He went over to Giordano and summarized what he’d found from his investigation of the house. “No windows open or broken, no door locks busted. Either she let him in, or he had a key or some other way to let himself in.”
Giordano glanced at him. “So what are we dealing with? Friend? Family member? Or fucking clever sadistic stranger?”
Before Hernandez could speculate, the ME interrupted. “Whoever it is, he has a penchant for astrology.”
Giordano and Hernandez looked at the body. Rayburn had cleaned the blood from the woman’s left thigh. He pointed to gashes that had been made in the flesh.
“These cuts,” he said. “They were made as she was dying, while her heart was still pumping. That’s why there was so much blood.” He stopped a moment and swallowed the repulsion he felt before going on. “At first I thought they were random. But they form a pattern. It’s an astrological sign. I’ve seen it in the astrology column in the newspaper.” He held his index finger above the gashes and traced the design. “See? Here’s an arrow. The symbol for Sagittarius.”
Giordano stared at the murderer’s handiwork. “What the hell?”
Hernandez stared, too. Then he turned to Giordano. “I’d say we’re dealing with a sadistic stranger.”
Giordano couldn’t take his eyes off the arrow the murderer had carved into the woman’s thigh. He didn’t disagree with his partner. “Shit,” he said after a while. “That’s only going to make it harder to find him.”
Eight
SARAH HAD HAD AN uneasy feeling all day. Kelly had been distant and preoccupied since this morning. Until lately, she’d been a woman who clearly enjoyed her life, who loved her children and her work, who wore her success casually and without pretension, and used the city like a playground. Even in the last several weeks, when Kelly had changed, she had made the effort to be cheerful. But today she hadn’t even tried. Sarah wondered if Kelly had just become more depressed about the problem she was having or if it was something else.
The only bright spot in Sarah’s gray day was that she’d gotten a call from Kevin, whom she’d seen the night before at the Met, and he’d made a dinner date with her for his night off. He’d sung the title role in Faust, and he’d sung it beautifully. When he’d embraced her backstage, she saw that he’d become warmer and more loving toward her in the time that he’d been away on tour, that he’d forgiven her for disappointing him. Seeing him last night, she’d begun falling in love with him all over again.
She opened the glass door at the rear of the kitchen and walked down the slate steps into the garden behind the brown-stone. In the dusky light, she could see Kelly in the greenhouse reaching up to a climbing rosebush. Approaching, she saw that King was in the greenhouse, too, staying close to Kelly as she snipped off a pink rose and added it to the roses in her hand. He howled one of his friendly hello howls, and Kelly turned to see Sarah standing in the doorway.
“I’m about to leave,” Sarah told her. “I’m going to visit my mother.”
Kelly looked at the roses. “I picked these for her. I thought she’d like them better than roses from a flower store. I’ve just got to put a wet paper towel around the stems. They’re Zephirine Drouhins. They smell wonderful, and they have no thorns. Tell her it’s the first time I’ve been able to grow them.”
“She’ll love them.”
Kelly glanced down at the greenhouse floor before looking at Sarah again. “I’m sorry I was short-tempered with you this morning. I have a lot on my mind.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t take it out on you and Emma.”
“You don’t usually,” Sarah told her.
Kelly kept her eyes on her. “That’s no excuse.”
“It’s all right. Really, Kelly.”
Sarah moved out of the doorway. As Kelly led King into the garden, Sarah could see that Kelly was still preoccupied.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” she asked her.
Kelly shrugged. “No, I’m fine. I’m just making something out of nothing.”
Sarah looked at her, waiting for her to say more, but Kelly didn’t. Instead, she started walking toward the kitchen.
“How was the opera?” she asked. “How was Kevin?”
Sarah walked alongside Kelly and King. “Wonderful. I was very proud of him.”
“Are you still seeing each other?”
“We’re going to have dinner tomorrow night.”
Kelly’s face relaxed into a genuine smile. “I’m glad.”
