“That nut.”
“Carver Hampton isn't a nut,” Jack said.
“A real nut case,” she insisted.
“There was an article about him in that book.”
“Being written about in a book doesn't automatically make him respectable.”
“He's a priest.”
“He's not. He's a fraud.”
“He's a voodoo priest who practices only white magic, good magic. A Houngon. That's what he calls himself.”
“I can call myself a fruit tree, but don't expect me to grow any apples on my ears,” she said. “Hampton's a charlatan. Taking money from the gullible.”
“His religion may seem exotic—”
“It's foolish. That shop he runs. Jesus. Selling herbs and bottles of goat's blood, charms and spells, all that other nonsense—”
“It's not nonsense to him.”
“Sure it is.”
“He believes in it.”
“Because he's a nut.”
“Make up your mind, Rebecca. Is Carver Hampton a nut or a fraud? I don't see how you can have it both ways.”
“Okay, okay. Maybe this Baba Lavelle did kill all four of the victims.”
“He's our only suspect so far.”
“But he didn't use voodoo. There's no such thing as black magic. He stabbed them, Jack. He got blood on his hands, just like any other murderer.”
Her eyes were intensely, fiercely green, always a shade greener and clearer when she was angry or impatient.
“I never said he killed them with magic,” Jack told her. “I didn't say I believe in voodoo. But you saw the bodies. You saw how strange—”
“Stabbed,” she said firmly. “Mutilated, yes. Savagely and horribly disfigured, yes. Stabbed a hundred times or more, yes. But stabbed. With a knife. A real knife. An ordinary knife.”
“The medical examiner says the weapon used in those first two murders would've had to've been no bigger than a penknife.”
“Okay. So it was a penknife.”
“Rebecca, that doesn't make sense.”
“Murder never makes sense.”
“What kind of killer goes after his victims with a penknife, for God's sake?”
“A lunatic.”
“Psychotic killers usually favor dramatic weaponsbutcher knives, hatchets, shotguns…”
“In the movies, maybe.”
“In reality, too.”
“This is just another psycho like all the psychos who're crawling out of the walls these days,” she insisted. “There's nothing special or strange about him.”
“But how does he overpower them? If he's only wielding a penknife, why can't his victims fight him off or escape?”
“There's an explanation,” she said doggedly. “We'll find it.”
The house was warm, getting warmer; Jack took off his overcoat.
Rebecca left her coat on. The heat didn't seem to bother her any more than the cold.
“And in every case,” Jack said, “the victim has fought his assailant. There are always signs of a big struggle. Yet none of the victims seems to have managed to wound his attacker; there's never any blood but the victim's own. That's damned strange. And what about Vastagliano-murdered in a locked bathroom?”
She stared at him suddenly but didn't respond.
“Look, Rebecca, I'm not saying it's voodoo or anything the least bit supernatural. I'm not a particularly superstitious man. My point is that these murders might be the work of someone who does believe in voodoo, that there might be something ritualistic about them. The condition of the corpses certainly points in that direction. I didn't say voodoo works. I'm only suggesting that the killer might think it works, and his belief in voodoo might lead us to him and give us some of the evidence we need to convict him.”
She shook her head. “Jack, I know there's a certain streak in you..”
“What certain streak is that?”
“Call it an excessive degree of open-mindedness.”
“How is it possible to be excessively open-minded? That's like being too honest.”
“When Darl Coleson said this Baba Lavelle was taking over the drug trade by using voodoo curses to kill his competition, you listened… well. you listened as if you were a child, enraptured.”
“I didn't.”
“You did. Then the next thing I know, we're off to Harlem to a voodoo shop!”
“If this Baba Lavelle really is interested in voodoo, then it makes sense to assume that someone like Carver Hampton might know him or be able to find out something about him for us.”
“A nut like Hampton won't be any help at all. You remember the Holderbeck case?”
“What's that got to do with—”
“The old lady who was murdered during the seance? ”
“Emily Holderbeck. I remember.”
“You were fascinated with that one,” she said.
“I never claimed there was anything supernatural about it.”
“Absolutely fascinated.”
“Well, it was an incredible murder. The killer was so bold. The room was dark, sure, but there were eight people present when the shot was fired.”
“But it wasn't the facts of the case that fascinated you the most,” Rebecca said. “It was the medium that interested you. That Mrs. Donatella with her crystal ball. You couldn't get enough of her ghost stories, her so-called psychic experiences.”
“So?”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Jack?”
“You mean, do I believe in an afterlife?”
“Ghosts.”
“I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Who can say?”
“I can say. I don't believe in ghosts. But your equivocation proves my point.”
“Rebecca, there are millions of perfectly sane, respectable, intelligent, level-headed people who believe in life after death.”
“A detective's a lot like a scientist,” she said. “He's got to be logical.”
“He doesn't have to be an atheist, for God's sake!”
Ignoring him, she said, “Logic is the best tool we have.”
“All I'm saying is that we're on to something strange.
And since the brother of one of the victims thinks voodoo is involved—”
“A good detective has to be reasonable, methodical.”
