Blood Runs Cold

by Catherine Maiorisi

  Corelli paled. She leaned against the door. “Has to be the same killer. None of this has been released.”

  “I called Watkins. Miranda didn’t clean for Lerner.”

  “Serial killers generally stick to the same sex.”

  “It looks like someone’s picking off the people in that picture,” said Parker.

  Just what she’d feared the minute she saw it. Corelli took out her cell phone and pressed the fast dial number for Captain Winfry. She spoke softly. “We have another one.” She filled him in.

  “Yes. We’ll do it informally. Parker and I will leave for Brooklyn in a few minutes. Would you call Captain DiLea at the seven-four to let her know we’re on the way and make sure they hold everything for us? Thanks.”

  She closed the phone, took a deep breath, and went back into the office. Burke was glaring at her.

  “Speaker—”

  “Call me Kate please. What was that about? Why do I feel you’re holding something back?”

  “Kate. It gets worse.”

  “What gets worse?”

  “This story.” No way to soften this. “Meg Lerner was found murdered this morning, at home, arranged in the same way as Spencer and Nardo.”

  “Oh, my God. I can’t bear it.” She sank onto the sofa and covered her face. She could hide her tears but she couldn’t suppress the sound of her agonized sobs.

  Corelli believed human touch comforted people isolated in their grief so she sat next to Burke and put a hand on her back. When she regained control, Burke looked up. “Please tell me what is going on?”

  “Best guess right now is somebody is targeting the people in that picture.” And that means Brett is in danger too.

  “But why? Why us?” Sobbing again.

  “I don’t know but we need your help. We need to beef up your security and arrange protection for the others until we know who is doing this.”

  She wiped her eyes. “Tell me what to do.”

  “First, call Nelson, Abigail, and Gary and tell them what’s happening. I want Abigail and Nelson to stay where they are for a couple of days until we figure this out. We’ll arrange protection for all three of them just to be sure. Then give me Brett’s arrival information. Someone will meet her plane, someone she knows, to explain what’s going on and guard her as well. When that’s done, we’ll talk.”

  It took a while because Kate kept breaking down and had to repeat the story to Abigail, Nelson, and Gary several times before they could take it in. In each case, Corelli had to get on the phone to clarify the situation and get the information she needed to put protection in place. Burke was a mess when she finished, but she turned to Corelli and said, “Now what?”

  “Since it looks like this started after you became speaker, let’s begin with that. Do you have any political enemies, anyone who might want to hurt you?”

  Burke blew her nose and stared into space. “Lots of enemies. But I can’t imagine any of them would kill to get to me. John Collins, a councilman from Queens, thought he should have the speaker’s job. He even threatened me in a way. When everybody was congratulating me, he shook my hand and leaned in as if he was offering congratulations, but instead he whispered he would make sure that I lived to regret taking his job from him. Now I’m pushing him on a development in his district so he’s really not happy with me.”

  Burke watched Parker write down what she said. “He’s angry. But I can’t believe he would do this, something so vindictive, no, something so insane. And what does he gain, unless he kills me?” She shook her head. “Then again, maybe I’m next.”

  “Anyone else?” Corelli asked.

  “Tony DiSilva, the political boss in Staten Island, backed his own candidate against me and wasn’t too happy that I won. But we’re not talking about the mafia here. These guys have been doing this kind of backroom stuff for years and they don’t usually kill the other party if they lose. And Tony is already reaching out to repair our relationship. Nobody else comes to mind.”

  “What about the Irish group, the ones who try to keep gays and lesbians out of the St. Patrick’s Day parade?” Corelli asked.

  “Uh-uh. Those guys might be biased but they’re not killers. This is beyond the pale.”

  Parker finished writing and looked up. “That reminds me. In some of those pictures,” she pointed to the credenza, “there are people in the background with religious signs. What about them? Any religious guys pestering or threatening or anything?”

