The Rainy Day Killer

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The Rainy Day Killer Page 15

by Michael J. McCann


  The neckline came down in a v-shape that was a little lower than she’d anticipated, but her bust was able to handle it just fine. She really liked the way the cap sleeves covered the top halves of her deltoid muscles, leaving the lower half of her shoulders bare, and the way the neckline came up over her collarbone and around the base of her neck in back, almost like a very short collar. She rolled her head around. It felt good, not buggy at all. The corded lace made it look very feminine.

  Holy shit. I look pretty in this thing.

  Mrs. George asked her to turn around, then put her hands at each side of Karen’s waist. “It could stand to come in just a touch here. You have a lovely figure, so you might as well show it off.”

  She ran her hands down the layers of the skirt, assessing how well they draped as they fell from Karen’s thighs toward her shoes. Her hand brushed the holster as it passed across her ankle. She removed her hands and straightened up.

  Karen hiked up the skirts and her slip to show her the gun. “I’m a cop. Where I go, it goes.”

  “I see.” Mrs. George stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “That’s a first for me. It definitely is. You’ll be wearing it at the ceremony, will you?”

  “I’ll be carrying it, yeah. You don’t wear a gun, you carry it, but yeah, I’ll have it there. For sure.”

  “Then you’re right to wear it—sorry, have it on—right now.” She stepped back a few paces. “Twirl around for me. Pretend you’re dancing the first dance with your husband.”

  Karen turned in a circle self-consciously. Her shoes, ivory peep-toe pumps, had two-and-a-half-inch heels, and she wasn’t used to them. She was pleased, at least, to discover that she was athletic enough to be able to move in them without looking like Dumbo the elephant.

  “Pretend you’re dancing. No one can see you but me, Karen, and I’m busy watching the gown, so pretend you’re all alone.”

  Karen obligingly moved around a little, rocking back and forth at the waist, then threw caution to the wind and pirouetted, dipped, whirled, and stepped back and forth. Sure enough, Mrs. George’s eyes were following the movement of the gown with complete absorption. Karen took a few more steps and then stopped.

  “Does it look okay?”

  “Oh, yes. It looks fabulous on you. There’s no interference from the gun at all that I could see, thanks to the slip. Would you like to try on one of the others?”

  “No. I want this one.”

  Mrs. George raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? There’s plenty of time. It’s always good to compare.”

  “No. First time lucky.” She glanced at herself in the mirror. “It won’t get any better than this.”

  “Confidentially, Karen, I don’t think it will either, but that’s because I believe this gown looks absolutely stunning on you. You’re going to be a beautiful bride.”

  “Thanks.”

  Back in the stall, she looked at herself for a moment, hands on her hips. She shook her head. It was unbelievable. She looked great. Who would’ve thought?

  She removed the shoes, the dress, the slip, the gun, and the pantyhose. She strapped the gun back on, having decided to skip the socks, and was pulling up her jeans when there was a tap on the stall door.

  Zipping up her fly, Karen opened the door. “Yeah?”

  Mrs. George stood there, an apologetic expression on her face. She held out a small white envelope. “Please excuse me, but the gentleman said it was urgent.”

  Frowning, Karen took the envelope. It was small, about five inches by three-and-a-half inches, and had some kind of card in it. Detective Stainer had been written on the front with a fountain pen in an elegant hand. She turned it over. The flap had been folded inside the envelope, rather than sealed.

  Puzzled, she removed the card from the envelope. For the Bride was printed on the front in gold cursive. She opened it and read:

  Such a beautiful bride-to-be. I regret I cannot introduce myself in person at this time, but most selfishly I’ve made arrangements to spend the weekend with someone else. Perhaps next time.

  Your admirer,

  RDK

  It took her a precious moment to decode the initials: Rainy Day Killer.

  She looked up at Mrs. George. “Where is he? Is he still out there?”

  “No. He left.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “A pleasant-looking gentleman.”

  “Suit? Umbrella?”