“-we should follow it up even if it seems ridiculous.”
“A good detective has to be tough-minded, realistic.”
“A good detective also has to be imaginative, flexible,” he countered. Then, abruptly changing the subject, he said, “Rebecca, what about last night?”
Her face reddened. She said, “Let's go have a talk with the Parker woman,” and she started to turn away from him.
He took hold of her arm, stopped her. “I thought something very special happened last night.”
She said nothing.
“Did I just imagine it?” he asked.
“Let's not talk about it now.”
“Was it really awful for you?”
“Later,” she said.
“Why're you treating me like this?”
She wouldn't meet his eyes; that was unusual for her. “It's complicated, Jack.”
“I think we've got to talk about it.”
“Later,” she said. “Please.”
“When?”
“When we have the time.”
“When will that be?” he persisted.
“If we have time for lunch, we can talk about it then.”
“We'll make time.”
“We'll see.”
“Yes, we will.”
“Now, we've got work to do,” she said, pulling away from him.
He let her go this time.
She headed toward the living room, where Shelly Parker waited.
He followed her, wondering what he'd gotten himself into when he'd become intimately involved with this exasperating woman. Maybe she was a nut case herself. Maybe she wasn't worth all the aggravation she caused him. Maybe she would bring him nothing but pain
, and maybe he would come to regret the day he'd met her. At times, she certainly seemed neurotic. Better to stay away from her. The smartest thing he could do was call it quits right now. He could ask for a new partner, perhaps even transfer out of the Homicide Division; he was tired of dealing with death all the time, anyway. He and Rebecca should split, go their separate ways both personally and professionally, before they got too tangled up with each other. Yes, that was for the best. That was what he should do.
But as Nevetski would say: Like hell.
He wasn't going to put in a request for a new partner.
He wasn't a quitter.
Besides, he thought maybe he was in love.
VII
At fifty-eight, Nayva Rooney looked like a grandmother but moved like a dockworker. She kept her gray hair in tight curls. Her round, pink, friendly face had bold rather than delicate features, and her merry blue eyes were never evasive, always warm. She was a stocky woman but not fat. Her hands weren't smooth, soft, grandmotherly hands; they were strong, quick, efficient, with no trace of either the pampered life or arthritis, but with a few callouses. When Nayva walked, she looked as if nothing could stand in her way, not other people and not even brick walls; there was nothing dainty or graceful or even particularly feminine about her walk; she strode from place to place in the manner of a no-nonsense army sergeant.
Nayva had been cleaning the apartment for Jack Dawson since shortly after Linda Dawson's death. She came in once a week, every Wednesday. She also did some babysitting for him; in fact, she'd been here last evening, watching over Penny and Davey, while Jack had been out on a date.
This morning, she let herself in with the key that Jack had given her, and she went straight to the kitchen. She brewed a pot of coffee and poured a cup for herself and drank half of it before she took off her coat. It was a bitter day, indeed, and even though the apartment was warm, she found it difficult to rid herself of the chill that had seeped deep into her bones during the six-block walk from her own apartment.
She started cleaning in the kitchen. Nothing was actually dirty. Jack and his two young ones were clean and reasonably orderly, not at all like some for whom Nayva worked. Nonetheless, she labored diligently, scrubbing and polishing with the same vigor and determination that she brought to really grimy jobs, for she prided herself on the fact that a place positively gleamed when she was finished with it. Her father — dead these many years and God rest his soul — had been a uniformed policeman, a foot patrolman, who took no graft whatsoever, and who strived to make his beat a safe one for all who lived or toiled within its boundaries. He had taken considerable pride in his job, and he'd taught Nayva (among other things) two valuable lessons about work: first, there is always satisfaction and esteem in a piece of work well done, regardless of how menial it might be; second, if you cannot do a job well, then there's not much use in doing it at all.
Initially, other than the noises Nayva made as she cleaned, the only sounds in the apartment were the periodic humming of the refrigerator motor, occasional thumps and creaks as someone rearranged the furniture in the apartment above, and the moaning of the brisk winter wind as it pressed at the windows.
Then, as she paused to pour a little more coffee for herself, an odd sound came from the living room. A sharp, short squeal. An animal sound. She put down the coffee pot.
Cat? Dog?
It hadn't seemed like either of those; like nothing familiar. Besides, the Dawsons had no pets.
She started across the kitchen, toward the door to the dining alcove and the living room beyond.
The squeal came again, and it brought her to a halt, froze her, and suddenly she was uneasy. It was an ugly, angry, brittle cry, again of short duration but piercing and somehow menacing. This time it didn't sound as much like an animal as it had before.
It didn't sound particularly human, either, but she said, “Is someone there?”
The apartment was silent. Almost too silent, now. As if someone were listening, waiting for her to make a move.
Nayva wasn't a woman given to fits of nerves and certainly not to hysteria. And she had always been confident that she could take care of herself just fine, thank you. But suddenly she was stricken by an uncharacteristic twinge of fear.
Silence.
