Sylvia dipped the net into the water as soon as she saw the large brown object coming to the surface. She got the net under it, and strained to lift it out of the water. “Goodness,” she exclaimed. “It’s a lady’s pocketbook.”
Filled with water, it likely weighed a good ten pounds. Merle had to help her pull it into the boat. Disappointment was evident by the expression on Merle’s face. “Shoot. Might as well have been an old boot.”
Sylvia was the optimist of the two. She pushed out her lips and smiled. “Who knows, Merle? Think positive. Maybe it’s full of money.”
Chapter 10
I rolled out of the coroner’s office and was on my way back to the Saranac Lake Police Station when my cell phone rang. I had served as a marine and completed a tour of duty in the Middle East, but now that I was home, I couldn’t miss a bed check without receiving an official reprimand from my mother. Grace began in the tone of a drill sergeant, “Where the hell are you, Chloe?”
“Hi, Mom. I love you too.”
“You had me worried sick. I woke up this morning, and neither you nor Liam was here.”
“Sorry. I should’ve told you; I got called into work.”
“But you were going upstate to the racetrack.”
“I did … I mean, we did, but I got a call from my supervisor. I had to drop everything, rent a car, and drive up to Saranac Lake. Liam stayed overnight in Monticello. He’ll be home sometime this afternoon.”
Yes, that’s right, we all lived together; Grace, Liam, and me all pooling our pennies so that we could afford a little home in the suburbs. It wasn’t a perfect living arrangement, but we were all committed to making it work—at least Liam and I were. Grace, on the other hand, was still struggling to adapt to “farm living,” as she referred to it. She had lived in Manhattan most of her adult life and still had trouble with some of what she considered Long Island’s more provincial aspects. She missed being able to walk down the block for gourmet groceries or jumping into a taxi and heading down to the theater district. Now everything was a get-into-the-car-and-drive proposition, and she still wasn’t all that comfortable navigating around the island. She was as comfortable with GPS as an Amish person with a GUI interface.
“My God, Chloe, you couldn’t have given me a call?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“So what was so important that you had to give up your weekend and go back to work. Did you say Saranac Lake? Where is that, Canada?”
No, Grace, it’s not in Canada. It’s part of the civilized world, and I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation not the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “Upstate New York and you know that I can’t talk about an active investigation.”
“Are you all right?”
I smiled on the inside. Despite having served four years as a marine and working as an FBI special agent, I was still her little girl and always would be. She had exactly four deep wrinkles embedded in her forehead, one for every year I had served as a marine. Grace was not always the warmest maternal figure, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t love me all the same. “It was pretty chilly when I arrived here last night, but the sun is out today, and it’s much more comfortable so don’t worry. I’m fine.”
“Didn’t you take a jacket?”
Mom, I’ve slept in the desert. “A light one. Saranac Lake is a lot colder than Long Island.”
“Did I tell you that I tried on my old wedding dress and it still fits?” she said, her tone suddenly joyful.
That’s more like it. Her worries had been abated, and she was now back on her favorite topic: herself. “Really? You’re still the same size as when you were six-months pregnant?”
I heard the breath catch in her lungs. “Chloe, you nasty little witch, you take that back!”
I snorted. “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.” I had been born shortly after Grace and my father had gotten married, but no, technically I was not born a bastard child. According to Grace, she had gotten pregnant on her honeymoon. At least that’s her story, and I’d be foolish to challenge her on it. She had a funny way of talking about her getting pregnant. She would say that she got caught. I mean, got caught? Like she was a salmon or something? Odd way to refer to the moment of my conception, don’t you think?
“When are you coming home?” she asked.
“I can’t say for sure. I’ve got a lot of work to do up here, but I’ll let you know as soon as I can. Use the time to bond with Liam.”
“I will. You take good care, my darling daughter.”
Darling daughter? She must’ve just watched a tearjerker on the Lifetime Channel. “You too, Mom.” Another call was coming in. I recognized the area code and exchange. It was the call from Quantico I was expecting. “I will. Love you, Mom. Gotta run.”
“Love you too, Chloe.”
I picked up the incoming call. “Chloe Mather.”
“Mather, this is SA Rebecca Rosencranz-Glutt calling from NCAVC at Quantico. I hear we may have found another of Batman’s victims.”
Glutt was a profiler with Behavioral Science Unit 4, who had investigated the two homicides whose MOs matched the case I had just been assigned to.
Batman? Really? What an ironic homage for the Caped Crusader. Okay, I’ll go with it. “Thanks for calling me back. I’m in Saranac Lake, New York, and yes, it would seem that this homicide is similar to the two the bureau has looked into. A male victim was restrained within a vehicle and locked in a storage unit. His penis was sliced in half lengthwise and was fed upon by vampire bats—at least that’s the way it appears. He died of starvation.”
“That’s the UNSUB’s MO for certain. It’s the same as the homicides of Phillip Patrick and Leon Drade—very specific.”
“So what can you tell me?”
“I’ll have plenty to tell you when I get there. I booked a charter from Ronald Regan to Adirondack Regional. I should touch down in a few hours. I’ll grab a rental car, and we can rendezvous … where?”
