The Rainy Day Killer (11 page)

“Second drawer,” he said.

She continued to paw around in the top drawer until she’d seen everything there was to see in it, then she slammed it shut and opened the second drawer. She rifled it expertly, taking a quick inventory, and finally came out with his bottle of Aspirin. She popped the lid, swallowed four tablets with her coffee, and tossed the bottle back into the drawer. As she closed it, she looked at him sideways.

“You don’t say a lot, do you?”

“I don’t get paid by the word,” Hank replied.

She laughed lightly. “I asked around about you. You’re a nice guy with a black cloud over your head that capped your career. You’ve reached your ceiling but it hasn’t made you bitter like it does a lot of the older guys who see women like me passing them by on the way up. I like that part.” She sat back. “You’re popular with the l
adies, I’m told. You’ve got that big, worn-out teddy bear thing going. I like charm, it makes it easier to put up with the other crap, but at the end of the day, charm doesn’t get the job done, so keep a cork in it and concentrate on making me look good, and I’ll make sure you get all the credit you’ve got coming to you.”

He realized he felt sorry for her. She was
in over her head and she knew it, and in her fear and insecurity she was drawing on the bullshit posturing and sharp-edged fencing that probably made her a hot commodity in the DC night clubs and high-end parties she was known to frequent. Her father was a senior official in the State Department, and she was a pampered youngest child. In Martinez’s opinion, her upbringing had thrown her into social circles that were, ultimately, a little more than she could handle. She was fluent in Arabic and had worked for two years with the FBI in Washington as an analyst before following Bennett and Barkley into the GPD, but at their insistence she’d taken the ground-floor route, becoming a sworn officer through the academy and putting in the minimum field duty before earning steady promotions into headquarters. She’d chosen law enforcement as a career, according to Martinez, because of discrimination she’d encountered as a teenager after 9/11 and a desire to prove her detractors wrong by waving a badge in their faces, but the chip on her shoulder was a little too obvious and merely served to highlight her shortcomings. Hank wasn’t sure what he was going to do with her, but he’d promised Martinez he’d help her out, so that’s what he intended to do.

“There’s rain coming in the next day or two,” he said.

She made a face. “So? Did I ask for a weather report?”

Hank got up, unlocked his filing cabinet, and removed a binder from the top drawer. “I’ve made you a copy of the Olsen
case file.” He handed it to her. “They’re not sure of his periodicity, because it’s believed he commits other rapes and murders between his signature Rainy Day Killer offenses, but when he called me this morning he made it clear he was getting ready for another one. When it rains—and it’s going to, soon—we’ll have the districts increase their vigilance in terms of pedestrian traffic. Officers will get a copy of the composite sketch and the profile at the beginning of their shift. He wears a suit and carries an umbrella when he snatches them, so when it rains,” he leaned on the words, to make sure she understood his point, “we’re going to be extra busy because they’ll likely be stopping and questioning possibles all over the place. It’s a big city with a lot of businessmen who carry umbrellas. Stainer and Horvath will interview them and I’ll observe, whenever possible. It’ll cause a commotion, it’ll likely generate complaints, and at the very least I’ll be making an impromptu statement to the press before and after, explaining what we’re doing, and why. It’ll happen fast, but I’ll keep you up to speed as best I can. How’s that sound?”

She shrugged. She had put the binder down on his desk without looking at it. “Like I said, Donaghue, the media strategy’s been explained to me, and while I don’t like it, I have to live with it. Just show me your statements before you make them.”

“I’d like your cell phone number,” he said.

She gave him a look.

“If we arrest someone,” he explained patiently, “you’ll need to know we’ve got a suspect in custody. I need to be able to reach you whenever. You’ll want to come in to consult with the assistant state’s attorney on next steps.”

She rolled her eyes, grabbed a pen on his desk, opened the binder, and wrote her number on the top page. “
Don’t call asking me out for a drink. I don’t do the after-hours thing with subordinates.” She closed the binder with a flip of her hand, stood up, and tossed the pen down on his desk. “Let’s make sure there are no more screw-ups.”

