“I’ll say.” She took another sip.
“Those monks at the Benedictine Abbey of Hautvillers deserve a debt of gratitude for discovering this wondrous concoction.”
“I’ll be sure to drop them a line.”
“You know, they buried their deceased brethren alongside casks of wine.”
“To continue the party?”
“For all eternity. And did you know that the Pharaohs were buried with their beer?”
“I had no idea. Hey, Colm, you’re a walking encyclopedia when it comes to booze!”
“I should be. I own a winery.”
“Really? Where?”
“On the North Fork of Long Island. Maybe someday we’ll go there.”
Margaret was enjoying Pierce’s company. She found him to be intelligent, good looking, charming, and delightfully mysterious. To top it off, he had a pair of soulful blue eyes that a woman could get lost in. But the question kept gnawing at her. Why the defibrillator paddles? She was determined to seek an answer at dinner.
“Ever been to the catacombs in Rome?” Pierce asked.
“Back in high school. I don’t think I could have endured them, though, without some help from a bottle of Chianti Ruffino,” Margaret mused. “When in Rome—”
“Been there, done that. With pictures!”
“Pictures?”
“Used an infrared camera,” he boasted. “Don’t forget, I have an anatomist’s interest in bones.”
“Bones, hmm.”
“Incredible substances. As hard as granite, lighter than wood, and very much alive. Bones are made to withstand mountains of stress. They don’t rust, they are non-corrosive, and they are edible. A true miracle of evolution!”
The Harbor Club boasted a spectacular view of downtown Manhattan. The pair chose a table near a bay window overlooking the Wall Street skyline. The waiter made his approach. “And now for tonight’s specials…” Margaret and Pierce sat through the interminable oration. “May I suggest starting with a cocktail?” the waiter finished.
Margaret ordered the house Chardonnay, while Pierce chose the Merlot.
The waiter returned with their selections, took their dinner order, and quickly disappeared.
A gust of laughter erupted at an adjacent table. Margaret pricked her ears to steal fragments of the conversation between the two women. They spoke in a foreign tongue that had a Slavic ring to it.
“They sound like they’re enjoying themselves,” she whispered to Pierce.
“Scandalous stuff. The one in the blue dress caught her husband with their nanny…in the playpen, of all places.”
“That’s so sad. Why are they laughing?”
“Three million dollars! That was the divorce settlement!”
“Wow, I’d laugh too,” Margaret said, sipping her Chardonnay.
Pierce was bilingual. Margaret wondered what other languages he’d mastered.
The waiter arrived with their hors d’oeuvres.
“Coquelet poule au poivre, for madam. Escargot for monsieur.” The waiter delivered his lines like the unemployed actor he was.
“You don’t mind if I use my fingers?” asked Margaret.
“All the better,” Pierce answered, taking a sip of his wine.
The pair exchanged smiles.
“So, Margaret, I know so little about you. I know you’re a policewoman, but what exactly does that entail?”
“I catch the bad guys,” she said, dismantling her Cornish hen.
“Is that so?” he said, staring intensely at her meticulous dissection of the bird.
“And I’m good at it.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that.”
“New York City Police Sergeant Margaret Aligante at your service.”
“Well protected am I. Sounds like an exciting job. Any interesting cases of late?”
She was mindful of Driscoll’s instructions. She shouldn’t discuss the case in detail. But she saw no harm in letting the man know she was part of the Task Force.
“Actually, there is one. You must have read about it in the papers.”
“I don’t read the papers. I get all my news through the Internet. Let me guess…the child abuse of the six-year-old in Greenpoint?”
“I investigate homicide.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on the case involving the madman who’s killing all those women and stealing their bones?”
“I’m part of the team.”
“I’m impressed. What’s his fascination with bones?”
“You’re the radiologist, you tell me.”
“I’ve read all there is to read about the case through the Internet. But none of the articles tells you very much.”
“Wow, you’re really following the case.”
