He must have suspected that I’d been with Agent Coyle.
“No, not that it’s any of your business.”
Will said, “Dani, please, can we go inside and talk?”
“Let’s do it here.”
Will let out a loud, frustrating sigh.
“What? Now you won’t even invite me into your house?” he asked.
I unlocked the door and motioned him in. We sat in my living room, which is the one room that I almost never use.
“I’m moving to Miami,” he said, “if you aren’t willing to go with me, then we need to talk about how we can handle a long-distance relationship.”
“Not well,” I said. “Since we don’t seem to know how to handle a short-distance one.”
“It would help if you would stop avoiding me and talk to me about us,” he said.
“I’d like to ask you a question, Will,” I replied. “Did you ever work as a reporter in Detroit?”
He gave me a puzzled look and said, “Why are you asking me about Detroit now?”
“Just answer my question,” I said.
“What the hell, Dani? First, I’ve got the FBI digging into my past and now you’re doing it, too. For the record, I was never employed by a Detroit newspaper, if that’s your question. But I did fill in there for several months when Detroit was having a big crime wave. The Detroit Tribune and the White Plains paper are owned by the same parent company and the Detroit newspaper needed temporary help. Four of us were sent to Detroit for a stint.”
“You were there when those two gangs were at war?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “but I was assigned to city hall, not crime.”
“Why’d you decide to accept that assignment?”
“Why are you interrogating me?” he replied, but he didn’t wait for me to answer. “I wanted to get out of White Plains. I’d just gotten my divorce. You know my ex-wife works at our paper. I needed to clear my head. Is that a crime now?”
“You never told me about Detroit.”
“Why the hell would I?” he snapped. “It was before we began dating and it wasn’t important. Dani, I can see why you got angry about me not telling you about my daughter, but Detroit, that’s just, just, ridiculous.”
“Agent Coyle was in Detroit at the same time,” I said. “Did you know that?”
“No. Did he tell you that we’d met there or something? I mean, why’s that matter?”
I decided to drop it. “I guess it doesn’t,” I said. “I just found it curious. When are you leaving for Miami?”
“In six days. I’ve already given notice. My editors are being good about it. They’re throwing me a party. I’d like you to come. And I’d really like for the two of us to resolve our issues before I go.”
I didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure how I wanted to respond.
“Dani,” he said, “I thought you were in love with me, but these last several weeks, I just don’t know anymore. It’s like you’ve put up this huge wall between us. I’ve got to know, are you dating Agent Coyle?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not dating him and I’m not interested in him, either.”
“Good,” he replied. “How about me, us?”
“I don’t know yet. I need more time. O’Brien is expecting me to call him. If you’re leaving town, I’ll need to drop by your apartment and pick up some things.”
He checked his watch and said, “It’s four o’clock. I’ve got to go in to the newspaper but we could meet for dinner and then go to my apartment and gather up your things.”
“I’m not sure tonight is good for me. O’Brien and I might have something going on. Why don’t you give me a key to your place?” I suggested. “I can shoot over there now while you’re at the newspaper and grab my stuff. Then I’ll get back to you about possibly having dinner tonight.”
“I only have one key and I need it,” he said. “But don’t worry about your stuff. I can always collect it for you.”
He stood and walked over to hug me, but I didn’t rise out of my seat.
Bending down, he kissed my forehead and said, “I’ll call you in about an hour about tonight. After you’ve had a chance to speak with O’Brien. We can grab a bite and I can bring your stuff, too, you unless you decide to come over and spend the night.”
“I’m curious, Will,” I said. “We’ve been dating for several months, but you never offered me a key to your apartment. Why?”
My question took him by surprise. “I don’t know. I guess I never thought about it.”
49
O’Brien had been a busy boy. He’d discovered that Agent Coyle lived in an apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. “You still wanna go through with this?” O’Brien asked me.
“Do we have a choice?” I replied. “If we don’t a serial murderer is going to get away. I can’t let that happen.”
“Then call me after you speak to Coyle, but only agree to meet him someplace really public,” he said.
“There’s something more I need to tell you,” I said. “Will Harris was in Detroit the same time as Coyle. He was working at the newspaper there when our killer was collecting trophies. I just talked to him.”
“Another coincidence?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but when I said I wanted to go by his apartment and pick up some stuff, he wouldn’t give me a key. He didn’t want me going there by myself.”
“Probably because the place is a dump,” O’Brien said. “Most of us bachelors aren’t real neat.”
“Or maybe he didn’t want me snooping around.”
When I hung up with O’Brien, I dialed Coyle’s direct line. The moment he heard my voice, he said, “Why the hell have you been asking questions about me in Detroit?”
Obviously, Detective Kowalski had ratted me out. My God, had Kowalski told him that I was asking about body parts? He must have.
“I was curious about gang violence. A side project I’m working on,” I said, nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he said.
“Agent Coyle, I do have other cases and other interests.”
“If you had questions about Detroit, you should have called me,” he said. “Instead of bothering my friends.”