They reached the glass door to the kitchen and Kelly turned to Sarah. “Tell your mother I’ll come visit her when she’s home.”
Sarah knew that on one level Kelly meant this, but the hesitation and strain in the way she’d said it told Sarah it was more of an excuse than a promise. It confirmed to her that she and Emma were right about Kelly’s problem. She wondered how long Kelly thought she could keep it a secret from them.
As Kelly walked with Sarah into the kitchen, she could tell from the expression on Sarah’s face that Sarah realized she wasn’t being honest with her, and she prayed that Sarah wouldn’t confront her about it. She knew from her training as a psychologist that keeping a problem hidden only increased the stress surrounding it, but she wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. Especially not after the phone call that despite her best efforts to rationalize, continued to replay in her head. She wasn’t ready to talk about any of it right now. So she took the bouquet of roses to the sink and began preparing it for Sarah to take to her mother. That way her back was to Sarah, so Sarah couldn’t see her face, and maybe she could go on pretending that she wasn’t afraid to leave her home and that a man hadn’t called her and terrified her.
Nine
IT HAD BEEN THE kind of day that made Frank Giordano wonder if he’d be better off in some other line of work. Maybe any other line of work. The victim’s name was Jennifer McGraw. She’d been thirty-five years old and had been a freelance graphic artist who had worked in a studio behind her house. For five years she’d been married to a partner in a Wall Street brokerage firm, and she’d gotten the house in New Kent when they’d divorced two years before. Six months later, her ex-husband had died of a heart attack. They’d had no children.
The tech team hadn’t found any fingerprints in the house except those of the victim, the maid, and the victim’s parents and sister, who lived in Short Hills and who’d been there on Labor Day for a barbecue. According to the parents and sister, Jennifer had had no known enemies and not many friends, and, despite having lived in the house for seven years, she hadn’t really known any of her neighbors. Going door to door on both sides of the street, Giordano had concluded it wasn’t a very friendly neighborhood. None of Jennifer’s neighbors had seen or heard anything unusual, and they’d been more concerned about what her murder might mean about their own safety and property values than they were about the fact that she was dead.
Now Giordano and Hernandez were in the morgue with Rayburn, standing over the victim’s body, and the ME had just told them there were no traces of semen in her genitals, no pubic hair mixed with hers, no skin cells or saliva except hers, no traces of the man who had raped and strangled her that would allow them to identify him through DNA analysis.
“What other bad news do you have for me?” Giordano asked him.
“No more bad news; just inconclusive,” Rayburn said. With his index finger, he pointed to the bow and arrow that had been gouged into the victim’s left thigh. “These cuts weren’t made with a knife. They were made with some other sharp-pointed instrument. Something like a needle or a nail. I’m not sure what yet.”
“What did he strangle her with?” Hernandez asked.
Rayburn took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. “I’m still working on that, too.”
Giordano let out a deep sigh.
Hernandez saw his partner had fallen into one of his funks. He patted him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, F
rank. The guy’s not going to get away with it.” As he led Giordano out of the morgue, he added, “Let’s not release details to the media. Nothing about the astrology angle. Meanwhile we’ll check if any other murder reports have come in with similar MOs.”
Giordano let out another sigh. He’d learned that in situations like this one, the only thing you could do was to put one foot in front of the other and assume that maybe one day you would actually get somewhere.
Ten
SARAH’S PARENTS LIVED IN the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn in the same house in which she’d been raised. The rehabilitation facility to which her mother, Rose, had been moved from the hospital after her stroke was four miles away. The emotional distance between the two was vast: Sarah’s childhood home was a cozy brown-shingled two-story house with a small garden; the rehabilitation facility was a nondescript box with cinder-block walls that fronted on a decaying sidewalk and was flanked by alleys. Walking toward it, Sarah gripped the handle of her violin case more tightly and moved the bouquet she was carrying closer to her chest in an unconscious effort to stave off the desolate feeling that she had begun to have the moment she’d caught sight of the ugly, sterile building. Her only consolation was that the doctors anticipated that Rose would be able to return home within the next ten days.