“Well, like you said, I am a radiologist.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think it’s too gruesome to talk about over coquelet poule au poivre.”
“Nothing gets in the way of my appetite.”
The waiter reappeared with their rack of lamb à la Berrichonne, for two. He gracefully sliced a portion of the meat and placed it on Margaret’s plate. He then uncorked a bottle of Charmes-Chambertin and filled two glasses.
The pair ate silently, savoring the rich bouquet of spices mingling with the gamey lamb.
“I guess you’re really not supposed to talk about the investigation,” Pierce said.
Margaret, caught with her mouth full, moaned a languorous “no.”
“Even if I can help?”
Margaret stared intently at Pierce. She was here to pick his brain a little, and he had just given her an opening.
“We are quite curious as to what he does with the bones.”
“My guess would be he collects them as trophies. Reminders of his conquests.”
“He takes their heads, hands, and feet, too.”
“He must be trying to hide their identities. He wouldn’t want the police to ID them from their fingerprints or dental records…But wait a minute. The reports say you’ve been able to ID them.”
“True.”
“Then I’m at a loss. Why would he need their head, hands, and feet? Unless he’s trying to complete their skeletons. If that’s what he’s after, he’d surely need the skull, the metatarsus, a full set of phalanges, and the rest of the tiny bones that make up the hands and the feet.”
“That makes sense,” said Margaret. Is this guy stating the obvious, or am I being played, she asked herself. She was not one to be toyed with. Neither as a woman nor as a detective.
“Perhaps it’s not a murderer you’re after. He could be a simple thief. A bone thief.”
“Try telling that to the victims’ families.”
“That’s one part of your job I don’t envy.”
“I’m sure in your line of work, there comes a time when you need to give a patient’s family bad news.”
“On occasion.”
Margaret took a sip of her wine and gazed at Pierce. It was time to tie up some loose ends.
“There’s one question in the investigation that remains unanswered, Colm, and it involves you.”
“Me?”
“Why were you in the pediatric ICU using defibrillator paddles on the Parsons girl?”
A broad grin erupted on Pierce’s face. “I was wondering when someone was going to ask me that question.”
“Well, here I am. Your dinner date, and I’m asking.”
Margaret watched as Pierce dabbed at his lips with his dinner napkin before answering the question. Not much to read in that gesture. The man had a poker face.
“Doctor Astin and I were riding the elevator together,” said Pierce. “He was responding to a Code Blue in the pediatric ICU.”
“The Parsons girl.”
“Right. The two of us were in a fiery discussion about an irrelevant matter. When the doors of the elevator opened, we continued our heated discussion, and before we knew it we were both standing at the bedside of the Parsons girl.
And as to why I was using the defibrillator paddles, I was using them in an attempt to save the poor girl’s life.”
“Would a radiologist do that?” She didn’t think it likely.
“This radiologist would.”
Silence settled between the pair. After a moment had passed, Pierce took hold of Margaret’s hand. “When I became a physician, I took an oath. I swore I would do everything in my power to safeguard life. My actions that day were obligatory. I was there. The girl had suffered a heart attack. Doctor Astin had attempted to revive her using the defibrillator paddles, but had failed. When he gave up hope, I grabbed hold of the paddles and used them myself. Unfortunately, our efforts failed to bring her back to life, and the young girl was pronounced dead. I had to use the paddles, Margaret. I had sworn an oath.”
Margaret leaned back in her chair and pushed her plate forward. It could have happened as he said, but a radiologist using defibrillator paddles? That she didn’t buy. There was something wrong with that. It aroused suspicion. She became mindful of Driscoll’s sixth sense. And that meant she would use caution when dealing with this man.
As the busboy cleared their table, Margaret’s eyes remained fixed on Pierce. She had her work cut out for her. It remained to be seen whether she was dining with a charmer, or with the devil himself.
Chapter 71
Margaret found Driscoll inside his office, slumped in his chair. He had been battling influenza. Shattered by the intensity of its symptoms, he had teetered near the brink of exhaustion until antibiotics broke his fever. Though fatigued, he was now able to move about without waves of vertigo.