“Next time I will.”
“So why are you calling?” he asked, curtly.
“Because I’ve thought about what you said, about how your boss wants me to back away from these closed cases, and how much heat he can bring down.” I was trying to sound convincing. “And I’ve decided you’re right. Your office and my office need to make peace.”
“It’s not your office that is pissing everyone off here,” he said.
“I realize that. That’s why I want to extend an olive branch.”
He didn’t immediately respond.
I assumed he was suspicious, especially since he’d been warned that I’d been asking questions about his days in Detroit and mutilated bodies.
“How about dinner?” I said. “On my dime. To work out any problems the two of us might still have because of the Persico trial and these closed cases.”
Despite his suspicions, I figured he would take the bait. After all, the FBI profiler had told me that our serial murderer would think he was smarter than the rest of us.
“Why don’t you drive in to the city?” Coyle said. “We have more choices here and if you get lucky, I’ll show you my apartment.”
“Do you mind terribly coming to White Plains? We can do my favorite restaurant.”
“Roberto’s?” he said.
“Yes, that’s it. I’m surprised that you knew that.”
“You shouldn’t be, Ms. Fox.”
There was something different about his voice. I said, “See you at eight p.m. at Roberto’s. I’ll make a reservation.”
“I can’t wait,” he said.
50
I arrived at Roberto’s an uncharacteristic ten minutes early. The restaurant was crowded and I saw several friends and a couple whom I really didn’t want to see. It was Will
’s editor and his wife. I waved and smiled.
Agent Coyle arrived ten minutes late and immediately apologized, blaming traffic from the city.
“I hate to do this,” I said, “but I need to make a quick phone call. Will you excuse me? I come here all the time and already know what I want to order. Why don’t you look at the menu?”
Hurrying from the table, I used a pay phone next to the restaurant’s restrooms to call O’Brien’s beeper. It was our prearranged signal that Coyle was with me and it was safe for him to investigate Coyle’s apartment.
When I returned to the table, Coyle was sipping a glass of pinot noir. “I ordered a bottle,” he explained. “Hope you don’t mind. You said you were buying tonight.” He gave me a smug grin.
“Of course I don’t mind. Have you decided what you’re having?”
“Maybe a good juicy steak,” he said. “Now, why don’t you tell me the real reason why you called Detective Kowalski.”
It was time for us, I decided, to match wits. “I thought he might help me solve the Isabella Ricci murder.”
In a disgusted voice, he said, “So you lied when you told me that you’ve agreed to close that case. I’m not surprised.”
“I want to run a theory by you,” I said. “It’s not something I wanted to discuss on the phone because it may sound a bit odd.”
Taking a sip of his wine, he said, “This should be good.”
“I don’t believe Isabella, the Mancinis, Marco Ricci, or Donnie Gilmore were murdered by the mob. I don’t believe Tiny Nunzio or Persico were behind any of those homicides.”
“You never have,” he said, “and that is odd because everyone else knows the mob did it. You’re either too proud or, quite frankly, too dumb to see it.”
So much for niceties, I thought.
“No, there’s another person who sees it the exact same way I do.”
“Yeah, who’s that?”
“The real killer.”
“Are you suggesting that a single killer murdered all five of them?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you are dumb.”
Without hesitating, I said, “I believe this serial murderer was involved in at least two murders in Detroit before he came to Yonkers. In fact, I think he intentionally murdered rival gang members, which sparked the war between those two gangs there.”
“This theory of yours just officially went from dumb to crazy,” Coyle said.
“The evidence says otherwise.”
“What possible evidence do you have that can link two mob murders in Detroit to the homicides here?”
Without flinching, I said, “Our killer thinks he’s so smart he can pull off perfect crimes. And he is good. He didn’t leave any physical evidence behind. He staged the murder scenes. He even helped us identify logical suspects. But he made a mistake.”
“Really?” Coyle replied with a slight grin. “And what would that be?”
“The reason why I know these were not mob hits and why I know that the homicides in Detroit and Yonkers are connected is because our killer collects trophies.” I paused to let that sink in.
Coyle’s cool expression did not change. He did not break down. He did not confess.
We sat in silence while the waiter served our food. Once our server was gone, Coyle said, “Trophies?”
“Body parts from each victim. With Isabella it was a finger, with the Mancinis it was a toe and thumb, with Ricci it was a penis, and with Gilmore it was a finger,” I said. “He did the same in Detroit. Some toes and a finger.”
“That’s his mistake?”
“That’s his signature. His Achilles heel is his huge ego. I told you, he thinks he is smarter than the rest of us.”
“Maybe he is.”
“I saw through his game.”
“And what’s his motive?”
“Because of his narcissistic personality, he probably believes he is ridding the world of its trash—gang members, Mafia figures,” I said. “But in actuality, he kills because he thoroughly enjoys killing. Beneath his shell, he’s an angry monster.”
