A Clean Kill

by Glass, Leslie

  "Hey, Duke." April prepared for the onslaught of recriminations of neglect, and it came quickly.

  "I never see you anymore. I guess you don't love me now that you've married that bum. You only come when you're in trouble."

  "Well, of course." She laughed and took his hands.

  "Are you pregnant yet? Let's see." He held out his arms.

  She laughed. "No, no, not pregnant."

  He gave her a hug and held on for a few seconds too long. "Nope, not pregnant yet," he agreed. "What are you waiting for, World War III?"

  "I thought we were in it already." She didn't mind the banter or the bear hug. Ducci was an eccentric who'd never married: tiny specks barely visible to the naked eye had been his true love— that and stunning shirts. She guessed that some hole-in-the-wall Chinese laundry was responsible for the excellent ironing of the elegant dress shirts he always wore. Today's was a yellow-and-blue-striped number with a pristine white collar and cuffs, probably Polo without the logo. The tie he wore with it was equally dashing. He turned to Woody.

  "Who let him in here?" he complained.

  "You know Woody, right? You're going to be hearing a lot about him in the future."

  Woody grinned like an idiot, and Ducci grimaced.

  "I've already heard a lot about him. Tree, tree, what the hell kind of name is that?" Duke's white hair was slicked back. His aging choirboy's face tried to be antagonistic.

  April held back a smile. "So, when are you retiring like everyone else?"

  "Why would I do that?" He picked up the Snickers and took a bite.

  April turned to her driver.

  "Woody, would you go and find Mark or Chad and tell them I'll be down in a few minutes."

  He nodded and departed.

  "Are they the team on the Wilson case?"

  "Yes. Unfortunately, we got different people on

  Perkins. Now we have to coordinate the two' to see what we've got," April told him.

  "They're all right." Ducci shrugged.

  She didn't know what team he meant. He grabbed a chair from his absent neighbor and dusted it off with a lily-white handkerchief from his pocket. "Have a seat and tell me what you need."

  "I'm helping out on the Wilson case."

  "Yeah, I heard you were on it. You want a candy bar?"

  "No, thanks." April's stomach rumbled, and she put her hand on it protectively.

  He looked at her startled, as if inadvertently, she'd revealed a secret.

  "What?" she demanded.

  He smiled. "You sure about that candy bar?"

  "Absolutely certain. Now, what have you got for me?"

  "Take a look around. I don't have anything yet. You're too early."

  With all his stuff from many cases everywhere, it was hard to tell what he was working on, but it was upsetting that they hadn't started on the high-profile homicide yet. "What are you waiting for?" she demanded.

  He shrugged. "What can I say? We're short-handed. What's the story? No one tells me anything."

  "A young mother was stabbed multiple times in her shower yesterday morning. She's the wife of a restaurant owner, Wayne Wilson—"

  "I know that much. You got the murder weapon?" he asked.

  "Maybe you don't know that the shower was on, the body was artfully arranged, and the scene was squeaky clean."

  "Oh." He lifted heavy eyebrows to look at her over skinny reading glasses. "You got a murder weapon?" he repeated. ;

  "There were a lot of knives in the house. Wilson is a collector. And the nanny's in cooking school so she has quite a few herself. You know how tough it is with incised wounds to tell exactly what kind of knife was used."

  "Where are these many knives?"

  "They're in the building somewhere. We have to get going on this."

  "So you're looking for blood on the knives," Ducci said.

  "Yes, that and other things."

  "What other things?"

  April paused for a second. "There was another homicide this morning," she said as coolly as she could. "Alison Perkins lived two blocks away from Maddy Wilson. She was the dead woman's best friend. Four little kids have lost their mothers in two days." She felt badly about this, as if it were her fault.

  "It's a shame. Same neighborhood? Same method?"

  "We don't have a COD on Alison yet. She was found in her bed, probably smothered. Whoever did it washed her body with cleanser."

  Ducci nodded. "So how can I help?"

