by Merry Jones
“I’m not following you.”
“Okay. Let’s back up. The abductions began several weeks ago. Since then, they’ve occurred more frequently, in increasingly open and more public settings. And the kidnapper’s leaving evidence now, whereas he didn’t at first. Consciously? Maybe, maybe not. At some level, he may be sabotaging himself because he wants to stop but can’t. Or he might just be carried away by his sense of invincibility. Either way, he’s accelerating, losing control. Getting sloppy. Making mistakes.”
“But to make more mistakes, won’t he have to take more women?”
Half his mouth twisted fleetingly. “He’ll definitely try. We’ve got a serial killer here, and as you know, those guys are pretty consistent.”
As I knew? What did I know? I’d taken a college course years ago on criminal psychology and read the textbook chapter about serials, but mostly what I knew about serial killers I’d learned from television. Detective shows. I knew, for example, that serial killers followed patterns in their crimes. I knew that some thought they were obeying a higher power who ordered them to kill; others believed their murders were altruistic, that they were eliminating “sinners” to cleanse the world. A third group simply got off on power. They got high, often sexually aroused, by having the power of life or death over their victims, terrorizing them, taking their lives.
“So what do you know about this one?”
He winked. Winked. “Read the report.”
I stared at the red orb in my glass. Now it resembled a blood clot.
“Look, for now, let’s just say he wants to be somebody. Someone famous. In the headlines. His ego’s been fed by the news coverage. He’s begun to think he can get away with anything. He’s getting arrogant. Soon, he’ll go too far and give himself away. Question is, how many more women will he kill first?”
It was a somber thought. “And the finger? You said it might not have been left accidentally.”
“Accidentally or deliberately—either way, where it was found still means something. At the very least, it means the guy was in the area. He didn’t just find his victim there; he also left a piece of her there after he killed her. Which indicates he’s got a place there. Locally.”
He paused, letting that thought sink in.
A guy in the area. Who had a place there. Did he know me? Had he chosen to leave the finger at my front curb instead of, say, the one next door? Why? And the other finger—the one found on Washington Square—had he left that deliberately, too? According to Stiles, he might have. But who could it be? Neighborhood faces raced through my mind. Victor, Charlie. The new neighbor, Phillip Woods. There were a lot more I didn’t know by name, people I passed every day. People who came and went at different hours than I did. Night people. And what about Coach Gene? Or the mailman? Or the guys in Jake’s construction crews—hadn’t Angela said one of them had been bothering her?
“Look, can we talk about something else for a while? Behave like normal people?” He half-smiled. “I’ve been living with this case 24/7. I need to take a break. To pretend to be a civilian. How about we enjoy the ambience? Try to have a civilized meal. Is that okay? I think it’ll be good for both of us.”
“Of course. I understand.” But I didn’t, not entirely. Were we supposed to suddenly pretend that we were just two people out to dinner, that local women weren’t being killed? That I might even know the guy killing them? Besides, what were we supposed to talk about? I clutched my drink, eyeing a nearby painting of a gondolier steering his boat along a Venice canal.
“Tell me about yourself. Who is Zoe Hayes?”
I blinked. Zoe Hayes? It was simple dinner conversation, but it seemed that I, not the murderer, was now the person to be profiled. My lips felt thick and boozy, too heavy to form answers, reluctant to give away information. I stalled, sipping my Manhattan, wanting to jump into the gondola and be rowed away.
“Tell me. Where did Zoe grow up? Where did she go to school? Why did she become an art therapist?”
Loosen up, I told myself. Relax. Give the guy a break. “Baltimore, Cornell, because she doesn’t paint well enough to survive as an artist.”
Half his face laughed.
“And you? Who’s Detective Nick Stiles?” Tit for tat. “He’s this.” He shrugged, pointing to himself. “Just what you see.”
“Not fair. I answered you.”
“Okay. Fair enough. Be more specific. What do you want to know?”
I should have thought before I spoke, but I didn’t. I just blurted out a question, without gentleness or tact. “What happened to your face?”