She walked around his desk to where he stood, next to the filing cabinet. “This could go really well, Donaghue
. If we catch this guy, it’ll be a real feather in my cap. Yours, too. So let’s be smart and do things the right way. Okay?”

“Sounds good to me,” Hank said.

She patted him on the arm and walked out.

He quietly closed his door, sat down in the visitor’s chair, picked up his coffee
, and closed his eyes.

I promised
, he told himself.

18

Saturday, May 4: late morning

Karen had finally bitten the bullet. She’d called Faye’s Flowers and made an appointment to drive over and pick something out of their damned books to keep Sandy’s mother from blowing a gasket. She was greeted by Faye herself, a plump, middle-aged woman with a white Margaret Thatcher hairstyle and a British accent. Karen allowed herself to be led into a viewing room where several oversized books were waiting for her on a long table covered with a clean, white cloth. The room was filled with flowers. Reluctantly, Karen sat down as Faye ran through her introductory patter.

“Do you have anything particular in mind, Ms. Stainer?” she finally asked.

“Nope. I don’t go to a lot of weddings.”

“Do you have a favorite flower, for instance? We can feature it in the various arrangements and, of course, in your bouquet.”

“I don’t really do flowers,” Karen said. “Sandy sometimes buys me roses.”

“I see.” Faye turned a few pages in the book. When Karen glanced at her watch, Faye
smiled politely. “I believe Mrs. Alexander said you’re a police officer. Is that right?”

“Yeah. Homicide detective.”

Faye leaned back, away from the book. “Really? I think that’s amazing. You must live a fascinating life.”

“Yeah, it’s fascinating, all right.”

“I have the utmost respect for anyone who puts their life on the line for the sake of society,” Faye said, “but especially for a woman who does so. Such a difficult and challenging career to have chosen.” She reached out and touched her on the arm. “Mrs. Alexander has given us carte blanche, so how about if I help you spend a little of her money this morning? Then you can get on to much more important things.”

Karen looked the woman in the eye, saw genuine humor and sincerity,
and nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Faye reached for another book and opened it on top of the first one. “Do you have a favorite color?”

“Not really. Red flowers are nice, I guess.”

“Ah.” Faye grabbed about an inch’s
-worth of pages and turned to a section near the back. “I have an idea. What do you think of this?”

Karen looked at a photograph of a slender model in a white wedding dress holding a bouquet of red and white flowers.

“Your posy could feature roses, Asiatic lilies, alstroemeria, and dahlias, just like this. Isn’t it lovely?”

Karen admitted that it was.

“The posy’s a popular choice for a bouquet because it has a very contemporary look. Plus, it’s much more convenient to hold.”

“Sounds good,” Karen said. “It’ll make it easier for me to draw my gun without dropping the flowers.”

Faye tittered, turning the page. “These would make nice bouquets for your bridesmaids and matron of honor.”

“Okay.”

“This is a lovely accessory,” Faye said, pointing. “Two red garden roses attached with hairpins make an attractive fascinator.”

“No thanks,” Karen replied. “I’d look like I had flowers gro
wing out of my head. My brothers would never let me live it down.”

“All right.” Faye turn
ed the page.

By the time Karen had completed Lane Alexander’s shopping list and chosen corsages, boutonnieres, flowers for the church, flo
wers with the guest book, outdoor urn arrangements, chair-back arrangements, table centerpieces and garlands, she felt as though she’d just blown six months’ salary and had a great time doing it. Faye shook her hand firmly at the front door, they exchanged business cards, and Karen left feeling a little better about the whole wedding thing.

