“With all due respect, Mrs. Houghton, films and novels do not present a totally accurate picture—”
“I’m talking about documentaries and serious works of non-fiction by your predecessors at the FBI—John Douglas, Robert Ressler, Roy Hazelwood.”
Trisha could feel the blood rushing to her face. Mrs. Houghton had done her homework, and Trisha felt stupid for suggesting she had gotten her profiler information from Hannibal Lecter movies. But Trisha wasn’t about to cower. “Let me point out, Mrs. Houghton, that the Bureau’s role in any homicide investigation is one of support to the local authorities. We do not participate directly in the apprehension or prosecution of serial offenders. We provide crucial information that assists them in doing that.”
Colleen Franco raised a finger and jumped in. “I’m glad you brought up the importance of information, Agent McCleery. Since Drac has specifically targeted the Orchid Club, we at the police department have compiled some information of our own. Detective Warwick?”
Pete reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers folded lengthwise. Trisha looked at him with curiosity. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the police compiling their own Orchid Club data. They were supposed to be sharing information.
Pete unfolded his papers and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. “We’ve tracked down similarities among the three Orchid Club victims—Linda Martinson, Laura Thayer, and Ginger Wexler. Martinson and Thayer patronized the same hairdressing salon, though they used different stylists. Martinson and Wexler had charge accounts at Tiffany’s. All three had charge accounts at Bergdorf’s. Thayer and Wexler saw the same gynecologist. They also had the same dentist until last year. Thayer switched with a new practice last October.”
“And don’t tell me,” Cindy said. “They all bought groceries at Dean and Deluca?”
Trisha suppressed a grin. She knew her sister’s dry sarcastic wit all too well.
“Get to the pertinent information, Detective,” Franco said.
Pete flipped pages until he got to the last one. “Okay. All three women shared a few things in common. They had all used the same attorney at one time or another—James Calloway. Though to put that in perspective, these women had done business with several attorneys in the past five years.”
“We all do,” Mrs. Houghton said, dismissing the connection. “When you have money, you have attorneys.”
Pete sucked in a deep breath and continued. “They all had the same accountant for their personal returns. Robert Berenson.”
“I use him, too,” Cindy said. “He’s in his sixties and doesn’t walk very well. Not exactly someone who could subdue a woman and tie her up.”
Pete plowed ahead. “And last, they all had the same wealth manager. Gene Lassiter.”
“Oh, come on,” Cindy said.
Mrs. Houghton arched her brows. “Gene Lassiter? Is this the best you can do?”
“We can’t rule anyone out, Mrs. Houghton,” Franco said.
Cindy crossed her arms. “I think you’re grasping at straws.”
“No,” Barry finally piped up. “Assistant Chief Franco is right. We can’t rule anyone out.”
“But this is ridiculous,” Cindy said. “Calloway is the top estate attorney in Manhattan. Many wealthy people seek him out. And Berenson goes with Lassiter. Gene recommends him to all his clients. If Gene manages your money, most likely Robert Berenson does your taxes.”
“But that doesn’t prevent any one of them from being a serial killer,” Barry said.
Cindy turned to her sister. “What do you think, Trisha? You’ve met Berenson, and you know Gene. Do you really think either one of them could be Drac?”
Mrs. Houghton zeroed in on Trisha. “Yes, what do you think, Agent McCleery? In your experience, are professional men with impeccable credentials capable of such heinous crimes?”
“Well, usually no. Serial killers are typically blue collar or unemployed. They’re also typically young.”
“Like Mr. Lassiter?”
“Usually younger. But not always.” Trisha was uncomfortable talking about Gene. To be ethical she should reveal that she had seen Gene socially, but she knew Franco would make a big deal about it and possibly get her thrown off the case. Also, she was still trying to sort out her feelings for him. He was nice, but he hadn’t called her since their date. Maybe he’d lost interest. Maybe he hadn’t had a good time. Who knows? But she wasn’t ready to say out loud that she had a personal relationship with him when she didn’t know if they had any relationship at all.
