Gone ,but not forgotten

by Philip Margolin

  The last message in the stack caught Turner's eye. It was from Nancy Gordon, one of the few people whose call he would have returned yesterday afternoon if he had made it back to the office. Turner assumed she was calling about the nomination. There was a Hunter's Point, New York, number on the message slip.

  "It's Wayne," he said when he heard the familiar voice at the other end.

  "How you doin'?"

  "He's surfaced," Gordon answered without any preliminaries. It took Turner a few seconds to catch on, then he felt sick.

  "Where?"

  "Portland, Oregon."

  "How do you know?"

  She told him. When she was through, Turner asked,

  "What are you going to do?"

  "There's a flight to Portland leaving in two hours."

  "Why do you think he started again?"

  "I'm surprised he held out for so long," Gordon answered.

  "When did you get the letter?"

  "Yesterday, around four. I just came on shift."

  "You know about the senator?"

  "Heard it on the news."

  "Do you think there's a connection? The timing, I mean. It seems odd it would be so soon after the President made the announcement."

  "There could be a connection. I don't know. And I don't want to jump to conclusions."

  "Have you called Frank?" Turner asked.

  "Not yet."

  "Do it. Let him know."

  "All right."

  "Shit. This is the absolute, worst possible time for this to happen."

  "You're worried about the senator?"

  "of course."

  "What about the women?" Gordon asked coldly.

  "Don't lay that trip on me, Nancy. You know damn well I care about the women, but Colby is my best friend.

  Can you keep him out of it?"

  "I will if I can."

  Turner was sweating. The plastic receiver was uncomfortable against his ear.

  "What will you do when you find him?" he asked nervously. Gordon did not answer immediately. Turner could hear her breathing deeply.

  "Nancy?"

  "I'll do what I have to."

  Turner knew what that was. If Nancy Gordon found the man who had haunted their dreams for the past ten years, she would kill him. The civilized side of Wayne Turner wanted to tell Gordon that she should not take the law into her own hands. But there was a primitive side of Wayne Turner that kept him from saying it, because everyone, including the senator, would be better off if the man Homicide Detective Nancy Gordon was after died.

  The microwave buzzed. Alan Page backed into the kitchen, keeping one eye on the television. The CBS anchorman was talking about the date that had been set for Raymond Colby's confirmation hearing. Colby would give the Supreme Court a solid conservative majority and that was good news, if you were a prosecutor.

  Alan took his TV dinner out of the microwave, giving the food the briefest of glances. He was thirty-seven, with close-cropped black hair, a face that still bore the scars of acne and a sense of purpose that made most people nervous. His rail-thin body suggested an interest in distance running. In fact, Alan was thin because he had no use for food and ate the bare minimum that would keep him going. It was worse now that he was divorced. On a good day, breakfast was instant coffee, lunch a sandwich and more black coffee and dinner a pizza.

  A reporter was interviewing someone who knew Colby when he was c.e.o. of Marlin Steel. Alan used the remote to jack up the volume. From what he was hearing, there was nothing standing in the way of Colby's confirmation as Chief justice of the United States. The doorbell rang just as the Colby story ended. Alan hoped it wasn't business. There was a Bogart classic on at nine that he'd been looking forward to — all day.

  The woman standing on Alan's doorstep held a briefcase over her head to shield herself from the rain. A small, tan valise stood beside her. A taxi was waiting at the curb, its wipers swinging back and forth and its headlight beams cutting through the torrent.

  "Alan Page?"

  He nodded. The woman flipped open a leather case she was clutching in her free hand and showed Alan her badge.

  "Nancy Gordon. I'm a homicide detective with the Hunter's Point P.D. in Hunter's Point, New York. Can I come in?"

  "Of course," he said, stepping back. Gordon signaled the taxi, then ducked inside. She held the briefcase at arm's length, shook off the water on the welcome mat, then pulled in the valise.

  "Let me take your coat," Alan said. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  "Hot coffee, please," Gordon answered as she handed him her raincoat.

