The Experts Praise
C. E. Lawrence
Silent Kills
“A dark and atmospheric thriller that takes an unflinching look at the primal urges—and disturbing fears—we all share. Sharp, distinct detail and an unnerving plot.”
—Steven James, award-winning author of The Bishop
“A startlingly suspenseful novel—and an unforgettable and deep portrait of the mind of a killer. Don’t miss this extraordinary page-turner. Lawrence is a first-rate storyteller.”
—Cody McFadyen, international bestselling author of Abandoned
“A sophisticated thriller with robust, fascinating characters ... an intense psychological ride ... a great story.”
—J. T. Ellison, bestselling author of So Close the Hand of Death
Silent Screams
“Criminally compelling, Silent Screams nails you to your seat with a fascinating NYPD profiler who’s hurled into the case of his lifetime. This journey into violence and the soul is unforgettable.”
—Gayle Lynds, New York Times bestselling author of The Book of Spies and The Last Spymaster
“Pulse-racing, compelling, first rate. Lawrence knows how to build and hold suspense with the best of them ... a wild ride down a dark road.”
—John Lutz, New York Times bestselling author of Serial
“C. E. Lawrence has achieved a rare level of authenticity, not only in character development but also in the realistic use of behavioral science. If you want to read a serial-killer thriller that’s solidly based on frightening reality, this is the one.”
—Louis B. Schlesinger, PhD, professor of forensic psychology, John Jay College of Criminal Justice
“C. E. Lawrence delivers finely honed suspense, with unique twists, and accurately captures the logic and intuition of a profiler under pressure.”
—Katherine Ramsland, professor of forensic psychology and author of Forensic Psychology of Criminal Minds
“Silent Screams is a wickedly brilliant, carefully wrought thriller where the roles of the hunter and hunted are skillfully blurred.... an escalating torrent of murder you won’t soon forget.”
—Gregg McCrary, author of The Unknown
Darkness: Profiling the Predators Among Us, and
former supervisory special agent in the
FBI’s Behavior Science Unit
“Silent Screams beckons C. E. Lawrence to become a repeat offender in the thriller genre.”
—Marina Staji, PhD, D-ABFT, president of the American Board of Forensic Toxicology
“A dark, intriguing thriller ... Lawrence assembles a quirky group of detectives and experts, all strong characters who can support future books in the series.”
—Publishers Weekly
Silent Victim
“C. E. Lawrence’s writing is so compulsively readable, you won’t just tear through the pages, you’ll scream through them.”
—Chris Grabenstein, Anthony & Agatha Award – winning author of The Smoky Corridor
“Lawrence pushes plot and character boundaries to put an entirely new twist on the whole concept of the serial killer... . Lawrence provides surprises and bumps in the night and day, even while assembling a cast of characters who are by turns odd, quirky, and memorable. I simply cannot wait for her next book.... Lawrence’s ability to create flawed and memorable characters and to take a familiar plot in unexpected directions has me hooked.”
—Joe Hartlaub, on Bookreporter.com
“This vivid chilling serial-killer thriller will have readers jumping at every sound. Although serial-killer thrillers glut the market, C. E. Lawrence’s flawed champion makes for a strong tale.”
—Harriet Klausner
“Silent Victim is a very good, complex thriller ... and a very interesting look into the mind of an insane person.”
