There are some women who, for whatever reason, make men feel inadequate. There are other women who, for perhaps more obvious reasons, make men want them. And then there are those rare women who do both.
Elena Krieger was one of those women.
She was extremely tall-Lee estimated at least six feet-with absurdly long legs, as though the painter's brush had slipped when creating her, but he decided to keep going anyway. Her silky hair was a strawberry-blond color he associated with Swedish stewardesses and Hollywood starlets. Her body was pure Vegas: beside the long legs, she had the trim waist and solid round breasts of a showgirl. He didn't see how they could be real: they looked too sculpted, too firm-and the lemon-yellow silk blouse she wore didn't leave anything to the imagination. At the same time, there was something masculine about her body, the broad sweep of her shoulders, the big bones of her hands and feet. She gave off an impression of power and strength, so that her sexuality had an oddly androgynous appeal. He understood immediately how she got the nickname Valkyrie-she was the personification of a Wagnerian goddess.
Her face couldn't really be described as pretty. Everything was too big, too prominent: her mouth, her nose, her strong chin. And her eyes were rather small, light colored and deep set, so that they looked even smaller. Still, in the split second that Lee took in all these details, he also registered the fact that he couldn't think of a single man he had ever known who would kick her out of bed. The part of him that was pure animal instinct, the part that wasn't madly in love with Kathy, reacted to her as any other red-blooded heterosexual man would: he immediately imagined her naked, available, and interested.
And in that moment he also knew something else about her: she was dangerous. He wasn't sure who she was dangerous to-maybe herself, maybe the men she came in contact with, maybe other women-but there was no doubt she was dangerous.
In the moment or two it took for all of these thoughts to race across the landscape of his brain, Elena Krieger took the three steps required to cover the width of Chuck's small office and extended her hand.
"Hello," she said, with a light dusting of a German accent. "I'm Elena Krieger."
Lee wanted to say Of course you are, but instead he said, "Pleased to meet you," shaking her hand, which was firm, cool and strong, like a solid piece of oak, or cedar.
"And you are the famous Lee Campbell."
Lee laughed and felt his face go red.
"Well, if I'm famous, I'm the last to hear about it."
"Oh, but of course you are-everybody knows about you. What happened to your sister was terrible," she repeated, shaking her head so that her silky bangs swung back and forth like windshield wipers over her wide forehead.
Lee tried to avoid looking at her-frankly, it was distracting. He turned toward the door, which he had deliberately left open.
"Where's Chuck?" he said, pretending to search for him in the hall outside.
"He'll be back in a minute," she said. "That must have been so hard going through what you went through, the nervous breakdown and all. Are you sure you're well enough to work now?"
Stunned by this remark, he turned to look at her. His sister Laura's disappearance five years ago was the reason he turned from private practice as a psychologist to become a criminal profiler. And his recent nervous breakdown, though not a secret, was a private matter. It wasn't the kind of thing he talked about; clearly Elena Krieger had done some homework.
Her words were loaded with subtext-he just wasn't sure what it was. She certainly wasn't expressing concern for him. She didn't even know him, and from what he had heard about her, Elena Krieger cared about one thing: Elena Krieger. So there was definitely something else going on-was it a flirtation? Or perhaps she was trying to win him over with this appearance of sympathy, to get him on her side against Chuck. Or perhaps it was something even more subtle and sinister. Maybe she was trying to take him back to those awful days, to force him to relive them, thereby shaking his confidence.
He was pretty sure word had gotten around about his struggle with depression-which was definitely regarded as a weakness in the macho world of the NYPD. Any kind of mental health problem carried more of a stigma than say, having cancer, or any other physical illness. Most cops belittled psychiatry of any kind, so Lee's position as the force's only criminal profiler was tenuous to begin with. His own personal struggle with depression made it even more so.
He looked Elena Krieger up and down before answering. He wanted her to know that he was in control of the situation, not her.
