by Steven Henry
But if that was all true, why did she keep waking up in the middle of the night? Why did she have to keep reliving those moments?
She got up, went to the bathroom, had a drink of water, and flopped down on her couch in front of the TV. She flipped through the channels. Nothing looked promising. It was all infomercials and late-night movies. The last thing she needed was a horror movie, so she settled on an advertisement for some sort of weird kitchen appliance. The drone of the TV guy's voice gradually calmed her nerves. Finally, a little after four, she felt able to flick off the television and crawl back into bed to grab a couple more hours of unhealthy sleep.
She climbed out of bed at her usual time, got dressed, and went for her morning run with Rolf. Then she had a quick shower, breakfast, and headed in to work. She had a lead to follow up. She couldn't afford to let herself think about the Russians anymore.
Some of the old-time knuckle-draggers at the NYPD liked to joke about female cops wanting to talk about makeup and clothes all the time, instead of dealing with the ugly side of police work. Erin was glad none of them were looking over her shoulder, because this was the first time she'd used a work computer to look up cosmetics.
She was trying to match the lipstick and perfume Janice Barnes had been wearing. Or at least, the lipstick and perfume that had been put on her body. She picked up her desk phone and called down to the morgue.
“Levine,” the ME said when she finally picked up after five rings.
“This is O'Reilly up in Major Crimes,” Erin said. “I have a question about cosmetics.”
There was an awkward pause. “I think maybe you've reached the wrong department,” Levine said at last.
“No, I wanted to ask you about putting makeup on a corpse.”
“It's easy,” Levine said. “Morticians do it all the time. Apparently some people find bodies off-putting without it. The lividity—”
“Is there any way to tell if makeup was applied to someone before or after they died?” Erin interrupted.
There was no answer. The silence went on long enough that Erin wondered if they'd been disconnected.
“Uh... Levine?”
“I'm thinking,” Levine said. “Some cosmetics are liquid-based, so if they weren't completely dry when discovered, it might be possible to determine time of application. If you knew the precise time of death, you'd know whether the makeup had been applied ante- or post-mortem.”
“But there's no way to know otherwise?”
“Not that I know of,” Levine said. “I can check the literature. It's not normally a relevant question. Can I get back to work now?”
“Yeah, sure,” Erin said. “Thanks.”
Levine hung up without bothering to say goodbye.
Erin turned back to her computer screen. She had a pretty close match on the lipstick, she thought, but it was hard to tell. Colors sometimes looked different on a computer than in real life, and there were more shades of red lipstick than she'd ever imagined. And of course the perfume wasn't something she could research online, at least until they developed scratch-and-sniff websites. It was probably just as well that those didn't exist, given the average American's Internet habits.
Levine had given her an idea, though, with her offhand remark about reaching the wrong department.
“Looks like it's a day of firsts,” she said to Rolf. “We're going shopping on the clock.”
Erin Googled the nearest perfume and cosmetic store. It was part of a chain of upscale New York shops, just down the street from the precinct. She decided to go on foot and give Rolf a little additional exercise. First, she went down to Evidence so Rolf could have a good sniff at Janice Barnes's dress. Then she gave him his search command and they went for their walk.
She was in luck. The store was empty except for the guy behind the counter. He was a clean-shaven man about her own age, good-looking, dark hair and very dark eyes. His name tag identified him as Trevor.
“Hello, ma'am,” he said, giving her a warm, friendly smile. “What can I help you with today?”
“Hi, Trevor,” she said. “I'm trying to track down a particular fragrance.”
He glanced at Rolf, then back at her. “Ma'am, we don't usually allow dogs in the store,” he said. “But for such a beautiful creature, I'll make an exception.”
“He's a police K-9,” she said, showing her shield. “I'm Detective O'Reilly.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “I see. Is this a business errand, or personal?”
“Business.”
“That's a shame,” he said. “You can't work all the time. A woman needs to take care of herself. Though I can see you do a good job of that. You're a very attractive woman, Detective. You shouldn't hide it.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” she said. “But right now, I'm looking for a perfume we found at a crime scene. Do you have samples on hand?”
“Of course. But we have dozens of different fragrances. Are you planning on sorting through all possible perfumes by smell?”
“Not me,” she said, pointing to Rolf.
He laughed. It sounded natural enough, but Erin thought it was just a little forced. “We've never had a dog try our samples before,” he said. “But I suppose it's okay. They're over here.” He went to a side counter and brought out a tray with a dizzying array of tiny bottles and labeled card samples.
“Let's get started,” Erin said.
Trevor shrugged. As he began putting scented cards in front of Rolf, he watched Erin thoughtfully.
“What's the crime?” he asked.
“I can't discuss an ongoing investigation,” she said absently, still looking at her dog.
“I might be able to help,” he said. “Is it a female bank robber? A drag queen hitman?”
Erin was startled into a laugh. “No, nothing like that,” she admitted. “Just trying to nail down some evidence.”
“I see,” Trevor said. “How will the dog know if it's the perfume you're looking for?”
“He's a trained search dog. I gave him a sample. He'll alert when he hits the right one.” She sighed. “Assuming it's even here.”