Coyle cut a large bite from his steak and said, “I worked on the Detroit task force and I was the agent who saw Nicholas Persico enter the Midland Apartments on the afternoon when Isabella Ricci was murdered. Shall I assume I am the prime suspect? That I’m an angry monster? Is that why you have been digging into my past?” He was completely calm and I found that eerie.
“Why would you be a suspect? You’re an FBI agent. That makes you one of us, a good guy.”
A curious look appeared on his face. He’d expected me to accuse him. “That’s a relief,” he said. “You have a suspect? I’d like to know who this brilliant serial murderer is?”
I intentionally glanced around Roberto’s to suggest that I didn’t want anyone to overhear me. Dropping my voice into a whisper, I said, “Will Harris.”
Coyle broke into a huge grin. “You honestly believe that newspaper reporter is smart enough to start a gang war in Detroit and then move here and murder Isabella Ricci to spark a war between two feuding mob families?”
“As you showed me,” I said in a confident voice, “Will has a dark side.”
Coyle was now enjoying this. “How do you plan to catch your ex-boyfriend? Assuming that you have decided that he’s no longer your boyfriend now that he’s a serial murderer.”
“I’m going to locate the body parts that he’s collected. That will prove he’s guilty.”
“And where will you find them?”
“He’ll keep them close,” I said. “Probably in his apartment.”
My pager buzzed and I glanced at the callback number. It was a Manhattan prefix.
“Do you need to return that call?” Coyle asked.
“Actually, I do,” I said, excusing myself.
I dialed the number and O’Brien answered on the first ring. “There’s nothin’ here,” he said. “No fingers, toes, no male organs except for mine and it’s still attached.”
I said, “Maybe he keeps them in his car.”
“That’s unlikely. What if he had an accident? Excuse me, Officer, I just happen to have an extra penis in my trunk,” O’Brien deadpanned. “Maybe it’s not Coyle.”
“Coyle could claim the body parts in his car were evidence in an ongoing investigation.”
“You’re reaching,” O’Brien warned.
“I don’t think I am,” I said. “The night he rescued me from Nunzio and his men, we went back to his car and he put his shotgun into its trunk.”
“Yeah, so?”
“He had an ice chest there.”
I suddenly had another thought. “O’Brien,” I said in an excited voice, “if Coyle is our killer and if he takes a body part from his victims, do you think he might have collected a trophy from Tiny Nunzio?”
“Nunzio got shot twice,” O’Brien said. “Once in his chest and another blast to the left side of his skull. That second one just winged him, but it tore off most of his cheek, eye, and ear. I don’t remember any mutilation.”
“Wait a second, did you say that the first shot was to his chest and the second to his head?”
“That’s right,” O’Brien said. “Look, there’s nothin’ in Coyle’s apartment, so I’m out of here. But Dani, be careful. Don’t go anywhere with him. I’ve been thinking and if I had to choose which man is more likely a killer, I’d say it’s Walter.”
Agent Coyle greeted me with a cocky smile when I returned to our table.
“I didn’t order dessert,” he said. “You didn’t care for any dessert the last time we met and I didn’t want to run up too high of a bill since I’ve already stuck you with a nice bottle of pinot noir.”
“Thanks,” I said, appreciatively.
“Actually, I’m lying to you,” he said. “I’ve already paid the check. It was well worth it, because I’ve not had this good of a laugh in a long time.”
“Glad I could entertain you.”
“Ms. Fox, you have an amaz
ing ability to see things no one else sees—things that don’t exist. Will Harris is not bright enough to be a serial murderer. And just because some screwball in Detroit cut off toes and your victims are missing body parts is pure coincidence. Tiny Nunzio and the Butcher are responsible for the homicides in White Plains and they’re both dead. The sooner you forget all this nonsense about a missing penis, toes, fingers, and ears, the better off we’ll all be. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“You go ahead. I need to visit the women’s room before I leave. Good night, Agent Coyle, and thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?” he asked.
“For dinner, of course, and for telling me what I needed to hear from you.”
He rose from his seat. “It’s probably better we don’t leave together anyway. If Will Harris saw us together, he might try to murder me.” He laughed.
51
It was a moonless night when I exited Roberto’s and I was happy that I’d parked under a floodlight on the side of the restaurant. But as I rounded the building’s corner, I noticed that the light was off. It had been shining when I’d arrived earlier but someone had broken it. About a dozen cars were parked in the lot. I took my car keys and hurried toward my Triumph. When I reached it, I noticed that the back tire on the driver’s side was flat. So was the front tire. All four of them were flat.
“Dani,” a male voice called.
I turned and saw a figure coming from the shadows.
“It’s me, Will. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“How long have you been out here?”
“Nearly the entire time you were inside with Agent Coyle.”
“You followed me?”
“My editor called from the restaurant. He asked me why you were having dinner with that FBI agent from the Persico trial. He thought a story might be brewing.”
“Why did you come down here?” I asked.
“I got your stuff out of my apartment. I was going to drive it to your house and ask you about dinner since you never got back to me. Then my editor called and I got angry. I couldn’t believe you were having dinner with that prick instead of me.”
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