  “Yes.”

  Karen drew the gun from her ankle rig and pushed past Mrs. George, running out into the front of the shop.

  The twenty-something behind the reception desk stared at her.

  “Where is he? Which way did he go?”

  “Who?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Karen snarled, running to the front door, “the guy with the suit and umbrella. Did he go left or right?”

  “I don’t know. Right?”

  Karen burst out onto the sidewalk, threw a quick look to her left, then turned right. She ran down the block, gun held at high ready, her bare feet slapping the wet pavement. Her eyes darted from one pedestrian to the next, searching for a suit and an umbrella. There were several umbrellas, but no men in business suits. She reached the corner and stopped, looking in all directions at once.

  People waiting for the light to change turned and stared at her.

  “Anyone see a guy in a business suit with an umbrella?” she called out.

  No one spoke.

  “Guy with an umbrella!” Karen shouted. “Which way?”

  People backed away from her, alarmed.

  “Jesus!” She ran across the intersection, dodging traffic, gun in the air. “Police!” she shouted, starting down the next block. “Looking for a guy in a suit! Umbrella!”

  People backed away from her.

  A siren blipped behind her. She stopped and turned around as a patrol car pulled up, lights flashing, and two uniformed officers tumbled out, guns drawn.

  “Drop your weapon!” the nearest cop shouted, aiming at her. “Right now! Put it down on the sidewalk and put your hands on top of your head!”

  “Police! Homicide! In pursuit of a suspect!” Karen shouted back as she knelt and set the gun down on the sidewalk.

  “Turn around! On your knees! Hands on top of your head!”

  “Badge and ID in my right front pocket!” Karen called out, complying, as the other cop, a young woman, raced around to cover her from the front. “Can I remove it?”

  “Don’t move!” the female cop screamed.

  The cop behind her grabbed her right wrist, cuffed it, pulled it back behind her back, grabbed her left wrist, pulled it down and back, and completed the handcuffing job. Applying upward pressure, he instructed her to stand.

  She stood up. The female officer, whose name plate said Barnes, holstered her sidearm and stepped forward. “Right front pocket?”

  “Goddamn it,” Karen growled, adrenaline pumping, “he’s getting away!”

  Barnes reached out, felt the outside of her pocket, then reached in and took out the wallet containing Karen’s badge and identification. She opened it, looked at Karen to compare her to the photograph on the ID card, then held it up to her partner. “She’s GPD.”

  The officer behind her removed the cuffs.

  “Detective,” Barnes asked, “can you explain why you’re running around in the street wearing only a bra?”

  Karen looked down at herself. It was true. She’d run out of the dress shop in her bare feet without having put on her top. Her upper body was completely wet, her skin slick with rain, her bra soaked. Rain dripped from the tips of her hair down onto her bare shoulders. The adrenaline disappeared from her system as though it had been flushed down the drain.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said. “The rest of my clothes are back at the dress shop. I’m picking up my gun now, okay?”

  “Feel free.”

  Karen rescued her new P-290 from the sidewalk. “Give me a tissue. You need to call in a possible sighting of the
felony suspect the Rainy Day Killer. Get backup, get this area cordoned off, and have them contact Lieutenant Donaghue in Homicide. This guy may still be in the area. We need to move fast.”

  The male cop, whose name plate said Krevinski, handed her a tissue while Barnes stepped away, speaking into her portable radio. “What dress shop did you say this happened at?” he asked.

  “Richard’s Bridal Salon. Back a block. The guy walked in, left me a note.” She scrubbed her gun with the tissue. “Look, he may be still in the area; we need to move fast.”

  Barnes came back. “Back-up’s on the way. Is the suspect on foot or in a vehicle?”

  “I have no idea,” Karen replied, exasperated. “I couldn’t get anyone to speak up outside the shop. That’s what I was doing, trying to find someone who’d seen him.”

  Barnes rolled her eyes and keyed her portable radio again.

