by Lisa Gardner
“Want me to get it?” Phil offered.
“No, I can handle it.” She got to her feet slowly, removing the bag of ice from her left shoulder. Alex had left her bright and early to teach his morning classes at the academy. Afterward, he planned on swinging by his parents’ and picking up Jack. This was the longest they’d been away from their son, and both missed him terribly.
Now D.D. approached her front door with growing trepidation. She’d made Alex leave behind his Glock 10, fully loaded. She could fire it one-handed. Maybe not with her best aim, but as long as she went for center mass, she ought to be able to hit enough to slow her opponent. Then it was simply a matter of continuing to squeeze the trigger. Her friend and former sniper, Bobby Dodge, might believe in one shot, one kill. D.D. didn’t really care, as long as she was the person left standing.
She arrived at the door. No gun in hand, because she had two trained police officers at her back, but still, flexing the fingers of her right hand nervously as she brought her eye to the peephole and carefully peered out.
Dr. Adeline Glen stood on her front porch.
Surprise, surprise, D.D. thought, and went to work on the bolt lock.
“Sorry to bother you,” Adeline said without preamble. “But I just came from visiting my sister, and I was hoping to speak with you.”
“You talked to your sister without us?”
Adeline’s gaze went past D.D. to the family room, where D.D.’s squad mates sat in plain sight. D.D. tried not to flush guiltily.
“We’re trained investigators,” she said defensively, because for her and her fellow detectives to continue investigating without Adeline was clearly different than Adeline continuing to investigate without them.
“Oh? Your shoulder’s better? You’ve been cleared for duty?”
“Ah hell.” D.D. gave up. “Come on in. Yes, we’re comparing notes on last night’s murder, and no, I’m not on the job, though I swear that’s not why Phil and Neil decided to pay me a visit. Has nothing to do with my lack of official capacity. Coffee’s simply better here, right, guys?”
Phil and Neil both nodded. Phil rose to standing, shaking Adeline’s hand, then introducing her to Neil. D.D. wasn’t surprised by the uncertain look on the doctor’s face as she regarded their youngest squad mate. With his lanky build and mop of red hair, Neil appeared perpetually sixteen. Came in handy when interviewing suspects, however. They rarely took the veteran detective seriously until it was too late.
Then the doctor’s gaze took in the easel-size flipchart, divided into three columns, one for each victim. She didn’t pale, as much as her expression set. Clinical. Already distancing herself from the graphic details listed there.
“So.” D.D. couldn’t help herself. “What’s up, Doc?”
“Is that coffee? I would love a cup of coffee.”
Phil did the honors of pouring. When D.D. had tried it earlier, she’d missed the mug. Shooting a firearm one-handed, okay. Pouring coffee one-handed, not so great.
“You call your sister, or did she call you?” D.D. asked. She took a seat in one of the kitchen chairs Neil had dragged into the room, then indicated for Adeline to make herself comfortable on the sofa.
“She contacted the warden with her request to speak with me first thing this morning. I assumed it was to wheel and deal. Shana had heard of the latest murder and was willing to offer up additional information in return for a furlough from prison life.”
“Not gonna happen,” D.D. said. “Didn’t you mention that to her yesterday?”
“Can’t blame a girl for asking. Anyway, that wasn’t . . . exactly how the conversation played out.”
“Okay.” D.D. sat forward, waiting expectantly. Neil and Phil did the same.
“Shana claims she hasn’t been in contact with the Rose Killer or anyone else. No secret network of spies or adoring fans beyond the prison walls. She would need inside support to pull off such a feat, and as she put it, she has no friends. We all know that.”
D.D. frowned. Certainly not what she’d been expecting. “Denial, of course, is in her own best interest. How does she explain knowing what she knows?”
“The powers of observation.”
“Say what?”
“Thirty years in solitary. She’s had nothing better to do than observe her fellow man. She’s not a criminal mastermind. She’s Sherlock Holmes.”
