“Not pretty.” If it hadn’t been for Ellery, the town of Woodbury might have lost a good many more citizens.
“Exactly. So I’m in limbo at the moment.” She paused. “That’s kind of why I’m calling.”
“Oh?” The last time she’d phoned, Reed had ended up face-to-face with a serial murderer. “No one is mailing you menacing Christmas cards, I hope.”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” she assured him quickly. “But I could use your advice. Your professional advice. Well, not me, a friend. No wait. She’s not really a friend, but I think if you heard her story, you’d want to help, too.”
Reed closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. Of course he always wanted to help. This was his problem, at least as Sarit had framed it to him. “What is it?” he asked with his eyes still shut.
“Her name is Wendy Mendoza,” Ellery told him, and then she sketched out the basics of a case that was both horrible and entirely hopeless: there were no witnesses, fibers, DNA, or fingerprints. Just a victim whose life had been destroyed. Of course her story seemed powerful. It was literally all that was left. “She can’t eat or sleep,” Ellery was saying. “She lost her job and she’s afraid to leave the house because he’s still out there. The detective on the case says there’s nothing more they can do right now, but he would love to have you take a look at the file and offer your opinion.”
Reed’s opinion was that Somerville had an anger-type rapist on the loose, that the man had assaulted women before and likely would do so again before he was caught. He felt confident that the detective on the case already knew all of this, however. “You talked to the detective? About me?”
“Your name came up. Listen, I know it’s a lot to ask, and you don’t owe me anything—”
“How do you know her?” Reed cut her off. “The victim—the one who is not your friend.”
Ellery was quiet on the other end of the line for a long moment. “We’re in group therapy together,” she muttered eventually. “A group for people who experienced violent crime.”
Something in her words made his throat seize up. He had a flash of his own hands shaking as they’d pried open Coben’s closet. He saw Ellery lying half-dead on the floor. He’d been sure he was too late, that she would not be saved. “I can be there tomorrow evening,” he announced with sudden decisiveness, already calling up the flight schedules. “But just don’t expect any miracles.”
“No, I don’t. Not anymore.”
When he hung up with Ellery, Reed booked a flight to Boston, found a hotel, and only then went to ask permission for the side trip he’d already arranged. Russ McGreevy, colloquially known as “Puss” since he’d come out of an armed standoff with the victim’s pet cat under his arm, barely looked up when Reed knocked on the door and stuck his head in the room. Maybe he would be too distracted to parse the details. “Hey, boss? I just wanted to let you know I’m going up to Massachusetts tomorrow for a quick consultation on a serial rape case.” Ellery had mentioned just the one known victim, but Reed knew there had to be others.
McGreevy looked up from the paperwork he was reading and took off his glasses so he could regard Reed fully. “I don’t recall seeing anything on the docket about a rapist in Massachusetts.” McGreevy might have been retiring later in the year, but he was only in his mid-sixties and was exiting at the top of his game. The man missed nothing. “You’re working the bombing in Birmingham with Alan Turk.”
“We have that report ready to go,” Reed said as he eased into the room. “Alan can handle any follow-up.”
McGreevy scratched the back of his head and squinted at the ceiling. Reed had seen the routine enough times over the years to recognize that McGreevy’s next question would be rhetorical. “Did I assign you a case about a rapist in Massachusetts? No,” he said, indeed answering his own question. “No, I am sure I would remember if I had done so. We don’t have any active investigations at all up there at the moment, so what is this about?”
Reed took a seat and gave Puss the basics of the rape investigation. McGreevy waved an impatient hand at him, cutting it short. “Terrible story, yes. But if the local PD needs assistance, they can requisition help through the usual channels. This is a matter for the state bureau, Reed. You know that.”
“I’ll be up and back in a day or two. I can do it on my own time if you prefer.”
McGreevy frowned, deepening the lines at the corners of his mouth, and the scowl made him look his age. “No, I very much don’t want you investigating official cases in your free time,” he said. “Let’s take a moment and remember how that worked out last summer.”
Reed heard the shot ring out in his memory, saw the body at his feet. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We stopped a murderer. Last time I checked, that was part of the job description around here.”
“Don’t get cute with me, Markham. There’s brave and then there’s stupid, and we both know your stunt last summer was an equal mix of both. I’m surprised you’re in such a hurry to get back up there.” As he said the words, a realization dawned over his face. “This is about that girl, isn’t it? Abigail.”
“Ellery,” Reed corrected, now even more uncomfortable.
“Ellery. Right. She lost her job, if I remember correctly.”
“She’s on paid leave, and it’s just temporary.” Reed sat up straighter, happy to defend her since he’d been suspended so recently himself. “And anyway, this isn’t her case. The investigation is being run by a Detective Manganelli from the Somerville PD.”
McGreevy raised his bushy eyebrows. “Yeah? Is he the one who called you?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Ellery had said it was Manganelli who wanted him to look into the case; she had just been the one to make the call.
“Hmm,” said McGreevy, clearly not buying it. He tapped his fingers on the desk a moment and then sat forward with a sigh. “Two days,” he told Reed. “That’s all you get.”
