The Angel Maker
A Novel by
Ridley Pearson
New York
Praise
Praise for The Angel Maker:
“Exceptionally gripping and full of amazing forensic lore: a top-flight offering from an author who has clearly found his groove.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A chilling thriller.” —Dell Publishing
Praise for Hard Fall:
“Pearson excels at novels that grip the imagination. Hard Fall is an adventure with all engines churning.” —People magazine
“Mesmerizing urgency.” —Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Nifty cat-and-mouse caper. Crisply written tale.” —Chicago Tribune
Praise for No Witnesses:
“Tough and intelligent.” —Fort Worth Star Telegram
“Up-to-the-nanosecond techno-thriller.” —New York Times
“Infused with astonishingly effective overtones.” —Boston Globe
“Good old-fashioned storytelling.” —Washington Post Book World
“A serious, well-researched, complex thriller.” —Los Angeles Times
DEDICATION
Again, for Colleen.
You keep me in stitches.
Epigraph
I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name.
—Fyodor Dostoyevski,
The Brothers Karamazov
Contents
Title Page
Praise
Dedication
Epigraph
WEDNESDAY: February 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
THURSDAY: February 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
FRIDAY: February 3
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
SATURDAY: February 4
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
SUNDAY: February 5
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
MONDAY: February 6
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
TUESDAY: February 7
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
WEDNESDAY: February 8
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
THURSDAY: February 9
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
FRIDAY: February 10
Chapter 61
TUESDAY: February 14
Chapter 62
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By Ridley Pearson
Copyright
WEDNESDAY
February 1
1
The young woman’s pale, lifeless expression cried out to Daphne Matthews from across the room. Nearly all of the kids who sought out The Shelter were high on something. The hollow cheeks and dirty hair were common to all the runaways, as were the torn jeans, the soiled T-shirts, and the disturbing smell.
The windowless basement room in the King Center Baptist Church on South Jackson held thirteen beds and was void of any color except for the odd assortment of unframed art posters. The beds, arranged in perfect rows, were each covered with a gray wool blanket atop which had been placed a white towel and a dull green cardboard box containing a toothbrush, comb, bar of soap, a package of condoms, and a leaflet on AIDS.
The boys’ dorm, across the hall and next to the room where the choir robes were kept, held only eight beds, because teenage boys were less likely to seek help from such places and because girls between the ages of thirteen and eighteen accounted for a larger percentage of the runaways who wandered Seattle’s streets.
The other volunteers at The Shelter welcomed Daphne’s expertise as a psychologist as much as her being a member of the Seattle Police Department, though this latter qualification was rarely called upon and never mentioned in front of the girls. For Daphne, each young woman who passed through The Shelter’s door represented a challenge, each had her own unique, often terrifying story. By coming here they called out for help. Homeless. Penniless. Distrustful. Addicted. Pregnant. Filthy. Diseased. The job of each volunteer was to reverse all of that, to connect the runaway with counselors, doctors, halfway houses, government funds, jobs, housing, recovery programs and safety. To rescue and rebuild a life.
Daphne sat down quietly and slowly on the bed opposite the girl and forced a welcoming smile that made her feel cheap and dishonest: There was nothing to smile about here. She noticed a tiny scab on the inside of the girl’s elbow joint and felt her heart sink. To her relief, she didn’t see any other needle marks. Perhaps this was the girl’s first time. With any luck, her last.
The girl never looked at her; she just stared off into the room in a catatonic daze.
Daphne suggested gently, “Would you like to lie down?”
The girl nodded slightly. Daphne moved aside the towel and box and supported her head as it traveled to the pillow. Some of the drunks felt this hot, some of the druggies, but this contact gave Daphne a sickening feeling in her stomach that told her this was something worse. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to find out.
The girl cried out sharply as she leaned back, clutching her side.
Daphne cleared the tangled hair from her face, wincing as she noticed a pink circle on the girl’s temple. Without looking, she knew there would be an identical mark opposite this: electroshock.
“Cold,” the girl complained in a dry, raspy voice.
Daphne covered her with a blanket, told her she would “be right back,” and hurried over to Sharon Shaffer, who had just arrived. Sharon, a remarkably petite woman with large gray eyes and an oversized mouth, a former graduate of The Shelter, was now its spokesperson, working the circuit of Rotary Clubs and ladies’ luncheons in fund-raising efforts. To both the volunteers and the community, she was a symbol of everything right about The Shelter, its leader and patron saint. To Daphne, she was a dear friend.
Daphne asked one of the other volunteers to check the hospitals for a psych ward discharge or escapee. She briefed Sharon on the recent arrival as the two of them crossed the room: the needle mark, the evidence of electroshock therapy, the girl clutching her side.