  April reached in her purse for the envelope with the hair she'd found in the Perkins powder room. "The way the house is set up, the third floor consists of two connected closets, a bathroom, and the master suite, which has a bedroom and TV room with a tiny powder room hidden behind a painted wall."

  "Uh-huh." Ducci reached in his drawer for another candy bar.

  "When I searched it—"

  "Oh-oh. Don't tell me you're taking things from crime scenes now. We don't go for that." He shook his finger at her.

  "Duplicates," she said airily. "Crime Scene got everything I have. I just don't have time to wait. Yada yada yada. If they're going to be helpful, I need to know now." She had to resolve this case fast.

  "Where's the fire?" he said.

  "Please, I'm just trying to rule things out."

  He shook his head. "What are you looking for, color?" Duke opened the envelope, poked at the lone hair in there with a thick finger, then got up and moved across the brightly lit space.

  "Yeah, and anything else it can tell me."

  "Fine, give me an hour."

  "Thanks. Other hairs were tangled up with a feather. Looked to me like a goose down feather. You have the pillows from the vic's bed here." April shrugged. "I'm guessing the perp killed her with the pillow, then used the powder room to wash up."

  "Okay." He got started and seemed to forget about her. When she got to the door he said, "And thank you for dropping by."

  Thirty-nine

  Eloise and Charlie stopped for a couple of slices of pizza before heading back across town. She didn't want to take the time to sit at a table, so they put the box between them and ate in the car. "I didn't know you like pizza," he said admiringly as they sat in a no-parking zone on Lex.

  "Who doesn't like pizza?" she demanded.

  She'd requested extra napkins and spread them out across her chest, hopeful of catching the oily drips—an unrealistic wish. It didn't bother her that much. She was herself, take it or leave it. Charlie watched her wrestle a long string of cheese into her mouth, then cleared his throat.

  "The boss doesn't,- for starters. She's kind of a dainty eater," he remarked.

  "No kidding." Eloise was not surprised. The lieutenant was always pristine in tasteful, clean, well-pressed clothes, and Eloise had never seen her eat anything. Tea seemed to be her CO's only indulgence. She raised the folded slice of extra cheese, extra pepperoni, to her mouth, and two heavy drops of grease hit the thin layer of napkins in her lap. Dainty and tasteful didn't seem to be in her repertoire. "What did you think of Miss Anderson?" she asked.

  "That one's not playing with a whole deck," Hagedorn snorted. "What was that outfit?"

  "Vintage. Don't you know vintage when you see it?" Suddenly her appetite was gone. She dropped the crust into the pizza box and wiped her hands on a napkin. "I wish 1 had a Handi Wipe," she said wistfully.

  "Here." Charlie reached into his pocket and passed one over.

  "Gee . . . thanks," she said, for once restraining the urge to make a stinging remark. Who but a complete nut carried foil-wrapped hand cleansers in his jacket pocket?

  "Let me get that box out of your way," he said as he grabbed it and hopped out of the car to dump it in a garbage can. He didn't look like a guy who could hop, and once again, she withheld the smart remark. Being a staunch New Yorker, it wasn't easy.

  They got back to the precinct with no further incident. Charlie took one of the files that Jo Ellen Anderson had given them, and left Eloise the other. After she'd returned a bunch
of calls and talked to all the people who wanted to talk to her, she opened the file. It was Remy's. It contained the Anderson application form, which showed some basic information about her education and previous jobs, as well as a list of her skills. She'd grown up out West, gone to a local high school and state university. Along the way she'd worked in a bunch of chains—baking, frying, grilling, prepping salads, making desserts. She liked kids and could drive, didn't have a passport. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the resume except several dozen notes on three-by-five cards in tiny handwriting, presumably Jo Ellen's.

  Talked to Remy Banks. Presentation needs work. In a good house, must wear slacks and sweaters, not jeans and sweatshirts, read one. Talked to Remy. Worried about attitude problem and reminded her that she was to fulfill any command without debate.

