by Gary Starta
Deeprose exploded in giggles. “How about we start over and, this time, make friends?”
Carter was impressed. “Touché, Agent Deeprose, and well done. I guess you’ve probably been insulted about a hundred times today. On behalf of myself and the City of New York, I apologize for your less-than-stellar welcome aboard and all the insensitive, stereotypical remarks I’m sure you’ve had to suffer. How about a cup of coffee?”
He crossed the room to fix her a cup, using the time to think. This woman would be responsible for watching his back. He couldn’t help remembering Royals flailing around on the ground during the mock bank robbery at Quantico. Was she the hero type? Her file indicated a lack of commendations. Maybe she violated protocol.
Carter handed her a double espresso – no sugar.
Now that I know she’s clever and likes to have a bit of fun, let’s see how tough she is.
Deeprose knocked back her double espresso without batting an eyelash. “Ah imagine my profile produced some very dry readin’, not much like the kind y’all find in those spy thriller novels. Ah do, however, have a talent for nosin’ around until Ah find what Ah’m lookin’ for, and Ah always have your back, sir.”
Carter smiled. “You are the very portrait of humility, Agent Deeprose. Are you always this charming and disarming?”
“Yes, sir, Ah am.” They were getting on famously. The banter was well under way, and Carter was noticeably relaxing. Anyone this clever, who could put on and take off a mask as easily as she did her lipstick would be invaluable to the team.
“Ah hear y’all have written the book on solvin’ multiple-killer cases while stoppin’ department corruption in a single bound.”
Supergirl. I knew it.
“I wouldn’t go that far, Agent, but I appreciate you doing your homework. I will share one pearl of wisdom, however. Know the enemy as much as you know yourself but without taking on too much of his aura. If you can do that, you’ll make out just fine.”
“Your record speaks for itself, sir. Ah’m ready to learn everything Ah can from you.”
“I understand you’re just back from Iraq, Agent.”
“Yes, sir.”
Interesting. No quips this time.
Carter wondered why she really joined the F.B.I. - in New York, of all places - but he certainly wasn’t going to try to find out now. There would be plenty of time for questions. “I never thought I’d give up Boston for the Big Apple. My wife believes the cultural experience will broaden my horizons.”
“Ah’m countin’ on it, sir. Ah want to do everything, go everywhere, an’ meet as many people as Ah can.”
“Good. Then you can show me around, because I’m still in shock.
“If you have the time right now, Agent Deeprose, this would be a good time to get our feet wet. We have a murder to solve. The case has gone a bit cold with no one here to do the footwork before we arrived, but there’s still a lot to be understood from the crime scene. How about taking a ride over there now? It’s uptown at a museum called the Cloisters. Would you like more espresso before we go?”
“Are you tryin’ to test me or kill me, sir?”
Carter couldn’t stifle a guffaw. She was smart.
The ride was classic. They marveled at the fall colors, even in such a crowded city. Bright reds, rich yellows, and burnt oranges dazzled them under a still blue early autumn sky.
Carter and Deeprose had the same thought.
Maybe moving to New York wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
***
The Cloisters had improved their security since the murder. Other than that, it was empty at this hour, except for the acting curator who roamed its halls making sure every exhibit and piece of art was in its proper place before leaving for the night.
Carter wondered what the motive for the murder could have been.
Hm. Nothing missing. Nothing. In fact, some things have been added - a sword, a discarded set of armor, and a pair of bloody shoeprints leading out the door and toward the park. The clues already bagged and tagged were inconclusive. It seemed like all work on the case had come to a halt until now.
He introduced himself and Deeprose to the acting curator.
Arthur Moreland replied, “I never got to meet the man. I’m terribly sorry I can’t be of any further service, but you see, I’m just a temporary replacement until a new curator is appointed.”
“We’re just here to revisit the scene, Mr. Moreland. If we need to ask you anything about the museum or what we find, we’ll let you know.”
