The Delilah Complex

by MJ Rose

  Fifty-Four

  Perez and Jordain stared at the living room wall. In its way, it was eerily like their own wall at the precinct house. Lessor had papered it from one end to the other with every newspaper article about the Delilah murders. There was a design to the black-and-white clippings, graphically annotated with red markings: a map of a madman’s mind.

  Jordain started at the right, Perez at the left. They walked from one end to the other, reading mostly to themselves until they found a section that Paul Lessor had underlined. Those they read out loud.

  The two policemen who’d gotten there earlier showed the detectives what they had found in their search of the apartment.

  “Did you find anything at all that could suggest where the bodies are?” Perez asked.

  Both Reston and Douglas said they hadn’t, but they showed the detectives the medicine cabinet full of pill bottles, including Thorazine and half a dozen other antipsychotic drugs. Most of them were half full.

  “He’s been on everything,” Perez said. “It’s a freaking drugstore in here.”

  An hour later, the wall had been photographed and, piece by piece, the art director’s lair had been dismantled. Nothing had been found to lead them to their next destination in this search.

  Often serial killers take souvenirs of their victims, but nothing in the apartment suggested that Paul had done this. There were no weapons. No restraints. There was no evidence of any blood on any of the man’s clothes, but they bagged all of his dirty laundry from the hamper in the bathroom so that the lab could go over it.

  “This place is so small there’s nowhere he could hide anything, but just in case he brought those men here, let’s get the place printed.”

  One of the backups went to work on that.

  “I don’t like this guy as much as I thought I would,” Jordain said after two and a half hours.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Other than his obsession with the stories, there’s just nothing here.”

  “I’m betting he’s got some other place somewhere. Out of the city. He’s a successful art director at a big publishing company. Probably makes more than enough for a weekender upstate or even in the Hamptons.”

  “We’ll know that as soon as we get a court order for Lessor’s bank statements, mortgage papers, phone records. It sure would solve a lot of problems if I am wrong and you are right.”

  “And this time I bet you wouldn’t even mind,” Perez said.

  “Not one little bit.”

  Jordain was sitting at Lessor’s desk. Everything was neatly put away. One thing that had struck him about the whole apartment was how uncluttered and organized it was. Even the newspapers on the walls were carefully cut out. The underlining was all done in the same red ink.

  He opened the maroon leather address book that sat in the right-hand corner of the maroon leather desk pad. Inside, page after page was filled in a studied and artful handwriting.

  Nothing was out of order.

  “Let’s get this cross-referenced,” he said to Douglas.

  Butler had spent the past few days entering the information from each of the victims’ address books and PDAs into a computer. Cross-references might lead them to the killer. Or to someone who knew all four men. Or who might at least know what their connection was.

  So far there were only a few matches in the books. A movie theater. The New York Department of Motor Vehicles. Bloomingdale’s. And a few restaurants, but that wasn’t all that unusual. They all lived in Manhattan, were all well off, were all professionals.

  Maybe Lessor’s book would offer up something else.

  Jordain had picked up the book and was about to bag it when he shook his head. “Jeezus…”

  “What is it?” Perez spun around.

  “We are so fucking stupid sometimes.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Butler. She answered on the first ring.

  “Take off his goddamn shoes and socks and tell me if he’s got the mark on his foot.”

  Fifty-Five

  Nina listened to my explanation of what had happened in the consultation with Paul Lessor. She’d frowned when I described the razor blade and how he had held it up in the light. She’d leaned forward when I explained how he had started to lactate and how I’d put that together with a long-term Thorazine patient and what I knew from Jordain about the victims possibly being drugged with Thorazine before they had died.

  Nina’s loyalty to those she loved was legendary. And so was the depth of her anger.

  Over the years, everyone who worked with her had seen her go into battle for a patient, oppose interference from outside authorities, fight off family members who were detrimental to the patient’s regaining his or her mental health.

  In the past four months, I had seen her angry more often than in the past thirty years. First over my involvement with the police in the Magdalene Murders, and now with the Scarlet Society case.

  But that had been nothing compared to this.

  What she said after I finished came hurtling out with a suppressed force that surprised me. She didn’t yell; in fact, her voice was like a whisper. But harsh. Her mouth was pursed and the vertical lines above her upper lip—usually almost invisible—were white with rage.

  “You do not call the police to come into this institute and take a patient away in cuffs.”

  “I explained to you he was not a patient. He was here for a consultation. But that was a ruse. He was here to threaten me, Nina. He had a razor blade. He knew things about the men who have been killed. He was threatening me.”

  “How do you know that he was dangerous? How do you know he wasn’t simply delusional? How do you know that razor blade wasn’t only a prop?”

  “I don’t, but I couldn’t take a chance. The man had a weapon.”