  Talked to Remy again today about the children. Does not want to be responsible for the children's playdates.

  Talked to Remy today about her relationship with Lynn. The girls are too close and break confidentiality rules.

  Talked to Remy this morning. She's rebellious: won't keep to dress code, wilfully flirts with her employer. Danger on that score!!!

  Talked to Remy about her jealousy. Constantly looks for attention.

  Talked to Remy today about her request for a raise—-too soon, not a proven entity yet.

  Eloise counted them and found, to her surprise, that the file contained more than forty comments about every aspect of Remy's conduct. Jo Ellen was concerned abut the amount of food Remy consumed at the house, her hours, her demeanor, her personal habits, the amount of money she spent while running errands. Jo Ellen had mounting doubts about Remy's viability as a domestic.

  Half an hour after Eloise started, Charlie came into her office. "This is worse than one of our files," he said. "This girl sounds like a nightmare. She was fired from her former job. Jo Ellen was giving her a second chance. At this job she was accused of stealing a diamond bracelet, but nothing could be proved. There were other people in the house at the time. What about yours?" he asked.

  "No accusations of theft, but that Anderson woman seems to be something of a nightmare herself."

  The phone rang, and Eloise picked up. "Sergeant Gelo."

  "Hey, I'm at the lab. What did you find out?"

  "Hello, Lieutenant. We paid a visit to the Anderson Agency."

  "How did that go?"

  "It went well. We got the files. It seems Lynn was fired from her former job. Perkins was her last chance at Anderson. She may have stolen a diamond bracelet from Alison. Remy was too cozy with Wayne Wilson and had an attitude problem. The two girls were closer than Anderson liked. The Anderson woman seems to be unusually intrusive for a placement person."

  "Okay, what about the warrant check?"

  Eloise smiled at Charlie. "Charlie's working on that now," she said. "Are you coming in?"

  "Maybe later, I'll let you know," Woo replied.

  "Okay."

  "Anything else?" Woo asked.

  "Yes, in a few minutes, we're meeting the stripper from Spirit who gave the drugs to Peret."

  . "I wish I were there," Woo said.

  "How do you want us to handle it?" "You have her number in his cell phone and her message from that night in his voice mail, right? We can put her away for dealing if we need to."

  "What if she has no priors?" Eloise asked.

  "Hang on to her for a while, and give her a little taste of the law. She'll tattle on her boss and everyone else she knows."

  "Will do."

  "And keep in touch," were Woo's last words.

  forty

  April hung up with Eloise and went downstairs to the Crime Scene unit. She found Woody talking to Chad, who looked as if he had all the time in -the world. Although she and Igor went way back, Chad and Mark were pretty new to the unit and she'd never worked with them before. Chad Westerman was a skinny guy with a round shaved head and pale blue eyes—a real white ghost. Mark wasn't around. At the task force headquarters in the Seventeenth Precinct there was an electric atmosphere of urgency. Here, it didn't look as if much was happening.

  The lab was where the engineers of crime brought the hundreds of tagged items taken from every crime scene to be analyzed. Here was the nuts-and-bolts world of forensic science. The CSU worked with the specialists and were the ones who stayed on task day and night, making models—of rooms, buildings, sometimes whole areas. They prepared the charts, graphs, and computerized reen-actments of homicides, and tested the tools of death for a match. In a multiple-stabbing case like that of Maddy Wilson, they would find or create something that closely resembled human tissue and bone and use a variety of sharp instruments on it to try to find patterns consistent with Maddy's wounds. Ingenuity was the name of the game. The two detectives idly watched her hurry toward them through the maze of desks.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  "I filled him in on Perkins," Woody said.

  Chad looked pensive. "Maybe this is some kind of mission killer," he said.

