You belong to me (29 page)

It could be a nickname, she thought. There were passengers with last names that were possibilities, including Winne and Winfrey. But Winne and Winfrey were both listed as being with wives.

The middle initials of very few passengers were listed on the manifest, so if the man Carolyn met was known as Win because of his middle name, the list would be of little help.

She noted that in the case of married couples, the names were listed in alphabetical order, so that Mrs. Alice Jones was followed by Mr. Robert Jones, and so on. Eliminating all those who were clearly married couples, Susan went down the manifest, checking off the names of men who were listed without a woman's name preceding or following. The first name on the manifest that appeared to be that of a single man was Mr. Owen Adams.

Interesting, she thought when she had finished running down the entire list of passengers; of six hundred people on the ship, there were one hundred and twenty-five women listed singly, but only sixteen men who apparently were traveling alone. That narrowed it down a lot.

Then another thought struck her: Would the manifest of the Gabrielle be among Regina Clausen's effects? she wondered. And if so, was it possible that one of those sixteen men from the Seagodiva had been a passenger on that ship too?

Susan tossed back the covers and headed to the shower. Even if Mrs. Clausen isn't up to seeing me, I'm going to ask her about the Gabrielle passenger list, she decided, and if it was returned with Regina's things, I'll beg her to let her housekeeper give it to me.

86

Feathers in the wind. Feathers in the wind. He could feel them scattering, dancing, mocking him. But now he knew for sure he could never retrieve them all. Ask Dr. Susan if you don't believe that, he thought angrily. He wished there were some way he could accelerate his plan, but it was too late. The steps had been laid out, and it couldn't be changed now. He would leave on schedule, but then he would double back, and that's when he would eliminate her.

Last night, when he had been walking past Susan's brownstone, she had happened to come to the window. He knew she couldn't have been able to see him clearly, but it did make him realize that he must not take a risk like that again.

When he returned to New York, he would find a way to take care of her. He would not follow her and try to force her into traffic as he had with Carolyn Wells. That had proved to be less than successful, for while Carolyn remained in a coma, with little apparent chance of recovery, she was still alive; and as long as she was alive, she was still a threat. No, he would have to corner Susan alone, as he had Tiffany-that would be best.

Although there might be another way, he thought suddenly.

This afternoon, in the guise of a messenger, he would check out her office building, studying the security in the lobby and the layout of the floor on which her office was located. It was Saturday, so it wouldn't be crowded. There would be fewer curious eyes to observe him.

The thought of killing Susan in her office was eminently satisfying. He had decided that he would honor her with the same form of death that he had accorded Veronica, Regina, Constance, and Monica-the same death that was awaiting his final victim, someone on a voyage to see "the jungle wet with rain."

He would overpower her, tie her up, and gag her, and then, as she watched, tortured with fear, he would slowly unwrap the long plastic bag and, inch by agonizing inch, he would cover her with it. Once she was covered head-to-toe, he would seal the bag. Inevitably there would be a little air still inside-just enough so that she would have a few minutes to struggle. Then as he saw the plastic begin to stick to her face and seal her mouth and nostrils, he would leave.

However, he would not be able to dispose of Susan's body as he had the others. The others he had either buried in sand, or weighted down with stones and watched disappear into murky waters. So Susan Chandler he would have to leave, but he could take comfort in the fact that after she was out of the way, the next-and final-victim would share the burial arrangement of her sisters in death.

87

Susan left her apartment at nine o'clock and walked directly to Seventh Avenue. From there she explored the blocks that slanted west toward the Hudson River, starting with West Houston and St. Luke's Place, then Clarkson and Morton Street. She made the decision to go only as far west as Greenwich Street, which ran parallel to the avenues, before turning north to the next block and then heading back east until she reached Sixth Avenue. Once there, she would reverse and head west on the next street.

Most of these streets were largely residential, although she did find several souvenir shops. In none of them, however, did she see a sign of Indian-style objects. She considered asking at some of these places if they were aware of the kind of shop she was looking for, but she decided against it. If she did succeed in finding the shop, she did not want the Indian clerk forewarned that she was coming.