Phil made a disparaging noise in the back of his throat. “How’d she know the magic number?” he asked with clear skepticism.
“As a teenager, she researched our father at the local library. According to her, she determined he’d collected one hundred and fifty-three scraps of skin simply by reading articles in the local papers. No reason the Rose Killer couldn’t go through the same effort—I’d tried a basic Google search but only cursory. According to my sister, the information is out there; you just have to be willing to dig for it. Furthermore, since the Rose Killer is obviously emulating our father, it makes sense he’d include some sort of grand gesture, say, removing precisely one hundred and fifty-three slivers of skin, as an homage to the master. Shana claims she didn’t know that he was doing such a thing. She merely anticipated it. Possessing, after all, a unique insight into the criminal mind.”
“You can say that again,” D.D. muttered.
“Thing is, she also went on to say the killer would’ve looked me up, too. The daughter of Harry Day, who also happens to suffer a unique genetic condition. My very presence calls to him. Meaning he’d be driven to visit my office, even enter my home, possibly under the guise of a deliveryman—”
“What?” D.D. interjected sharply.
“I called my condo building after leaving Shana and asked them if anyone had been inside my unit in the past few months. Mr. Daniels wanted to know if I meant in addition to the worker from the gas company. Apparently, four weeks ago, a uniformed gas company employee showed up, claiming there’d been complaint of a possible leak on my floor. Of course they let the worker inside my condo. Given the risk, Mr. Daniels didn’t enter my unit but stayed outside in the hall . . . He claimed the person didn’t stay inside my home too long, but then again, couldn’t tell me with any specificity how long ‘not too long’ constituted. I called the gas company right afterward. They have no record of receiving such a call or sending someone to my unit.”
“But Mr. Daniels saw the person?” Phil asked immediately. “He can give us a description? Such as we’re definitely looking for a male suspect?”
Adeline paused.
“Oh no,” Phil murmured, already seeing the answer on her face.
“It turns out,” she began.
“Oh no.”
“Upon further examination, Mr. Daniels isn’t exactly sure who he saw. The gas company worker was wearing a hat, pressed low, while carrying a clipboard held high. In fact, he’s not even sure he saw the person’s face.”
“So gas company worker could be a gal or a guy?” D.D. asked, confused.
Adeline shrugged. “Mr. Daniels had the impression of a male. I tried to press as delicately as I could, without influencing his recollection. Not a large person, so height and build could go either way. But a gruff voice. That’s what decided his gender impression. Not the look of the person, but the sound of the fake gas company employee’s voice.”
“Oh geez,” Phil muttered.
Adeline nodded. “Exactly. Gruff voice could be a man. Or it could be a woman disguising her voice.”
“You think this person was the Rose Killer,” D.D. stated.
Adeline’s turn to appear confused. “Don’t you?”
“And based upon that,” D.D. continued slowly, “your sister predicting such behavior from the Rose Killer, you now believe your sister is using her superpowers for good instead of evil?”
“Such thoughts have crossed my mind. She’s my sister. It’s in our nature to assu
me the best about our families. So, yes—”
“Or she set it all up,” D.D. interjected. “Your highly manipulative sister, who we have reason to believe might be in cahoots with the Rose Killer. She told the person to enter your unit. Told her puppet exactly what to do. Then went to spring the information when it would be most to Shana’s advantage. Say, when you were beginning to doubt her. What better way to bring you around?”
Adeline blinked, then stated quietly, “Or there is that possibility as well. I want to be objective when it comes to my sister, but I doubt that I am. Hence, I am here, sharing this information with you. Maybe you can tell me what to believe.”
“Posing as a gas company employee fits the Rose Killer’s MO,” Phil spoke up. “We already know that he or she is using social engineering to access people’s homes, including posing as a security company employee to break into D.D.’s house—”
Adeline stared at D.D.
“Killer left me a very thoughtful note,” D.D. supplied. “‘Get well soon.’”