She
hustled through the rain to her Firebird, started up the engine, and switched on the windshield wipers. Her hand reached out and flicked on the police radio as she pulled into traffic. The rain had lessened somewhat from earlier in the morning, and was now a steady drizzle. She drove slowly, thinking about the flowers. Her brother Brad had already begun the renovation of the barn on the Alexander property. Faye had recommended arrangements of red peonies and white hydrangea to complement the unusual height and depth of the venue, and Karen thought they’d look nice. Brad was a genius when it came to interior design, and—

“—Dispatch, we are ten-nineteen with possible felony su
spect. Wearing a suit and carrying an umbrella as reported.”

“Three twenty-six, HQ
now requests you transport to their twenty.”

“Ten-four, Dispatch.”

Karen grabbed the mike and keyed the button. “Dispatch, this is thirty-four seventy-two, off-duty. Where was the felony suspect picked up?”

“Thirty-four seventy-two, we received a report of a susp
icious pedestrian matching description of possible felony suspect on the five-hundred block of Cooper Street, west side, near Clovis.”

“Got it,” Karen said. “Three twenty-six, what’s your ETA at HQ?”

“ETA ten,” came the reply.

“Ten-four,” Karen said. “Attaboy.”

When Karen arrived at the ninth floor, the suspect had already been placed in an interview room. Horvath sat at his desk, on the phone, head resting in his hand, intent on something in front of him. Officer Wilcox was parked nearby, in Karen’s visitor’s chair, shaking raindrops from his hat. Seeing that Hank’s office door was open, she looked in and saw him at his desk. A woman sat in one of his chairs, her back to the door. She was doing all the talking.

Karen walked back to Wilcox.
“What’s the story?”

“The witness is Nicole Sample, thirty-four.
She works as a receptionist in a dog grooming place on Clovis. She went out to mail some stuff and was on her way back when the suspect accosted her.”

“Accosted her how?”

“According to her, the suspect approached her on the sidewalk and asked her if she was busy this afternoon. He held his umbrella over her when she stopped, and handed her a post card. He told her he was working for a cosmetics company that had a booth at a trade show for women, the one this weekend at the Roosevelt Trade Center in Bering Heights. When she tried to walk around him, he made physical contact with her by pressing the card against her forearm, trying to get her to take it.”

As she listened, Karen leaned back for another peek into Hank’s office. From what she could see, Nicole Sample looked as though she was about five feet, seven inches tall and weighed about one hundred and sixty pounds. Her hair was brown.

“Then what?”

Wilcox shrugged. “She ran across the street to get away
from him and called nine-one-one. Said she’d just been attacked by the Rainy Day Killer. My partner’s in the washroom right now, if you want to talk to him when he comes out, but that’s basically it.”

“Thanks.” Karen strolled over to Hank’s office and leaned on the door frame.

“He said if I took the card to their booth,” Sample was sobbing, “I’d get 10 percent off any purchase. I thought I’d never see my husband again!”

Hank stood up, excused himself, and motioned Karen to step out into the bullpen.
“He’s carrying a Maryland driver’s license in the name of Thomas Peter Kirk, Baltimore address, DOB eleven twenty-two eighty-eight.”

“Twenty-five years old,” Karen said.

“A little on the young side,” Hank agreed. “DiOrio was already in the building,” he said, referring to the assistant state’s attorney, “so she’s waiting in the observation room. He was Mirandized and waived the right to call an attorney.”

“Cocky bastard.”

Hank shrugged. “Horvath’s running down the ID. Why don’t you see what you can get from this guy?”

Karen turned on her heel and strode down the hallway to the interview room. Hank followed, letting himself into the observation room
. Horvath brought Nicole Sample out of Hank’s office and sat her down in his visitor’s chair while he continued his work.

The suspect sat at the table with his head in his hands. He wore
a navy double-breasted suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and black leather shoes. He had a scrape on the left side of his forehead, and the front of his suit was soaked and covered with dirt and grit, no doubt the result of having been taken down on the wet sidewalk by Wilcox and his partner. His hair was longer than she’d expected.

