Dave tried to stop himself from glancing at Megan’s legs. “Sounds great,” he said neutrally. “I appreciate the time I’m getting from you folks.”
“May I ask you a question?” Again the teasing tone.
“Depends what it is.”
“Detectives aren’t the only ones who get to ask questions.”
He hadn’t figured her for a flirt. Some women were turned on by cops, but not social workers. They generally regarded the police as thugs in uniform.
“Ask away,” Dave said genially.
“Why did you want me with you, and not Nita?”
Dave felt that a polite, white lie wasn’t what Megan wanted or needed. “I don’t think she likes me,” he said truthfully.
“Nita can be intimidating,” Megan said. “She’s so dedicated to her work and so good at it that people sometimes are dazzled by her sheer professionalism.”
“Good for her.”
“So, why me?” More of the teasing tone.
“You’re the first person I met at the center,” he said lamely.
She sat quietly for a moment. “Who are we going to visit?”
“The parents of Lucy Cristides,” Dave said, relieved to be off the hook. “She was the cheerleader from Queens — 16 years old when they found her body in the Meatpacking District. Lucy’s parents run a coffee shop on the East Side.”
“What have you found out about the girl?” Megan asked, clinically detached now.
“People will always say the deceased was a wonderful person, even if she was into bondage and devil worship. In her case, though, she seems to have been a genuinely nice kid. A cheerleader. Pretty, too. No troubles in school. Good grades. She wanted to go to college. Helped her parents out in the coffee shop.”
“No boyfriends?”
“No.”
“Was she a virgin?”
Dave cleared his throat. “Not according to the autopsy report.”
“Were you a virgin at her age, detective?”
Dave chuckled. “No.”
“I was.” Megan said it matter-of-factly.
“Why do you ask?”
“These things are important to social workers.”
“Are you going to ask me where I lost my virginity?”
“If it wasn’t in a car, you owe me ten dollars.”
“I don’t owe you ten dollars.”
“You’re more predictable than you think, detective.” The smile had returned to her voice.
Maybe he could get the hang of this badinage, after all. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I surprise myself.”
“Surprise me sometime.”
“You’re on.” A big grin had stretched across Dave’s face.
It was Nita’s day at the shooting range. She caught the Long Island Rail Road out to Uniondale and walked the half-mile between the station and the range, the .45 in a gym bag. The spring sun felt good on her scalp.When the range was a mere twenty yards away, she suddenly felt someone’s presence behind her, following her, footsteps in time with hers.
She spun around, hand pulling down the zipper of the bag. No one. Just a suburban street, empty as the beginning of the world.
Henry, the owner of the range, greeted Nita with a hug and asked after her health. The Fourth of July gunfire crackle sounded beyond his office.
“Never better. Busy today?”
“Unexpected. Bunch of cops here. Nassau County P.D. pistol team. Big match coming up. They were kind of last minute. But you can’t turn away the cops.”
“Now, Henry, are you trying to tell me that all the lanes are taken, and that I’ll have to wait?”
Henry shrugged elaborately, palms outstretched like an Arab merchant. “What can I do?”
“Henry, I don’t have the time. I’ve got to get back to the city. Let me take care of this.”
She easily spotted the leader of the team. He wore that judgmental look, often seen on coaches at the sidelines or other macho places of worship. He fell for her challenge without hesitation. What man could deny a pretty woman’s dare?
“How about a handicap?” the leader asked as he adjusted the earphone-like protectors around his meaty ears. His pals had stopped firing and were chortling among themselves and ogling her ass, which was covered by tight black leggings.
“Sure, lieutenant, if you think you need one.” His cronies renewed their laughter, glancing nervously at their boss.
Novices think firing a .45 is like firing a blunderbuss. It is a heavy weapon with a kick.You have to hold the pistol steady, lining up the front and rear sights on the target, the silhouette of a man.Then ease the trigger gently, almost lovingly. You should be so intent on your target that pulling the trigger is virtually unconscious. Shooters who pull the trigger roughly or too soon always missed. Her father had told her:“There’s this monkey on your shoulder, shouting, ‘Fire.’You fire when you’re ready, not when the monkey wants you to.”
Over the years, Nita had gotten good enough that she didn’t have to keep the monkey waiting long.
“Five rounds from a standing position,” the lieutenant said.
“Lock and load,” Nita said.
She pumped a clip of ammunition into the .45’s handle.Then she stood facing the target downrange, her feet spread, her right hand wrapped around the weapon and extended before her, her left hand gripping her right, pulling back on it, stabilizing the sights.
At the command from the tower, they opened up. Brass shell casings flew out of their guns. Nita finished first.
At the tower’s command, they trudged down to the targets.The coltish team members cavorted behind them.
The lieutenant had two bull’s-eyes. Nita had five.The other cops exploded in mocking laughter.The lieutenant scowled at them.
“Boys, please,” Nita said. “The lieutenant and I had an agreement: I’d fire at his target and he’d fire at mine.”
They stopped laughing.
Nita took the lieutenant by the arm and led him back to the firing line. He was very flustered and looked at her with new admiration. “A lot of ladies are getting guns for self defense these days, but not many of them could—” He gestured lamely back at the range.