Reed grinned and leaped to his feet. “Thanks, Puss.”
“Don’t thank me. Just go do your job and get back here with your nose still clean. And Reed…” He waited until Reed turned around again. “Whatever itch you have for that Hathaway girl, make sure you scratch it this time, okay? She’s not someone you want to be mixed up with on a continuing basis.”
“She’s not—”
“We both know that bullshit story the two of you cooked up this summer is exactly that—bullshit. I don’t give a damn what the record says because I’ve seen the evidence firsthand. She shot an unarmed man. She put a bullet through his head while he was in physical custody.”
Reed gripped the door handle more tightly. “She saved my life.”
“For which we are all sincerely grateful.” McGreevy put his glasses back on and returned his eyes to his work. “You go on up there to Massachusetts and thank her for us any way you see fit. But then you get your ass back down here for good.”
* * *
The clock hadn’t touched six when Reed landed in Boston, but the sky was already dark as night. The descent into Logan always made him vaguely queasy, as it looked for all the world like the plane was going to set down in the ocean, black water rising ever closer, until the very last second when the landing strip appeared out of nowhere beneath them. Reed breathed a sigh of relief at the bump of the wheels on the tarmac and then began collecting his carry-on items with the rest of the crowd on the East Coast airbus. He had been planning to take a taxi to his hotel and phone Ellery from the room, but that idea evaporated when he caught sight of her waiting for him near the bottom of the escalator.
She appeared exactly how he remembered her, with long brown hair tied in a knot at the back of her head and clothed in unisex, no-nonsense jeans and work boots, which were now paired with a leather jacket that looked one size too large for her. She was leaning against the airport wall but fidgeting with her hands as though she were either impatient for his arrival or nervous about the herd of people streaming past her in the corridor. S
he looked up sharply and froze when she saw him. Her gray-blue eyes had gone dark, like the color of a bruise, and she did not smile at his approach. “Thanks for coming,” she said, falling into step beside him.
He allowed himself a wry smile. “When I texted you the flight information, that wasn’t a summons for you to pick me up.”
She didn’t slow down. “Yeah, well, I’ve got some extra time on my hands these days.”
“All the same, it’s good to see you.” He glanced sideways at her, drinking in the sight. Sixteen other girls had died, but this one lived. She would always be a wonder to him. “You’re looking well.”
“Am I? Thanks, I guess. Maybe later I can have you send a note to my mom as an affidavit.”
“How is your mother?”
Ellery gave a dismissive shrug of her shoulder. “The same. Always the same.”
Reed followed her through the airport to the parking garage, to her familiar old truck. He peered through the passenger window to make sure it was vacant inside. “No sign of the fur beast,” he remarked as he opened the door.
“Bump’s at home. We have to go straight to Somerville to hook up with Detective Manganelli. But don’t worry—Bump told me to tell you hello.”
“Is that so?” Reed said, brushing some stray dog hair off his coat.
“Yeah, remind me to lean over and lick you later.”
She said it so matter-of-fact, not even glancing his way, that it made Reed do a double-take. Her eyes were on the road but there was a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. Maybe this was going to be some fun after all, he reasoned. McGreevy seemed to think it was some sex thing that kept Reed coming back to Ellery, that if he just took her to bed he could “scratch that itch” and get her out of his system. In reality, Reed had barely touched her. The most physical contact they’d ever shared was the night he’d scooped her up from the closet floor and run like hell with her into the woods, half-convinced she was dead in his arms. When she’d lived, Reed became a hero, and for years, that was the end of the story. Now he’d seen up close how the scars still lingered and knew the truth was far more complicated: he’d gotten her out of that closet, but no one could really bring her back home.
“Tell me more about Wendy Mendoza,” he said to her, because as terrible as Wendy’s story was, it was still an easier topic than the personal history he shared with Ellery.
“I’ve told you pretty much everything I know,” she replied. She inched her truck forward so they could join the stop-and-go traffic on the busy Boston freeway. “I’ve only met her one time.”
“I thought she was in a therapy group with you.”
Ellery squirmed. “She is. But I’ve only been to one meeting.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been following all the rules,” she protested, meeting his eyes to prove she meant it. “I’ve been doing the one-on-one stuff just like the agreement said. It was only this week my shrink said I should come to the group because she wanted me to meet someone.”
“Wendy?”
“No, this other woman named Myra Gallagher. Her son was killed in a fire back in the eighties, and I guess the case made a lot of headlines—kind of like mine. The fire was part of a string of arsons that had occurred over a couple of years, so the city was in an uproar over it even before the boy died. Myra said they caught the guy at the scene.”
“Luis Carnevale,” Reed supplied as the memory came back to him.
Ellery looked surprised. “You know him?”
“No, I’ve heard of the case. My boss—you remember McGreevy—he used to lecture on it. You’re right that the case was famous.”
“He worked the case? I didn’t see his name in the news stories.”
“It would have been a long time ago, back when he was a junior agent—probably fresh to the team. It’s not like he would have been giving a lot of interviews. Anyway, what did you think of Myra?”