  Burke shook her head. “These so-called Christians who preach hate are always around gay events, and since I’ve been speaker there’s always someone outside City Hall quoting the Bible and saying terrible things about gays and lesbians. One guy carries a sign that says homosexuals are an abomination and should be killed. But I can’t believe that even these hate-filled Christian weirdoes would do something like this. It has to be some real sicko.”

  Corelli considered how much to tell her. Burke was a politician. She knew how to keep a secret. And Corelli needed her help. “We’re checking that out, but this MO is unusual for a serial killer; no extraneous violence, no mutilation, nothing sexual.” She waited a minute to give Burke time to take it in.

  Corelli wasn’t ready to drop the religious angle. “We believe both Nardo and Spencer received threatening phone calls saying homosexuals should be killed. A friend of Nardo’s said he referred to them as the ‘un-Christians,’ out for gay blood. Have you heard anything?”

  “Nardo mentioned it, but he didn’t seem worried. We deal with this kind of stuff all the time. Especially the gay men.”

  Some of these so-called Christian groups were fanatics and having spent a couple of years battling religious fanatics in Iraq and Afghanistan, Corelli pushed again. “It could be someone who sees himself as the hand of God, a missionary, doing God’s work by getting rid of homosexuals. Maybe you and your friends are the target because you’re visible, and you’re all successful, wealthy, and attractive.”

  “But how did he find them? We all have unlisted phone numbers.”

  “Good question. Maybe the Internet.”

  “So how can I help?”

  “Right now the priority is keeping all of you safe. So we’ll take care of Brett. You go straight home tonight and try to get some rest. Are you in an apartment? Is there someone who can stay with you?”

  “Yes, a doorman building in the village. My brother will come. But I can’t go right home. I have to go to a dinner at the Waldorf.”

  “Go. Be careful. We’ll talk to your security team before we leave. You make sure security stays close at all times, and on the way home pick up your brother. We’ll instruct the doorman to keep everyone out and we’ll have either your security or a police officer outside your apartment door all night. And tomorrow, make sure your security detail picks you up and stays close whenever you leave City Hall.”

  “Whatever you say,” Burke said, seeming to shrink into exhaustion.

  “Please, stay with us a little longer, Kate. There is something else. Mayor Matthews is complicating the investigation by insisting that Mr. Nickerson’s case be investigated by the precinct in which he lived. And he’ll probably do the same with Ms. Lerner’s investigation. He doesn’t want us to say the words serial killer. We need a single investigation if we’re going to solve this quickly.”

  Burke sat up, transformed into official mode. “That bastard. Worried about his re-election. I’ll take care of it. He can forget support from the gay and lesbian community if he tries to pretend this isn’t happening.”

  “Thank you. And, just so you know, I’m proceeding as if we have a combined investigation.”

  “That’s crazy. You’ll jeopardize your job,” Burke said.

  “My job is important to me, but not as important as stopping this killer.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sunday – 10 a.m.

  Even with the siren and lots of zigzagging around traffic on Flatbush Avenue, it took almost an hour to get to Meg Lerner
’s house in Park Slope, Brooklyn. And then they didn’t receive a particularly warm welcome from the troops standing around waiting to do their jobs. The MLI from the Medical Examiner’s office was particularly outraged at having to wait outside. Wachinski and Santiago, the two detectives who caught the case, were borderline hostile, but they had followed the order to keep the scene intact for Corelli and Parker to examine before the MLI and CSU began to work.

  They led Corelli and Parker into Meg Lerner’s house, a four-story brownstone facing Prospect Park. Walking into the first-floor hallway they faced a restored wooden staircase on the right and a hallway with two doors on the left. The first room contained a desk and computer, bookcases, file cabinets, and a small table with four chairs, obviously her office. The white-tiled bathroom with a tub, shower, and closets was between the office and a large sunny bedroom with a king-sized bed. French doors opened to a backyard with a gigantic barbecue, picnic table, and lawn chairs in a well-tended garden. Corelli gave it all a quick look. She faced the two detectives. “I’m not here to do your job or get in your way. I’m only interested in the scene. “Where is she?”