“Tell me, lieutenant,” she said, lightly touching his bicep, “do you know a NewYork City homicide detective named Dave Dillon?”
Dave parked the car next to a fire hydrant outside the Cristides’ coffee shop.
“Isn’t this illegal?” Megan asked.
Dave put the Police Department identification on the dashboard. “Who’s going to ticket me?”
She looked at him with coy amusement. “I can see you enjoy your work.”
“My father was a cop. I come from a long line of cops. Grow up Irish in Queens, and you usually become a cop.”
“What’s the attraction?”
“I get to meet interesting people.”
Lucy Cristides’ father had a doughy face that drooped when he saw Dave’s badge. “How can I help you, detective?” he said morosely.
He was mopping the counter with a dirty rag, and he didn’t stop. His apron had grease stains.The place was empty, and the smell of frying had started to fade.
“Mr. Cristides, this is an associate of mine, Ms. Morrison,” Dave said. “We’d like to ask you a few more questions.” He felt Megan watching him, studying him.
Cristides sighed. “I don’t know what more I can tell you. My Lucy, she went out to see her friends that night. Only her friends, they said later she never showed. She disappeared. Then they found her outside that meatpacking plant.” He sighed again.
“And nothing had been bothering her at the time?”
Cristides talked as if the day had emptied him of energy. “She was a teenage girl. She had her ups and downs. Boys. Her friends. The schoolwork. The cheerleading. Clothes, looks, the usual things for girls.”
“And she never went into Manhattan except to help you and your wife here at the coffee shop?”
“No. My Lucy stayed near home i
n Queens.When she went out, she went to her friends. Or to school things. She was not a wild girl. Not my Lucy.”
A small, dark-haired woman charged out of the kitchen in the back. “What you want?” she demanded.
Cristides spoke to her in Greek, but she ignored him.
“You the police again, hah?” she said. She waved a finger at Dave. Her bare arms were covered with fine black hair. “What you want this time? When you gonna find the bastard who kill my daughter?”
“Mrs. Cristides, this takes a while,” Dave said. “We’re trying our best.The entire city wants us to find him, and we’re on this night and day.”
“What you asking my husband?”
“Well, Mrs. Cristides,” Dave said, “I want to know if your daughter ever had any psychological problems.”
“You mean sick in the head?” she shouted at Dave, and advanced toward him, making shooing motions with her hands. “Get out of here. Get out. Leave us alone.”
“Mrs. Cristides —” Dave tried to calm her, but she kept shouting at him.
“Get out. Get out. Get out.”
“We’d better go,” Megan said.
Mrs. Cristides followed them out of the coffee shop, her arms flailing in all directions. “And don’t come back here no more. Asking such questions. She was a good girl. Where were you when she was alive. No?” She spat on the sidewalk.
“Gina,” her husband pleaded from the doorway. “Come back now.We must get ready for the lunch.”
The dead girl’s mother stomped back into the coffee shop, still muttering.
“She is upset,” Cristides said.
Megan looked after her with concern.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dave said. “But I have to ask you one question. Did you ever hear your daughter mention the West Side Crisis Center?”
“The West Side Crisis Center? No, I don’t think so.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cristides.” Dave shut his notebook.
“We’re right across town,” Megan said. “You can take a crosstown bus from here nearly to the Hudson River.The West Side Crisis Center.”
Cristides shook his head sadly. “No. My Lucy was a good girl. She had no sickness in the head. She was in no crisis. Just a good teenage girl. Mixed-up about growing up, but just like all teenage girls.”
Dave and Megan got back in the car.
“You blew it, detective,” Megan said, with that teasing lilt.
“I don’t have any other way of dealing with her,” Dave said, slightly annoyed.
“There’s was one way to get some answers.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Quit the police force. The mother had a beef with the cops for not protecting her daughter, or at least for not finding the killer.”
“Get serious.”
“I am. Next time, let me ask some questions.And make sure they know I’m not a cop.”
“You don’t look like a cop,” Dave said, and twisted the ignition key.
“What’s a woman cop look like? Or aren’t they real cops to you?”
“They’re real cops. I’m not one of those guys on the force who won’t accept female officers. My father wouldn’t approve, but there you are.” Dave pulled into traffic.
“Do they all look as good as that black detective who came by the center yesterday, the one who’d been out talking to Reuben’s daughters? She’s an attractive woman.”
“Jamie Loud? Yeah, I guess she looks like a cop. And she’s a good one too.”
“I think she likes you.”
Dave laughed in genuine astonishment. “Give me a break.”
“She asked when you’d left. I could tell from how she said your name.”
“You could, huh? Well, Ms. Detective, what could you tell from our little session with the Cristides?”
Megan said nothing for a moment.The car halted for a light, and the circus of Manhattan street life ambled past their front bumper. “There’s something about Lucy that they’re hiding. Probably something they consider shameful. I’ll bet it’s what we’re searching for. But you’ll have a hell of a time getting it out of them.”
“Maybe.Want some lunch?”