At noon, she used her cell phone to call Jane Clausen at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Hospital. To her surprise, Mrs. Clausen readily agreed to her request to visit her. In fact, she seemed almost anxious to have her come by. "If you're free later this afternoon, it would be very nice to see you, Susan," she said.

"I'll be there by four," Susan promised.

She had planned to stop somewhere for lunch, but decided instead to buy a pretzel and a cola from a street vendor, and to eat in Washington Square Park. Although she had removed some of the contents of her shoulder bag, as time passed she became more and more aware of its weight, and of the fact that her feet were getting tired.

The day had started out overcast and chilly, but by early afternoon the sun had broken through, and the streets, almost deserted earlier, were now teeming with people. Seeing all those people-from Village regulars to gawking tourists-made the walking much more pleasant. Susan loved Greenwich Village. There's no other place like it, she thought. Gran Susie was lucky to grow up here.

Was it this kind of day when Tiffany and Matt walked around here a year ago? she wondered. She decided to continue her search by exploring the area just east of Sixth Avenue and turned onto MacDougal Street. As she walked downtown from Washington Square, she thought of her conversation with Matt Bauer. She smiled at the memory of the elephant god who he said Tiffany had likened to some of her customers at The Grotto.

The elephant god.

Susan stopped so suddenly that the teenager behind her bumped into her. "Sorry," he muttered.

Susan did not answer him. She was staring into the window of a shop she had just come upon. She glanced quickly at the entrance to the shop, over which there hung an oval-shaped sign that read DARK DELIGHTS.

Dark delights, indeed, she thought as she looked again at the display window. Inside, a red satin garter belt was draped over a pile of videotapes with crudely suggestive titles emblazoned on the boxes. A variety of other supposedly "erotic" paraphernalia was scattered around, but Susan ignored it Her attention was riveted on an object in the center of the window: a turquoise-inlaid elephant god, its trunk facing outward.

She spun around. Across the street she saw a FOR RENT sign in the window of the Khyem Specialty Shop.

Oh no! she thought. Threading her way through the traffic, she crossed the narrow street to the shop, stood at the door and peered inside. Even though the shop seemed to be fully stocked, the interior had a deserted look. A counter with a cash register was visible directly in front of the entrance. To the left, she could see a large painted screen that acted as a room divider. That must be the screen Matt described, she thought, the one behind which he and Tiffany had been standing when the man came into the shop to purchase a turquoise ring.

But where was the proprietor or clerk who had been there that day? she wondered.

Then she realized suddenly that there was one person who might know. She rushed back across the street to the porn shop. The door was open, and the place seemed to be doing a brisk business. One man was paying at the cash register, and two untidy-looking adolescents with long, lank hair were on line behind him.

His purchase completed, the man eyed her as he came out, but turned his head when Susan stared him down. A few minutes later the two boys emerged, guiltily averting their eyes as they passed her. They're definitely underage to be buying that garbage, she thought, the ex-prosecutor in her coming to the fore.

Now that she saw no other customers, she went inside. There appeared to be only one clerk, a thin, unattractive man who, like his surroundings, seemed a little seedy.

He looked at her nervously as she approached the counter. She realized instantly that he thought she might be a plainclothes policewoman who was going to give him grief for an illegal sale to minors.

I've got him on the defensive, she thought. Too bad I can't keep him there. She pointed to the Khyem Specialty Shop across the street. "When did that store close?" she asked.

She detected an immediate change in his attitude. The clerk's nervous demeanor vanished, and a brief, condescending smile twitched at the corners of his lips.

"Lady, you haven't heard what happened? Abdul Parki, the guy who owned that place, was murdered Tuesday afternoon."

"Murdered!" Susan made no effort to hide the dismay in her voice. Another one, she thought-another one. Tiffany talked about the shop's owner on my program.