Sarah’s father, Sam had been a contractor, but he’d retired two years before. He’d worked in Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan and had done everything from home repair to partial renovations to building homes. He’d loved his work, but he loved his wife more, and he’d decided to retire so they could spend the rest of their lives together, enjoying each other’s company and traveling. Sarah had applauded his decision and been thrilled when he and Rose had taken a trip to Italy and then another trip to Greece, Turkey, and Israel. Two months after they’d returned from Israel, Rose had had a stroke. She’d been in the garden, putting mulch in the flower beds to prepare for the autumn and winter weather. Sam may have retired, but Rose, although no longer a nurse, had found things to do from morning until night, and that day she’d been working in the garden for more than five hours.
When Sarah entered her mother’s room in the convalescent home, Sam was sitting beside Rose’s bed, talking to her about the World Series. He and Rose were both baseball fans, and since he had to carry on the conversation himself, he liked picking topics that he could expound on while looking into her attentive green eyes, which showed she understood everything even though she wasn’t yet able to speak. His face brightened as Sarah came in carrying her violin case and the flowers.
Sarah put the violin case on the floor and kissed her father on the cheek. “Hi, Dad.”
He smiled as he looked up at her. “Hi, sweetie.”
She turned to her mother and showed her the bouquet of pink roses. “Kelly sent these to you. She grew them in the greenhouse.” She placed the flowers in her mother’s left hand and watched as her mother’s fingers moved to hold them. She noticed that as Rose looked at the flowers, her mouth curved into a slight smile. It made Sarah happy. The doctor was right; her mother was making progress.
“The nurse said she’ll bring in a vase.”
Sarah saw her mother’s eyes focus on the violin case.
“We’ve got a rehearsal tonight. I’m excited about the concert.”
Rose glanced up at Sarah. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but no sound came out. After a moment, she closed her lips. In her mother’s eyes, Sarah saw tears from the pain of not being able to talk.
“That’s okay, Mom,” she said. “I know you’re proud of me. And I know you’ll be able to talk soon. Three days ago you couldn’t move your fingers on your left hand; now you can. You can even move your arm. And when I gave you the flowers, you smiled. Your smile has come back, too.”
Rose looked at her daughter and, with great effort, nodded.
“You moved your head, Mom!”
Sam took hold of his wife’s right hand and squeezed it. “That’s great, Rose.”
Rose looked at the flowers again.
“Roses for Rose,” Sam said.
Sarah sat on the chair beside her father’s and moved it closer to the bed. “Remember, Mom, when Kelly’s granny had Dad build the greenhouse? I was eight. I remember the day Dad finished, you took me to work with you at Kelly’s grandmother’s because it was a school holiday. The only greenhouse I’d ever seen was at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. I’d never imagined someone could have one in their own backyard! I remember her sitting in her wheelchair in the garden, telling you all the flowers she was going to raise in that greenhouse, and she did!”
As she remembered the day Sarah was talking about, Rose’s lips curved into a slight smile again, and her eyes looked wistful. She was thinking about Kelly’s grandmother, Irene; Irene had been more than just a patient to Rose; she had been a close and dear friend.
As if reading her mind, Sarah said: “You really loved Kelly’s granny. I bet she lived ten years longer because of you.”
Sam squeezed his wife’s hand again. “Your mother was the best damned nurse anybody ever had. Irene was lucky to have you.”
Rose’s eyes were full of tears again. So were Sam’s and so were Sarah’s.
“I love you so much, Mama,” Sarah told her. “I just know you’re going to get well.”
Rose looked at her daughter again and, with great concentration, slowly nodded her head.