“Look,” Cindy said. “I have a long professional history with Gene Lassiter, and not just with my own money. He manages the McCleery Foundation’s funds. My father and I can vouch for his character. He’s as honest as the day is long.”
Colleen Franco raised a finger. “However—”
“And,” Cindy overrode her, “it’s unfair to ask my sister to evaluate him as a killer when he has done so much good for our family. She can’t be impartial.”
Well, thank you, Cindy, Trisha thought, biting her cheeks to keep from grinning. Cindy the moray.
“Fine,” Franco said. “This is all useless speculation anyway. The kind of intellectual exercise the Bureau values.”
Barry looked daggers at her. “The value of our profiles speaks for itself. Agent McCleery alone has provided profiles that have led to the arrests and convictions of dozens of serial offenders.”
“That may be so,” Franco said, “but right now we have a critical situation here in this city. Women are dying, and these women come from a very specific pool of candidates, the Orchid Club.”
“Not all of them,” Trisha said. “Robin Savitzsky wasn’t a member—”
“That was the work of a copy cat.” Franco said.
Trisha stared her down. “I disagree.”
“That’s you’re right, Agent McCleery. But my job isn’t to play Clue when lives are at stake. My duty is to protect the citizens of New York City. And I plan to do just that.”
Trisha had a bad feeling that Franco had something up her sleeve.
The Assistant Chief reached into her black leather bag and pulled out a manila folder. “We’ve put together a special task force that we’re calling Operation Bear Trap. A team of department psychologists has done a detailed analysis of the members of the Orchid Club as compared to the killer’s victims, and they’ve come up with a list of five members who are most likely to be targeted based on age, marital status, physical description, living situation, et cetera, et cetera.”
Trisha held out her hand. “May I see that list?”
“No.”
Trisha stared at her as if she’d been slapped in the face.
“Ah, Colleen,” Barry said, “don’t you think it would be beneficial to get our input since this is our area of expertise?”
“With all due respect, Barry, FBI profiling methods might be very effective in places like Sheboygan and Wichita, but this is New York City. Things are a little different here.”
Trisha blurted out, “With all due respect, Assistant Chief Franco, geography has almost no effect on serial offender pathology. A Sheboygan killer or a Wichita killer or a Waxahachie, Texas, killer will have more in common with a New York killer than you might think.”
“According to the FBI method perhaps. But that’s not the only method.”
“Granted. But no other method has had the kind of results we have.”
“Being the oldest method doesn’t make it the best.” Franco gave Trisha a look that warned her to back down, but Trisha didn’t blink.
Barry said, “Let’s not waste everyone’s time debating the relative merits of different law-enforcement approaches. Colleen, why don’t you tell us a little more about this task force?”
Trisha was furious. Why the hell didn�
�t Franco tell them about this before?
Franco directed her remarks to Cindy and Mrs. Houghton. “Please understand that I cannot reveal the names of the five women we feel are most at risk. If these names were to make their way to Drac somehow, he would stay away from them and our operation would fail. The fewer people who know, the better our chances of success.”
Trisha wasn’t a violent person by nature and years of martial arts training had taught her the value of keeping her cool, but she had powerful urge to cause this woman some serious pain.
“Our plan is to guard these women 24/7,” Franco said. “A four-man team will be assigned to each of them at all times. They will embed themselves into that woman’s daily routine so that she is never alone. They’ll work undercover as domestics, drivers, friends, associates, whatever.”
Trisha shook her head. “Bad idea. Real bad idea.”
Franco glared at her. “Excuse me?”
“Serial killers are predators, and there is no creature on earth more cautious than a predator. He scopes out his victims very carefully, and he doesn’t attack unless he’s more than reasonably certain that he’ll get away with it. In that sense, predators are cowards. Sharks bump and nudge potential prey to see if there’s a risk of retaliation. The shark bites only after he’s sure there won’t be a counter-attack.”