“You look terrible. Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”
“There’ll be time enough to sleep when we have our madman in custody. Speaking of our madman, how was your dinner date?”
“He took me to the Harbor Club.”
“Top shelf. Was he able to shed any light on our investigation?”
Margaret seemed lost in thought. Her answers to Driscoll were hesitant. “He thinks the reason our killer is collecting bones is to erect their skeletons. That’s why he takes the head, hands, and feet.”
“Don’t you find it a little curious that he has that insight? I’m telling you, Margaret, I’m really beginning to like this guy for the killings.”
“Smug.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s the feeling I had about him the other night. The word escaped me at the time. The guy is intelligent, charming, and smug. He has a certain air about him. You know what I mean?” Margaret settled back in her chair. “The son of a bitch might be playing me. Fuck. If he is, I’ll kill the bastard myself.”
“Since you started seeing him, the killings have stopped. So I want that to continue. But promise me this—you’ll be careful and always on your guard.”
“Fuck! He might be playing with me. Fuck!”
“Careful, and on your guard.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. Careful and on my guard. If he could play me, the least I should do is return the favor. I’m good at schmoozing, ya know. And that’s what the good doctor will get. My best schmooze.”
“Margaret, I want to change gears here for a minute. I want to talk about us.”
That caught her attention. A grin creased her face; her eyes widened. “Go ahead, lover boy. Gimme whatcha got.” Hey! I’m getting good at this, she thought.
“The last time we talked, I told you I needed more time to think about our relationship. Remember?”
“Like it was yesterday.”
“I think it’s time to make some time for us.”
“Whoa. Talk about changing gears.” Margaret’s grin blossomed into a smile. “You really know how to get a girl’s attention.” Margaret’s heart was in her throat. Don’t screw this up, she thought. “John, you took my breath away. You’re sure about this? Right? I mean, you’ve thought it all through?”
“I’m ready. That is if you are?”
“Ready, willing, and able. Are you kidding? I’ve been dreaming of this day for God knows how long.”
“I want us to be discreet. These guys we work with can be clowns sometimes. You don’t have a problem with us being discreet, do you?”
“Discreet, that street, whatever you want. I’m just so happy I could explode. Can you tell?”
“You do look happy. I gotta tell ya that.”
Driscoll reached across his desk and took hold of Margaret’s hand. A sheepish smile sprouted on his face. “We can make this work. I know we can.”
“I like that word.”
“Which one?”
“We.”
Chapter 72
Driscoll was pleased that Seamus Tiernan had succeeded in transferring Moira to her own room at home. He saw it as a sign of hope. Attended by a registered nurse, the young girl lay without her cocoon, surrounded by stuffed polar bears, Beanie Babies and a Britney Spears poster with five darts radiating out from the center of the pop star’s face. Inert in her own bed, her bruised body was connected to a cluster of instruments that included a pulse oximeter, a suction machine, and a home-care ventilator. Her vital signs were being recorded around the clock as zigzagging lines on amber screens, attesting to the vibrancy of her organs. But the Lieutenant was anxious because her brain still showed as a flat line.
Driscoll, who visited the young girl regularly, stood at Moira’s bedside, listening to the thud of an artificial respirator and the purr of a dialysis machine. The sounds were all too familiar. That realization saddened him. He gazed at the machinery. All the monitors were working properly, keeping his star witness alive, though mute. He had the impulse to shake the girl, provoke her with a well-turned phrase, irritate her, deride her to get some reaction, and in so doing, reignite her adolescent fury, which had so attracted him.
He scanned the room. The shelves were overcrowded with books and mementos, decorative boxes, and a huge collection of teddy bears. Nicole had been a collector too. She had collected miniature dollhouses from around the world. She had played with those houses like an anthropologist would, learning how certain architecture fit a particular type of terrain, like how terra-cotta roofing was favored in hot and sultry climates. She was amazed to discover how the Tuaregs in the Sahara lived in clay houses and kept their living space cool with damp mud.