  That was someone who had a sick purpose for his crimes, who wanted to punish a particular type of person like nurses, prostitutes—or young mothers. Nobody had used the term before, and April swallowed the feeling of panic that had been building in her all morning. Maddy's murder had looked like a single tragic, but isolated, event. Alison's murder was unexpected and raised the serial-killer specter. The FBI would come on the scene and the case would mushroom in the press. But beyond that, the killing itself was a frightening escalation that didn't fit with any serial killer's profile she'd ever seen. At the onset, the need to kill and kill again usually developed over time. The perpetrator had to become confident that he was smarter than everyone else and could get away with murder before he tried attacking again. It was a head game as well as a craving. Usually, this kind of killer would relish a violent act in his fantasies for months, or even years, before striking again. It took a lot of energy to plan and carry out a face-to-face killing.

  Even in those violent crimes that occurred in remote places where a killer took advantage of a passerby's vulnerable moment, it was not so easy to design a murder and carry it off. Every step was stressful and required preparation. New York City was a busy place. Even in quiet neighborhoods, people were on the- streets, walking their dogs and going to work, and somebody always knew something. April imagined an arrogant individual walking down the street, getting into those two town houses in the early morning hours, surprising Maddy and Alison, and killing them. That person had been comfortable enough to spend time there afterward, arranging the bodies and washing them up. In Alison's case the killer had touched her clothes, tidied her bedroom and possibly taken her rings. It was ghoulish and upsetting, and had ritual elements about it. Then the killer had walked out of that house—or stayed to "discover" the bodies. He (or she) would know that an army of experts would be in there, searching for traces he'd left behind. Every step had to be intensely stressful.

  It was not like shooting a gun from across the street. It would be more like running the Kentucky Derby, performing in the Super Bowl—hot and furious and deeply personal. What kind of person could summon that kind of energy, that kind of killing passion, twice in two days? April shook her head over their list of suspects. The trainer, who milked the victims for cash and knew their habits, hadn't left his apartment since last night when he got home from his police interview. He had to be ruled out for both murders. The disgruntled nannies who had just been fired—each acting alone or in concert with two husbands fed up with trophy wives—seemed unlikely murderers. But a mission killer? She'd been over it and over it, and prayed

  that it wasn't someone off the police radar screen, hiding in the shadows, and waiting until tomorrow to kill again.

  "I went upstairs. Ducci doesn't have anything. Rick doesn't have anything. What's holding things up?" April didn't have all year.

  "We're going good on it. We're still processing." Chad glanced quickly at Woody.

 
• "When are you getting started? I need a time frame here."

  "We are started," he replied coolly. "What do you need?"

  "Cooperation. We're looking at the two homicides as connected. There are similarities in the crime scenes. You have to get with Igor."

  "No problem."

  "How far did you go in the Wilson house?"

  "We did the usual."

  "What about blood? Did you find any?"

  Chad shrugged. "Not much. There were traces in the grout. Marble tiles, you know, are set much closer together than porcelain, but there were traces in the grout in the walls and floor."

  "What about the drain?"

  "She must have washed her hair in that shower. There was a lot of hair in the drain."

  "Blood?"

  He nodded. "In the hair."

  "Anything else?"

  "What are you looking for?"

  "I'm not sure. Fibers from the killer's clothes. Hair from the head of the killer, or his body if he was naked in there with her."

  "Was she sexually assaulted?" Woody asked.

  "Damn." April had forgotten to ask the ME.

  "Is that a yes?"

  "We don't have a prelim yet," April said. "I don't know."

  "So, what's the rush?" Chad scratched the side of his face. He had his own time frame.

  April ignored the question. "What about mops, towels, cleaning things?" she asked.

  "There was a bucket in the garage. It's filled with cleaning utensils, including a mop that had recently been used."

  "Blood?"

  "We haven't tested anything yet, but it did have a piece of plastic stuck to it."

  April frowned. "What kind of plastic?"

  "I'm guessing the kind they use for fold-up travel raincoats, or to cover outdoor furniture. It looks dried out, old. We'll check it out. I'd guess raincoat, though," he added, as if he were a raincoat connoisseur.

  "Interesting," April murmured. "What about the knives?"

  "We haven't started on that. As I said, we're still processing."