  "What's a detective from New York doing in Portland, Oregon?" Alan asked as he hung the coat in the hall closet.

  "Does the phrase "Gone, But Not Forgotten' mean anything to you, Mr.

  Page?"

  Alan stood perfectly still for a second, then turned around. "That information hasn't been released to the public. How do you know about it?"

  "I know more than you can imagine about "Gone, But Not Forgotten," Mr.

  Page. I know what the note means. I know about the black rose. I — also know who took your missing women."

  Alan needed a moment to think.

  "Please sit down and I'll get your coffee," he told Gordon.

  The apartment was small. The living room and kitchen were one space divided by a counter. Gordon chose an armchair near the television and waited patiently while Alan mixed water from a tea kettle with Folger's instant. He handed the cup to the detective, turned off the set, then sat opposite her on the couch. Gordon was tall with an athlete's body.

  Alan guessed she was in her midthirties. Her blond hair was cut short.

  She was attractive without working at it. The most striking thing about the detective was her utter seriousness. Her dress was severe, her eyes were cold, her mouth was sealed in a straight line and her body was rigid, like an animal prepared to defend itself. Gordon leaned forward slightly. "Think of the most repulsive criminals, Mr. Page. Think of Bundy, Manson, Dahmer. The man leaving these notes is smarter and far more dangerous than any of them, because they're all dead or in prison.

  The man you're after is the man-who got away."

  "You know who he is?" Alan asked.

  Gordon nodded. "I've been waiting for him to surface for ten years."

  Gordon paused. She looked into the steam rising from her cup. Then she looked back at Alan.

  "This man is cunning, Mr. Page, and he's different.

  He's not human, the way we think of human. I knew he wouldn't be able to control himself forever and I was right. Now he's surfaced and I can catch him, but I need your help."

  "If you can clear this up, you've got all the help you want. But I'm still confused about who you are and what you're talking about."

  "Of course. I'm sorry. I've been involved with this case so long, I forget other people don't know what happened. And you'll need to know it all or you won't understand. Do you have the time, Mr. Page? Can I tell you now? I don't think we can wait, even until morning. Not while he's still out there, free."

  "If you're not too tired."

  Gordon stared into Alan's eyes with an intensity that forced him to look away.

  "I'm always tired, Mr. Page. There was a time when I couldn't sleep without pills. I'm over that, but the nightmares haven't stopped and I still don't sleep well. I won't until he's caught."

  Alan did not know what to say. Gordon looked down.

  She drank more coffee. Then she told Alan Page about Hunter's Point.

  Part Two

  HUNTER'S POINT.

  Chapter Five

  The sprawling, two-story colonial was in the middle of a cul-de-sac, set well back from the street. A large, welltended lawn created a wide buffer zone between the house and those on either side. A red Ferrari was parked in the driveway in front of a three-car garage.

  Nancy Gordon knew it was going to be bad as soon as she saw the Stunned expressions on the faces of the neighbors
, who huddled just outside the police barriers.

  They were shocked by the presence of police cars and a morgue wagon in the quiet confines of The Meadows, where the houses started at half a million and crime was simply not permitted. She knew it was going to be really bad when she saw the grim faces of the two homicide detectives who were talking in low tones on the lawn near the front door.

  Nancy parked her Ford behind a marked car and squeezed through the sawhorses. Frank Grimsbo and Wayne Turner stopped their conversation when they saw her. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The call had come while she was sprawled in front of the TV in a ratty nightgown, sipping a cheap white wine and watching the Mets smoke the Dodgers. The clothes were the first thing she could find and the last thing she thought about.

  "Newman said there's a body this time," she said excitedly.

  "IT we."

  "How can we be sure it's him?" Nancy asked.

  "The note and the rose were on the floor near the woman," Grimsbo answered. He was a big man with a beer gut and thinning black hair who wore cheap plaid jackets and polyester slacks.