“My name’s Detective Stainer,” she said, sitting down across the table from him. “You’ve already heard your Miranda rights, but I’m going to explain them to you again.” She recited
them briskly. “Do you waive your right to an attorney at this time?”

“I told the others, I don’t know any lawyers and I don’t need one. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“We can send for a public defender.”

“I told you, I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything!”

“Yeah, sure. How’d you come up with this bullshit about cosmetics?”

“At a job fair.”

Karen paused a beat. “What’s that again?”

“I got the job at a job fair last month. I’ve been out of work for a year. My girlfriend left me because I had to sell my car and move back with my parents. Do you know how humiliating that is? So I went to this job fair and these guys were hiring practically ever
ybody who stopped at their booth with a CV. The only catch is you have to dress up and travel to the places where they’re doing the trade shows and stuff. I don’t get paid unless at least twenty people turn in the post cards at their booth. Can I have the rest of my cards back? I really need the money.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me
.”

“I’m not! I’m practically broke.”

“She’s a little off your usual type, isn’t she? What were you doing, slumming?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Just a warm-up rape? Couldn’t find a blonde on short notice?”

“Oh my God, you think I was attack
ing her?”

“You must think we’re complete fucking idiots, Bill. Or wha
tever your real name is. Where’d you hold Theresa Olsen, you bastard? Where’d you do her?”

“Oh my God, this isn’t happening. My name’s not Bill, it’s Tom. Tom Kirk. I live in Baltimore. I’m here with a group for the convention.”

“You’re here with a group.” Karen paused a beat. “Okay, doorknob, I’ll bite. Who’s this group? Who hired you? What’s your boss’s name?”

“The company’s called Tremont Products. My supervisor’s name is James. I don’t remember his last name, but his card’s in my wallet. They took it. My wallet. Can you call him and tell him what’s going on? I’m scared they’re going to fire me.”

“You’re scared they’re going to fire you. That’s rich.”

“They will! They fire you for practically anything.”

Karen put her hands flat on the table, staring at him. She popped air through her lips, pressed her tongue against a back molar, then suddenly stood up.

“Sit tight.” She left the room and went out into the hallway
, narrowly avoiding a collision with Hank and DiOrio, who were coming out of the observation room.

“
Let’s see how Horvath’s doing,” Hank said.

“Okay, here it is,” Horvath said
quietly, glancing at the witness as they gathered around his desk. “The photo on the driver’s license matches what’s in the DMV database. I spoke to this James Repple, who answered the number on the business card, and a patrol car’s bringing him and another person supposedly from the company down from the convention center. He confirms they have a guy with this name and general description working for them, handing out post cards downtown. We’ll have to wait and see if he makes a positive ID. I think he’s going to. This seems off, to me.”

When James
Repple arrived, he took one look through the one-way glass in the observation room and shook his head. “His ass is completely fired. What’d he do?”

Karen confronted him. “You confirm that this is Thomas P
eter Kirk of Baltimore? An employee of yours?”

“Lorraine hired him, I didn’t. But yeah, that’s him. Complete doofus. What’d he do, trespass or something?”

Karen turned to the woman who’d accompanied Repple from the convention center. “What about you?”

“I hired him, yeah. Big mistake, obviously.”

“How long have you known him?”

“About a month,”
Lorraine replied. “I gave him his training, along with six other guys. We brought three of them down here with us last night to work the show. They put their initials on the back of their cards; that’s how we know who’s driving the traffic up to us. We only saw one of his cards, so far. He’s not working out.” She glanced at Repple.

“
Complete dope,” he agreed.

“Can you confirm his whereabouts on Wednesday, April 24?”

Repple thought about it. “A week ago last Wednesday?” He pinched his chin. “That would be Bowie, I think. Right, Lorraine? Yeah, a Thursday-Friday-Saturday show at the Rec Center. Wednesday was our travel day. He rode down with me and John Ferris.”

“Thanks for your time,” DiOrio said.

Karen’s shoulders dropped as the observation room began to empty.