Sigma Curse - 04

by Tim Stevens

  Rickenbacker’s mouth twitched in a slight smile. She flicked her fingers dismissively.

  “I’m never going to convince her,” she said, looking at Teller. “So what’s the point?”

  Teller’s weariness had been replaced by irritation. He closed his eyes for a second. Then he said: “Okay. This is how it is. I’m in charge of this investigation. No disrespect, Lieutenant –” he glanced at Venn – “but that’s a fact. I do not need this kind of squabbling. I will not tolerate it.”

  He drew breath, looked at each of them in turn, as if defying somebody to challenge him.

  More softly, he said: “Harmony, you can’t remain on the case. You know that’s how it has to be. I’m not going to make a sacrificial lamb out of you. We’ll just say your involvement was peripheral, and that the Gazette reporter misinterpreted things. But you can’t have any visibility in this. Not any more.”

  Harmony turned away, disgust etched on her face.

  Teller continued, “Now. Of more pressing importance is that we just got ourselves a lead. A serious one.”

  Even Harmony, who’d been walking away down the office, stopped.

  “Our office took a call thirty minutes ago from an elderly couple in Brooklyn,” said Teller. “They were in a park near Prospect Avenue yesterday afternoon, around noon. And they saw a woman who they swear matches Alice Peters’ description talking with another woman, and heading off with her into the woods on the edge of the park.”

  Venn, despite all that had just gone down, felt his pulse quicken.

  Chapter 18

  Sally-Jo was born in Queens, and had grown up there, but she regarded Manhattan as her home. She liked the neatness of it, the way it didn’t blur into neighboring boroughs and districts, the way it was so self-contained and not a part of something else.

  Also, she liked Central Park. It was like an island, and when you were in the middle of it, you could forget you were even in a metropolis.

  She often came there to walk, and to think, or simply just to empty her mind of all thoughts and simply be at one with nature and her own physicality. But it had been a long time since her mind had been empty of thoughts, and try as she might, she couldn’t walk off the persistent, nagging knowledge of what she had to do.

  Frank caught up with her a couple of minutes after she sat down on a bench, opposite the bizarre statue of Alice in Wonderland. He didn’t say anything at first, and Sally-Jo didn’t either.

  The Alice statue had always disturbed her. In fact, the story itself always had, too. A lot of people found it cute and whimsical, but to Sally-Jo the freakish creatures and strange situations in it had always struck her as nightmarish. Sometimes she saw the parallels with her own life: an unpredictable series of events that she stumbled through without plan or purpose, and with no inner logic of their own connecting them.

  Frank was the first to speak. “You realize, I’m assuming, who it has to be next.”

  Dumbly, Sally-Jo nodded.

  He said: “Aren’t you cold?”

  Sally-Jo had slipped away from work at a convenient opportunity, muttering something about taking an hour’s time to catch up with personal stuff, and in doing so she’d thrown on an overcoat but wore no hat or scarf. Her cheeks felt numbed to the point of brittleness. But she found it difficult to keep out the cold these days, no matter how tightly she wrapped up.

  “It has to be a cop,” said Frank. “And not just any cop.”

  “Yes.” Her breath plumed in the icy air.

  “You know who I mean.”

  Again she murmured her acknowledgment. Yes, she’d known immediately. After the press conference, she’d become certain.

  A cop would have the insight, and the understanding. A cop was smart. This time, though, she’d have to take things more slowly. She’d have to keep the person alive long enough to be sure comprehension had been reached. Not dispatch them in haste, as she’d done with Alice Peters. Sally-Jo realized now she’d blundered with that one. She should have been patient, and accosted Peters when she knew she’d have time and means to spirit her away somewhere secure. No more impromptu episodes, that was for sure.

  “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to do it?” asked Frank.

  “Yes. I have.” She seldom asked questions of Frank, far less favors, so she hesitated before taking the plunge. “Bu I’m going to need your help this time.”

