I smiled inwardly. Liam had packed for me and picked out his favorite knickers. I was sporting Victoria’s Secret beneath the business slacks, but I knew better than to mention it to Cabrera. “Let’s hit it, Cabrera. I’d like to crack this case before I’m wearing Depends.”
Chapter 61
Pesch lived in an old farmhouse. It was miles from anywhere and, like most rural property in the Appalachians, probably sat on a hundred acres of unimproved land. I was amazed that his home didn’t look to have been ransacked or vandalized. As we pulled up, I saw water flowing out the front door. “Pipes must’ve frozen over the winter.”
“It’s God’s country up here. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been by here in ages.” Cabrera got out of the car and looked around. “I’m kind of waiting for a lone tumbleweed to roll by.”
“Yeah, pretty desolate—a great place for a psychopath to hide out. Want to have a look-see?”
Cabrera didn’t answer. He retrieved his jacket from the car and slipped it on. We both removed our service weapons from their holsters and held them at the ready position as we approached. It didn’t look as if anyone was home, but squatters aren’t too particular where they bed down, and meth cooks intentionally seek out abandoned homes to set up their laboratories. In any case, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of flesh. Isn’t that how it goes?
The home was built of cedar planking, and the roof was completely green, mildew-covered from the giant trees that dwarfed it. Water burbled out from under the front door.
“I’m going to ruin a good pair of wingtips,” Cabrera complained.
“Rub a little dirt on it, fancy boy. Time’s a wastin’.” I tried the doorknob. “Locked. Want to look for an open window?”
“Really?” he said with a snigger. “The son of a bitch is dead.” He examined the door, which didn’t look like much of an obstacle, and kicked it in.
A surge of water rushed out. We gave it a moment for the tide to ebb and then entered cautiously. Following protocol, we cleared the home room by room even though there was no sign of occupants. We holstered our weapons and began looking around.
The interior was covered with black mold. Quick on the trigger, Cabrera reached into his jacket pocket and whipped out a pair of white masks for the second time in a matter of days.
“I feel so stupid wearing this.”
“Yeah. Me too,” Cabrera agreed. “I prefer a red clown’s nose.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Why am I not surprised?” he parroted. “Roll up your cuffs and get busy,” he ordered.
You’d expect a taxidermist to have a house full of stuffed critters. I expected moose, caribou, and elk, but Pesch’s home was filled with an overabundance of small stuffed critters: gray squirrels, a dormouse, and several voles, which was not exactly your great-white-hunter variety of trophy. There were a few bigger animals on the floor, which were waterlogged and had begun to decompose. They really looked pretty awful—I mean overwhelmed by the plague kind of bad.
Cabrera appeared at the doorway, looking triumphant.
“Don’t tell me you cracked the case?”
“Better,” he cheered. “I found the main and shut off the water.”
“My hero.”
He grumbled something unflattering and moved off in the direction of the kitchen, which is always a coveted investigator’s location. I raced around him, beating him to the refrigerator door, gloating like a cocky kid.
“Look who’s gotten playful all of a sudden?” he quipped.
A stuffed owl resided atop the fridge and was staring at us. “Is it me, Cabrera, or is there something weird about that owl?”
“Definitely. There’s something creepy about it. Can’t exactly put my finger on what’s wrong.”
“Yeah. Something’s off,” I said as I reached for the refrigerator handle. I knew that it was no longer running because I didn’t hear the hum of the compressor. The refrigerator had not been opened in some time, and the noise of the rupturing seal was quite dramatic. I hadn’t yet looked into it when the pieces began to fall into place. The owl eyes, I thought. That’s what’s off.
Real eyes can’t be preserved because they dehydrate and shrink like dried prunes. Taxidermists use glass or acrylic prosthetic eyes in their place. It was like kismet as I looked into the darkened fridge. On the top shelf was a large jar of pearl onions. The brand was Mezzetta, and the large ornately styled label covered most of the jar, obscuring my view of the contents. I simultaneously glanced at the owl and realized something … “Huh? That’s what it is.” It had human eyes where the proper eyes belonged. They were prosthetics, of course, but that didn’t make the realization any less eerie. The name Lacey Pratt popped into my head, the name of the dead prostitute Pesch had been questioned about, the one who had her eyes surgically removed. Oh yeah, back to the jar of pearl onions. I glanced into the dark refrigerator interior again, this time focusing on the onions themselves instead of the label. I gasped. They weren’t pearl onions at all.