  Wachinski looked dubious. “Fourth floor, her studio.” He and Santiago started up the stairs.

  Corelli and Parked followed.

  On the fourth floor, they stopped to put on protective gear. When Wachinski opened the door to the studio, they were blasted with sunlight, a wave of heat, and the ripe smell of death. Even with the air conditioner running, the sun had hastened the deterioration of the body. Corelli assessed the room: all four walls were brick up to about three feet, then glass to the ceiling, which had four skylights—north, south, east, and west. You couldn’t get better light than this. Paintings in various stages of completion were mounted on the four easels scattered around the large room. Built into the lower walls were raw wood storage racks jammed with paintings that Corelli estimated would be valued in the multimillions based on the last time she’d priced a Lerner painting. Probably much, much more now that she was dead. Two large cabinets with narrow drawers she assumed contained more drawings and paintings not yet framed stood near the only place to sit in the room, a dilapidated sofa facing the easels. The copious paint splatters dotting everything in the room—the floor, the easels, the tables next to each easel, the cabinets, the sofa, and Meg Lerner—echoed the vitality in Lerner’s art.

  Corelli and Parker moved into the studio. Wachinski and Santiago watched from the doorway. She couldn’t see the bullet hole in Lerner’s cerebellum, but she had no doubt it was there. Lerner lay on the sofa under one of the skylights, posed in the same manner as her two good friends, rosary in her hands, the ashes of incense in a burner on the nearest table, and Gregorian chants playing on an endless loop. The clock radio CD player on the floor near an outlet was very different than the players in the other victims’ homes. Lerner had on a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers all splotched with paint as were her hands and arms. A glass of red wine was on a small table next to the sofa.

  When she and Parker had studied, photographed, and diagrammed the scene, Corelli turned to the two local detectives. “Thanks. You can bring the CSU and the MLI up here now.”

  “I’ll let them know.” Santiago left the studio.

  “Who found her?”

  “A friend.” Wachinski looked at his notes. “Um, Amelia Freestone.”

  “Is she still here?” Corelli asked Wachinski, who seemed to be the primary.

  “In the living room.”

  “We’d like to talk to her.”

  “You can try,” Wachinski said, “but she hasn’t said a word since she called 911.”

  He led them down. A quick look on the third floor revealed two bedrooms separated by a bathroom. The second floor opened into the dining room and a table set with two plates, a platter of olives, grape leaves, and dried-up cheese, a tray of crackers, and a single glass of red wine. Like Spencer Nickerson, Lerner had expected her killer. In these narrow buildings the rooms were railroad style, one led to another, so they continued through the modern kitchen into the living room. The dark blue walls and the matching blue plush carpet were offset by the covers of the books lining two walls. A large sofa patterned with various shades of blue and a matching easy chair faced a huge HDTV. A set of French doors led out to a deck. The picture of Meg with her friends on the steps of City Hall was prominently displayed on the coffee table along with some large art books.

  Corelli and Parker moved into the living room, past the female officer watching the woman. Santiago returned and he and Wachinski stood next to the uniform.

  Amelia Freestone huddled in one corner of the sofa staring at the TV, but whatever she was seeing was in her head because the screen was blank. Grabbing the blue and gold chenille throw draped over the easy chair, Corelli covered Freestone and sat next to her on the sofa. Parker took the chair on Freestone’s other side and waited. Corelli found Freestone’s hand under the throw and enclosed it in her own hands, rubbing gently. She knew not to rush the woman who most likely was in shock, so she didn’t speak. Parker followed her lead. The detectives and the officer standing behind them near the door whispered and shifted impatiently. Corelli shot a warning look over her shoulder. After a few minutes, Freestone turned to Corelli.

  “How is Meg? Is she…?” Her breath hitched.