  He listened. Then, although at first she took his silence for anger, he said: “Yes. That sounds workable.”

  “As soon as possible,” said Sally-Jo. Again she was fearful of his response. She remembered he’d said she needed to wait a while, get herself back into balance.

  But again he agreed.

  Frank left first, and Sally-Jo lingered for a few minutes, nodding at a young family who smiled at her as they strolled happily past. She tried to smile back, but the muscles of her face didn’t respond.

  Probably the cold, she thought.

  She glanced at her watch. She’d been gone fifty minutes, and would be back late to the office. She needed to get moving before somebody got suspicious.

  Chapter 19

  The couple were named Harold and Shirley Van Buren, and they were around eighty years old, Venn guessed. They’d called from hospital where Harold was undergoing a routine checkup after prostate surgery. In the hospital waiting room, they’d watched the press conference on TV, and had both realized at the same time they might have some useful information to impart. Because of Harold’s appointment, they weren’t immediately available for interview, but a police car had picked them up from the hospital an hour later in Brooklyn and sped them across the river to the FBI office.

  They appeared nervous, as if finding themselves suddenly seated across a table from three law enforcement personnel wasn’t quite what they’d been bargaining for.

  “Take us through what you saw from the beginning,” Teller said amiably. “Try to describe as much detail as you can. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t seem relevant.”

  Shirley looked at Harold, who cleared his throat. “We were taking a stroll through the park, the way we do every day at that time, before lunch,” he said, his voice slightly querulous.

  “And what time was that?” asked Teller. A digital recorder sat on the table between the couple and the detectives, its red light on.

  “Noon,” said Shirley promptly.

  “More like ten after,” her husband said. “I remember checking my watch.”

  “We were walking round the left-hand side of the pond near the entrance,” Shirley said. “And we noticed somebody running.”

  “Running,” said Teller.

  “Yes. Not a jogger. There are always plenty of those. And they stick to the paths. But this was different. A woman, fully dressed, was running across the grass toward another woman.”

  “Who was walking ahead of us along the path,” Harold chimed in.

  “What happened next?” said Teller.

  Harold said, “The running woman reached the other one and started talking to her. We couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she seemed agitated. They didn’t seem to know one another, because the second woman, the one on the path, shrank away a little at first. Like you do when a stranger approaches you unexpectedly.”

  “The woman on the path followed the other one back across the grass,” said Shirley. “Not running, but they walked quickly. Then they disappeared into the trees.”

  “We thought about going after them to investigate, didn’t we?” said Harold.

  “Yes. But then we thought better of it. The running woman hadn’t been crying wildly for help. She’d been approaching the other one, specifically.”

  “We figured it was something to do with her,” said Harold. “So we walked on by. They didn’t come out of the woods.”

  Teller looked at each of them in turn. He said: “Can you describe these women? The one on the path first.”

  The couple exchanged glances. It seemed like they’d bee
n rehearsing the details. Shirley said: “She was a black woman. But light-skinned. Conservatively dressed in dark clothes, with a coat, of course.”

  “She was Alice Peters,” said her husband. “The one on the news. The murdered one.”

  Venn said, “You’re absolutely certain of that, Mr van Buren?”

  His wife looked at him. Harold said: “Yes. Positive.”

  “How about you, ma’am?” Venn asked.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I think it was her. But unlike Harold, I can’t be one hundred per cent sure.” She shrugged apologetically. “She was perhaps a hundred yards away. And I wasn’t paying especial attention to her face.”

  “Okay. That’s a real help,” said Teller warmly. “Now: the other woman. The one who ran across the grass.”

  The couple frowned in unison. Venn could tell they’d really been giving this some thought.

  “She was tall,” said Harold. “Taller than the other lady, anyhow. Maybe five nine or -ten?”

  “Hard to tell from that distance,” his wife said again.