Chapter 62
Lacey Pratt was just one of three local prostitutes who had been murdered and had their eyes surgically removed. All three cold cases would be solved if Pesch’s pickled eyeballs yielded DNA we could match to the three slain working girls.
The jar weighed a full pound when it was weighed in at the crime lab. A human eye weighs approximately a quarter ounce. Allowing fifty percent for added fluids, the jar contained approximately sixteen pairs of eyeballs, which meant that Pesch had been a very busy boy. Our guess, Glutt’s and mine, was that after the first three murders Pesch went to greater lengths to dispose of the bodies and had been highly successful. I’m always reminded of how many murderers there are on the street who never get caught. Murder a vagrant or transient and you’ve likely scored free admission to Getting Away With It University—there are just so many crimes that never even show up on our radar.
A records search of the NCAVC database listed a fair amount of victims who had been murdered and had their eyes removed. We didn’t yet know how many of those were attributable to Pesch’s killing spree, but my hunch was that the number was far greater than three.
Stone, the deputy director, had asked that I be assigned to this case because of a recent job he felt had been well handled. I really have to wonder if I would’ve gotten the call if he had the slightest inkling that the UNSUB we were currently pursuing was doing the world a great service. He was profiling, tracking, and eliminating psychopathic douchebags with the finesse and talent of a maestro violinist. “Forget about bringing this badass to justice—we should put him on the payroll.”
“I concur.” Glutt had her face pressed up against the computer screen. She had her hand on the mouse and was combing through an FBI database, too absorbed in her research to make eye contact while she spoke.
“Fuck that,” Cabrera added. “Let’s throw the son of a bitch a parade. I vote that we close the case and roll into Mohegan Sun for a night of gambling, booze, and debauchery. Who’s in?”
“Not Wallace. He just sent me a text. He states that he’s read our most recent reports and cautions us not to become ambivalent in our pursuit of this criminal. He says and I quote, ‘Vigilantism is one of the worst forms of criminal activity. Under the 6th Amendment every citizen has the right to an impartial trial by jury, and no one, I repeat no one, should be judged and executed by a lone wolf, not even a suspected serial killer.’”
“Geez, what a buzzkill,” Cabrera whined. “Wallace has some timing. He’s the kind of guy who pours a fresh cement sidewalk just before the start of a sight-impaired relay race.”
“Cabrera, you’re so colorful. Be that as it may …”
Cabrera’s cell phone rang. He answered, “Agent Cabrera …”
“Agent Cabrera, it’s Lynn Swanson from Outside magazine. How are you today?” She sounded like a Southern debutant addressing a panel of judges. She had that Georgia peach inflection in her voice that just dripped nectar. “Your requ
est was cleared by our compliance department, and I have that information you asked for. Do you have a pencil?”
“Hang on,” he said flatly and reached into his pocket for a ballpoint. “Go.”
“The ad was taken by fax and paid for by check. Outside magazine does not retain copies of the remittances, but a note in the file states that the payment contact was someone by the name of Stuart Bloom. I have his phone number and address if you’d like it.”
“You know I would.”
“All right then, the phone number on file is 718-232-1422 and the address is 1118 McDonald Avenue, Brooklyn, NY 11218. Will that be all, Agent Cabrera?”
“Yes. Thanks for your help.” He disconnected. “Will that be all, Agent Cabrera?” he mimicked. “My God, did you ever hear such an artificial voice? I’ll bet she gives great phone sex.”
I’d be hard-pressed to find any female that couldn’t satisfy Cabrera with phone sex. “Easy, tiger. I don’t want you racing into the men’s room to do a load by hand. Let’s—”
“I’m on it,” Glutt interjected. “I already have Bloom’s profile up on the screen.”
“And?”