“Very well. If you’ll excuse me, I must continue my rounds.”
Deeprose looked suspicious of the man who dismissed himself from the investigation so hastily. “Shouldn’t we have asked him if he knew anything of interest, Agent Carter?”
“I don’t think so, Agent, although I imagine they travel in the same circles. He was hired after the curator was killed, and he told us he didn’t know him. Besides, the museum’s publicist verified earlier today that Mr. Moreland was in Cambridge giving a lecture at Harvard at the time the crime was committed. We can remove him from the suspect list.” Carter turned away so she wouldn’t see him smiling. Lesson One: Do Your Homework.
“Why don’t we head down here, sir? My map tells me we’re in close proximity to the crime scene.” Deeprose held her phone downward at a 45 degree angle as if it were a divining rod.
Carter nodded but didn’t need her map to find it. He was sensitive to negative and positive energy fluctuations and could still feel the killer’s presence.
Deeprose came to a sudden halt and planted each foot in an opposite direction. Despite the empty corridor, she was poised for danger. Was it the realization that the crime happened right where she stood or instinct? Carter was willing to bet a ticket to Fenway it was instinct.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
“Ah feel him. It was the same on the battlefield in Iraq. The enemy didn’t even have to be in view.”
Carter moved closer to the wall, where the suit of armor had stood, and muttered to himself. “What can we learn from him? That’s the question.”
He pictured the killer in the suit of armor. “What was the motive? Did the killer have a grudge against the curator? Money’s a consideration, yet $75,000 was found in the makeshift grave made for Gino Cafferelli, the deceased security guard. Whether or not he was an accomplice or just a liability, why bury him with the money? If he was in on it, why didn’t he disconnect the surveillance camera? It caught an image of a dark-haired man in his early 20’s entering and leaving the museum. It’s as if the killer is begging to be caught. I don’t get it.”
Carter still faced the wall as he spoke. “The image from the camera is horribly grainy, but I think the lab will be able to clean it up and enhance it enough to make out a face. I just hope the face has a record.”
Deeprose continued. “If the lab can identify him and he comes back for the cash, we’ll spot him. Should we put a couple of men on it, sir?”
Carter continued. “If he hasn’t come back for it already, he’s not going to, now. He’ll have read about the dog digging up the body by now.”
“Of course. Sir, this is no ordinary hit. It’s not well-planned. A professional would never have left bloody shoeprints or forgotten to check for cameras. It coulda been an angry amateur or even someone hired by an angry amateur. It coulda been his wife, sir. That’s the first place to look, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Most murders are committed by someone the victim knew. But we can’t rule out anything yet, and we’re here now, so let’s see what else we can learn before we visit Mrs. Dalton Wells.”
Deeprose asked herself a rhetorical question. “Who might the curator’s enemies be?” She ticked off the possibilities on her fingers. “His wife, any colleagues past or present, or…wait! The curator may have planned to steal the art himself but was double-crossed by the man in armor.” She arched an eyebrow.
“Look around, Agent. Nothing is missing
. A museum inventory report confirms it. Try looking at the additions.”
“O.K., we have the addition of the ancient armin’ sword. Who would have access to that kind of weapon? And where could somethin’ like that be bought? We also have bloody shoe prints and a photo we might or might not be able to use.”
“We’ll start by putting together a list of people to question. Our first stop will be the wife of the deceased.”
“Who will we see about the forensic evidence, sir?”
“Jill Seacrest, my wife, is the lead forensic scientist on our team. She may be able to tell us where the sword might have come from and a lot of other things, but the bloody shoeprints will have to be analyzed at the D.C. Bureau, where they have the Solemate database. We also want to know if there are any particulates in the print itself that will give us more information.”
“What can the database do that we can’t, sir?”
It can compare the pattern of blood picked up from the bottom of the shoes with the brand and model in the database. It might even be able to tell us where they came from and who bought them. Seacrest may have a D.N.A. match by now from the blood taken from the floor, the armor, and Mr. Wells’ body. But we also have to consider thrill killing and copycats as motives.”