SEVENTEEN
INSTANTLY, I REGRETTED MY QUESTION. “SORRY—IT’SNOT my—”
“Took a bullet,” he said. “No need to apologize. Took a bullet in the jaw, hit a nerve. Actually, before that, I used to be good-looking.” He smiled.
I smiled back. “Is that a fact?”
“No, I guess not.” Again, a shy glance down at his drink. Shyness didn’t suit him; it was like a jacket that was too small. But there he was, wearing a tight, bashful half grin.
“Who shot you?”
“That’s your second question. It’s my turn again—” “No, you asked three at once—”
Our eyes met. His were twinkling. Then not. The twinkle hardened, sharpened to a gleam. “A woman.” I didn’t know what to say.
“It was a domestic thing. Woman found out her husband was leaving her,” he answered. “So she shot a cop?”
“So she started shooting. Shooting him, me, herself. Killed herself.” “Damn.”
“Yeah, well.” He gazed past me, into air. I didn’t know what to say.
“It’s a long time ago. People get pissed and make bad decisions. They don’t think things through. Anyhow. That’s what happened.”
“What about the husband? Did she kill him, too?” “No, actually, the sonofabitch survived. She was a lousy shot. He was lucky.” “So were you.”
His eyes shifted. Obviously, the subject made him uncomfortable.
We were both quiet.
“I’m sorry.” Damn. Why had I asked that question? “No need.”
“Well, no matter how it happened,” I said, “I like it.”
His attention returned to me. “Like what?”
“Your face. The way you smile. It’s kind of sexy.” Lord, had I really said that?
“You think?” Nick’s half grin opened slowly, gladly. Too genuine to belong to a cop. “Well, good.” He crossed his arms and gave a half smile. “And now, it’s my turn again.” He waited, coplike, for me to squirm. To anticipate what was coming.
My glass was still full. Or full again. How much had I had to drink? My hand held the stem, ready for the next round. Nick fired his next question, and I fired mine, each answer exposing more, peeling away more layers, revealing more of ourselves.
I learned that he was the eldest of four brothers, half Italian, half Jewish, parents both dead, a dozen nieces and nephews. He was a graduate of Columbia, had a master’s in psychology, played football in high school, and rowed crew in college, liked to ski and snorkel, wore a size thirteen shoe. His marriage had ended badly, without children.
I’m not sure what I told him. I was aware of caution, careful not to tell him everything. I said I was an only child but didn’t mention my parents’ divorce or my mother’s early death. I told him about marrying Michael but glossed over the mess of our divorce. I described the euphoria of adopting Molly, not the anxiety of parenting on my own. I said that my father was still living but skipped the detail that we hadn’t talked in years.
I was aware that we’d become, somehow, more than cowork-ers, but I didn’t know what. As we talked, at one point, strong fingers covered my hand. Large, warm fingers. I chewed my lip, took a breath. “Santa Lucia” drifted over white-linen-covered tables. I cleared my throat, trying to decide what to do, but couldn’t. I held still until my hand began to throb. Was I supposed to leave it there and let him hold it? Or take it away? What did
it mean, his hand on mine? Was he just making casual contact, or was it something else? My neck felt hot, and my sweater began to itch. Stiles—Nick—was talking, but his words swept past me, phrases without meaning.
“. . . new . . . stranger ...job...you...glad... comfortable . . .”
Oh my. The hand lifted, releasing mine. I grabbed my Manhattan glass, which, incredibly, was full.
“What? Did I scare you? It’s okay. Don’t be frightened. As you get to know me, you’ll see that I don’t have time for games. I size people up pretty fast; it’s my job. Observing. Figuring people out. And at the moment, I’m observing you. Want to know what I see, so far?”
I nodded, feeling a little like a lab animal.
“Beyond the superficial sparkling eyes and jolly laugh, I mean. In Zoe Hayes, I see somebody real. Don’t get me wrong—she isn’t easy to get close to. She’s guarded. But once she puts the guard down, she’s real. No pretenses or hidden agenda. She’s good-looking, smart, funny, and—hell, I gotta tell you, Zoe Hayes is good company. A miracle happened tonight. I actually relaxed. Believe me, that doesn’t happen often. Certainly not since I started working on this case. I needed an evening like this, Zoe. Thank you.” He smiled briefly, then looked away, into his glass. I took another sip; liquor eased into my blood, numbing my aching lips. Who was this guy? Why didn’t that little speech seem corny? Was he a player, adept at handing out lines? Or just a lonely cop, honestly enjoying his evening?