“Bottom line is,” Phil continued, “D.D.’s right: Your sister could know all this because she’s in contact with the killer. Not despite her lack of communication.”
“Have you been able to determine how’s she reaching out to the killer?” Adeline asked. “Code, letter, messenger?”
D.D. shook her head. “But your sister’s clever; you’re the one who keeps saying that. Not to mention, we’ve been a little busy with yet another murder to process. You know who the victim is?”
“Charlie Sgarzi’s mother.”
“Who, for the record, doesn’t fit the killer’s type. First two vics were young side of middle-aged, single women. Janet Sgarzi was an elderly widow, already dying from cancer. Serial killers rarely change victim type. It’s all part of the fantasy for them. Change out the victim and you might as well change the whole crime. Which makes this murder the outlier, especially as it happened so quickly after the second homicide. Maybe this attack wasn’t in response to some deep-seated compulsion, but a matter of cold, hard calculation. Janet Sgarzi needed to die. And according to Charlie Sgarzi, it’s your sister’s fault.”
“Shana doesn’t target women.”
“No, but this was a helluva way to target Charlie. Get revenge on a reporter who’s asking a lot of nasty questions about your sister, including accusing her of continuing her life of crime while behind prison bars.”
Adeline set down her coffee. Sighed heavily. “Prove it,” she said simply.
“Well, that’s kind of what we’re working on right now. Until you interrupted, of course.”
“Why did your sister ask to talk to you?” Phil spoke up. “If not to negotiate for her freedom, then what?”
“Oh, she still believes we should furlough her from prison and set her up in my apartment—”
“Aha!” D.D. exclaimed.
“But it’s not in return for her helping catch the killer. It’s so she can protect me. And, well, kill the killer. In her own words, she’s good at getting such jobs done.”
Another moment of silence.
“What does that mean?” Neil spoke up nervously.
“I asked the superintendent for more information on my sister’s alleged incidents behind bars. My sister has killed three times. The first occurred shortly after her incarceration and involved a female inmate who allegedly attacked Shana first. That death was ruled self-defense. Then life was quiet for nearly a decade, until Shana attacked and killed a male CO, apparently quite . . . savagely. Weeks later, she took out a second officer and officially earned the rest of her life in solitary. Superintendent McKinnon was clearly trying to be circumspect, but when I pressed her on the details of those deaths . . . Both guards were under investigation at the time of their deaths. For ‘consorting’ with female inmates. Of course, any sexual relationship between a guard and an inmate is considered inappropriate, but for at least the first officer, the allegations were pretty nasty and included two female inmates in Shana’s cellblock. There was some question that maybe the guard had entered Shana’s cell to target her next when she resisted. Vigorously.”
“She shanked the guy who was about to sexually assault her?” D.D. asked.
“It’s possible. Shana refused to say. In the end, with the officer dead and the investigation inconclusive, the case disappeared, no doubt because it would also cast a negative light over the prison’s officers. Of course, then Shana struck again, just weeks later, which sealed her fate, even though that guard also had a reputation for being ‘physically aggressive’ with his charges.”
“Hang on,” Neil interjected. “Your sister is now basically saying the victims made her do it? I mean, age-old defense, right? Blame the victim.”
Adeline nodded. She remained clear-eyed, D.D. thought. Still seeking that objectivity, as she’d claimed.
“But what about Donnie Johnson?” Neil spoke up. “Twelve-year-old boy. By all accounts, a geeky bookworm. No way had he posed a threat to her. You look at those old police photos, she’s bigger than he is. And definitely tougher.”
“I can’t explain Donnie Johnson,” Adeline admitted. “And Shana won’t speak of him. Thirty years later, it’s a topic non grata.”
“He’s the outlier,” D.D. murmured. And suddenly, she had her coffee mug down and herself up as she moved to the flipchart. “For the sake of argument, let’s compare: the Rose Killer and his three victims with Shana Day and her four. Because we already know the Rose Killer has one outlier: Janet Sgarzi. While Shana has one outlier, Donnie Johnson. Which wouldn’t normally be such a big deal, but what are the odds that the outliers from two different crime sprees would belong to the same family? A nephew and an aunt. You can’t tell me they aren’t connected.”