“He can track perfume?” Trevor said. “I thought they only knew to go after human smell.”
“He'll track anything if I can give him a whiff of it,” she said proudly. “Rolf is the best damn K-9 in New York.”
“So once he has the scent, he'll be able to track down your target?”
“Absolutely,” Erin said with more confidence than she felt. The trail was cold, and tracking a suspect through an urban area was tricky at the best of times, what with all the crisscrossing paths of millions of people.
“Amazing,” he said. He set another row of cards down in front of Rolf, then turned to Erin again. “I'm sorry, I haven't properly introduced myself. Trevor Fairfax.”
“Erin O'Reilly,” Erin said, shaking hands. He had a firm grip, but soft hands. He held her hand just a little longer than politeness required. She had to make the first move to disengage.
“I've been working here almost ten years, and this is the first time I've had a policewoman come in on duty,” he said. “I can suggest a couple of fragrances that would work great for you. You want to project power and confidence, right?”
“Not sure I need perfume for that,” she said.
“Of course you don't need it,” he said with a smile. “This store isn't about needs. We sell dreams and pleasures. Luxuries. Surely you can indulge in a little hedonism from time to time.”
“Not often on my salary.”
“Well, it looks like your dog came up empty,” Trevor said. “He must be looking for something we don't have a sample for.” He started to turn away.
“Hold on,” Erin said. “I don't think he checked that batch on your right.”
He paused. “Really?”
“You started with those,” Erin said, pointing. “Set that bunch down for a sec, would you?”
He shrugged again and complied.
Rolf sneezed and shook his head, clearin
g some of the lingering bits of perfume from his nostrils, then snuffled at the sample cards. Immediately, as if a fishhook had grabbed his snout, he cranked his head to the side and took deep, heavy sniffs at the second card from the left in the assortment. Then he scratched at the card with his front paws.
“That's it,” Erin said. She bent down to look at the sample card. “What's this one?”
“That's called Heartbreaker,” Trevor said. “It's a lovely fragrance. Sensual, passionate, full of promise... with just a hint of tease to it. It's for the woman who wants to be beautiful but unattainable. You'd like it.”
“I'm not gonna wear perfume that was put on a murder victim,” Erin said without thinking.
“Murder?” Trevor echoed. “My God, that's terrible.”
“Does your store keep sales records?” Erin said quickly, moving past her verbal slip.
“Of course.”
“Are they just for your store, or for the whole chain?”
“Both,” he said. “Corporate uses them to plot sales trends.”
“I need to see them.”
He hesitated. “I can't do that, Erin. I'm sorry. It's a customer privacy issue.”
“I can get a court order.”
He spread his hands apologetically. “Then I think you'd probably better do that,” he said. “You don't want to overstep and get in trouble.”
She gave him a sardonic half-smile. “Thanks for your concern.”
“I really would like to help,” he said. “I'll ask my manager about the sales records. Maybe he'll give me the go-ahead. And anything else I can do to help, you only have to ask.”
“Thanks.” She took out one of her cards and handed it to him. “Here's my phone number. Let me know as soon as you can about the sales info. Or anything else you can think of that might be helpful. Any strange guys buying this perfume, anything out of the ordinary.”
“Of course,” Trevor said. He offered his hand again. “Erin, it's been a pleasure to meet you. Please, don't hesitate if there's anything else you need.”
She shook hands again. “Actually, there's one thing,” she said. “I'll take a bottle of the Heartbreaker after all.”
“Changed your mind?” he said, taking out a deep crimson bottle. “You won't be sorry. It's like a liquid dream.”
“Hey,” she said. “Remember the first rule of street dealing, Mr. Fairfax.”
“What's that?”
“Never get high on your own supply.”
He laughed. “I appreciate. I don't use. That'll be one hundred and five dollars.”
“Holy shit!” Erin blurted out.
“It's worth it,” he said. “Just give it a try.”
“Okay,” she said. It wasn't like she was buying it for personal use. This was going to be expensed to the department. She just hoped the price tag didn't give Webb a coronary.
Trevor expertly bundled the little bottle into a dark red gift bag. Erin handed over her credit card, making sure to get the receipt in the bag.
“Okay, you're all set,” he said.
“Thanks, Mr. Fairfax. You've been very helpful.”
“Any time, Detective,” he said with a smile, looking her straight in the eye. “I hope to see you again sometime. Then you can tell me I'm right about the Heartbreaker.”
“Like a liquid dream,” she said, wondering what kind of dream it'd turn out to be.
Chapter 8
When Erin got back to Precinct 8, the others were gathered around the whiteboard. They'd been updating it with all the information they'd been able to collect regarding the double shooting. Unfortunately, there were a lot of holes. Jones had printed out some blank silhouettes to use in place of photos for guys they couldn't ID. There was a line from an outline labeled “Smiling Jack” through the Loch Druich to New York, ending in another outline labeled “Receiver.” Jones had written “C4?” by a copy of the cargo manifest. Another line intersected the first one at the ship, with yet another blank portrait representing the pirate. Under him was the one word “German?”
“How's it going?” Erin asked.
Vic grunted. He didn't look happy.