“I’m not talking about sharks, Agent McCleery. I’m talking about people.” Franco turned to Mrs. Houghton. “This is what I mean about the FBI. Women are dying, and they give you Animal Planet statistics.”
Trisha wasn’t about to back down. “The minute Drac sees something suspicious or out of the ordinary, he will retreat. If his target has a new constant companion that she didn’t have before or a new maid or a new driver, he will abandon that target.”
“And at the very least we save a life,” Franco said.
“No, you’ll just drive him to another victim. That’s all.”
“You’re wrong, Agent McCleery. We’re calling this Operation Bear Trap for a good reason. We concentrate on his most likely prey and get him when he strikes.”
“You’re not listening to me,” Trisha said, testiness rising in her voice. “Let’s say you have picked his most likely victims. If he suspects that something’s not right with them, he’ll leave them alone. But he will go after other women, women outside of the Orchid Club. You’ll be forcing him to fish in another pond, possibly a bigger pond. And if that happens, we’re back to square one. If you force him to change his pattern, then we have no pattern to follow. We won’t be able to predict anything about him.”
Franco appealed to Mrs. Houghton again. “Do you see what I mean? For the FBI, it’s just an intellectual puzzle to solve. But to the police department, it’s a little more serious and a lot more crucial. That’s why we have to be more proactive in our—”
Trisha raised her voice. “Are you saying I don’t take serial killers seriously? Are you saying I don’t think this is a crucial situation?”
Barry gave her a sharp look. “Easy.”
Franco’s words oozed out of her like lava. “I’d tone it down a notch if I were you, Agent McCleery.”
Mrs. Houghton cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention, and given that she was the big dog in the room, she got it instantly. “I suggest you work out your inter-agency problems on your own. Cindy, I’d like to speak to you alone for a moment. In the den.” Mrs. Houghton and Cindy stood up and left the room.
When they were out of earshot, Trisha looked at Pete and grumbled, “You could have told me about this.”
He whispered out the side of his mouth, “I just found out when I got here.”
In the meantime Barry and Franco went at it.
“What the hell’s this all about, Colleen? Did you forget what ‘cooperation’ means?”
She shook a threatening finger at him. “Don’t you dare think you can lecture me about cooperation. You feds never cooperate unless it serves your purpose.”
“Excuse me,” Trisha interupted. “I don’t think this is the place for this conversation. We’re not making a great impression on Mrs. Houghton.”
Franco pointed at her as she hissed in Barry’s face. “Can’t you keep her under control? She’s a loose cannon.”
“A what?” Trisha’s temper flared. She was on the edge of her seat, ready to go toe-to-toe with this witch, but the stern look in Barry’s eye ordered her to be still.
“Colleen,” Barry said with a note of conciliation, “can we get back on track with this investigation. The FBI wants to help you with this. You tell us how we can help.”
Trisha’s head was about to explode. Help them how? Help them screw it up? Help them spook Drac so that he starts hunting in the general population? It took all she had to hold her tongue.
“I’m very glad to hear you say that, Barry,” Franco said. “Very glad. We’ve got our bases covered with the five primary targets. We don’t need help with them. However…” She pointed to Pete. “Go to the last page.
“However,” she continued, “we’ve compiled a list of secondary targets within the Orchid Club membership, seven women who might fit Drac’s victim criteria.” She reached across the sofa and laid a hand on Barry’s knee. “Now I know you’re in hot water with this investigation, and I want to help you. I’m not a cruel person. I don’t want to see your supervisors reprimand you just because your staff couldn’t deliver.”
Trisha was ready to scream.
“I’ve assigned two-person teams to guard these secondary targets,” Franco said, “and I’ve reserved one slot for a special agent to assist one of our people. Agent McCleery might be good for this. When we finally catch this bastard, our report will prominently mention the FBI’s participation, valuable contributions, selfless cooperation, blah-blah-blah.”