  “You have worked with hardened prisoners. You know karate and self-defense. We all do. You know exactly what to do when someone comes at you. If he had a gun, if you were here alone at night, that might have been different. You weren’t. He didn’t. You were out of line here, Morgan. You were looking for an excuse to call the police. You’ve been looking for an excuse for days.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  Her well-shaped eyebrows arched high in disbelief. “Isn’t it?”

  “Are you insinuating that I’m lying?”

  “No. I’m assuming that you are not facing the truth.”

  “Have I ever done that before?”

  “That doesn’t mean you are not doing it now,” Nina said. “You’re not dealing with how you feel about this detective.”

  “I am dealing with what I know about this spate of killings.”

  “We’ve been over this before, haven’t we? What you know about the Scarlet Society can’t help the police. But that’s not the issue here. We’re talking about you calling them here.”

  “I’m telling you that he was threatening me. That I thought there was a real possibility he is the killer and that he had come to make sure I didn’t help the police figure out who he was. Why he thought I could, I don’t know. Something about what I’d been quoted as saying in the paper. But how much of this matters anymore? They have him in custody. No matter what he did or didn’t do, the man brought what I perceived as a weapon into my office. Nina, what if he had jumped on me and cut me? What if he’d lucked out and slit an artery?”

  Something softened in her face. A motherly concern, the reality of what I was saying? “You know, don’t you, that I’m on your side?”

  “You have a funny way of showing it. You aren’t looking out for me, Nina, but for the institute.”

  She frowned. I could see hurt mixed with returning anger.

  I stood up. “I have another patient. And this isn’t going to get us anywhere. You have to trust me on this.”

  She stood, too, so we were facing. Neither of us moved to embrace the other. One of us should have.

  And then the moment was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Dr. Snow
, Detective Jordain is on the phone.”

  Fifty-Six

  Dulcie was standing in the middle of the living room. I was on the couch, more relaxed than I had been in days. Jordain had Paul Lessor in custody. The danger was over. Dulcie was telling me about her rehearsal.

  “Once we were all there, Raul sat us down in a circle and we went over everything that had happened in Boston.”

  She wasn’t just telling me what had happened but performing for me, as if it were a scene from the play. “He asked each one of us what we thought, both positive and negative. No one mentioned me freezing up. No one.”

  “Well, Dad said it wasn’t something he thought many people even noticed. I’m sure it felt to you like it lasted for hours, but he told me it was only a minute or two.”

  “It did feel like hours, sort of like time had just stopped. And it was so quiet and everyone was looking at me and I couldn’t figure out what to do next.”

  “It sounds really awful,” I said. “My mom told me about it when it happened to her.”

  “Did she ever throw up because she was so nervous?” Dulcie asked. “Raul said some really big actors and actresses throw up even after years of performing. Can you imagine that? If I kept throwing up, I’d quit. Don’t you think you would?” But she didn’t really give me a chance to answer. There was more to tell about the healing that happened this day. “So then Raul told us there were more reviews and he read them to us.”

  “Were they good?”

  “All three of them said that I was going to be a star. That I had everything it takes.”

  “Did they mention your stage fright?”

  She shook her head. “No. Pretty amazing. I really thought they would.” Dulcie was more serene than I’d seen her in the past few weeks. The opening was still eight weeks away. The writers were reworking two of the songs and some of the dialogue. The cast and director were reblocking some of the numbers that had tripped them up in Boston.

  I’d talked to Raul for a few minutes while Dulcie was gathering up her stuff that evening, and he assured me that her stage fright was much less severe than he’d seen in far more experienced performers.

  “I wouldn’t worry about her,” he’d said.

  “If you can find me a mother who doesn’t worry about her daughter, then she’s not much of a parent.”

  I looked around, making sure Dulcie wasn’t nearby and couldn’t overhear me, and broached the subject of the suspected crush. “It seems perfectly natural to me but I wanted to mention it. To let you know.”

  “Goes with the territory,” he said matter-of-factly. “First time it happened I was floored. Had no bloody idea what was going on. But that was a while ago. I’ve gotten awfully good at spotting it. And if I do say so, I’ve figured out how to strike a good balance of staying involved without appearing interested.”

  After Dulcie finished recounting her day, we’d gone into the kitchen to make real hot chocolate, with melted bittersweet chocolate and milk. Actually, Dulcie was preparing it to ensure its success. I was sitting at the table and keeping her company.

  That was when Noah called and asked if it would be okay if he came up.

  “Is this business…?”

  “Or pleasure?” He finished the part of the sentence I hadn’t asked, partly because Dulcie was in the room and partly because it was easier for me to assume it was business.

  “I think you have to tell me,” I said.

  “Tonight, it’s business. But it’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Dr. Snow.”

  There was a playfulness back in his tone that seemed appropriate. I could only imagine how relieved he must be to have detained the man who had eluded and confounded him and the rest of the department for almost a month.

  I didn’t ask him if it could wait until the next day. If it could have, I knew he wouldn’t have called.

