep this one quiet, too, Coop. Only the cops and killer need to know. I just wondered what your instincts are telling you about the Callahan family. The kind of feelings you can factor in but we can’t.”

“Mom had no motive. Dad doesn’t have the guts.”

“And big sister?”

“Cara? I don’t see a motive there.”

“Lots of family chemistry under the surface,” Billard said. “At least, that’s what Quinones thinks.”

“Then he’s a good cop. But I still don’t see Cara as the killer. She’s got a fire in her, though. I think both sisters were abused by their father. Maybe not sexually, but abused.”

Billard was silent for a while, staring glumly down at the table. Coop knew he was considering the dark possibilities of a three-way incestuous relationship in a family of four. What, for instance, would Mom think? How might she have reacted?

“Did Quinones ever figure out why Ann was on the campus that night?” Coop asked.

Billard looked up. “No. They don’t know her at all out there. None of the students or faculty. It looks like that’s where she just happened to be killed.”

“Nobody just happens to be killed anywhere, Art.”

Billard gave a humorless laugh. “That’s the Coop I used to know. But I have to disagree with you. People do just happen to get killed, and in all kinds of places.”

“Not when there’s a widespread pattern.”

“What pattern do we have here other than with Bette and Ann Callahan? A plastic saint. Two women.”

“More than two women,” Coop said.

“Sorry. Then we have to add different cities.”

“They were all lying on their backs.”

“Marlee Clark was in a chair,” Billard said. “She and Bette were killed indoors. Ann Callahan died outside.”

“What about their hair being fanned out?”

“Maybe they were dragged by their feet and that did it.”

“And the shoe prints?”

“They don’t provide a definite match. And there appears not to be a manufacturer of that particular shoe sole pattern. Not to mention that the prints were only found at two of the murder scenes—
if
they were made by the same shoe.”

Coop sighed and stared back out the window. A large ship was passing by slowly in the bay, the reflection of its lights shimmering on the dark water. Overhead, a jet settled toward Kennedy, its lights descending in an arc traversing the ship’s course. A galaxy of cross-purposes. Coop didn’t like it, but Billard made sense.

But Billard was dealing only with the facts.

Hadn’t even seen the bodies.

“You gonna have dessert?” Billard asked.
“Creme Brulee
this evening. It’s terrific.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Coop said, “but since I just finished a vegetable plate, I better pass on dessert and not let all my willpower go to waste.” He wished Billard would quit trying out subtle ways to knock him off his diet, as if warming up to knocking him off the murder investigation.

“Nonfattening,” said the corpulent Billard, “if you don’t count sugar, butter, and cream.”

People do lie to themselves,
Coop thought,
even when they’re staring at the truth.
Maybe in his grief that was what he was doing.

When the waiter appeared with the check, Billard reached out and snatched it before Coop could react. “Since we’re pretending you’re still a cop,” he said, “dinner’s on the establishment.”

Coop was miffed enough at him not to argue.

He and Billard went to the restaurant bar and talked about everything but the murders, while Billard drank chardonnay and Coop had club soda with lemon twists, all the time yearning for a Beck’s dark. But while they were sitting in the dim, warm light, drinking and discussing the NYPD, sports, movies, a part of Coop’s mind was considering everything Billard had said.

By the time he left the restaurant, Coop realized that, reasonable or not, he was becoming even more convinced that Deni was right—there was a serial killer out there clever enough to have been taking victims for years.

Call it tunnel vision,
Coop thought. Or instinct. Or a subconscious shuffling of facts. Or simply thinking with the gut instead of the head.

Whatever it was called, it had served Coop well during his years on the force.

When he got home that evening there was a message on his machine from Fred Willingham. The FBI agent had gone over the information Coop had given him, even run the sole print photos through computer analysis. The impressions might have been made by the same shoe—only might. The other similarities in the murders were interesting but not yet fully developed as correlating factors. He was sorry, but the Bureau had no authority in local homicide investigations, and until more evidence accrued that definitively linked the murders, the FBI wouldn’t intercede.

Coop wasn’t surprised, but he went to bed disappointed.