"Did you know Parki?" the man asked. "He was a sweet little guy."

She shook her head, while struggling to compose herself. "A friend of mine recommended his shop," she said carefully. "Someone gave her one of the turquoise rings he made. Look," she said, and opened her bag and pulled out the ring Jane Clausen had given her.

The man glanced at the ring and then at her. "Yeah, that's one of Parki's rings, all right. He was nuts about turquoise. Oh, by the way, I'm Nat Small. I own this place."

"I'm Susan Chandler." Susan held out her hand. "I can tell he was a good friend of yours. How did it happen?"

"Stabbed. The cops think it was druggies, although they didn't take nothing so far as anyone can tell. He was really a nice little guy, too. And do you know, he was lying there almost a day before they found him. I was the one who called the cops, when he didn't open up on Wednesday."

Susan could see the genuine sadness in Nat Small's face. "My friend said he was a very nice man," she said. "Were there any witnesses?"

"Nobody seen nothing." Small shook his head and looked away as he spoke.

He's not telling me something, Susan thought I have to get him to level with me. "Actually, the young woman who told me about Parki was stabbed to death on Wednesday night," she said quietly. "I think the person who killed both her and Parki is a customer who bought several of these turquoise rings from him over the past three or four years."

Nat Small's sallow complexion turned a deeper gray as he met Susan's gaze. "Parki told me about that guy. Said he was a real gentleman."

"Did he describe him?"

Small shook his head. "Nothin' more than that."

Susan took a chance. "I think you know something you haven't told me, Nat."

"You're wrong." His eyes shifted toward the door. "Look, I don't mind talkin' with you, but you're scaring away my customers. There's a guy hanging around outside, and I know he won't come in while you're here."

Susan looked the little man directly in the eyes. "Nat, Tiffany Smith was twenty-five years old. She was stabbed as she left work on Wednesday night. I have a radio program that she called in to earlier and talked about a souvenir shop in the Village where her boyfriend bought her a turquoise ring that had the sentiment 'You belong to me' engraved inside the band. She described the shop, and she mentioned a man who she said was a native of India. She said that while she and her boyfriend were in the shop, a man-another customer-bought a turquoise ring, just like hers. And I'm convinced that's why she's dead-because of what she said she had seen. And I swear to you that Parki is dead as well because he could identify that same man. Nat, I sense that you know something you're not telling me. You've got to tell me before someone else dies."

Again Nat Small looked nervously toward the door as though he were afraid of something. "I don't want to get involved," he said, his voice low.

"Nat, if you know anything, you're already involved. Please tell me. What is it?"

His voice was almost a whisper now. "Just before one o'clock Tuesday afternoon, a guy was kind of hanging around, looking in my window-the way that guy out there is doing right now. I figured he was trying to pick out something he wanted, or maybe even that he was nervous about coming in here-he looked like a real uptown kind of guy-but then he went across the street and into Parki's shop. After that, a customer came in here, and I didn't pay attention anymore."

"Did you report what you saw to the police?"

"That's just what I didn't do. The police'd have me going through mug books or describing him for a sketch artist, but it would just be a waste. He was not the kind to be in mug books, and I'm no good telling people how to draw. I saw the guy in profile. He was classy looking, in his late thirties. He had a cap on, and a raincoat and sunglasses, but I still got a real good look at his profile."

"You think you'd recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Lady, in this business, I gotta recognize people. If I don't remember what the undercover cops look like, I might get busted, and if I can't spot a druggie, I might get murdered. Listen, you gotta get out of here. You're bad for business. The guys don't want to come in and shop with a classy-looking dame hanging around."

"Okay, I'll go. But Nat, tell me-would you recognize this man if I could show you his picture?"

"Yeah, I would. Now will you get out of here?"

"Right away. Oh, and one more thing, Nat. Don't talk about this-not to anybody. For your own safety, don't talk about it."

"Are you kidding? Of course I won't. I promise. Now get out of here and let me make a buck, okay?"