  “Get in,” Krevinski said, pointing to the cruiser. “We’ll take you back to the dress shop.”

  “He could still be in the area,” Karen insisted.

  “And he could be long gone,” Barnes said, shaking her head at Karen. “We can’t exactly lock down the entire downtown.”

  “We have to set up a perimeter! He was here!”

  “Let’s start by getting you back to the dress shop,” Krevinski said.

  “Yeah,” Barnes chipped in, “you could even finish getting dressed, if you want.”

  25

  Thursday, May 16: early evening

  The daytime civilian staff who worked outside her office had already gone home for the evening by the time Ann Martinez stepped off the elevator on the eighth floor. The voices coming from her board room could be heard clearly as she made her way through the rows of workstations to her corner of the floor.

  “So what?” Helen Cassion said. “It’s the eastern seaboard, Lieutenant. It rains all the time.”

  “That’s not the point,” Ed Griffin said. “This note to Detective Stainer clearly indicates his intention to take another victim this weekend.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Cassion said. “He’s obviously jerking our chain.”

  Martinez caught her own reflection in the locked glass doors leading into her office. She wore a red knee-length cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and high heels, and she carried a matching evening bag that was large enough to include her badge, identification, off-duty weapon, and credit cards. She and her husband, Oscar Sanchez, had been on the way to Baltimore for a dinner with a group of Oscar’s clients when Hank had called her with the news of Karen’s near-encounter with the Rainy Day Killer. They’d been forced to stop at Annapolis, where Martinez arranged for a ride back to Glendale while Oscar, very much annoyed by the change in plans, continued on to Baltimore.

  Her career had always been a sore point between them, and had caused him to break off their relationship before they were married. It had happened when she was still a detective and Hank was her supervisory lieutenant. A series of successful high-profile investigations had led to very favorable media attention, and she’d been a rising star in the division until Hank’s enemies in Internal Affairs decided that her stellar performance appraisals had been given to her by Hank in return for sexual favors. Although false, the allegation had provided the media with enough toxic sludge that her reputation had taken a hit. The unexpected publicity had shocked Oscar, and he’d broken off their engagement.

  She shifted her purse to her other hand and walked away from her reflection. Their affair, brief and intense, had come nearly two years later, when she was a sergeant assigned to Midtown district and Hank was working a desk in Public Relations. A year later, she and Oscar resumed their relationship.

  “I don’t think we can take that chance,” Hank was saying as she reached the open door. “We need to move proactively.”

  “We need to keep our heads and not panic,” Cassion retorted.

  “Nobody’s panicking,” Griffin said. “Hank’s right, you need to make the next move right now, right away.”

  Hank sat with his back to the door. Cassion stood at the head of the table, hands on her hips. Across from Hank, Griffin stared at Cassion, chair tipped back against the wall, legs crossed, arms folded. Karen Stainer paced back and forth at the far end of the table, hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. Tension was thick in the room.

  Martinez walked behind Hank, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, and sat down in the chair on his left, allowing Cassion to keep the symbolic head of the table. “Sorry I’m late, Helen. It was a bit of a drive back. Where are we?”

  “The FBI lab has Stainer’s card,” Cassion replied, “but I’m not hopeful it’ll give us prints or DNA. The store employees confirmed it was our suspect after looking at the composite and the video stills. We think he took a taxi after leaving the store, and we’re canvassing the cab companies for confirmation.”

  “Or,” Griffin said, “he has another vehicle already, and he drove it to wherever he’s staying between captures.”

  “Whatever.” Cassion folded her arms. “As far as I’m concerned, this is a lot of noise and hot air over nothing. He’s playing games with Stainer just like he played with Montgomery last week. We’re wasting time running around like chickens with our heads cut off while this guy sits back and laughs at us.”

  Griffin’s face clouded and he opened his mouth, but Hank interceded. “I disagree, Helen,” he said. “It’s been nearly a month since he abducted Theresa Olsen. He’s probably going to use the same captivity site again, since we haven’t found it, so he’s had four weeks to select and study another victim. We can’t afford to assume he isn’t ready to make his next move this weekend. Conditions are perfect.”