“Are you thinking restraints?” Sharon asked. She had a way of reading Daphne’s thoughts. Before Daphne could answer, Sharon said, “Let’s hold off on that, okay? There’s nothing more frustrating than a tie-down. It’s horrible. I’ve been there.” Daphne didn’t argue. Reaching the girl, they perched themselves on opposite sides of her bed.
“Where am I?” the girl wondered aloud. “Why am I here?”
/> “The only requirement for being here,” Sharon explained in a comforting voice, “is your desire to be off the streets.” She hesitated. “Okay?”
The girl squinted painfully. It hurt Daphne to see that kind of pain—psychological or physical?—and it worried her too: The druggies usually felt nothing. Again, the combination of electroshock and that needle mark warned Daphne of an institution. Her policewoman instincts kicked in—this girl could turn violent without warning.
Sharon said calmly, “You’re safe now. My name is Sharon. I’m a runaway. This is Daphne. We’re all women here. Okay? We can keep you warm. We can feed you. We want nothing from you. Nothing at all.” The girl began to cry. “We are not going to notify the police or your parents—you’re home. You’re safe here. Whatever you have done is behind you. Here, you are safe. If you need medical attention, you will have it. We want nothing more of you than your name. Something to call you. A first name is all. Can you tell us your name?”
“Cindy,” the girl answered. “Can’t you stop them?” she asked desperately.
Sharon repeated, “You’re safe here, Cindy.” She reached out and took the girl’s limp hand.
The girl attempted to sit up. She cried out painfully, once again clutching her abdomen, and then shielded her ears. “Can’t you stop them?” she pleaded.
The blanket fell away from her. A wet bloodstain colored her side. A stabbing? Daphne wondered. How had she missed the wound earlier? The girl pleaded, “Do you hear that barking? Can’t you stop that barking?”
Daphne reached out and lifted the girl’s shirt. Her skin was colored an iodine-brown from surgery. At the center of this stain was a three-inch incision laced with broken stitches. It was so fresh, it had yet to scab. She was losing an enormous amount of blood.
“Call 911!” Sharon shouted across the room. “We need an ambulance, pronto!” She caught eyes with Daphne then and whispered, “What the hell is this?”
2
Daphne’s fingers gripped the handle, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to open the door. From inside the nightclub came the muted melody of his jazz piano. She had carefully avoided coming to The Big Joke because new lives came at a price, and that price was distance. Two years had passed since that evening spent with him. A single evening, a single event long since over, but her nearly tactile memory of it remained. She had her feet firmly on the ground now; and he had a family. Why challenge any of that? She answered herself: She needed the best cop available; she needed Lou Boldt, retired or not.
A car pulled up. A young couple climbed out and approached. She had to make up her mind—turn back or go through with it. There were other people to whom she could turn. Not as good as Boldt, but certainly qualified.
To hell with it! She went inside. A short, stocky doorman with no head hair but a moustache waxed like an airplane propeller requested a two-dollar cover charge for the piano player. The piano player, she thought. The sergeant, she felt like correcting. The most celebrated cop in this city to ever walk away from the job—so important to Homicide that his departure was still technically termed an extended leave. She intended to play upon that fact. She handed the doorman the money. Cheap, at twice the price.
The club was dingier than she remembered. Its low ceiling hung over a roomful of small, cigarette-scarred tables and an army of armless chairs. Inset into the brick wall was a handsome fireplace. It was fake. So were the bricks.
The piano’s sounds filled a pair of overhead speakers. To her left some guys were busy playing video games. To her right the piano, and the man behind it, remained hidden on the other side of an imitation Chinese screen, perched on the far left of a small stage where comedians performed stand-up on the weekends. She crossed the room toward the tables, nervous and even a little afraid. A single blue light shone down on him, his head trained on the keys in strict concentration. He shouldn’t be in blue light, she thought, because it makes him look older than his forty-five. So did the thinning hair—a shade more gray if the light could be trusted. If there had been any question about the identity of the player, the half-empty glass of milk answered it. With his eyes in shadow, he looked kind of like an owl up there. This was how she thought of him, she realized, as an owl up on a branch, out of reach, wise, silent, even majestic. Terrifying to some, inspiring to others, he was both to her.
She negotiated her way through the tight furniture. Not a very good crowd tonight. Boldt was the kind to take that personally. She wondered if this was something to use in her attempt to win his help with her investigation.