Eleven
KELLY WAS GLAD TO see the Dennisons. Michelle Dennison was her closest friend. They’d met at NYU when Kelly had gone back to get her BA after her divorce from Jack. Michelle had been premed; Kelly had majored in psychology. They’d sat next to each other in a psychology class that had ended at noon, and they’d often spotted each other having a quick lunch between classes in the coffee shop on University Place, just north of Washington Square. One day they’d sat next to each other at the counter and begun talking, and that was that—they were friends for life. Whether this was despite their different backgrounds or because of them, Kelly couldn’t say; all she knew was that at NYU she’d felt more comfortable with Michelle than she did with other women their age, and nearly two decades later she still felt the same way.
Kelly had been twenty-three and already had Jeff and Julie when she’d met Michelle. As a psychologist, she’d come to understand since then that it was because of her parents’ deaths when she was a child that she’d married Jack and had children at such a young age. Unconsciously wanting to replace the family she’d lost, she’d been so eager to start her own family that she’d instantly accepted Jack’s proposal. She’d been so moved that he loved her and wanted to marry her that she’d ignored the female fans she’d seen waiting for him outside the locker room when he’d played football at Northwestern, and then later when he’d joined the New York Jets.
At the time Kelly had become friends with Michelle, Michelle had been twenty-one, and, like most women at the college, hadn’t yet been married or had children. Michelle had been brought up Jewish in a suburb of Duluth, Minnesota, and had lived in the NYU dormitory on Washington Square, in Greenwich Village. Kelly had been born Episcopalian and raised with a New Age spirituality that her grandmother had practiced long before people had begun calling it New Age. She’d lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan most of her life, and she’d commuted from there to NYU on the subway. Manhattan had been a constant source of excitement for Michelle; Kelly had loved it but taken it for granted; she’d thought of it as just home. Michelle had brought Kelly out of herself and her sorrow about her divorce by encouraging her to go to the theater, museums, and concerts with her; she’d loved getting to know Kelly’s children, her grandmother Irene, and Emma and Rose. It had been such a different household from the one that Michelle had grown up in, and as a future doctor, she had been inspired by Irene’s positive attitude in dealing with the MS that had bound her to a wheelchair.
Michelle had also encouraged Kelly to go to graduate school to get her PhD in psy
chology, and the two of them compared notes about the massive amounts of work each of them had to do while Michelle was in medical school at Columbia and Kelly was in the doctoral program at NYU. When Michelle had started dating Mark Dennison, who’d been freelance writing for magazines at the time, she’d arranged for Kelly to meet him and give her approval, which Kelly had done, and the couple had soon gotten engaged. Michelle had tried fixing up Kelly with some of Mark’s friends, and although Kelly had dutifully gone out on dates with them, even seeing some of them three or four times, nothing had ever worked out.
Michelle and Kelly had talked about it, and Michelle had accepted the fact that going to school full time and raising two small children, even with the help of Irene, Emma, and Rose to watch them while she was at class, was as much as Kelly could handle. And Kelly was still getting over her divorce from Jack. He’d been her first and only love. She’d thought they were married for life, and then she’d found out he’d been unfaithful to her repeatedly. She hadn’t really been ready to trust men after that, and that included Mark’s friends, however charming they’d been and however interested they’d been in Kelly.
It had taken her a while to understand this, too, and to heal from her divorce. Since then, she’d gradually begun to date, and she’d had three relationships over the last ten years. The most recent one was with a doctor friend of Michelle’s. They’d broken up the year before because he’d wanted a relationship that was heading toward marriage and starting a family, and they both knew that theirs wasn’t going in that direction. It had been a sad but amicable split.
As she’d looked at Michelle and Mark at the dinner table in the living room of the brownstone, Kelly had been tempted to tell them about her agoraphobia, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it, even to her best friend. She was also tempted to tell them about the phone call. Now they were in her upstairs study, finishing off a bottle of cabernet and taking turns looking through Kelly’s telescope, which she’d set up at the window, angled over the low building next door.
Horoscope: The Astrology Murders Page 5