  “That’s what he said,” Karen said, stopping her pacing to confront Cassion. “In the note? ‘I’ll be spending the weekend with someone else?’ Duh?”

  “Sit down, Detective,” Cassion said, pointing at a chair. “You’re getting on my nerves. As I already said, he’s playing games with you.”

  “Jesus.” Karen pulled out the chair next to Griffin and dropped into it.

  “Our investigation has been conducted so far on a proactive basis,” Martinez said, deciding it was time to weigh in. “Community outreach, increased patrols in target areas, surveillance cameras along the river. We need to stay in that mindset.” She looked across the table at Griffin. “Comments?”

  “Absolutely,” Griffin said. “It’s the best approach you’ve got.”

  “If we assume he’ll take someone again this weekend,” Martinez said to Cassion, “what can we do to get ahead of the curve on this guy?”

  Cassion shrugged. “I suppose we could try another media release. Get Donaghue to hand out the posters, that routine. ‘Stay vigilant, be cautious with strangers,’ blah blah blah.”

  Martinez waited.

  “We can get the districts to brief their patrols again on what to look for,” Cassion went on. “But they’re not going to like it when it turns out we got them all cranked up crying wolf yet again.”

  “For the luvva—” Karen started.

  “Detective,” Martinez interrupted, without taking her eyes from Cassion, “please.” She raised an eyebrow. “What else?”

  Cassion sat down. “We can keep a channel open to Missing Persons, so they’ll inform us right away if they get a report on someone matching the victim profile.”

  “Who’s your replacement down there? Winston?”

  “Yeah. I’ll instruct her to call me when they get a hit.”

  “Call Captain Williams instead. Tonight. Tell her I want Winston to call Hank immediately. He’ll brief her on the situation and explain what he needs. We want direct lines of communication in place if a report comes in matching the victim profile. Hank will be the boots on the ground this weekend. Right?”

  Cassion looked at her. “Yeah. Right.” She looked at Hank. “Wait for Winston’s call. Tonight.”

  Hank nodded.

  Martinez looked at Karen
. “Did you get anything at all that could help us? Are we any further ahead?”

  “Other than knowing he’s gonna grab another one, probably tomorrow?”

  “Other than that.”

  Karen’s face clouded. “No. He’s a careful bastard. Even with his face plastered all over town he still parades around like he’s King Shit, waving his suit and damned umbrella under our noses. What we need to do is trap the sonofabitch. He’s so arrogant, I’ll bet we can walk him into something he won’t walk out of.”

  “Such as what? Using you or Montgomery as bait? That’s not going to happen.”

  Karen looked away.

  Martinez understood that Karen wanted to make it personal, wanted to bait the subject into coming after her instead of some unsuspecting victim, but it wasn’t going to fly. As much as she admired Karen’s courage, Martinez would never sanction that kind of tactic.

  “It’s bad enough,” Cassion said, “charging around in the street half-naked. You need to act a little more like a professional, Stainer, and not like some TV bimbo.”

  Hank’s cell phone buzzed. He looked at the call display and got up from his chair to answer it, walking down to the far end of the board room.

  “Stainer’s actions are not in question, Helen,” Martinez said, before Karen could open her mouth. “She acted in haste, yes, but I think given the circumstances I would’ve probably done the same thing. We all feel the urgency to catch this bastard.” She turned to Griffin. “Why do you think he’ll strike again this soon?”

  “He feels at the height of his power right now,” Griffin said, “like he can do no wrong. Karen’s right, he’s arrogant and self-confident. I think he’s ready, he wants us to know he’s ready, and I think he’s so sure of himself, so addicted to the adrenaline from the greater risks he’s taking, that he can’t pass up the opportunity to make another move right now, right under our noses.”

  “You’re over-reacting,” Cassion said. “You’re too subjective.”

 

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