“She’s all right, I guess.” Ellery paused, as if considering. “Kinda weird, though—it’s been more than twenty-five years and she’s still going to weekly therapy. I know her son died and everything, but at some point, you have to move on. Sitting around singing Kumbaya with a bunch of crime victims isn’t going to bring him back.”
“Maybe it makes her feel better.”
Ellery rolled her eyes at him. “You sound like my shrink. Everything’s always about feelings. I’ll tell you what will make Myra feel better: keeping Carnevale behind bars.”
“They’re letting him out?”
“He’s up for parole, and Myra seems to think they’ll roll the dice this time. He’s old and the fires were a long time ago. May as well free up his cell for someone younger and more dangerous. At least you and I don’t have to worry about that, right? Coben will stay locked up until he rots.”
Reed noted the way she said “we,” as though Coben posed an equal threat to both of them. Reed might have been the one to call in the cavalry, but Ellery was the girl who got away. When Coben wrote letters from inside his cell, they were only ever addressed to one person.
Ellery had mentioned they were meeting the detective straight-away, so Reed was surprised when she turned down a quiet residential street and pulled the truck to the side of the road. “This is the spot,” she told him, craning her neck to see out the windshield. “This is where it happened.”
“You looked up the crime scene?” Of course she had. He remembered her meticulous records on the disappearances last summer.
Ellery was already getting out of the truck, so Reed followed her out to examine a long stretch of traditional New England homes that had been divided up into multiple apartments. They were crammed side-to-side, with barely enough space for narrow driveways between them. Each was a slightly different shape or style but boasted the same aging shingles and wide front porch. “Tufts is just a few blocks over that way,” she said, indicating the local university with a wave of her hand, “so these houses have a high percentage of students. Some are condos that are rented or owned by young professionals commuting into Boston or Cambridge. That one right there was Wendy’s.”
Parked cars lined either side of the street. Tall trees with barren branches spoke to the history of the dense neighborhood. There were warm yellow lights on in people’s homes, including the brown three-story home that Ellery had singled out as Wendy Mendoza’s. “Which window was it?” Reed asked, and Ellery pointed to the one on the left at the front of the second floor. It was easy access from the large balcony, but first the rapist had to get up there. The lack of a railing on the lower porch would have made it somewhat challenging. “How did he get to the second floor?”
“Don’t know,” Ellery replied, shoving her hands into her pockets. The winter wind came blustering down the dark street. “Maybe he just climbed.”
“A taller person could do it,” Reed agreed. “It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s possible.” He looked up and down the street, paced first one way and then the other.
“What are you looking for?”
“All these houses look essentially the same. He picked Wendy’s apartment out of three dozen or more other potential targets. The question is why.”
“Most of these places have multiple people living in each apartment,” Ellery said, catching on, “but Wendy was alone.”
“Precisely. He’d no doubt been here before. He knew what he’d find inside her room.” Reed turned around in place and surveyed the houses. Most of them didn’t even have a front yard as such, just maybe a patch of dead grass and half-melted snow. This was city living at its finest, where you could reach out your side window and shake hands with your neighbor. “It was an unusually warm night, you said,” Reed remarked to Ellery as he squinted up at Wendy’s window. “She probably wasn’t the only one with her windows opened. Given the short distance between homes, there was a good chance that, if she’d screamed, someone would have heard it.”
Ellery’s face darkened. “You’re saying it’s her fault for not screaming.”
“No. I’m saying he knew that she would never scream.”
* * *
Detective Manganelli turned out to be right out of central casting for a Boston cop, with a rotund middle, close-cropped dark hair, and darting, watchful eyes. They met up at an Irish pub that featured high-backed dark wood booths and Boston Celtics prints on the wall. Manganelli’s red cheeks suggested he’d had a head start on the alcohol. He greeted them both enthusiastically, pumping Reed’s hand and thanking him profusely for his help. “I haven’t done anything yet,” Reed said mildly as he took a seat across from the detective. Ellery demurred until Reed was seated so that she could have the outside spot. She was not going to be trapped, not even by him, not even for the length of one dinner.
Reed ordered a beer and the shepherd’s pie, while Manganelli selected a burger. For her part, Ellery had a Coke and an order of deep-fried pickles. Reed looked at her askance. “I see your eating habits haven’t improved a bit,” he said.
“Pickles are a vegetable,” she retorted as she pulled the basket toward her. “They’re good for you.”
“I’ve never met a real-life profiler before,” Manganelli said, leaning over the table eagerly. “God, the war stories you must have to tell, yeah?”
“No more than you, sir, I assure you.” Reed knew there was plenty of strange behavior to be found in your average police blotter.
“Yeah, sure, we got our kooks. The boys picked up an old lady last week who was walking buck-naked down the middle of the road in the snowstorm. She thought she was Lady Godiva looking for her horse. Then once, I had a husband who shot his wife in their backyard because—you won’t believe this shit—she was arguing with him about how to read a sundial. But that’s your run-of-the-mill crazy. You chase serial offenders and child abductors—they’re a level of sicko we don’t see every day. I mean, what’s the craziest thing you’ve seen on the job?”
No Mercy--A Mystery Page 4