  “Do you like hot chocolate?”

  “Are you making it?”

  “No, Dulcie is.” They’d never met, but he knew about her, had seen photos of her, and had been interested in her drama career.

  “Then the answer is yes.”

  Fifty-Seven

  “So, you’re the actress,” Jordain said as he took Dulcie’s hand to shake it. “Tough gig. How are you holding up?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  I could tell that she was curious about him. I’d explained that he was coming over to talk about a current case, but she wasn’t quite sure. She had some sixth sense about him. The same sense, I supposed, that I always had about her. So she hadn’t just inherited my mother’s love of acting, she’d inherited my intuition.

  “I think openings are just the worst,” he said.

  Dulcie looked at me with a crease between her brows, silently throwing accusations across the room like darts. I shook my head at her.

  “I didn’t tell you that, Detective, did I?” Dulcie asked.

  “No. I play piano, Dulcie. Jazz. I’ve done some big gigs. I know the drill. I know the shakes.”

  “How long did it take you to get over it?” she asked in a fascinated voice.

  “Never got over it, but learned to live with it. Lots of deep breathing. And focusing. Waiting to go on, I ask myself why I’m doing this to myself. And I always have the same answer. Because I want to make the music. Damn the audience.”

  He was so good at being charming that it was almost suspect. I was glad I wasn’t going to have to see him anymore now that the case was solved. He was probably very good at lying, too. The other night with him had been an aberration. One I was not going to put myself in a position to repeat. He’d taken advantage of how stressed I was. How worried I was.

  “Hey, it’s getting late,” I said, seeing that Dulcie had finished her hot chocolate. “Why don’t you get ready for bed?”

  She gave me the pouty-mouth look that was the precursor to an argument, and I intercepted whatever it was that she was about to say.

  “This is nonnegotiable.”

  “Yes, Dr. Sin,” she retorted with just a shade too much sarcasm. I let it ride and repeated the suggestion that she take herself off to bed. She stopped at the door and turned to Noah. “It was really cool that you told me that stuff. Thanks.”

  “It was nice meeting you. And I’m really looking forward to seeing you in that play,” Jordain said.

  “Are you coming?” She seemed pleased, which really surprised me. Her response was immediate and heartfelt.

  “If your mom invites me.”

  “If she doesn’t, I will.”

  I’d never seen my daughter flirt, and it shocked me. Not pleasantly, either. I had a jolt of foresight: in one split second I jumped from this one comment to her dating and me being home at night waiting to hear her key in the door.

  Jordain and I went into the den.

  “Is it him for sure?” I asked.

  “Not sure. We think it’s him. One very interesting development is that he’s got that tattoo on his right foot, like the victims.”

  “He does?”

  Jordain nodded. His gaze focused on me. Unwavering. Intense. I wanted to look away but knew that would be suspect. I wanted to tell him, too. Just two words. But he didn’t need to hear them. He’d get them out of Paul Lessor now.

  “What are your next steps?” I asked.

  “We’re running the prints we found in the apartment. We’re checking his address book against the four address books we have of the victims. We’re looking for anything that ties these men together. We’re interviewing people he worked with. Trying to pinpoint where he’s been for the past few weeks. Looking for anything out of the ordinary. And about a million other things.” He stifled a yawn.

  “How long has it been since you’ve slept more than four hours at a stretch?”

  He smiled. Damn. That long, slow, slippery slide of his lips that affected me somewhere deep inside.

  “Morgan, is there anything you can tell me about that tattoo?”

  He knew that I knew. But
how? Damn him again. I shook my head. They had him in custody. They’d figure it out now on their own. I wouldn’t have to betray any confidences or break privilege. I was almost light-headed with relief.

  “But you know something we don’t.”

  “Noah, don’t, please.”

  “Shit.”

  “If you’re going to start badgering me then I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  “What do I have to do for you to ask me to stay?”

  I didn’t say anything. A wave of cold spread over me. I gave an involuntary shiver.

  “Why do I frighten you?”

  I shook my head.

  He didn’t relent.

  “Do you even know?” he asked.

  I shook my head again.

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “That’s good,” I said sarcastically.

  “You want me to keep them to myself?”

  “Yes, but I have an awful feeling you aren’t going to.”

  “Have you been out on a date with anyone since your divorce?”

  I could have told him that it wasn’t any of his business. Or just refused to answer. But I knew he wasn’t going to give up and I didn’t feel like fighting. Or at least that was my excuse. “No.”

  “Do you think that’s giving your daughter the right message?”

  “What?”

  We were sitting together on the couch, far enough apart that we weren’t touching at all, but close enough so that I could smell his minty cologne. Close enough for him to reach out and brush my hair off my face.

  “You know your hair is the color of the molasses that my mama used to cook with,” Noah said. “And your voice sounds like the water that whooshed by in the river outside our windows late at night.”