“I’m staying at the Best Western. Or we can work out of the police station on Main Street—the police chief is very accommodating. You know what? I’ll meet you at the airport. I’m eager to pick your brain.”
“Good to hear. Have you seen the cadaver?”
“Yes, and I have photos so you won’t have to visit the morgue in person.”
“Thanks, Mather, I’ll transmit my files so that you can get a head start, and I’ll book the Best Western. See you in a few hours.”
Chapter 11
“I’m glad that you’re back.” Chief Sparks appeared to be wandering aimlessly around the police station when I walked through the door. He had a mug of coffee in one hand and a folder in the other. “How’s my friend Doc Park? He treat you all right?”
“Salt of the earth, Chief, and he treated me to the best bear claw I ever ate.”
Sparks slapped his leg and chuckled. “That’s what I’m talking about, good old Appalachian hospitality. Not sure how he found his way up north with us. You know he’s related to those Hyundai people over in Korea.”
“So he’s rich?”
“Like King Croesus,” he chuckled. “But he doesn’t like to talk about it much. So how’d you make out?”
“The cadaver was pretty gruesome. I guess you’ve seen it.”
“Seen it? I cringe every time I think about the way that fellow’s business was sliced down the middle. Genital mutilation isn’t exactly a man-pleasing concept around these parts.”
Nor anywhere else, for that matter. “Trust me, I get your drift. I’m not exactly a fan myself.”
“So where do we go from here? We see about a dozen homicides a year around these parts, and none of them are anything like this one. Most are vehicular homicides and drug overdoses. I think it must be the cold weather that keeps most of the loonies down south and away from our little burb.”
There are loonies everywhere, and climate is never a factor. Most psychopaths go unnoticed for quite a while—they blend into the woodwork and oftentime
s get away with their first couple of murders. Their issue is that they need more and more stimulation to satisfy their murder lust, so they grow more brazen and aggressive as time goes on. Eventually they bite off more than they can chew, and that’s when the hammer falls on them. “NCAVC is sending a profiler from their behavioral analysis unit to help with the investigation. She’ll be here later this afternoon. We’ll build a composite and see if we can’t just track this bad boy down.”
“You said this was the third homicide of this sort. If this here profiler hasn’t been able to catch up with your perp after all this time, what makes you think this brain trust will have any more luck now? Oh, and just for my own personal edification, what the hell does NCAVC stand for anyway?”
Sparks sounded like a good old boy. I couldn’t help but grin when he asked his question. “The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime.”
“Well, now I understand—ain’t much violent crime around these parts.” He rapped on a nearby desktop. “Knock on wood.” He sipped his coffee and then looked up with a confident expression. “We might not have a multimillion-dollar violent crime facility, but I got something I think might prove helpful.”
I turned my head askew. “Well, don’t tease me like that, Titus, show me what you’ve got.”
“Hah. I knew I’d get you excited about it. Right this way, Mather.”
I followed him into his office. A waterlogged ladies purse sat within a plastic tray. What appeared to be the contents of the purse had been placed in plastic evidence bags and sat in a second tray. “Bad day fishing,” he said. “My neighbors hauled this out of the lake this morning.”
I had to admit that I was curious. Okay, what’s this have to do with vampire bats and mutilated men? “All right, the suspense is killing me. What’s so special about the bag?” I mean, it’s not even Prada.
Sparks held up an evidence bag so that I could read the driver’s license contained therein. It belonged to a blonde with wavy hair named Maisy Grant. She had that girl-next-door look, and her height was listed at just five foot two. For a moment I wondered why Sparks had brought it to my attention, but then it hit me. Maisy’s hometown was Goshen, New York. She was from the same town that John Doe’s truck had been stolen from.
Chapter 12
I watched as Rebecca Rosencranz-Glutt descended the charter jet flight ramp. She wasn’t what I expected. Not that I had a preconceived notion of what an FBI profiler should look like, but her appearance most definitely took me by surprise. She was dressed conservatively, which in itself was not telling, but it was the way that she wore a scarf over her head and the fact that her hairline was covered in a telltale manner that caused me to think about her name, Rebecca Rosencranz-Glutt … Of course, she must be orthodox. I had covered a case in Borough Park, Brooklyn, an orthodox Jewish ghetto, and had seen and learned a little bit about their unique culture. Men dressed in black coats and wore sidelocks called peyos, which immediately distinguished them from non-Jewish men. Orthodox women were not as easily identified, but as I said, I had a strong hunch.
I made eye contact and approached. “SA Rosencranz-Glutt, Chloe Mather—welcome to the Adirondacks.”
She smiled in a friendly manner, which was a refreshing change of pace from the requisite draconian countenances sported by most die-hard feds. We shook hands, and I instantly judged that she wasn’t one of those know-it-all types who took themselves too seriously. Let’s hope I’m right.
“Please, call me Becky,” she said in a congenial manner. “You’ll wear out your jaw trying to say Rosencranz-Glutt over and over again.”
Cool! Still, Becky is a wee bit too cutesy for me. I think I’ll go with Rebecca.