She had Barry by the short hairs. If he threw this meager, insulting bone back in her face, she could make big trouble for him. It could literally mean the bank squad in Bismarck.
“That’s very generous of you,” he said, recognizing his weak position. “Who do you want us to cover?”
Franco pointed at the papers in Pete’s hand. “Read the last name on the list, Detective.”
Pete looked down at the sheet. “Adele Cardinalli.”
“The Ravioli Queen?” Trisha blurted. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that’s what they call her,” Franco said.
Trisha wanted to wipe the catty grin off her face. This was ridiculous. Adele Cardinalli was a very unlikely choice for Drac. She was too old. She had dark hair, but she was hardly a Snow White.
“Agent McCleery will be on the Cardinalli team,” Barry said. “Thank you for including us. I appreciate it, Colleen.”
Franco looked Trisha up and down, assessing her. “And if you’re lucky, Agent McCleery, Mrs. Cardinalli will cook for you. I hear she makes a mean manicotti.”
Trisha pursed her lips and kept her mouth shut, but in her head she was cursing like sailor.
Chapter 18
Trisha glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, the numerals formed by various pasta shapes. It was ten minutes to nine, the nine formed by curved strands of linguini, the ten a single piece of ziti standing up straight next to a round ravioli dripping with tomato sauce. She sat at the long country pine table in Adele Cardinalli’s kitchen, folding a pile of red-and-white gingham dishtowels, still fuming over Assistant Chief Franco’s end run around the Bureau. She wore a short-haired reddish-brown wig and a yellow floral print housedress with extra padding underneath for the bust and butt. Her Glock 9mm weighed down the right pocket of the shapeless garment. Inez, Adele’s live-in maid, had been given the week off so that one member of the Operation Bear Trap security detail could be embedded in the apartment, posing as the maid.
Trisha also wore a wireless ear-bud receive
r in her left ear and a small wireless transmitter the size of a thumbtack pinned to her collar.
“You awake?” she said.
“Of course.” Pete Warwick’s voice in her ear. He was stationed in the guest room at the other end of the apartment, dressed in a white shirt, black tie, and black pants, posing as Tony the driver, but since Tony didn’t live with Mrs. Cardinalli, Pete had to stay out of sight. The apartment had a lot of big windows, and Drac could be watching from a neighboring high-rise.
“You sure you weren’t taking a nap?” Trisha knew he wasn’t, but she was bored and disgruntled, and Pete was the only person she could pick on at the moment.
“No, I was not napping. I’m lying on the bed, watching Project Runway if you must know. I’m way behind in my gay TV watching.”
“Yeah, right. You don’t watch that stuff.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m watching these swishy fashion queens now. I keep telling you, I’m a failure as a gay man. I don’t know any show tunes, and I gag on any drink that comes in a martini glass. I should be in gay rehab.”
Trisha grinned despite her foul mood. Pete was a good guy—even if he was NYPD.
“So how’d you get stuck on this assignment?” she asked. “Franco punishing you for something?”
“Hey, I’m lying down, watching TV. Does that sound like punishment to you?”
“Seriously. You know as well as I do that a Drac attack on this target is a long shot.
Wouldn’t you rather be where the action is?”
“I know you would.”
She sighed. He was right about that.
“I thought Franco wanted you back out in the field,” she said. “Away from me.”
“Don’t you get it? I’m still baby-sitting you. You are a ‘loose cannon.’” She heard him chuckling.
“Hey, don’t spread that around. I’ve heard of agents whose careers were ruined because of unfortunate nicknames. A few years ago an agent got into a shootout with a bank robber in Fresno, and a stray bullet killed some lady’s little dog. The slug came from the bad guy’s gun, but somehow the agent was dubbed the ‘Pooch Slayer.’ It started as a joke, but it stuck, and the guy’s career stalled as far as field work was concerned. To move up he had to take a desk job.”
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