  “Amelia,” Corelli said, pressing her hand firmly, trying to hold her attention. “Meg is dead. I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  Corelli spoke softly. “I don’t know but we’ll find out. What happened this morning?”

  Freestone was motionless. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t speak.

  Parker threw a dirty look toward the doorway, a warning to stop the coughing and shifting and whispering. After almost five minutes, Freestone opened her eyes. “I stopped by with her food and stuff. I let myself in with my keys because Meg is usually in her studio and never hears the bell when she’s painting. I put the things in the refrigerator and walked upstairs to the studio to see if she wanted to stop to have a cup of coffee and a bagel with me. As soon as I opened the door, I smelled something really bad, but sometimes she forgets food in the studio, and with all that sun, it rots. I started to scold her.” Freestone looked like she was going to be sick. “Oh, god, she was on the sofa in the sunlight.” She swallowed. “At first I thought she was sick. I mean, she never sits when she’s in the studio and she was just lying there. I went over to see if she was awake and she looked…and the smell wasn’t rotting food…I knew something was terribly wrong so I called 911.” Freestone spoke in a monotone.

  “Try not to think about it, Amelia.” Corelli knew it would be a long time before the poor woman got that image out of her mind but she needed her to focus.

  “Did you touch anything?”

  She shook her head. “I was going to touch her shoulder to…to wake her, but I could see she was…It wasn’t her anymore. I backed away to call 911.”

  “Was the front door locked when you came in?”

  Her eyes clouded over and her lids fluttered. Corelli feared she’d lost her but then she responded.

  “No. The dead bolt on the top wasn’t locked. The bottom was locked but not double-locked. Meg was pretty careful about locking up, because, you know, she was like unconscious when she was painting, so if somebody came in she wouldn’t even notice.”

  Corelli glanced at Wachinski to confirm they were taking notes. Satisfied, she turned back to Freestone. “You brought food?”

  “Meg would starve to death if someone didn’t think about food for her, so she pays me to shop and cook. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday I bring her pre-cooked meals she can just heat, and wine and other necessities. Sunday mornings, I bring her bagels and lox and other stuff from the deli. I’m an artist too but I don’t make money like she does. The arrangement helps her and gives me more than enough to live on so I can paint.”

  “When did you last see Meg?”

  “Friday night. We eat together every Friday when
I bring the food.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “About nine, I think. I have an early yoga class on Saturdays. And she locked the door after me when I left.”

  “Did she mention any threats or phone calls? Did she seem troubled?”

  “No she seemed fine. Happy about finishing the last of a series of paintings. And excited about a show she was planning with her work and the work of unknown women artists she was mentoring. She asked me to be in the show. After I calmed down, we talked about the art scene in the city, the usual stuff.”

  “Were you lovers?”

  “I’m not a lesbian. Meg and I have been friends since junior high school.”

  Corelli turned to Wachinski. “Do you have any questions?”

  He exchanged a look with Santiago, who shook his head. “Nothing right now except name, address, and phone.”

  Freestone provided the information. “An officer will drive you home,” Corelli said. “Is there someone we can call to meet you there?”

  Freestone nodded. “My boyfriend, T.J. James.” She handed her cell phone to Corelli who passed it to the female police officer. They left Freestone sitting there facing the blank TV.

  Corelli briefed Wachinski and Santiago on the other two murders and asked them to meet with her team later. She had already cleared it with the precinct commander, but she knew it wouldn’t work if she couldn’t get them on board. They agreed warily.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sunday – 7 p.m.

  “Listen up people. We’ve got another one.” She waited until the uproar died down. “A woman, Meg Lerner, in Park Slope, Brooklyn, but the MO is the same.” She brought them up to date. “Detectives Wachinski and Santiago, standing near the door, from the seven-four will focus on Lerner.”

  Wachinski raised his hand. “Preliminary TOD is sometime after eleven Friday night.