“To Charlie Sgarzi,” Adeline said with a frown, clearly not getting it.
D.D. beamed triumphantly. “Who is doing what?”
“Asking questions about his cousin’s thirty-year-old murder,” Phil supplied.
“Which means?” D.D. prompted.
“I’m going to be pulling more ancient files from the archives,” Neil intoned. He was still working on the Harry Day files. Latest report was they might have been lost in the move from the old HQ to the new digs. Such was the fate of much precomputer-age casework.
“Ding, ding, ding, give the detective a prize. That’s our connection. The murders may be happening now, but whatever set them in motion occurred thirty years ago. Donnie Johnson, Shana Day, and I’ll bet you anything, the Rose Killer, all crossed paths back in the day. We need the names of neighbors, witnesses, known associates. Work that list and we will find ourselves a killer.”
“Or,” Adeline said, rising to standing, “we can simply wait, and the killer will find us soon enough. According to Shana, he or she won’t be able to help it. My existence calls to murderers everywhere.”
“Are you concerned for your safety?” D.D. spoke up. “We can assign you an officer.”
“Can you shoot a gun one-handed?”
“Yeah. Part of our basic firearms training, and these days, color me grateful.”
“I can’t. Rare genetic immunity to pain, remember? Means engaging in dangerous activities, even for training, could lead to harmful results. I can’t fight, shoot or run. You could assign me an officer. But as strange as it sounds, I’d prefer my sister. Police only practice going on the offense. Whereas, Shana has it down to a science.”
D.D. rolled her eyes. “You seriously want us to furlough your sister? You understand, of course, that she’s probably going to do more than borrow your favorite clothes?”
Adeline moved toward the doorway. “Just because my sister’s offer is highly aggressive and extremely violent doesn’t mean it’s not worth considering. You have to admit, it’s the last thing the Rose Killer would see coming.”
“Unless, of course,” Phil offered up quietly, �
�it’s exactly what the murderer’s been working toward all along.”
Chapter 26
Who am I? Excited new tenant, friendly new neighbor.
What do I look like? Nice, educated, professional. I might ask to borrow a cup of sugar, but I would never contemplate the texture of your skin and how it might look floating in a mason jar.
Primary motivation: Just so happy to meet you.
Purpose of operation: Up the ante, heighten tensions, twist the screws.
Net gain: All good things must end.
Happy New Neighbor was struggling. The clothes were right. Recently purchased from Goodwill, which in a city like Boston carried as many designer labels as Saks. Tailored, professional, but subdued. A disguise, like the others, designed to form an impression of a person, while leaving the actual details hazy. How did the person look? Nice. What do you mean nice? I don’t know. Nice.
The clothes were right. Next up came posture and gait. More time spent practicing in front of the mirror. Not slouchy, but comfortable and confident. Shoulders rolled back, limbs loose. It was harder to do than it looked. It meant controlling the adrenaline rush, not leaning too far forward, not giving in to the constant hum of now, now, now, I gotta do, do, do.
But once again, practice made perfect.
Clothes were right. Body language acceptable.
Yet still. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, running through it again and again, Happy New Neighbor wasn’t . . . happy.
Killing her had been hard.
That had been the risk, of course, from the very beginning. The first two subjects had been easy, selected at random from local coffee shops. That recon work had been conducted as Everyday Average Person, the role that had been practiced the longest and was the easiest to pull off. Everyday Average Person had actively sought out two pretty single women. The victims had to be arbitrary; that would be the key. With no connection to each other or Everyday Average Person. It had actually taken more than a dozen tries. Women selected, then carefully followed, only to discover they lived with a husband or roommates or two-point-two kids. It took time and effort, as the research had suggested.