He shook his head.
“Take another look. It’s important.”
I watched him focus on the picture, and once again, he shook his head. “I don’t remember this girl.”
“Do you remember picking up anybody in Sausalito that day?”
“No. I don’t pay attention to my fares. Fuck them. What do I care? Just pay me and get the fuck out.”
Vitaly was a young man, maybe in his late twenties—probably a functioning alcoholic. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had been drinking that morning. He lowered his head, giving me a bird’s eye view of his thinning hair. It was hard to tell if he was lying or if he really couldn’t remember.
“Hey, look, a girl is dead. Why don’t you try a little harder?” Kang said, his voice heightened with irritation.
Vitaly continued to stare down between his legs with his mouth sealed tightly.
Why not help? What’s the problem? “You remember her, don’t you, Vitaly?” I questioned. “We know you had nothing to do with her death, so help us out. She was an only child. Did you know that?” I knew he didn’t, but sometimes guilt can be a big motivator. Unfortunately, Vitaly continued to hide behind his Iron Curtain of emotions and resisted my attempt to tug on them.
I knelt down and handed him my card. “Call me if you remember anything, okay? It’s important we find out what happened to her.”
“We done?” he asked.
“Yes, we’re done,” I answered.
Vitaly stood up, and we watched him head back to his apartment. After he slammed his door shut, Kang turned to me. “You think maybe he’s the—”
“The killer? I don’t think so.” I rested my hands on my hips and twisted my torso from side to side. All that driving around had made my body stiff.
“We know he picked up Piper. He might have been the last person to see her alive. Maybe we should bring him in for more questioning.”
“On what charge?” I asked.
“No charge. We’re questioning a potential witness, except we take a really long time to get him his coffee so that sitting in that room starts to gnaw on him. He’ll talk soon enough.”
I liked Kang’s thinking, but it was risky. Vitaly could completely clam up in that sort of environment and never trust us. Once that happens to a witness, forget about them saying anything, short of it being beaten out of them. “No, we have to do this on his turf, where he won’t feel threatened.”
Kang studied me for a minute before nodding. “All right. I’ll put a patrol car outside in case he feels like taking a walk.”
Chapter 25
The plan was to circle back to Vitaly’s apartment later that night, after he’d had a chance to sober up more but before he had a chance to start his next binge.
“You want to hang out at the precinct while we wait, or shall I drop you off at home and pick you up later?” Kang asked.
I opted for home. It was nearly four in the afternoon, and the kids would already be back from school. “Just give me a ten-minute heads-up before you come by.”
I watched Kang drive off before turning and heading up the walkway to the house. Before I hit the porch stairs, the smell of something delicious awakened my stomach. If there was one thing Po Po was good at—definitely better than I ever would be—it was cooking. She had learned the same way most women from her day and age had learned: by watching and helping their mothers in the kitchen.
Po Po had an encyclopedia of Chinese dishes memorized in her head; not a single one existed on paper. Where she grew up, pens and paper were scarce commodities. They’d had no choice but to remember everything. Po Po also had a finely honed palate and could identify almost any ingredient in a Chinese dish—a remarkable ability. Our stomachs were lucky to have her.
“I’m home,” I called out as I walked into the house.
As usual, my loyal daughter was the only one to greet me at the door. Maybe I should get a dog to increase those numbers. I gave Lucy a hug. Afterward, she grabbed my hand, and we walked toward the kitchen. The smell inside the house was divine and caused a watery flash flood to drench my tongue.
“How’s everything?”
“Everything fine. Ryan upstairs doing homework, and Lucy help me make dinner.”
Hmmm, maybe Lucy will be the one to carry the tradition on and memorize over a hundred recipes. “It smells wonderful.”
“I make scallops and mushroom rice, oyster chicken, melon soup, and steamed pak choi.”