"I'm fine now," he said calmly. "But thanks for asking."
Her plucked eyebrows arched upward as if she did not believe him, but at that moment Chuck Morton entered the room. He looked back and forth between Lee and Elena, then stated the obvious.
"I see you two have met."
"Ya-a-h," Elena Krieger replied, stretching the word out sensuously, like a cat sunning itself. But she was more lupine than feline, Lee thought-like a big redheaded wolf.
"Good," Chuck said briskly. "Let's get started, then."
Lee was startled. He'd had no idea that Elena Krieger was part of this investigation. He couldn't say that in front of her, so he just said, "Isn't Detective Butts the primary-"
Chuck cut him off. "Yes, he is, but Detective Krieger has recently been assigned to this station house, so she'll be working the case, too. Her specialty is forensic linguistics."
Lee thought two detectives was already one too many, but he said nothing. He could see from Chuck's discomfort that his friend didn't want her here any more than he did. It was clear she was here because of some bureaucratic game of musical chairs that neither of them had any control over.
"Where is Detective Butts, by the way?" Krieger asked. "Shouldn't he be here?"
"He should, and he is," said a voice behind them, and they all turned to see Detective Leonard Butts standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee and a bag of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
"Glad you could make it after all," Chuck said. "Have a seat."
"Yeah," Butts said. "I told the wife that she'd just have to go to her uncle's funeral without me, and that I'd catch up with her at the reception. She didn't like it, but what can you do? Work is work. If you ask me, Monday morning's an odd time for a funeral anyways." He slurped happily at his coffee, took a big bite of a cream-filled doughnut, and leaned back in the chair with a satisfied sigh. "Man, these things are good."
"Have you met Detective Butts?" Chuck asked.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Krieger replied. Lee couldn't tell whether she was being sarcastic or not.
"This is Detective Elena Krieger," Chuck said to Butts.
"Elena Krieger?" Butts said. "The Elena Krieger?"
She flushed from the base of her elegant neck to her cheeks, though Lee wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or anger.
"Well, if there are others with my name in the police farce, I am unaware of it." Her mispronunciation of "force" took Lee by surprise, and he had to stifle an impulse to laugh.
"The pleasure's all mine," Butts said, shaking her hand vigorously before settling down to renew his attack on the bag of doughnuts. He seemed impervious to her charms-he was clearly more interested in the doughnuts. He munched away happily, hardly looking at her as Chuck went over the details of the case.
"Okay," said Chuck, taking out crime-scene photos and handing them around. "Now, the reason that there's some urgency on this is that if these two deaths are connected, then we may have a serial offender on our hands-one that's very difficult to catch. So far we haven't been able to find any links between these two men, other than they're both obviously phony suicides."
"Yeah," Butts agreed. "We talked to the families of both vics, and we get the same thing. No history of depression or mental illness. The floater is Nathan Ziegler, and he just got hired by Roosevelt Hospital as an anesthesiologist. Bathtub guy, Chris Malette, was doing just fine financially-he was divorced but very amicable with his ex."
"Negative," Butts answered. "And before you ask, no, his ex does not wear that shade of lipstick," he added, pointing to the writing on the bathroom mirror in several of the photos. "She's been wearing the same lipstick for years, according to her girlfriends and sister-Passion Fruit Panache. Apparently she's a creature of habit. So if she did write that note, she bought or borrowed someone else's lipstick to do it before she killed Baldy here."
Elena Krieger stared at Butts. "I don't think you should speak of the dead so disrespectfully."
Butts stared back at her, then looked up at Chuck. "Is she always like this?"
"I always take our job seriously, if that's what you mean," she said iciliy. Lee noticed her accent thickened when she was upset.
"All right, knock it off, both of you!" Chuck said, running a hand through his blond crew cut.
"I beg your pardon," Butts said. "I mean Mr. Malette. The point is that his ex isn't a likely suspect. And we haven't found anyone who disliked the guy-at least enough to kill him."