Director Fischetti’s words rang in Carter’s head.
“If this is a ‘thrill kill’, sir, as y’all call it, gettin’ our killer might be like findin’ a needle in a haystack. Unless he strikes again and in the same manner.”
“First we consider every possibility. Then, we eliminate everything impossible.”
“And whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. I read Sherlock Holmes, too, sir. But there is another way.”
“And what is that, Agent Deeprose?”
“The only way to find a needle in a haystack is to use a magnet.”
“You mean draw him out?”
“Not necessarily, sir. A magnet works both ways. Imagine he’s our magnet and we’re the needle. If we can profile him to the point where we can figure out what area he lives in or where he usually spends his time, and if we can get a good look at the face in that picture, we’ll see him walkin’ the streets. He’s gotta go out sometime, sir. He thinks he pulled this off. It’s a long shot, but that’s what magnets are for, aren’t they?”
***
Carter pulled up a photo of the curator’s wife on his cell phone. “Cynthia Wells is a woman with her own personal wealth. She didn’t need Dalton Wells’ money and would certainly not profit from his death. If you look at it from that angle, the curator had more of a motive for killing her than she did for killing him.”
He knocked on the apartment door, and left the condolences to Deeprose, who introduced herself and Carter after flashing her identification. “Ah’m so sorry for your loss, ma’am. May we come in for a few moments to talk to you?”
Each wall in Wells’ Morningside Heights condominium sported a theme: Renaissance Art, Impressionist Art, Modern Art and so on. Carter roamed around taking it all in. He was looking for anything missing that might explain the sword left at the crime scene, yet this collection was comprised only of paintings and sculpture. None of it was from the medieval period, and nothing seemed to be missing or out of place.
“I am very distraught,” Wells began with a shaky voice. “I don’t see how I can possibly help you.”
“We understand how you must feel, Mrs. Wells. We won’t take up much time. Ah promise.”
Carter added, “We wondered if your husband had any altercations before he died. Did he have any enemies or seem unduly worried about anything? Was he having any financial or professional difficulties that you knew of? Anything you can recall might be helpful.”
“I thought the crime was art-related. I told Dalton a hundred times to demand increased security in that dirty, drafty, Godforsaken place.”
Deeprose nodded. “Ma’am, did he ever speak with a raised voice on the phone or maybe here or at work? Perhaps he went out at times not usual to his schedule?”
“No. I don’t recall anything like that. Are you telling me you have no idea who did this to my Dalton?”
Carter intervened. “No, Mrs. Wells, not at all. Our role in this investigation is to examine all the possibilities and gather as much evidence as we can, and that’s all. When there’s something concrete to tell you, you’ll be contacted. Mrs. Wells, would you allow us access to your phone and financial records? It could bring the case to a fairly quick close…”
“It sounds like you’re utterly clueless.” Wells’ bottom lip quivered, and she raised a hand to her forehead. “Are you asking for permission to investigate me, Agent Whoever-You-Are? Because I don’t appreciate the implication. No one would want my husband dead. I had all the money!”
She raised her arms and turned in a full circle. “Look around you! Everything you see was bought and paid for by myself. By myself and for myself. Go ahead and look that up!”
Shaking and pale, she grabbed the back of a Loui XIV gilt-edged chair for support. “The only way I could receive a penny of his life insurance was if Dalton died in an accident.” She shrieked, “Do multiple stab wounds look like an accident to either of you?”
Deeprose turned to Carter in some anxiety, but he used his eyes to direct her attention back to Mrs. Wells.
Let her speak until she runs out of breath.
Deeprose folded her hands on her lap. “Ma’am, what Ah’m about to say may sound harsh, but those records we just asked y’all for could solve this murder. Don’tcha want us to catch him, ma’am?”
Wells glared at her. “No!” Then she sighed. “I mean, yes, of course I do.