He reached for the relish tray, the seams of his jacket bulging at the shoulders, his hand toying with a carrot stick. His finger stroked it; I expected that it might purr.
I’d had much too much to drink.
He looked at me, head cocked, waiting.
I shifted in my chair, stalling. What was I supposed to say? That my hand tingled where he’d touched it? That I found him tremendously attractive? Or something bland and risk-free, like that I was enjoying his company, too? I didn’t know. I studied the texture of the stucco wall. A thousand tiny plaster splashes, solidified agitation. A mirror.
When I looked at him again, he was still watching me. For a while, neither of us spoke. We just looked at each other. His eyes beamed blue light. Outside, women were dead or in danger. Here, for the moment, that seemed unreal and far away. Here, golden candles flickered. Aromas wafted by of roasting garlic, of sweet basil. An accordion played “O Sole Mio” for a couple in the corner. A dusty gondola floated down a painted canal, followed by a cart of fresh fish, swimming on ice. And I swam, too, into pools of pale blue.
“Would you like to hear the specials?” A voice slipped in and out of Italian, serenading us with menu items.
Even with the benefit of hindsight, it’s difficult to identify the precise point where our relationship began, but by the end of the evening, something had been decided. Dining on lemon sole almondine and spinach gnocchi, sipping Soave, even without a gondola, I was swept into a river by currents too swift, too strong to resist.
EIGHTEEN
TIM ANSWERED THE DOOR, LOOKING HAGGARD. “C‘MON IN.“
He kissed my cheek.
I hugged him. “Hi, Tim. Welcome home.”
“Thanks. It’s only for the weekend. Then I’m off to L.A. again.” He rubbed his eyes. “So, how was your date? Who’s the new man?”
“It wasn’t a date. There isn’t any new man.”
“But Susan said—”
Susan rushed to the door, brushing Tim aside with arms full of freshly folded towels. “Well?” she clucked like a perturbed hen.
“Thanks for watching Molly. Is she ready?” I peeked through the drapes at Nick’s car. Tim peeked out, too.
“Guy drives an old Volvo?” he winced.
“What are you looking at?” Susan peeked. “Is he out there?”
“He’s giving us a ride home.” I looked at Tim. “What’s wrong with an old Volvo?”
“Nothing. It’s just not what I’d have imagined you out with.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Tim—be quiet. You’re talking nonsense. Zoe, tell me. How’d it go?”
“I didn’t go out with a car, Tim.”
“A man’s car says a lot about his character.”
“Oh, come on.”
“It’s a fact. Somebody did a study. Volvo and Saab owners are educated liberals, Fords are steady Eddies, BMWs are upwardly mobile yuppie types—”
“Tim, will you be quiet? I’m trying to talk to Zoe.”
“She asked. I’m just answering.”
“Zoe, why’s he out there in the cold? Tell him to come in. It’s ridiculous, him sitting there—”
“No, it’s fine. I just came in to grab Molly. It’s late.”
“What do you mean? It’s only midnight. Your dinner took only about four hours.” Susan was dying to hear details.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you guys up. We started talking and lost track of—”
“Come on, Zoe. You’re over twenty-one. You don’t need to explain to us—” Tim caught Susan’s glare and slunk off toward the den, leaving us alone.
“Well?” she asked.
“What?”
She tightened her lips, exasperated. She stomped off into the kitchen. I followed. A heap of fresh laundry waited on the table.
“Susan, I can’t go into stuff now. He’s waiting. I gotta grab Molly and go. Is she upstairs?”
“Damn, Zoe,” she complained. “You mean you aren’t going to tell me anything?”
“There’s nothing to tell. Where’s Molly?”
“In the den. Asleep. What do you mean, there’s nothing? Did you at least read the profile?”