Morton plucked another of the photos from the pile on his desk. "The writing in the suicide note found on the floa-Dr. Ziegler-is being analyzed by a handwriting expert, but there's no question it does not belong to him."
"That's an odd suicide note, in any case," Lee remarked.
Elena Krieger picked up the photo of the note and studied it. "I'm sorry-I was wrong. I don't deserve to live," she read slowly. "It sounds more like a confession of guilt than a suicide note."
"Yeah," Chuck agreed, "but guilt about what?" "If we can figure that out, we'll have a big piece of the puzzle," Butts remarked.
"Also, it's not addressed to anyone in particular, which is odd. Most suicides who write notes address them to specific people in their lives," Krieger pointed out.
"Right," said Chuck. "And look at how carefully the note was wrapped in a Ziploc bag so the water wouldn't spoil it. Someone really wanted us to find it."
"You going to release it to the media?" Lee asked.
Chuck cocked his head to one side. "What do you think?"
"I wouldn't. It's not elaborate or long enough to give you a personality profile."
"That's what I was thinking," Chuck agreed. "I don't see someone seeing the note in the paper and calling us to say it reminds him of his brother."
"Yeah, right," Butts said. "This ain't no Unabomber."
He was referring to the capture of Ted Kaczynski, the infamous Unabomber. He was finally brought to justice when David Kaczynski recognized the ranting political polemic published by the New York Times and Washington Post as sounding very much like his brother Ted.
"No useable prints, I guess?" said Lee.
Butts shook his head. "The guy must have been wearing gloves."
"Or the woman," Krieger corrected him.
"Whatever," Butts said, rolling his eyes at Lee. "Anyway, we're doing a tox screen on all the vics, just in case."
"You think maybe the UNSUB drugged them first?" Lee asked. UNSUB was shorthand for "Unknown Subject." He didn't particularly like using cop jargon, but it was a way to sidestep the morass of gender issues that Krieger was clearly prickly about.
"Anything's possible-especially if it's a woman," Butts replied. "She'd probably have to drug them to control them, unless she's one strong bi-female," he said, with a nervous glance at Krieger.
If Krieger noticed the slip, she didn't react. "What about the writing on the mirror?" she asked. "Any match to the other note?"
Chuck picked up the crime-scene photo and shook his head. "It's in block letters in lipstick, so our expert says she can't do much with it.
"But look at the wording," Krieger said.
Lee took the photo from Chuck and studied it. "I am very bad. Sorry." He put the photo back down.
"They both say they're sorry," Krieger pointed out. "With most people who kill themselves, that would be an apology for the suicide itself. But this is different: they seem to be apologizing for being bad."
Butts frowned. "So the same UNSUB wrote both notes?"
"It's extremely likely," Krieger replied.
"What do you make of the notes?" Chuck asked Lee.
"Well," he began, but Krieger intrrupted.
"Obviously the victims offended the killer in some way," she said.
"Jawohl," Butts said.
Krieger glared at him, and then at Chuck, but he pretended not to notice.
Lee thought, not for the first time, that this was going to be a challenging investigation.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lee arrived at his apartment a little after noon to find three messages on his answering machine. Unlike some of his friends, who were discarding their landlines, he kept his. He'd had the same number ever since he moved to the East Village, and he held on to it partly out of sentiment-but also because it was the coveted 212 area code, no longer available to newer residents of Manhattan. He was a little embarrassed that this meant something to him, but it did.
He pressed the button and listened to the first message. It was from Kathy, telling him she missed him. He missed her too, all the more so because he had been so preoccupied all weekend with Ana's plight. He felt he hadn't been truly present with Kathy. He was sure she noticed-but, true to form, she didn't reproach him with it.
He put the kettle on while listening to the second message. Fiona Campbell's voice was clear and cool as ever.