My knees weakened upon hearing the menu. I’ll admit it; I frickin’ love Chinese food, and not because I’m half Chinese, but because it’s frickin’ awesome. When I was growing up, my father—the proud Irishman—had very little say in what we ate; that was my mother’s domain. But every once in a while, he’d sneak into the kitchen and whip up his favorite, shepherd’s pie.
I peeked over Po Po’s shoulder for a look into the pot, but she backed me off with a long wooden spoon. “Not ready. Ten minutes.”
I had learned early on not to argue with her about cooking times. Even if the dish looked finished, ten minutes often meant the difference between good and food porn.
I sulked and looked at my watch—it was ten to five. To pass the time, I headed upstairs to see how my other child fared. Lucy grabbed the back of my shirt and walked in step behind me, all while mumbling. I had no idea what she was saying or who she was talking to. Whenever I asked her who she was talking to, she smiled and asked me a question. I don’t think she was even aware that she was talking. My luck, Ryan’s constant joking that she’s probably talking to an evil spirit that will appear one night from a pool of black guck will surprise me and come true.
Ryan was in his room, shockingly. I had gotten so used to him being upstairs in the media room. I imagined in a few years, he’d be asking if he could make that his bedroom, which would be strange considering my office was up there and I might cramp his style.
“Whatcha reading?” I asked, standing at his doorway with Lucy. He was on his bed, lying on his stomach. I had noticed he was reading more these days.
“It’s the autobiography of Bruce Lee. Did you know he was born in Chinatown?”
“I did not.” I did. He’s one of Hong Kong’s biggest heroes.
“And he had a dojo in Oakland.”
That I did not know. “The book sounds interesting.”
“Yeah, my friend Christian lent it to me. I met him in judo class. Maybe I can start taking kung fu classes, too.”
My boy was becoming quite the martial arts enthusiast. He had already been involved in judo for over a year now and had even won a couple of small tournaments at his dojo.
“Is there a school nearby?”
“I dunno. I’ll ask at the dojo and let you know, okay?”
“That sounds perfect. But right now it’s time for dinner, so table that book and come downstairs.”
Dinner that night lasted for forty-five minutes, longer than usual, but the conversation was good and so was the food. Afterward, Lucy rushed over to the couch and started playing games on her tablet. “Uh huh,” I said. “Did you finish your homework?”
She remained quiet, pretending she didn’t hear me.
“Lucy, don’t make me ask you twice.”
“Awwww, Mommy,” she groaned.
“No games until it’s finished. Understood?”
“But I’m tired.”
“Next time, do your homework as soon as you get home, and that way, you won’t have to worry about it later.” I grabbed the tablet out of her hands. “You’ll get this back when I see your homework finished.”
I watched her stomp her tiny feet up the stairs before I turned to her brother. “And what about you?”
“All done. I’ll be upstairs reading.”
Awesome!
By the time Po Po and I finished clearing the table and doing all the dishes, it was nearing six thirty, which was more like eight for her. Her eyes looked tired, and I knew she’d had a long day. Still, at seventy-one years of age, she
was pretty active—and she was up every morning at five thirty.
“Let me finish wiping the counters,” I said before taking the cloth from her hand.
“I help,” she insisted.
“Nope. Get out of here.”
She nodded. “Okay, I take a bath now.”
Since she had fixed an amazing dinner, cleaning up was the least I could do. I’m so glad we have a dishwasher. After I had finished in the kitchen, I retired to my office to give my case more thought.
As always, I made a pass over all my notes and the case files for the three victims as a reminder of what I already knew. Sometimes looking at the information with a fresh head helped me to see things differently. That wasn’t the case that night. As much as it felt like we were making progress, my gut told me otherwise. So did the headache that lingered near the base of my skull.
I still had a little trouble buying the idea that my killer was a woman. Typically, serial killers were white males. It’s not that women didn’t kill—they do. They just don’t fit neatly into what has long been regarded as the profile of a serial killer. Times were changing though. A case I had worked in Detroit a few years back was proof.