“Not yet. I don’t have it yet.” I started toward the den.
Susan was at my heels. “Why not? When’ll you get it?”
“Probably Monday.”
“You know, Beverly Gardener was on the news tonight, talking about the nannies.” She seemed resentful. “She was?” I stopped walking.
“She’s getting a ton of publicity out of this case. She’s on the news more than the cops. What do you think of her?”
“I don’t really know her—”
“Tim thinks she’s hot.” Susan was miffed.
“Really?” I swallowed. Did Nick Stiles think so, too? Stop it, I told myself. Don’t even think about that.
“Do you think she’s good-looking?” Susan persisted.
I blinked, picturing Beverly Gardener. Yes, in a tall green-eyed brunette in her mid-thirties intensely ambitious energetic intelligent sort of way, she was good-looking. “Come on, Susan. Who cares? Tim saw her on the news. He made a stupid comment.”
“But I don’t get it. Tim never notices anything. I mean, a busload of naked belly dancers couldn’t get his attention. But this woman—I swear, he was ogling.”
Again, Nick Stiles flashed to mind, ogling Beverly Gardener. I blinked, steering the conversation in another direction.
“So what did she say?”
“Oh, she’s come up with a nickname for the guy. She calls him”—Susan mimicked Beverly Gardener’s delivery, mouthing each syllable—” ‘the Nannynapper.’ Cute, huh?”
The Nannynapper? “It’s catchy.”
“Yep. Very Hollywood.”
“What else?”
“Nothing much. Just standard stuffy, like the suspect is probably male, white, between twenty and forty. Mostly she posed and played authority figure. Personally, I think the cops just want to look like they’ve got an expert on the case because the guy hasn’t given them much to work with, in terms of evidence.”
“Well, we’ll know more on Monday after I read her report.”
Susan nodded. “And what about Stiles?”
“I’ll probably see him Monday, too. Meantime, he’s waiting to take us home.” I turned to go into the den.
Susan took my arm and stopped me, frowning. “So it’s strictly business? Nothing else?”
“You expected what? We had dinner. To talk about the nannies,�
�� I went into the den. Molly was in her pajamas, snoring on the sofa.
Susan sighed. “Too bad. Because, from what I hear, the man’s the genuine article, Zoe. A gem. You might want to reconsider your goals here and nab him.”
Nab him? I pictured Stiles in handcuffs.
“I asked around,” she continued. “Stiles is smart—Ivy League education. Forty-six. His father was a big attorney in New York. Mother was a society girl. And he’s single.”
“Susan—”
“Not single as in bachelor-with-a-fear-of-commitment or possible-closet-gay. Single as in widower. No kids.”
“A widower? His wife died?” How dreadful. I felt awful for him. He’d said his marriage had “ended badly,” not that it had ended with his wife’s death. Probably it was too painful to talk about.
“It’s been eight years, though. He’s got to be over it—”
“Maybe not.” If he were over it, he’d have mentioned it. “What happened? An accident? Was she sick?”
“What’s the difference? She’s dead.” Her eyes dodged mine, and she paused in her search for the partner to a pink sock. “Oh, what the hell, you might as well know. She shot herself.”
She what? Oh Lord. In a flash, I understood. It made perfect sense. He’d been talking about his own marriage—his own wife. It was a domestic thing, he’d said. A woman found out her husband was going to leave her and got pissed off.
“She shot him? His wife shot him in the face?”
“You knew? He told you about it? Wow. I was told he never talks about it. Ever.”
And the husband, I’d asked. Did she kill him, too? No, he’d replied, the sonofabitch lived. He hadn’t lied. But he hadn’t told me the whole truth, either. Why would he? We barely knew each other; it wasn’t the kind of thing you told a casual acquaintance.
“I can’t believe he told you. Zoe, the man must be seriously interested in you.”
“It’s not like he gave me a detailed report. He just referred to it.” “Huh?”
“He was explaining what happened to his face.”
“Which means he wants you to know about his past. It wasn’t all business tonight. Zoe, tell me you’re going to give this guy a shot.”