"Lee, it's your mother. Don't forget you're expected for dinner to celebrate Kylie's birthday on the weekend. She's really looking forward to seeing you. See you then-bye."
His niece Kylie would be turning seven in a week. She had lived with her father, George Callahan, ever since Laura's disappearance, but spent weekends with her grandmother. There was the usual subtle playing of the guilt card in his mother's message. If you don't come, you'll disappoint your niece. Not her, Fiona; no, never her. She had renounced her own claim on personal emotions the day his father walked out.
It was also typical of her to remind him of social engagements, as if he were incapable of remembering them himself. His father's desertion left her with the overwhelming opinion that men were erratic, unreliable creatures who could not be counted on. And, of course, his father's abandonment had left its mark on Lee, and was probably the reason for his decision to become a therapist. If he couldn't mend his own family, at least he could help other people come to terms with theirs.
But when his sister disappeared, his need to help people traveled a darker road, driven by his need to know. And if he couldn't know who had killed his sister (unlike his mother, he was certain Laura was dead), then he would help other people find out who had killed their loved ones.
The kettle began its long, slow climb to a piercing whistle, and he ducked into the kitchen just as the third message began to play. He heard it as he was pouring the tea water into the cup, and what he heard stopped him cold, so that the hot water splashed all over the countertop.
The voice was cold, hard, and flat, almost reptilian.
"What about the red dress? You think no one knows anything, but I do. I know about the red dress."
There was a click as the line went dead, then a whirring sound as the answering machine began to automatically rewind. But Lee didn't hear any of that-all he heard, over and over in his head, was that reptilian monotone: "I know about the red dress." His sister Laura had been wearing a red dress the day she disappeared-a detail that had not been released to the press or the public. Stunned, he ignored the spilled water dripping from the counter onto the kitchen floor, and stumbled into the living room to look at the caller ID on his phone. He knew it was useless, but he had to look. To his surprise, there was a number there with a 212 area code-Manhattan! And the first three numbers were 533-which he recognized as an East Village exchange. His hand trembled as he picked up the receiver and dialed the number. It rang four times, then a man answered.
"Hello?" The voice was nothing like the one on his mac
hine. This one had a thick Brooklyn accent, and was an octave lower.
"Hi-excuse me, but can you tell me what number I just dialed?"
"Well, there's no number on it, but you reached a pay phone on Third Avenue and Fifth Street. Who are you lookin' for, buddy?" The man sounded happily inebriated, eager to help.
"I'm sorry-I must have dialed wrong," Lee said, certain that he had dialed correctly.
"Hey, no problem, buddy-take it easy."
Lee hung up and sat down in the overstuffed armchair next to the phone. So the man had called from around the corner-from a pay phone, no less. Who uses pay phones anymore, except to avoid being identified? The questions swirled around his head. Did the caller pick a booth nearby on purpose, or does he live in the neighborhood? Or was it purely coincidence? Or was there an even darker explanation-what if he was stalking Lee, watching him? His number was unlisted-how did the man manage to get it? Would there be any point in dusting for prints? No crime had been committed-would Lee be able to convince anyone that it was even necessary?
Good Lord, Campbell, get a grip. His sister's disappearance was continual torture, a piece of unfinished business that would haunt him until the day he solved it-if he ever did. Maybe his mother was right about men after all…
The swirling sensation began to transform into something darkly familiar and sinister, as he felt the evil fog of depression envelop him. The walls of the room seemed to close in around him, and his thoughts swarmed like angry bees in his head. He was losing focus, and knew he had to stop the fog before it could take hold. He had told Kathy and everyone else that he was feeling much better lately, and to an extent that was true. But depression was its own kind of minefield. Sometimes, if he stepped carefully enough, he could stay aboveground and keep from landing on the hidden entrances, secret traps covering gaping holes in the ground. But other times the ground gave way when he least expected it, and he sank down and was swallowed up before he knew it.
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