The Night Caller lay in bed remembering.

His time. Night. Shadows. Rain not ready to fall. A slice of moon only for him.

A time when he knew it was time. When it had to happen.

His time.

He’d called Ann Callahan’s name from the shadows, frightening her at first. But she’d soon been reassured by his softly modulated voice. He knew how to reassure people. To lull them.

Then he moved like fate from beneath the trees, and there in the moonlight was the puzzlement on her beautiful features, in her marvelous eyes. Then the recognition, the realization. Then the fear that came with the knowledge of not knowing. The force, the end’s beginning, the mystery, the thing between them.

Magic.

He said her name and she gasped and turned to run.

Of course she would.

He was ready. He had planned it. He had lived it. Like a dance remembered.

The blow he struck was just so. Perfect.

With a quick and satisfactory glance around, he bent over her, then dragged her into the darkness among the trees.

Some were of necessity.

This one was for pure pleasure.

His time and hers.

Later, when he was ready, he woke her to his liking.

Cara got off the bus near East 57th and checked her reflection in a shop window. She was wearing her best business outfit beneath a long leather coat, black pumps with medium heels, hair still neat even after the cold wind that gusted down Second Avenue. Satisfied with what she saw, she worked her hands into her gloves, adjusted the maroon muffler at her throat, then walked toward the Mercantile Mutual sign at the corner.

It had been more than a week since Ann’s funeral; Cara didn’t feel she could wait any longer to do what she had in mind. The police were, or at least seemed, enthusiastic enough about tracking Ann’s killer, but it hadn’t taken Cara long to realize there wasn’t really much chance of them finding the man. Cara had checked the statistics: The success rate was low in solving stranger-on-stranger homicides. Since no one in Ann’s life seemed her likely killer—since there were relatively few people
in
Ann’s life—Cara had decided to work on the assumption that her younger sister had been murdered by a stranger who’d developed a fixation on her. She’d read the literature and knew something of how psychosexual killers worked. And she had no doubt the motive was sexual even though the police hadn’t mentioned vaginal penetration.

Near the blue and white Mercantile Mutual sign she stopped and stepped back into a doorway, out of the cold breeze.

She knew she had to play this just right, not seem like a monstrous relative trying to take advantage of a tragic situation. Cara trusted her negotiating skills, her ability to assess and manipulate people if it were necessary. She knew that if she presented herself in exactly the right way, this would work. And she was ready with her story of limited opportunity at Longpoint, her suspicion that the bank would soon be acquired by a larger savings institution in the Midwest. Ann had talked about how she loved working at Mercantile Mutual, and Cara, with experience in the mortgage loan department, would be willing to start at a low salary if there was an opening for virtually any job in the bank.

Even Ann’s job.

The banking industry was in an uncertain state. Banks were merging, closing, losing customers to mutual funds and on-line banking. While this created unemployment in the industry, it also created high turnover at many banks. Jobs were available for applicants with Cara’s degree of experience and skills. And if she had to use sympathy, even tears, to become employed at Mercantile Mutual, she would do it. Right now, it was the most important thing in her life.

Coop was alone when he knocked on Cara Callahan’s apartment door three nights later.

She was fully dressed this time, wearing dark blue capri pants and a cream-colored sweater that looked like cashmere. Her hair was mussed, bangs combed to the side and a blond lock hanging down on her forehead and partly over one eye. She was much more attractive now that her eyes weren’t reddened and puffy from crying. Her features had an interesting angularity to them, especially her slightly hooded blue eyes with their slanted upper lids. Again the strong resemblance to the photos of her sister Ann came through.

Coop glanced down and saw that she was barefoot, as on his last visit. He stared at her shapely ankles, her squarish toes with their red nail polish, and wondered if she always went around the apartment barefoot.

“Drop something?” she asked.

He looked up to see that she was smiling. A bit embarrassed that she’d noticed him assessing her intensely, he decided to regard her question as rhetorical. “I was near here and thought you might have a few minutes to talk some more about the investigation.”

She nodded and stepped back so he could enter. “I have plenty of time, Detective…”

“Cooper.”