  "It's him 'all right," said Turner, a skinny black man with close-cropped hair and a permanent scowl who was in his second year in night law school. "The first cop on the scene was smart enough to figure out what was going on. He called me right away. Michaels did the note and the crime scene before anyone else was let in."

  That was a break. Who's the second victim?"

  "Melody Lake," Grimsbo answered. "She's six years old, Nancy."

  "Oh, fuck." The excitement she felt at finally getting a body disappeared instantly. "Did he… Was there anything done to her?"

  Turner shook his head. "She wasn't molested."

  "And the woman?"

  "Sandra Lake. The mother. Death by strangulation.

  She was beaten pretty badly, too, but there's no evidence of sexual activity. Course, she hasn't been autopsied."

  "Do we have a witness?"

  "I don't know," Grimsbo answered. "We have uniforms talking to the neighbors, but nothing yet. Husband found the bodies and called it in to 911 about eight-fifteen. He says he didn't see anyone, so the killer must have left way before the husband got home. We got a cul de-sac here and it leads into Sparrow Lane, the only road out of the development.

  The husband would have seen someone coming in or out."

  "Who's talked to him?"

  "I did, for a few minutes," Turner answered. "And the first cops on the scene, of course. He was too bent out of shape to make any sense. You know him, Nancy."

  "I do?"

  "It's Peter Lake."

  "The attorney?"

  Grimsbo nodded. "He defended Daley."

  Nancy frowned and tried to remember what she could about Peter Lake. She had not done much in the Daley investigation. All she recalled about the defense attorney were his good looks and efficient manner. She was on the stand less than a half hour.

  "I better go in," Nancy said.

  The entryway was huge. A small chandelier hung overhead. A sunken living room was directly in front of her. The room was spotless. She could see a small manmade lake out back through a large picture window.

  Strategically placed around the room, most probably by an interior decorator, were bleached oak tables with granite tops, chairs and a sofa in pastel shades and macrame wall hangings. It looked more like a showroom than a place where people lived.

  A wide staircase was off to the left. A polished wood banister followed the curve of the stairs to the second floor. The posts supporting the banister were closely spaced. Through the spaces, halfway up the stairs, Nancy could see a small lump covered by a blanket. She turned away.

  Lab technicians were dusting for prints, taking photographs and collecting evidence. Bruce Styles, the deputy medical examiner, was standing with his back to her in the middle of the entryway between a uniformed officer and one of his assistants.

  "You finished?" Nancy asked.

  The doctor nodded and stepped aside. The woman was facedown on the white shag carpet. She was wearing a white cotton dress. It looked well suited for the heat.

  Her feet were bare. The woman's head was turned away.

  Blood matted her long brown hair. Nancy guessed she had been brought down by a blow to the head, and Styles confirmed her suspicion.

  "I figure she was running for the door and he got her from behind. She could have been partly conscious or completely out when he strangled her."

  Nancy walked around the body so she could see the woman's face. She was sorry she looked. If the woman had been attractive, there was no way to tell now. Nancy took a couple of deep breaths.

  "What about the little girl?" she asked.

  "Neck broken," Styles answered. "It would have been quick and painless.

  "We think she was a witness to the mother's murder," Turner said.

  "Probably heard her screaming and came down the steps."

  "Where's the husband?" Nancy asked.

  "Down the hall in the den," Turner said.

  "No sense putting it off."

  Peter Lake slumped in a chair. Someone had given him a glass of scotch, but the glass was still more than half full.

  He looked up when Nancy entered the den and she could see he had been crying. Even so, he was a striking man, tall with a trim, athletic build. Lake's styled, gold-blond hair, his pale blue eyes and sharp, clean-shaven features were what won over the women on his juries.

  "Mr. Lake, do you remember me?" Nancy asked.

  Lake looked confused.

  "I'm a homicide detective. My name is Nancy Gordon. You cross-examined me in the Daley-case."

  "Of course. I'm sorry. I don't handle many criminal cases anymore.

  "How are you feeling?" Nancy asked, sitting across from Lake.