I pulled out my phone and pulled up the suspect’s picture. It was grainy, and the angle was typical of most surveillance cameras, a top down visual. She didn’t look like a killer, but the good ones never do. Who are you? Why are you killing people?
It was a little after eight, and I was still lost within my thoughts, when I received a call from Tucker, the newbie agent.
“Agent Kane, it’s Agent Tucker. Sorry to bother you at home, but the early evening news didn’t feature our mystery woman.”
That didn’t surprise me. None of the news stations had reported on the crime. Only a couple of small papers had made mention of Piper’s death: the Marin Independent Journal and the Sausalito MarinScope. To most of the media, her death wasn’t newsworthy enough. Translation: It wasn’t sensational enough to move papers or spike ratings.
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, well, I called a bunch of them back, and now they have all promised to feature it on the late news.”
“Oh? What made them change their mind?”
“I hope you don’t mind, but I gave the case a nickname, something they could sell.”
“What name did you give them?”
“The Cotton Candy Killer.”
Chapter 26
Vitaly Scherbo slouched on his couch. Sweat had soaked his shirt, and his bouncing legs showed no sign of losing their beat as he drifted in and out of his thoughts. A bottle of vodka he had removed from the freezer stood unopened on the small coffee table in front of him. The icy frost that had once covered the narrow bottle was nothing more than a tiny moat circling the base.
For three hours the bottle had stared at Vitaly, urging him to indulge one last time. It was always one last time. He didn’t want to drink, but the pain he felt inside wouldn’t disappear, and only the clear elixir from his homeland had the strength to dull it, if only for a few hours.
Vitaly had come from a well-to-do family; his father had made his fortune in aluminum after the fall of Communism. While his older brothers had been anxious to involve themselves in the family business, Vitaly had preferred psychology over the production of goods for commerce. He had dreamed of becoming a psychologist, a profession that hadn’t been highly sought after in his hometown of Krasnoyarsk, Russia. Therefore, it hadn’t been a common pathway at the universities where he had lived.
He had studied overseas to obtain a proper education in his field, receiving his undergraduate degree in London and his master’s in New York, and was currently working on his doctorate in clinical psychology in San Francisco. For a year and a half, he had attended the University of San Francisco and excelled. Only recently had he taken on a job as a cabbie, not because he needed the money—his father paid for everything—but to do what he loved doing: studying people. He had planned on writing his thesis paper based on his observations and conversations with his fares.
By the sheer nature of who Vitaly was and what he was studying to become, anyone who entered his cab became subject matter. He was a very astute person to begin with, and not much got by him—a positive trait, Vitaly thought. Life had been perfect until that day across the bay when he had picked up those three people in Sausalito.
He’d followed his procedure, never straying, not even the tiniest bit. As soon as the passengers were in the car and their destination called out, Vitaly had done what he always did with each fare: he struck up a conversation. He studied their movements. He listened to their conversations. It had been no different with the trio in the back of his cab that day.
He had thought it strange to find a forty-something couple palling around with a woman in her early twenties. It would have been perfectly fine if she’d been their daughter, but she wasn’t—he didn’t need to be told that. She looked nothing like them, the ages weren’t quite right, and their conversation only confirmed it.
Most people would have seen nothing wrong with the situation, and that was expected; most people hadn’t made a career of studying people and learning the ins and outs of criminal psychology like Vitaly had for the last nine years.
It had been this area of expertise that made Vitaly first notice the man and the way he looked at Piper like a ravaged animal waiting to feast. And though he had tried hard to cover his intense stares with smile and laughter, the man swallowed often, licked his lips, and wiped sweat off his brow, even though the temperatures had been in the low seventies. It was as if he would pounce on her at any second. The more Vitaly watched, the more he’d thought something was wrong.
And then things got worse.