They parked, once more at a hydrant, and he brought back food from a deli: a Coke and a roast beef on rye with Russian dressing for him, a Dr. Pepper and a BLT for her.
“I love how they do this sandwich,” Dave said.The Russian dressing thrilled his tongue.
“Did you pay for the food?”
“Give it up. Of course I did.”
“But you didn’t have to.”
He shrugged, his mouth full.
“I guess I’m struggling with the allure of being a cop. Park anywhere you want. Free food. I want to make sure I understand. Is it about power?”
“For some, yeah. Not for all. Like my father. He was a great man, a great cop, my father. And he never got off on being the big man with the badge. After he made detective, he told me — I was a kid then — he told me,‘It’s great to find out what’s wrong and fix it.’ ”
“That’s what you’re doing?”
“That’s what I’m doing.” He chomped into the soggy sandwich and noticed, with satisfaction, that she ate hers with gusto.
“This case obsesses you, doesn’t it?” she asked in a voice muffled by food.
“Yes. Every case obsesses me, but a big one is the worst. I have pictures of the victims on my wall at home.” As soon as he had said that, he wished he hadn’t. “Drives my cat crazy.”
“Pictures of the victims. After they were murdered, detective?”
“I’m afraid so. And call me Dave.”
“Why?” She scrunched up her face in mock distaste as she bit into the large pickle that came with her sandwich.
“Why what? It’s my name.”
“Why keep gory pictures on your wall?”
“To remind me that they’re still waiting.”
“What do the faces tell you?”
Dave wiped his hand on a napkin and picked up his Coke can and took a swig. “They were surprised.”
“Isn’t everybody surprised to see a gun aimed at them?”
“This is a different kind of surprise. The surprise of finding out that someone you trusted wants to kill you. See, I think the victims must have known the killer. And I believe they were surprised to see this person they trusted pulling a .45.”
“Interesting,” Megan said as she licked mayonnaise off her lips.
“Why are you a social worker?”
“Same reason you’re a cop.To make things right.To save people, save the world.”
“That’s possible? You can fix some things, maybe, but the whole world?”
Megan nodded. “Nita thinks it’s possible. It’s our mission.”
Dave swallowed a hard lump of roast beef. “I guess she ought to know.”
Going through the crisis center’s client files was a tedious process. Dave had decided to limit their inspection to active clients over the past half year.
Megan hoisted another pile of file folders onto the already crowded conference table where Nita and Dave sat. Since returning to the crisis center, she had said little.
“You want to see the files on the staff too?” Megan asked. “I’d like to take a look at them,” Dave answered absently. “I’ll bring them up from Dr. Solomon’s office.”
“Thanks, Megan.” He looked up and smiled at her and watched
her leave the room.When he turned back to the conference table, he saw Nita regarding him with an ironic, tight-lipped expression. “She interests you, detective?” Nita asked.
Dave found himself flustered at the question. He could understand the power Nita exercised over Megan and the others at the crisis center. “Megan’s, uh, very nice.”
“She’s got the makings of a fine sociologist: intelligent, perceptive, intuitive, dedicated. Or aren’t you interested in her professional qualifications, detective?”
“I’m interested in catching a serial killer, Ms. Bergstrom,” he
said with as much coolness as he could muster. “That’s what I’m professionally qualified to do.” He grabbed a yellow legal pad. “Let’s get a system set up, shall we?”
He whipped out his pen and made neat columns on the legal pad, adding headings above them.
Megan returned with another stack of file folders. She put them down beside Dave and edged away. “The staff,” she said.
“Thanks,” Dave said. Without permission, he slapped the legal pad onto the photocopy machine and ran off a batch of reproductions. He gave a handful of them to each woman. “What we’re after are patients who fit the profile of serial murderer.”
“Clients,” said Megan, exchanging a look with Nita. “We call them clients.”
“Clients. It’s not necessary that they were clients of Reuben Silver’s.The killer, if he was indeed a client here, may have met Reuben simply in passing.”
“The profile of a serial murderer,” Nita said, rolling the words slowly and mockingly off her tongue. “And what, would you say, is that profile, detective?”
“Serial murderers tend to be in their twenties and thirties. Many had head injuries as small children or at birth. They are loners. Their parents abused them.They display symptoms of violence toward other people or animals. Sexual deviance, suicidal tendencies, and alcohol and drug problems are often present.”
“Well, that certainly narrows the field,” Nita said with a wry smile and selected a file from the pile closest to her.
They read for several minutes in silence. Dave noticed he was making faster progress than the two social workers. “The files aren’t very conclusive about their identities, are they?” he said at last. “A lot don’t give their proper names or even list addresses. This one says his name is the Cookie Monster, and that he lives ‘around the corner.’ Lotus, from the Lower East Side. Juke,Times Square. How many Fast Eddies are there, anyhow?”
“If they were willing to give us their names, and if they had addresses to give, they probably wouldn’t be coming here, detective,” Nita said. “Still, I’m sure the police are adept at finding people they want to.We have faith in your department’s competence, detective.”
“The people who come here trust us,” Megan said simply, hoping Dave hadn’t registered Nita’s mocking tone.
Ladykiller Page 9