“So should I call you Chloe?”
“I prefer Mather. If you call me Chloe, I might not realize who you’re addressing.”
She grinned. “Mather suits you just fine. So, SA Mather, where are we headed?”
“I want to take you through my findings. We can go back to the police station if you like, or we can discuss the case over lunch.”
“Oh yes, lunch, please. There’s only so long I can go on a large cup of Starbucks coffee.”
“Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
Glutt smirked and seemed pensive for a moment. “Do you mean because I’m orthodox?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Very astute of you, but … watch this,” Glutt said. She untied her scarf and shook out her shoulder-length brown hair. “Presto. You see, now I’m culturally diverse and ready to kill for a bucket of chicken wings.”
This one’s a humdinger. “Did you say chicken wings?”
“Hell yes, Mather, Buffalo style, hot and spicy.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. I only keep kosher when I’m at home. All bets are off when I’m on the road, and what my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
Why you kooky conniving little bitch. “I didn’t know there was an orthodox community in Quantico.”
She flashed a devious grin. “We’re everywhere, baby,” she said in a comical manner. “My husband is the rabbi of a congregation in Washington, D.C. Our house is in Alexandria, about forty-five minutes north of the bureau compound.”
“Chicken wings, you say.” I rubbed my chin. “Come to think of it, the chief of police did tell me that I haven’t lived until I’ve had Captain Cook’s TNT wings. Throw your stuff in my car—we can pick up your rental after we eat.”
“Excellent!” she said cheerfully.
I was glad to see that Glutt wasn’t one of those morose women who had become dark through and through from her studies of serial killers and sexual sadists.
“So tell me, Rebecca, how’d you get interested in this line of work?”
“Surprised, are you?”
“Yes, actually.”
She became animated. “Are you kidding? Do you know what kind of mishegoss an orthodox Jewish woman like me carries around with her?”
“Mishegoss?”
“Craziness. You understand craziness, don’t you?” she asked as the level of her emotion built. “My marriage was arranged. Can you believe it, in this day and age? My husband has one love in his life and it’s not me or his son, it’s the Torah. He and his congregants sit around all day and night discussing Judaic canons, Kabbalah, and all manner of ancient Hebrew gobbledygook. My parents told me that I’d grow to love him but …” She sighed. “Believe me, I’ve tried. I’m married to a Jewish man who doesn’t understand what a schmeckel is used for. He thinks it’s a precious gift and only unwraps it once a year on his birthday.”
I guess he’s not very concerned about her birthday. “But you said that you have a son.”
“My son is twenty-three, sweetheart. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gotten a good shtup?”
Oh my God, why did I ask? Better question: why is she telling me? “I—”
“Well, let me tell you,” she interposed. “It’s been a hell of a long time.” She sighed once again. Apparently the sigh was her pause of choice. Hers were not mild, barely noticeable sighs; they were long and exaggerated and gave the impression that she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Anyway, you can see how I got interested in psychology. Orthodox women aren’t ordinarily allowed to study this type of subject or do this kind of work but …” She threw her hands up in the air—it was a refreshing change of pace from her melodramatic sighs. “The rabbi and I have an understanding.”
Good heavens, I shouldn’t egg her on, but I can’t wait to hear this. “An understanding?”
“Yes. He looks the other way while I slip out to work at Quantico, and I don’t tell anyone that the rabbi is a fagella.”
That’s way too much information. How did we become BFFs so fast? For God’s sake, we’ve been together less than ten minutes.
She opened her purse and popped a Tic Tac into her mouth. “I think I answered your question, no?”
I nodded. Actually, I was too
flustered to speak.
She was quiet for a moment. I figured the worst was behind me, but then she dropped the real bombshell. “You’re a good-looking tomato; maybe you can help me meet a real red-blooded man, a dumb upstate outdoorsman whose IQ and penis size are both the number ten.” She smiled mischievously. “You know, what happens in Upstate New York stays in Upstate New York?”
Jesus. I don’t know how to answer her. “Um … Honestly, Rebecca, I have a boyfriend, and I’m so out of practice when it comes to meeting men. But if you need any practice qualifying on the range, I’m your girl.” Was she satisfied with that? She’s not saying anything. Thank God. If she doesn’t shut up soon, I may have to put a bullet in my head.
We drove for about five minutes in silence, and then Glutt got serious on me. “So our boogeyman has struck again?”
“Looks that way.” I was relieved that she had finally given up on the topics of alternatives to Orthodox Judaism and marital infidelity.
“Refreshing, don’t you think, Mather—I mean, male-victim-mutilation? Usually it’s the unsuspecting coed who gets eviscerated or the eight-year-old Girl Scout who gets the UNSUB’s initials carved in her face.”
“I hadn’t considered that aspect.”
“You haven’t worked on enough of these types of case. Trust me, every lust murderer and sexual sadist wants to bang, slaughter, and dispose of a blond six-foot-tall volleyball player—although in my experience cannibals prefer brunettes.”
I smirked. “You can’t be serious?”
“I’m completely serious. So I can’t tell you how excited I am to work on a case like this.”
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 28