The walnut bar had been imported from a British pub by the owner, Bear Berenson. Attached to the mirror using a decal from a local brewery, a happy-hour menu advertised peanuts, french fries and fresh oysters. A hard-faced woman wearing too much makeup stood watch behind beer taps, a hopeful gaze fixed on her customers, like that of a fisherman scanning the sea.
Daphne slipped into an empty chair and flagged down the room’s only waitress, a tall black woman built like a dancer. In the process, Daphne caught Boldt’s attention as well. He looked up, and their eyes met.
God, how she’d missed him.
Boldt felt her presence before he saw her, as close friends or former lovers often do. As they caught eyes he dropped a stitch, necessitating the recovery of the lost beat in the next measure. He felt himself blush—everyone had noticed the error, everyone but the bartender, Mallory, who never noticed anything but an empty glass or a waiting tip.
She looked real good. High, strong cheekbones, heavy eyebrows and shoulder-length brown hair that in certain light held a rusty red. Intense, concentrating eyes, and an outdoors complexion. He knew damn well she’d been home to fix herself up, and that made him wonder, all of a sudden, about her intentions. She didn’t wear silk blouses and pearl necklaces around the fourth floor, unless a hell of a lot had changed in the past two years. Would she comment about the way he looked? A jazz rat wearing the same pair of khakis for a week. You could track his meals on these pants. His shirt was on its second day. He generally did laundry Mondays and Thursdays.
It was kind of strange to see her again, strange to have not seen her for so long. Not that he hadn’t kept up with her through others, but seeing her in the flesh was altogether different. Nice flesh at that. But he felt none of the lusty urges he had been caught up in two years earlier. She felt to him more like a high school sweetheart, someone from long ago whom he had known before the rules had changed. Of course, the rules hadn’t changed, he thought; he had.
He and his wife, Liz, had rebuilt their relationship from the ashes of overwork, failed promises, and a disintegration of purpose, interest, and spirit. It had required enormous sacrifices on both their parts: Boldt had left the department; Liz had borne the burden of pregnancy and a difficult delivery to bring them a son. New roles now: Liz, the provider, mother, and lover; Boldt, part-time jazz rat, full-time house husband and Mr. Mom. Together they had found a new rhythm, carved out a new existence.
Now, here was Daffy glowing in the limited light of the cheap seats, nervous eyes seeking him out.
He bought himself a few precious moments by delaying the ending of the song with a long improvisation. It would all be improvisation from here on out. He rose from the bench and interrupted Mallory before she could complain about the length of the set. “Push drinks on them,” he suggested, feeding her one instinct. “I’ll stretch the next set to compensate.” Mallory grimaced but didn’t argue. Daphne would call that a learned behavior.
He finger-combed what hair he could find up there. She kept her eyes on him as he approached. He wiped his palms on his pants and offered a smile. Two years had passed, and all he could think to say was, “Hey there.”
She grinned and nudged a chair away from the table with her foot.
He felt big and clumsy as he sat down in the chair. He had added a dozen pounds and knew he looked it. Not her. They shook hands, and he was thankful for that. No need to be weird about this. He said, “Can’
t even see the scar,” though he wasn’t sure what possessed him to do so.
She tugged at the scarf and revealed it to him: three or four inches long, still slightly pink. It would always be there to remind her. He remembered the knife held there as if it were yesterday. Daffy attempting to talk a known killer out of using the knife on her; Boldt, the one with the gun. She in the way of the bullet, her throat in the way of that blade. Her weapons were her words and they had failed her. Boldt wondered if she had recovered from that one yet. Those things tended to haunt you.
“That was a stupid thing to say,” he admitted.
“Is this the new you? Looking for my flaws?”
“Let me tell you something: There are women who would kill to have flaws like yours.” He hoped a compliment might erase his mistake.
“Keep your shorts on, Casanova. That’s all behind us.”
“Hey, you think I don’t know? I’m a father now. Though that’s probably news to you.”
“I keep up,” she said. “I didn’t think it would have been too appropriate for me to throw you and Liz a baby shower.”
“It must have taken some courage to break a two-year habit of staying away. This is no visit, is it? Not dressed like that, it isn’t. Have you been somewhere? Going somewhere? Are you selling something? Why are you here? Not that I’m complaining.”
“I heard the piano player is terrific.”
“Mediocre on his best nights,” Boldt replied. “You must be hanging around with some critically tone-deaf people.”
“They’re your friends!”
“My point exactly. Homicide, right? You are selling something.”
“How is the baby?” she asked.
“Miles? Terrific, thanks.” Just the mention of the boy made Boldt homesick.
“And Liz?”
That took some real courage.
“Fine,” he answered honestly. “Happy, I think.”
“And how about you?” she asked.
The Angel Maker Page 1