He had begun to take notice of the woman. He saw through her laughter, and hair flips, and her touchy-feely hands that always seemed to follow her way-too-agreeable nods; it had been clear that her role was that of an older sister, someone trustworthy. It’s as if she were putting on an act, too. They were two wolves in disguise, talking up a baby sheep. The mannerisms of the woman were nothing like the man. Hers had been polished enough that the untrained eye wouldn’t have blinked, but Vitaly had seen through her veiled deception.
As for the young girl, she hadn’t found anything unusual about her companions. It didn’t appear as if the girl had been forced to go anywhere. She was agreeable and friendly with the older couple. They were friendly. They were normal. They’d had her convinced she was in a safe environment.
Vitaly tried to converse. He watched. He listened. He diagnosed. He feared. The young woman had been willing to chit-chat with him, but the other two only responded with malevolent stares. She does not know. You must say something.
At first, Vitaly hadn’t believed what his mind had concluded. Surely, he must have gotten something wrong or jumped too hastily to his conclusions about the man and the woman. But what if he were right? The signs were there. Why couldn’t it be true?
Based on his observations, the woman was likely a sociopath. She was charming, very likeable indeed. A lot of people are friendly, but coupled with continuous lying, it starts to build a case. For instance, Vitaly found it very unlikely that this woman had visited the Amazon. The woman hadn’t stopped talking since she sat down inside the car, and she had told the most elaborate of stories fueled with adrenaline and involving high risk—a common characteristic.
Her low-cut tank top had barely been able to contain her full chest. The flimsy bra had been more for style than form. Was that enough to peg her as a sexual person, a clear trait of a sociopath? Vitaly wasn’t sure. There were many more telling signs, but hadn’t been able to make a full determination without further observation.
And the man—did he know?
If she was a sociopath and the man knew it, Vitaly got the impression that he didn’t care. Why? Based on Vitaly’s backseat diagnosis, the man was a psychopath; they tend not to be bothered by those kinds of things.
The man’s forced smi
les and occasional chuckles had checked the box for superficial charm. He had moved in his seat and twiddled his thumbs. Psychopaths were known to suffer a never-ending battle with boredom. The way he looked at the young woman, in a predatory way. She was a prize to him, something he could have used to feed his psychological need. She was not human; she just was. To Vitaly, those signs had suggested that the man felt no remorse or conscious for his actions. Of course, Vitaly couldn’t prove any of it. It had all been just observation.
In the end, Vitaly had been left with two half-baked diagnoses that could go either way.
On their own, both the man and the woman could be dangerous. But if Vitaly’s theory had been right, that the man had been a psychopath and the woman had been a sociopath and they had formed a relationship to fuel each other’s needs, then that young woman was in grave danger.
On his way back to the city, Vitaly had replayed the drive over and over in his head. He wept as he thought of how he had done nothing, said nothing. He had let that poor, young girl exit the back of his cab and leave with those very disturbing people even though his gut had screamed for him to do something.
When he read the paper the next day, he had seen the mention of a dead hiker found on the mountain, and he knew who it was without even reading the rest of the article. He was responsible. His emotions only twisted further into a ball of self-hatred. He had known and had done nothing. He ignored all the signs.
I should have told them.
Vitaly knew it was wrong to withhold the information from the police, but he was scared—scared of what might happen to him, scared that maybe he might be implicated, or worse, that the couple would find out and come after him. After all, they knew what he looked like. His name had been clearly displayed on the cab license.
Streams of remorse trailed from his puffy eyes as the guilt inside burned through his chest. Vitaly reached toward the coffee table, past the bottle of vodka, for the true answer to his pain.
Vitaly’s problem wasn’t that he was an alcoholic. Deep down, he knew the real reason he had done nothing and had said nothing. He had known this reason for a long time—most of his life. Even though he had gone his own direction, left Russia and studied abroad for years, those were safe things. He’d had his father’s money to protect him and his father’s business to fall back on. The truth of the matter was that Vitaly was, and always has been, an honest-to-goodness coward.
Russian Hill (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - Chasing Chinatown Trilogy Book 1) Page 9