—Tracy Reader Dad Book Reviews
ALSO BY C. E. LAWRENCE
Silent Victim
Silent Screams
SILENT KILLS
C. E. LAWRENCE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
The Experts Praise
ALSO BY C. E. LAWRENCE
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Epigraph
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Copyright Page
For Erma and Bob,
two of the finest people I have ever known
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, thanks first and foremost to my editor, Michaela Hamilton, a true polymath—musician, cheerleader, athlete, and role model. Thanks to my friend and colleague Marvin Kaye for introducing me to her, and for his continued support in all my literary endeavors. Special thanks to my dear friend Gisela Rose, for her superb editing skills and invaluable perspective. Thanks also to my agent, Paige Wheeler, for her professional advice, good cheer, and support. Thanks to my niece, Kylie Isaack, for her help and advice in my research. Special thanks once again to Robert (“Beaubear”) Murphy and the folks at the Long Eddy Hote
l, Sullivan County’s best kept secret. My deepest gratitude to the Byrdcliffe Arts Colony in Woodstock, New York, which has become my second home. Thanks to my mother, Margaret Simmons, for her continued support and editorial advice, and to Andrea Simmons, my web sensei and all-around supporter. Thanks to Anthony Moore for introducing me to the world of steampunk, and for his continued website and computer advice.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
—EDGAR ALLAN POE
CHAPTER ONE
Candy Nugent wandered into the cavernous room and looked around. She was feeling insecure, which increased her determination to act utterly confident. Her fingers fiddled with the laces on her leather corset before flitting nervously to her face. She had tied the corset too tight, and could barely breathe, but she liked the curve it gave to her thin torso, pulling in her waist and shoving what little flesh she had on her chest upward, so that her breasts nearly spilled out of the lacy blouse she wore underneath the corset. Her black skirt was short and snug against her hips, showing off her slim legs in their black fishnet stockings.
She especially liked the ankle-high boots with their spiky heels and lace-up buttonholes—sixteen of them in all. The only real problem with her outfit was the goggles, which kept slipping on her shiny hair, falling down to her forehead and over her eyes. She put her hand up and pushed the goggles back on top of her head. They weren’t meant to be worn over her eyes, Francois had told her—they were just decoration, part of the look.
Francois knew way more about steampunk than she did. Candy was a follower, and always had been, whereas Francois was an innovator. At least that’s what he called himself: an innovator, ahead of the pack, a trendsetter. There could be worse things, she supposed, than having a brother who was a trendsetter—or thought he was. She had learned that with Francois it was usually easier to go along with him than to argue.
And so here she was: in New York City’s “first bona fide steampunk club,” way downtown in the no-man’s-land east of Chinatown. Even the cabby had trouble finding it—and the entrance wasn’t marked, which was part of what made it so cool, according to Francois.
The room was dark, but the copper fixtures on the walls gleamed and she had to blink to adjust her eyes. A huge brass boiler in the center of the room dominated the space. Red leather banquettes lined the walls; in front of each was a low table that looked to be made of industrial steel. At the far end of the room a long bar of burnished walnut sported a polished brass railing; to either side of it thick tapestries hung from the ceiling. A lavish chandelier in the center of the room was the brightest source of light, though even with the gas-burning wall sconces, the atmosphere was dark. Plush Persian carpets covered the concrete floors, as deep and soft as summer grass. She took a few steps forward, searching the crowd for a sign of her brother.
She was pleased to see that she fit in—at least as far as her wardrobe was concerned. The room was filled with other people dressed in much the same fashion as she was. The men wore nineteenth-century waistcoats, vests, and cravats; the more elegant ones were dressed in tails and top hats. Some were dressed more informally, in knee breeches and leather aviator caps—always with the ubiquitous goggles. The women wore anything from long Victorian gowns to short skirts like hers, but the scene was just as Francois had described it: nineteenth-century elegance meets industrialized goth fashion.
A tall brunette in a red satin gown approached her and gave her an appraising look. Candy seemed to meet with her approval—a smile flickered across the woman’s face and she nodded grandly as she swept by. As she passed, Candy inhaled the aroma of an old-fashioned perfume ... was it patchouli? She wasn’t sure.
She turned to see a young man sidling toward her. He was tall and thin, but in the wiry way she liked, with long, stringy muscles and taut pale skin. He had shiny black hair that bounced when he walked, and full red lips. He wore his grey morning coat and striped stovepipe trousers with such ease he looked as though he had been born in them. A maroon cravat was tied rakishly around his throat, and he carried an elegant black silver-tipped walking stick.
“Why, hello,” he said in an affected English accent. “I say, I haven’t seen you around here before. What’s your blood type?”
She stared at him, then burst out laughing. “Does that really work for you as a pickup line?”
He smiled down at her. “Don’t you think it’s better than asking what your sign is?”
“Not really.”
He shrugged and glanced around the room, twirling his ebony cane between his fingers like a baton. She couldn’t help admiring his long, delicate hands and perfectly manicured nails. She also noticed the handle of the cane was a grinning skeleton head.