“Of course. Sorry. I tend to forget names.”

“But never faces?”

“Never faces.”

He went past her and waited until she’d sat down again in the gray leather chair; then he sat down where he’d sat before on the sofa. The apartment still smelled like fresh-perked coffee, as it had on his first visit.

“You drink a lot of coffee?” he asked.

“Too much,” she said. “Want a cup this time?”

“No, thanks.” It was quiet in the apartment. The prewar building’s thick walls blocked street sounds entirely. The drone of the refrigerator motor in the kitchen seemed loud in the absence of other noises. It reminded Coop of the humming of the beach cottage’s refrigerator the day he’d walked in and found Bette’s body. He tried to block the sound from his mind, the way the thick walls of the building shielded residents from intruding noises. “I, uh, asked for you at Longpoint but they said you’d left early,” he told Cara. “I also overheard some conversation to the effect that you’ve given notice.”

“That’s right.”

“Not leaving town, I hope.”

She cocked her head to the side and stared at him. “Is that a cop question?”

“Sure. What else?” He had a hard time looking directly into her eyes. A hard time looking away. He was aware that she knew about the unsettling effect she was having on him and still hadn’t made up her mind what to do with it.

“I don’t know what else,” she said. “I do know I didn’t hear you or the woman who was with you last time identify yourselves as being with the police department.”

“I’m not exactly police,” Coop said. “I’m conducting a parallel investigation, working with the department.”

Cara continued regarding him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. She said, “Time to drop the bullshit, Cooper.”

“My friends call me Coop.”

Her expression didn’t change. “Maybe I’ll call you Coop. Maybe I won’t. Who are you? What are you? Why are you here?”

Coop knew when it was time to come clean. “My name is Ezekiel Cooper. What I am is a former NYPD cop. Why I’m here is a bit complicated. I think your sister was one of a long line of victims of a serial killer.”

Cara leaned forward, interested. “Is that what the police think?”

“No. The FBI doesn’t think so, either.”

“FBI?”

“This is a killer who takes his act on the road, varies his modus operandi so the locals think his crimes are particular to their city.”

“But you see a pattern?”

“I do. Deni does. We haven’t convinced the police or FBI yet, because the evidence connecting the crimes isn’t strong enough. But it’s there. I believe in it.”

“Deni’s the woman who was with you last time?”

“Yes.”

“Also a former cop?”

“No. She’s a mystery writer. Has this series of novels about a cat that helps solve crimes. The Cozy Cat books. Ever hear of them?”

“No. I’m a dog person.”

“Good. So am I. Do you have a dog?”

“No. So what’s her purpose in this? Does she want to write a novel about this serial killer?”

“Nonfiction book,” Coop said. “The Cozy Cat novels aren’t selling as well as they used to, so she’s branching out into true crime.”

“Are you her collaborator?”

“I’m not a writer. We’re only collaborating on the investigation.”

“But you’re in this for money, just like she is. Won’t you get a percentage of the book’s profits?”

“No,” Coop said, “we haven’t even talked about that.”

Cara stared curiously at him. “Then what’s your interest?”

Coop hesitated before answering. “My daughter Bette. She was one of the killer’s victims. Just like your sister.”

“Shit!” Cara said, sitting back. It was a reaction that surprised Coop.

“If you don’t want to cooperate, I’ll understand,” he said.

“You want revenge,” Cara told him.

“I want justice. And you?”

“Revenge,” she said. She stood up from her chair and he expected her to ask him to leave.

Instead she said, “You want that cup of coffee now, Coop?”

As they sat and talked for the next hour or more, Cara felt her interest in this lean, determined ex-cop heighten. He seemed solid and true, someone who knew what he was and could recognize what he had to do and then do it. There were fewer and fewer such men.

Cara dated infrequently and was usually—no, always—sooner or later disappointed.
Maybe not this time,
an inner voice was telling her. This one really was different. Better. There was hope. Still there was hope. Another inner voice urged her not to dare believe, not to listen.

“…You listening?” Coop asked. He was smiling.

She realized her mind had turned inward.

“I’m listening,” she said.