“Reported missing in 2006. He’s in the National Missing Person’s Database. Born October 9, 1961. Married to Adele Bloom. Two kids: Adrian and David. Occupation: Attorney/sole practitioner. Home address listed as 71 Beverly Road, Brooklyn, NY 11218. I’ve got his home phone.” She looked at me for direction.
I picked up the nearest phone. “Give me that phone number, Rebecca. I can’t wait to get to the bottom of this.”
Chapter 63
Adele Bloom had moved, but was easily found. Both of her children had married and were out of the house. Adele had moved to Tappan, New York, to be near her sister. Fortunately, Tappan was less than an hour’s drive. We had chatted with her by phone, scheduled an interview, and were in the car on our way.
Cabrera felt the need to drive, which didn’t thrill me one little bit. I liked being in control, and there was something about the way he handled the car that made me squirm in my seat. Actually, his driving left a lot to be desired. He tailgated and changed lanes without signaling, which absolutely drove me wild. He passed when he shouldn’t and sat on the bumper of the car in front of us when he should’ve passed. My fingernails were short and buffed, but I thought about chewing on them, something I hadn’t done since I was ten years old. I almost asked him to pull over so that I could get behind the wheel.
Cabrera was astute enough to read my body language. “What’s the matter, Gumdrop? You look a little tense—don’t like the way I drive?”
“Do I look as if I don’t like the way you drive?”
“You most certainly do.”
“I’m actually toying with the idea of coldcocking you with the butt of my gun and shoving you out the driver’s door.”
“Do tell.”
“I did tell. Your driving makes me crazy. I’d rather be trapped in an elevator stuck between floors than be a passenger with you behind the wheel. Do you even have a license?”
He rolled his eyes. “We’re almost there. Take a chill pill and leave the driving to me.”
Chill pill was just an expression, but a tab of Klonopin would’ve done nicely, or Valium, or Ativan. Not that I’m a pill popper, but anything was better than enduring Cabrera’s driving while in a normal state of perception. Fortunately Siri chimed in and advised that we were to take the next exit. Hang in there, I told myself, and snatch the car keys as soon as we arrive.
Adele Bloom lived on a pleasant tree-lined street across from the Rockland Country Club. Her house was small but well maintained. The lawn was green, lush, and manicured.
She came to the door in a polo shirt and jeans. She was slim with a short haircut and a smile that belied the aggravation the loss of a husband must have caused her. She was a dutiful host and offered drinks and the use of the bathroom, which we both declined. “So what’s this all about?” she asked. “My husband hasn’t been seen or heard from in many years. I haven’t been contacted by the authorities in ages.”
I could see in her eyes that she didn’t expect to be offered hope, so I made sure she knew I didn’t have any to give. “Mrs. Bloom, we’re looking into a matter that your husband might have had some involvement in, but strictly speaking we’re not looking into his disappearance.”
“Involvement in what?” she asked.
“Was your husband a hunter or outdoorsman?”
She smirked. “Stuart? You’ve got to be kidding. The extent of his outdoor activity was getting into and out of the car. He was a couch potato.”
Got it. “As an attorney he probably controlled escrow accounts and trusts. He probably paid bills for some of his clients. What kind of law did he practice?”
“Stuart was a criminal attorney. He had a small practice with a lot of clients. Did he control bank accounts?” She shrugged. “I suppose he must have.”
“Did he ever discuss his work?” Cabrera asked.
“Sure, but he never mentioned anyone’s name. He was very good about his clients’ privacy.” She reflected for a moment. “What am I saying? I had all kinds of aggravation from people whose bills went unpaid after Stuart disappeared. Some of them got nasty with me, but what was I to do about it?”
“What happened to his records and files?”
Adele rolled her eyes. “I have almost fifty banker’s boxes in the attic. I didn’t know what to do with them, and I was afraid to throw them out.”
Cabrera smiled at me and then addressed Adele, “Could we take a peek?”
“If you promise you’ll never give them back. I don’t like having all that paper up there. The roof leaks a bit, and I’m afraid all the files will get moldy.”
“You don’t want any part of that,” Cabrera said categorically.
She shook her head in agreement. “I’m going to the movies tonight. Can you get them out of here before I leave?”