“Well?” he said. “I’m waiting.”
“Why do you want to know?”
He tapped the top of his head lightly with the cane. “Call it ghoulish curiosity. Haven’t you heard? We’re all mad scientists here. Come along, humor me—there’s a good girl.”
“I’m O Negative,” she said, looking around the room for any sign of her brother. The crowd at the bar was thickening, and was now three bodies deep.
“Ah,” he said, “lucky you—the universal donor.”
“Hey,” she said, “do you know my brother, Francois?”
His face broke out in a grin. “Francois’s your brother? I should say I do know him!”
She smiled at the mannered British accent. That was an aspect of steampunk she found kind of—well, geeky. All these nerds and geeks walking around pretending to be English gentleman scientists and explorers ... it was actually kind of embarrassing.
“Is he here yet?” she asked.
“He jolly well is,” the young man replied. “He’s in the Boiler Room.”
She frowned. “The Boiler Room?”
“Oh, we just call it that,” he said. “It’s a separate room off the main one, and it’s a bit stuffy, so we call it the Boiler Room.”
“Oh,” she said, craning her neck to see through the crowd.
“I say, shall I take you there?” he asked cheerfully.
“Uh—okay.”
“Walk this way,” he called over his shoulder, striding away from the crowd toward a more secluded corner of the vast room.
Candy gave a last glance behind her at the swarm of people laughing and drinking and flirting at the far end of the room. The aroma of—mutton?—floated to her nostrils, and her stomach burbled with hunger. Saliva spurted into her mouth, and she had a sudden desire for whatever it was they were serving to the guests at the party.
“Come along, now!” he barked at her, tapping his cane impatiently on the floor. “Mustn’t keep Brother Franky waiting!”
“Coming!” she chirped, scurrying after him as fast as her spiky heels would allow. The notion registered dully in her head that no one who knew her brother ever called him “Franky”—he always insisted upon “Francois.” But the thought evaporated as swiftly as it had formed, like a soap bubble bursting in midair.
Later, no one at the party could remember having spoken with her, though one or two people vaguely remembered seeing her. One of the guests, an elegant woman in a red satin gown, remembered her and thought that perhaps she was the same girl who left the party early, looking very drunk, but she couldn’t say for certain. She was leaning on the arm of a tall young man, and appeared to know him—but the witness saw them leaving only from behind, and couldn’t positively identify either one of them.
CHAPTER TWO
“You gotta be kiddin’ me!”
Detective Leonard Butts leaned back in the heavily scarred captain’s chair and folded his stubby arms over his round stomach. They just barely reached. His pockmarked face, as deeply grooved as the carved arms of the chair he sat in, wore an expression of aggrieved disbelief. It was a look NYPD criminal profiler Lee Campbell had seen before, and he thought it suited Butts.
“I mean, come on!” the pudgy detective continued, scowling up at his commander, Chuck Morton, head of the Bronx Major Crimes Unit. “Cause of death exsan-guination? For god’s sake, what is this, The Bride of Dracula ?”
Chuck Morton tossed a manila folder at Butts, who caught it in one hand.
“Look at the lab report yourself,” he said, turning away to pour himself a cup of coffee from the Krups automatic machine on the windowsill. A fly buzzed halfheartedly on the ledge, a leftover from a summer that had seemed too long and wasn’t over yet. Chuck didn’t seem even a little bit perturbed by the detective’s reaction. By now, Lee figured, they both knew Butts well enough to let it slide until he calmed down—which he would eventually.
The three of them were gathered in Morton’s office to discuss the bizarre murder of a young woman found in the Bronx two days earlier. The original primary on the case, Detective Fernando Rodriguez, had taken a sudden leave of absence due to a family illness, so the case had been assigned to his colleague, veteran Bronx homicide detective Leonard Butts.
Chuck’s office was small and, as usual, rather stuffy. Slices of midmorning sunshine slid in through the grimy Venetian blinds, heating up the dust drifting in through the cracks in the window. The ancient air conditioner rattled and puffed energetically, cranking out only a meager semblance of cool air, which smelled of dirt and exhaust fumes.
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