  “And she was wrapped up, even more than the other woman,” Harold went on. “A big jacket. Looked too big for her, with the sleeves coming down past her hands. She had tracksuit pants on.”

  “And a rucksack,” said Shirley.

  “Did you get the impression the rucksack was heavy?” said Teller. “Like, was she having to lug it?”

  Harold screwed up his face. “Maybe. I can’t recall, to be honest.”

  Venn said, “How about hair color?”

  They looked timid, as if they were letting the detectives down. “She had a wool cap on,” said Shirley. “A beanie, I think they’re called. And a scarf. Most of her head was hidden.”

  “But there was some hair poking out,” Harold said. “I saw it. Shirl says she didn’t. It was dark, her hair.”

  “Dark?” said Rickenbacker. It was the first time she’d spoken. “Like, black?”

  “No...” Harold looked up at her. “Kind of like yours, I guess. Dark brown. But as I say, I didn’t get a good look.”

  “And she was white,” said Shirley, brightening, as if she’d forgotten to mention a crucial piece of information. “Definitely. Not African American or Hispanic or Asian.”

  Harold nodded. “Pale, too.”

  Teller and Venn asked a few more questions, but it became clear the Van Burens had exhausted their supply of data. Teller stood up, the others rising with him.

  “Mr and Mrs Van Buren, you’ve been an enormous help. Thank you so much.” He glanced at Venn and Rickenbacker. “If you have time, we’d like you to show us where you saw the women.”

  *

  The couple looked small in their overcoats, and they huddled together, whether out of cold or of unease, Venn didn’t know. Venn and Teller walked up the path beside them, Rickenbacker behind.

  Before leaving the Division of Special Projects office to head for the FBI base earlier, Venn had hung back, watching Teller and Rickenbacker depart. He saw the fury in Harmony’s face, but it was tempered with a look of almost anguish.

  Here was a break in the case, and she’d just been taken off it.

  He said: “I’ll keep you up to speed, Harm. Stay here and work with Fil. You just can’t do any of the face to face work, is all.”

  She sighed, long and loud. “Dammit, Venn –”

  “I mean it.” He watched her closely. “I will keep you in the loop. Promise. But don’t even think about going solo. If you do, I’ll kick your ass.”

  Instead of answering, she gave a contemptuous toss of her head and sat down before her computer.

  The Van Burens stopped.

  “Here,” said Harold. “This is the spot.”

  He pointed to where the path curved around the pond in the distance.

  “She was over there. A little beyond that bench.” He looked at his wife for confirmation. She nodded.

  Venn said: “I’m going over there. Call out when I’m in the right spot.”

  He strode up the path until he heard Harold’s shout. Then he turned left and began to walk across the grass toward the thicket of trees.

  “This the right way?” he called.

  “I think so,” called back Harold. “No, wait... angle a little to your left.”

  Venn walked more slowly, his eyes scanning the ground. He had little hope of noting anything interesting there. It was now almost twenty-four hours since the couple had seen Peters here. The grass would have been trodden on since then by countless feet, and any traces of the tow women would be obscured.

  He reached the treeline. Looked back. Teller was still with the elderly couple, but Rickenbacker was making her way at a slant across the grass. Venn stepped carefully through the first trees.

  “It’s a potential crime scene,” said Rickenbacker, slightly out of breath, as she caught up with him.

  “I know,” said Venn.

  “So, you need to keep back. We need to get a CSI team in here.”

  Venn turned to face her. “I’m well aware of that. Believe it or not, I’ve worked crime scenes before. I’m just taking a look.”

  She glared at him.

  Venn had had enough. Keeping his voice low, he said: “Rickenbacker, I still don’t really understand what your problem is. But I’m getting pissed off with this. Teller is, too. We don’t have to like one another. But we do have to work together. You’ve got part of what you wanted. Harmony Jones is off the case. But you’re not getting rid of me. So back the hell off. Or I’ll have you removed.”