I nodded. “We’ll do our best.”
“Splendid,” she said. “I’m going to see A Million Ways to Die in the West. Seth MacFarlane makes me pee my pants.”
The woman had been through a lot, and I guessed that if shtick comedy was what she needed to put a smile on her face, then so be it. Far be it from me to complain. I mean, who was I to talk? I couldn’t even endure an hour ride with Cabrera behind the wheel of the car.
Chapter 64
Glutt and I were on the floor of my hotel room, surrounded by papers, folders, and banker’s boxes. We were plowing through a multitude of documents, which in total chronicled the former existence of Stuart Bloom’s legal practice.
Cabrera had taken a run to Five Guy’s Burgers and Fries after dropping off Bloom’s computer with the department’s IT specialist, and was just now coming through the door with our dinner. It was almost ten p.m. and I was starving. I practically drooled when the aroma of freshly grilled meat traveled up my nostrils.
“Sorry I took so long,” Cabrera said as he set the food down on the desktop. “I had to wait for the IT guy—he was off for the evening and had to drive back to the station.”
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”
Glutt piped up. “I’m so hungry I could eat Cabrera.” She sealed the deal with a goofy smile.
We were all spent. Cabrera and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. I laughed so hard it hurt, so hard that I was momentarily distracted from my blinding hunger. I cleared a stack of folders off my lap and made a beeline for the goods. “God, I hope it’s still hot.” I tore the paper bags to shreds and had steer parts in my mouth in two seconds flat. “Oh, this is heaven,” I gushed. “Just what the doctor ordered.” I grabbed my fries and soda before plopping back on the floor amidst the byproduct of a forest of dead trees.
“Look at this place,” Cabrera complained. “It looks like you had a pillow fight with legal docs. You two hardworking girls find anything?”
“You’ve heard the expression lawyer to the stars?”
&nbs
p; Cabrera nodded.
“Well, Bloom was lawyer to the gangstas. He represented a litany of characters on a multitude of charges, anything from assault to grand larceny, lots of multiple offense clients, two and three-time losers, and worse. He was sort of a white knight for the ghetto clientele.”
“I guess somebody has to defend them,” Glutt commented. She yawned and then tore into her fries.
“You have to wonder why an attorney would devote his practice to work the public defender could do,” Cabrera said. “I mean it couldn’t have been very lucrative.”
“In case you haven’t heard PDs aren’t held in high regard, Mr. Cabrera. A lot of perps won’t use them. Besides, I actually think he made out all right. He handled a ton of cases—must’ve had the coordination of a Ringling Brothers juggler. I don’t know how he kept all of his balls in the air.”
Glutt snickered. I knew what was running through her mind, the dirty little scamp.
Cabrera got comfortable. He slipped off his jacket and loosened his tie.
“You look whipped,” I said.
He grimaced and kicked off his shoes. “Either of you up for giving the delivery boy a therapeutic foot massage?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Glutt spouted with a twinkle in her eye. “Can I start there and work my way up?”
“Believe me, Rebecca, the last thing you want to do is dig your fingers in between Cabrera’s skuzzy hammertoes. Just thinking about them makes me want to barf.”
“I’m insulted,” he said. “It just so happens that I have very nice feet.”
“Is that what Lorraine tells you?”
“Yes, as a matter-of-fact, she does.”
“What about the receding hairline?” I snickered. “She good with that too?”
“All right, ladies, are we finished having our fun? Can we get back to work now?”
“You bet.” I placed my half-eaten burger on the wrapper and set it atop a box lid. I was finished with the banker’s box I’d been looking through and was ready for the next. I covered it and set it on the pile of boxes we had already explored. The next one held a surprise. Bloom’s Day Planner sat right on top of the pile. I held it up for my colleague to see. “Check it out.” A copy of the police report on Bloom’s disappearance was on the floor next to me. For the moment I wasn’t as interested in Bloom’s work history as I was about the day he went missing. I flipped through the police report and found the information pertaining to the events of the day he went missing, and then found the corresponding date in his Day Planner. There was only one entry for that day. He had taken a road trip to visit one of his clients. The name penciled in his book was Jo’Ell Sand.
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 43