On a trip to Dublin, Driscoll had happened upon a store that flaunted an Irish village in its window: twenty-one houses, one church, one firehouse, one movie theater, and six pubs. He had purchased the entire ensemble and brought it back to Nicole.
“My God!” she said. “What do you have in the box? Is it a life-sized teddy bear?”
“No. Something much better.”
His daughter had been breathless after she opened her gift: she realized she owned her own town. She had arranged all the houses on her hook rug, with the church in the center, and then stood up triumphantly and told her father he’d been elected mayor.
Driscoll had bowed from the waist, accepting the distinction. “My first directive as mayor,” he had said, “is to impose a curfew of 9:00 P.M. for the entire town. And that includes you, little girl.”
The memory saddened him. He closed his eyes and envisioned Nicole’s face: her rosy red cheeks in winter, the way her little round chin protruded, the softness of her blue eyes, the way his heart would melt when she smiled that crooked little smile at him, her gentle laughter. He missed his daughter. He missed his wife. And now he missed Moira.
A gurgling sound from the dialysis machine brought Driscoll back to the present, to a present where he could find no forgiveness for his part in Moira’s fate. He should have cut her off from the word go. How could he have been so blind to the danger she was putting herself in? This young girl whose body had been inhumanely brutalized had him to thank for it. It was as though he wielded the weaponry himself. Guilt haunted him day and night. Were he Seamus or Eileen Tiernan, he would have come gunning for Driscoll, armed with a bazooka. Driscoll, to this day, couldn’t unde
rstand their passivity. He was guilt ridden for them as well. The suffering his mismanagement brought about was inexcusable. As he stared down at Moira’s fractured body he made a silent and solemn vow. He would track down this killer and stop at nothing until he is dead or captured. The killer had now made it very personal. Driscoll was after him with a vengeance.
Overcome with the same feeling of helplessness he had when he sat beside Colette, Driscoll’s gaze fell away from Moira and drifted to row after row of hardcover and paperback books that filled the shelves on the far wall. There were titles like Visual Basic Web Data Base, C++ Builder, and Intermediate MFC. There were also boxes of diskettes, CD-ROMs, electronic gadgets, and PC peripherals.
Were his eyes deceiving him or was that an IBM Thinkpad laptop wedged between two hardcover dictionaries of Delphi Components and Cobal II? My God! She said she worked better under open skies. Of course. She’d need a laptop. And here it was! The police had been scouring the wrong computer. It wouldn’t be her desktop she’d be using—it’d be the laptop. Why hadn’t that registered before?
He retrieved the computer and switched it on.
Jesus! She’s got more programs here than the National Security Agency, thought Driscoll. He kissed the girl’s forehead, placed the laptop under his arm, said goodbye to Moira’s nurse, and proceeded down the stairs. While the team at Technical Services worked on Moira’s desktop, he and Margaret would have a go at the laptop.
Chapter 73
“God, what I wouldn’t give for her password!” said Driscoll.
“Gotta be a doozy.”
Driscoll and Margaret had been sitting at his desk for what seemed like hours, fixed on the translucent surface of the laptop’s screen. They had tried, unsuccessfully, every probable and wildly improbable password gleaned from Moira’s biography. Her date of birth. The date in reverse. Kate Leone, her first grade teacher, followed by every other teacher she had ever had. Her favorite Baskin-Robbins flavor, Muddy Road. Her loyalty to her favorite Jell-O, Raspberry. Citre-Shine, her preferred shampoo. Lafeber’s, the only brand of seed her bird, Chester, would peck at. Vassarette, her brand of panties. And 34B, her bra size. And to frustrate them even further, each time Driscoll typed in a password, the image of Moira’s face flashed on the screen with a finger to her lips, while the teen’s recorded voice jeered through the laptop’s tiny speakers: “Not that one, silly. Read my lips!”
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