“What I mean to say is that it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other who committed it. When he’s caught, whoever he is, he’ll be punished. All I want is closure. Don’t you understand? This is too hard to bear. I want it to be over with and done, that’s all.”
Carter leaned forward, his arms pressing on his thighs. This was getting very interesting. “When you speak of closure, what exactly do you mean? If finding out who the killer is won’t give you that, what will, Mrs. Wells?”
Wells lowered her head, and shook it from side to side. “Knowing why. I want a reason. One that makes some kind of sense to me.”
She could find closure if she knew there was a good reason why someone murdered her husband. That makes absolutely no sense. Either she’s a little nuts, she’s too upset to know what she’s saying, or she’s a hell of an actress.
“Mrs. Wells, you say all you want to know is why, but how can knowing why a sick individual killed your husband give you any peace? Please, help me to understand.”
“I can’t. If you can’t understand how I feel, respect the fact that I don’t wish to be involved any further. I don’t want updates. I simply want to be told it’s over, and then I want to know why it happened. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very upset, and I’d like to lie down.”
She left them at the door and started to walk away. Then she stopped, sighed deeply, and turned to them both. “All right, Agents, I’ll sign off on my phone and financial records and anything else you want. My lawyer will contact your office.”
***
Carter praised Deeprose once they were back in the car. “Interviewing the spouse is like walking a tightrope. You have to inquire without insinuating, and you have to be sympathetic without losing focus and objectivity. Well done.”
“Is that what Ah did? Ah’ll have to tell my daddy I acquitted myself well today. He was a colonel, you know. A career man. Kind of hard to live up to, if ya know what Ah mean.”
“Yes I do.”
No, I don’t. Neither of my folks were hard-liners. It’s none of my business, but something put a wedge between Deeprose and her father that made her risk her life twice in Iraq and now again for the F.B.I. She still needed his approval pretty badly. I wonder why?
Chapter Five
Alison was having a nightmare. It was one of t
hose dreams that seemed so real that she could describe every object in every room, the story in detail, know how she felt in the dream and how everyone else in her dream felt, too.
In this dream, she was herself but pretending to be someone else, someone else named Deborah. She had to make this man, whom she had never met before, believe she was trolling the web for sex. His name was David Florio, and he was a very, very bad man. She didn’t know why, she only knew that it was so. She was to get him to invite her over for dinner, and once there, she was going to kill him.
Alison set up a fake profile for a sexy bombshell called Deborah on Dare to Dream, a new online dating service. She invented Deborah to catch him for her. The site promised her that all her desires could be fulfilled if she was willing to take a chance. She was.
The bait was irresistible; she made damn sure of that. Deborah was a cute blonde with an athletic body type who enjoyed hiking and exploring her wild side. And he only lived one town away, in East Brunswick.
“I hope I’m not calling too soon. I mean,” Deborah purred, “you did give me your number and all...”
“Nnn...No!” David stuttered. “I’m glad you did. I wanted you to call. The sooner, the better.”
Good. He’s anxious, eager.
“So,” David gulped, “your profile said you like to explore your wild side. How exactly do you go about doing that, Deborah?”
“I think spontaneity and surprise are the real keys to exploring one’s wild side. Don’t you agree, David?”
“Absolutely, Deborah. May I call you Debbie, or do you have another nickname you prefer?”
Why am I so unbelievably angry with him? Who is he? Oh, well, anything can happen in a dream, Allie, just go with it. Skewer the slob.
Deborah found herself aroused by the phone conversation, but she was also confused by it. Was it lust or murder that turned her on? She had never actually committed murder, but as the voice said, it was a dream.
Why not go ahead and do it just to see what it feels like? I know it isn’t real and there won’t be any price to pay. What was it that the Silver Man promised? Oh yes, he said that killing a thief, rapist, or murderer was a public service. David must be one of the three. It is my duty to protect and defend the Collective.