  "I'm numb."

  "I know what. you're going through Nancy started, but lake's head jerked up.

  "How could you-they're dead. My family is dead."

  Lake covered his eyes with his hand-to-and wept. His shoulders trembled.

  "I do know how you feel," Nancy said softly. "A year ago my fiancee was murdered. The only good thing that came out of it was that I learned how victims really feel, and sometimes I can even help them get through the worst of it."

  Lake looked up. He wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just so hard. They meant everything to me. And Melody… How could someone do that to a little girl?

  She couldn't hurt anybody. She was just a little girl."

  "Mr. Lake, four women have disappeared in Hunter's Point in the past few months. A black rose and a note, identical to the ones you found, were left at each home. I know how much you're grieving, but we have to act fast. This is the first time we have actually found a victim. That could mean you surprised the killer before he had time to take your wife away.

  Anything you can tell us would be deeply appreciated and may help us catch this man before he kills again."

  "I don't know anything. Believe me, I've thought about it. I was working late on a case. I called to let Sandy know. I didn't see anything unusual when I drove up. Then I… I'm really not too clear on what I did after I… I know I sat down on the bottom step."

  Lake paused. He breathed deeply, trying to keep from crying again. His lip trembled. He took a sip of his scotch.

  "This is very hard for me, Detective. I want to help, but… Really, this is very hard."

  Nancy stood up and placed a hand on Lake's shoulder. He began to weep again.

  "I'm going to leave my card. I want you to call me if I can do anything for you. Anything. If you remember something, no matter how insignificant you may believe it to be, call me. Please."

  "I will. I'll be better in the morning and I'll… It's just "It's all right. Oh, one other thing. The media will be after you. They won't respect your privacy. Please don't talk- to them. There are many aspects of this case we are not going to release to the public. We keep back facts to help us eliminate phony confes
sions and to identify the real killer. It's very important that you keep what you know to yourself."

  "I won't talk to the press. I don't want to see any "Okay," Nancy said kindly. "And you're going to be all right. Not one hundred percent, and not for a long time, but you'll deal with your grief. It won't be easy.

  I'm still not healed, but I'm better, and you'll be better too.

  Remember what I said about calling. Not the police business. You know, if you just want to talk."

  Lake nodded. When Nancy left the den, he was sprawled in the chair, his head back and his eyes closed.

  Hunter's Point was a commuter suburb with a population of 110,000, a small downtown riddled with trendy boutiques and upscale restaurants, the branch of the State University, and a lot of' shopping centers.

  There were no slums in Hunter's Point, there were clusters of Cape Cods and garden apartments on the fringe of the downtown area that housed students and families unable to afford the high-priced developments like The Meadows, where the commuting lawyers, doctors and businessmen lived.

  Police headquarters was a dull, square building on the outskirts of town. It sat in the middle of a flat, blacktopped parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence. The lot was filled with police cars, unmarked vehicles and tow trucks.

  The rose killer task force was housed in an old storage area in the back of the building. There were no windows, and the fluorescent lights were annoyingly bright.

  A watercooler was squeezed between two chest-high filing cabinets. A low wood table stood on rickety legs against a cream-colored wall. On the table sat a coffee maker, four coffee mugs, a sugar bowl and a brown plastic cup filled with several packets of artificial creamer.

  Four gunmetal-gray, government-issue desks were grouped in the center of the room. Bulletin boards with pictures of the victims and information about the crimes covered two walls.

  Nancy Gordon hunched over her reports on the Lake murders. The flickering fluorescents were starting to give her a headache. She closed her eyes, leaned back and pinched her lids. When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the photographs of Samantha Reardon and Patricia Cross that Turner had tacked to the wall. The photos had been supplied by their husbands. Samantha on the deck of a sailboat. A tall woman, the wind blowing her flowing brown hair behind her, a smile of genuine happiness brightening her face. Pat in shorts and a halter top on a beach in Hawaii, very slender, too thin, actually.