Webb glanced at her. “It's starting to come together,” he said. Then he saw the gift bag in her hand. “What's that?”
“Perfume.”
“Please tell me you haven't been visiting boutiques on your coffee break.”
“It's case-related,” she said. “Rolf matched it to the perfume on the hotel victim.”
“Really?” Jones said, walking to meet her. “Let me take a whiff.”
“Careful,” Erin said. “It's expensive.”
“I can't wait for the annual departmental budget review,” Webb muttered.
“Bury it in the equipment and uniform budget,” Vic suggested.
Erin opened the bottle. Jones sniffed at it.
“Okay,” she said. “What is it?”
“It's called Heartbreaker,” Erin said.
“Exotic?” Webb asked.
“Not really,” she said. “Just pricy. There's at least half a dozen outlets where you could buy it in Manhattan alone, not counting the Internet. We could go for a court order for the sales, but if the guy paid cash, it won't help us trace him.”
“Then what's the good of it?” Vic asked.
Erin knew it was important, but she wasn't quite sure why. “I'm building a picture of the killer,” she said at last. “Trying to figure him out.”
“Oh, good,” Webb said. “You're a profiler now. You looking to transfer to the Bureau, become a Feebie?”
“Just trying to catch this son of a bitch.”
“Okay, profile him,” Webb said, putting his hands on his hips. “Why'd this mystery man kill this girl?”
“Same reason most ser—” she began, then caught herself. “Same reason guys like that always kill girls. For the thrill of it.”
“Psychological gratification,” Jones put in. “Usually in cases like these, the killer either strangles his victim or uses a blade.” She shivered. “It's more intimate that way.”
“Poison's a little odd, wouldn't you say?” Webb asked.
Erin nodded. “I think... I think he doesn't actually like doing anything physical to his victims,” she said. “Janice Barnes wasn't raped. No bruises or ligature marks. He was really careful not to mess her up. It's almost like he just wanted to look at her, and killing her was incidental.”
“An aesthetic murderer,” Webb said. He shook his head. “That's a stretch, O'Reilly.”
“It explains the way he posed her, dressed her up, put makeup on her,” she argued. “I'll bet he actually thinks he admires women. He may even think he's doing them a favor.”
“Putting us on pedestals,” Jones said. “That's really creepy.”
“Look,” Webb said. “I can see you're sold on this, but I'm not. I'm not saying you're wrong. But you need more. I want you to keep digging, but we've got a bigger problem at the moment. If you're right about the missing cargo from the Loch Druich, we need to find it. I'm not sure we've got time to run down both cases.”
“We could punt this over to Homeland Security, take it Federal,” Vic suggested.
“Hell, Neshenko, you could take early retirement,” Webb snapped. “Then you wouldn't have to work any more cases, ever.”
“That's not what I meant,” Vic said.
“Sir, maybe Vic's right,” Jones said. “If this guy's a foreign national and he's brought explosives into New York, that's exactly what Homeland Security is for.”
“Yeah, because the Feds did such a great job protecting New York from terrorists in the past,” Webb said.
“Not sure the NYPD did any better,” Vic said.
Erin took a step toward him, clenching her fists at her sides. “My dad was on the force on 9/11,” she said. “I know guys who died that day. What the hell is your problem?”
Jones got between them. “Whoa,” she said. “He didn't mean anything.”
Vic scowled, but something
in her look seemed to get through to him. He dropped his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “That was outta line.”
Erin backed off and relaxed her hands.
“The point,” Webb said, “is that Homeland Security will go berserk if we call them in. They'll do more harm than good. Let's keep this quiet for now, at least until we know who we're looking for.”
“What if the C4 wasn't the point?” Jones said suddenly.
Everyone turned to look at her.
“What?” she said. “It's just a question.”
“It was a robbery,” Webb said, speaking as if he was explaining a very simple concept to a recent Academy graduate. “They tortured these guys to find out where the explosives were, then they killed them and dumped them.”
“We're assuming the only questions this German guy asked were about the cargo,” Jones said, but she faltered as she said it.
“What else would he have been asking?” Webb asked.
“I don't know,” Jones said. “What else did Carr and Garrity know?”
“Depends who they were working for,” Vic said.
Webb looked back at the whiteboard. He poked Smiling Jack with his finger. “Neshenko, we need to know who this guy is, and how he's connected. Get back on the phone with Interpol.”
“Shit,” Vic growled. “I knew it. I goddamn knew you were gonna say that. I hate talking to those guys.” He picked up his phone. “If I'm still on hold by this time next week, send help.”
“We have any idea who their contact was in New York?” Jones asked.
Webb shook his head. “It's apparently a pretty disciplined organization. Good compartmentalization. MacIntosh says he doesn't know who they were delivering to.”
“You believe him?” Erin asked.
Webb shrugged. “No reason not to. He spilled on everything else I asked. I'll take another run at him anyway, see if I can shake any recollections loose.”
“It okay if I grab a bite?” Erin asked. It was after 1:30. They'd forgotten about lunch, and her stomach was growling.
“Sure,” Webb said.
“I'll come with you,” Jones offered.
“Okay,” Erin said. “Let's go.”