  She looked astonished and amused in equal measure. “You’ll get me removed?”

  He took the smallest step closer to her. “I’m not kidding. I can do it. And I will, if I have to.”

  When he understood she wasn’t going to break eye contact first, he turned back to the wood. “You called the techs yet?”

  She recovered quickly. “They’re on their way.”

  *

  The CSI people, a couple of whom Venn recognized from earlier that morning by the river when Peters’s body had been discovered, found it within thirty minutes.

  Venn peered at the dark streak on the rock at the base of a treetrunk, almost invisible beneath a rime of ground frost.

  “Bullseye,” said the tech.

  Teller said: “Blood?”

  “Yeah,” the tech said. “Bet my left nut on it.”

  They found a few more similar traces. Otherwise, there was nothing obvious. No convenient shreds of cloth. No even more conveniently dropped receipts.

  Still, thought Venn. They had what was most likely the scene of the crime. And they had a description, however incomplete, of the killer. Or maybe the killer’s accomplice. A tall woman, young enough to be able to run. Caucasian. All of that so far matched the picture the soldiers had given of the woman who lured Dale Fincher away in the bar.

  “Except the hair color,” he said to Teller and Rickenbacker, as they walked back toward the entrance of the park. “But that means nothing. Could be a dye job, or a wig. Or else Harold Van Buren was mistaken about what he saw.”

  Teller stopped. He turned slightly toward Venn.

  “What does your gut tell you about this, Joe? Are we dealing with one killer or two?”

  Venn paused for a moment. “My gut says two,” he said. “But all of the evidence, such as there is, suggests just one.”

  “You, Fran?”

  Rickenbacker didn’t hesitate. “One.” To Venn, she said, “You’re letting assumptions get in your way. You think a woman wouldn’t be strong enough to do this to Fincher, especially, but probably also to Peters. Peters may have been a reformed character, but she had street smarts. She wouldn’t have been a pushover.”

  Venn thought back to a woman named Gudrun Schroeder. Back in the fall of last year, she’d very nearly killed Venn. She’d been slender. But she’d been strong, and ruthless. And she enjoyed killing.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “I believe a woman would be physi
cally capable of it. Like I said, it’s my gut reaction that there’s somebody else involved. My head tells me she’s acting alone.”

  They continued walking out to their cars on the street in front of the park gates. Venn said, “What about you, Mort? You haven’t said what you think.”

  “I don’t know what I think,” said Teller.

  Chapter 20

  Harmony left the Crown Vic in the public parking lot outside Revere Hospital and went up the now-familiar route to the third floor. She hadn’t brought anything along this time. There were only so many bunches of flowers and bottles of soda a person needed. Her father’s eyesight was so poor he couldn’t read newsprint any longer, so magazines were no good.

  The head nurse intercepted her at the entrance to the ward.

  “Oh, Harmony, I’m real sorry.”

  For a moment Harmony thought this was it. The news she’d been expecting.

  But the nurse went on: “He’s just gotten to sleep, ten minutes ago. Barely had a wink all night, and his breathing was so bad this morning he couldn’t drop off. It’s best to leave him be.”

  Secretly, Harmony was relieved. Because she had other things on her mind, and her father would pick up on that, and snark at her about it until they ended up having another argument.

  She said, “May I see him anyhow? I won’t disturb him.”

  “Sure.” The nurse stood aside for her and she made her way though to the bay where her father had his bed.

  Clarence Jones lay at an angle thirty degrees from the vertical, sitting more than lying, with a mound of pillows supporting his back. A hissing tube fed oxygen through his nose, and the breath stuttered from his slightly parted lips like a rattlesnake’s tail. An IV line wound from his arm, and beneath the bed she saw the catheter bottle, half-filled with murky dark pee.

  Harmony wasn’t a believer in the supernatural, or in ESP, or anything like that. But she knew, suddenly, somehow, that she’d never see her father alive again after this.