“Who's there?” she demanded.
The shrill, angry shriek came again. It was a hateful sound.
Nayva shuddered.
A rat? Rats squealed. But not like this.
Feeling slightly foolish, she picked up a broom and held it as if it were a weapon.
The shriek came again, from the living room, as if taunting her to come see what it was.
Broom in hand, she crossed the kitchen and hesitated at the doorway.
Something was moving around in the living room. She couldn't see it, but she could hear an odd, dry paper, dry-leaf rustling and a scratching-hissing noise that sometimes sounded like whispered words in a foreign language.
With a boldness she had inherited from her father, Nayva stepped through the doorway. She edged past the tables and chairs, looking beyond them at the living room, which was visible through the wide archway that separated it from the dining alcove. She stopped beneath the arch and listened, trying to get a better fix on the noise.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. The pale yellow drapes fluttered, but not from a draft. She wasn't in a position to see the lower half of the drapes, but it was clear that something was scurrying along the floor, brushing them as it went.
Nayva moved quickly into the living room, past the first sofa, so that she could see the bottom of the drapes. Whatever had disturbed them was nowhere in sight. The drapes became still again.
Then, behind her, she heard a sharp little squeal of anger.
She whirled around, bringing up the broom, ready to strike.
Nothing.
She circled the second sofa. Nothing behind it. Looked in back of the armchair, too. Nothing. Under the end tables. Nothing. Around the bookcase, on both sides of the television set, under the sideboard, behind the drapes. Nothing, nothing.
Then the squeal came from the hallway.
By the time she got to the hall, there wasn't anything to be seen. She hadn't flicked on the hall light when she'd come into the apartment, and there weren't any windows in there, so the only illumination was what spilled in from the kitchen and living room. However, it was a short passageway, and there was absolutely no doubt that it was deserted.
She waited, head cocked.
The cry came again. From the kids' bedroom this time.
Nayva went down the hall. The bedroom was more than half dark. There was no overhead light; you had to go into the room and snap on one of the lamps in order to dispel the gloom. She paused for a moment on the threshold, peering into the shadows.
Not a sound. Even the furniture movers upstairs had stopped dragging and heaving things around. The wind had slacked off and wasn't pressing at the windows right now. Nayva held her breath and listened. If there was anything here, anything alive, it was being as still and alert as she was.
Finally, she stepped cautiously into the room, went to Penny's bed, and clicked on the lamp. That didn't burn away all the shadows, so she turned toward Davey's bed, intending to switch on that lamp, as well.
Something hissed, moved.
She gasped in surprise.
The thing darted out of the open closet, through shadows, under Davey's bed. It didn't enter the light, and she wasn't able to see it clearly. In fact, she had only a vague impression of it: something small, about the size of a large rat; sleek and streamlined and slithery like a rat.
But it sure didn't sound like a rodent of any kind. It wasn't squeaking or squealing now. It hissed and. gabbled as if it were whispering urgently to itself.
Nayva backed away from Davey's bed. She glanced at the broom in her hands and wondered if she should poke it under the bed and rattle it around until she drove the intruder out in the open where she
could see exactly what it was.
Even as she was deciding on a course of action, the thing scurried out from the foot of the bed, through the dark end of the room, into the shadowy hallway; it moved fast. Again, Nayva failed to get a good look at it.
“Damn,” she said.
She had the unsettling feeling that the critter — whatever in God's name it might be — was just toying with her, playing games, teasing.
But that didn't make sense. Whatever it was, it was still only a dumb animal, one kind of dumb animal or another, and it wouldn't have either the wit or the desire to lead her on a merry chase merely for the fun of it.
Elsewhere in the apartment, the thing shrieked, as if calling to her.
Okay, Nayva thought. Okay, you nasty little beast, whatever you may be, look out because here I come. You may be fast, and you may be clever, but I'll track you down and have a look at you even if it's the last thing I do in this life.
CHAPTER TWO
I
They had been questioning Vince Vastagliano's girlfriend for fifteen minutes. Nevetski was right. She was an uncooperative bitch.
Perched on the edge of a Queen Anne chair, Jack Dawson leaned forward and finally mentioned the name that Darl Coleson had given him yesterday. “Do you know a man named Baba Lavelle?”
Shelly Parker glanced at him, then quickly looked down at her hands, which were folded around a glass of Scotch, but in that unguarded instant, he saw the answer in her eyes.
“I don't know anyone named Lavelle,” she lied.
Rebecca was sitting in another Queen Anne chair, legs crossed, arms on the chair arms, looking relaxed and confident and infinitely more self-possessed than Shelly Parker. She said, “Maybe you don't know Lavelle, but maybe you've heard of him. Is that possible?”
“No,” Shelly said.
Jack said, “Look, Ms. Parker, we know Vince was dealing dope, and maybe we could hang a related charge on you—”
“I had nothing to do with that!”
“-but we don't intend to charge you with anything—”
“You can't!”
“-if you cooperate.”
“You have nothing on me,” she said.
“We can make life very difficult for you.”
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