Mai Lin's professional smile faltered and she took an uncertain step backward.
"It's all right. Don't worry." Chris took her by the arm and gently pulled her into the hotel room.
"I thought you weren't Vice?"
"I'm not. That's not why you are here."
"Oh? You know the rates?"
"That's not why you're here either. I just want to talk."
That brought a raised eyebrow as the escort seated herself, not letting go of the leather carryall on the floor beside her. "Talk costs money, too."
"Later. Right now, I want to hear about that allnighter you had with Tom Forsyth."
Mai Lin shrugged. "What's to tell? We drank some wine, ate supper, and had sex."
"You stayed all night?"
"That's what I was paid for."
"That's not an answer. Were you there all night?"
"Yes. What's this all about? Am I in some kind of trouble?"
"Not if you answer my questions. And tell the truth."
"Are you sure you're a cop? You don't look like one."
"I am." Chris flipped open his wallet to show her his badge and identification.
"This guy Tom must be in big trouble."
"Not necessarily. We're just looking into a few things."
"Sure." She shot him a skeptical look, which changed to alarm as she asked, "Will I be called on to testify? On the stand? I can't do that. No way."
"It's unlikely. But I can't promise you won't. I can promise you immunity if you do have to testify. If you testify willingly and truthfully."
"And if I don't?"
"You will be subpoenaed and examined under oath. The maximum penalty for perjury is fourteen years. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. You said you didn't feel like having breakfast in the morning. Just tell me what you remember."
"Not one hell of lot. I seem to have slept most of the time."
"How often did you have sex? Can you remember?"
"Just the once. After supper. He didn't seem all that interested, if you want the truth. It was all kind of weird. Why would a guy pay for a whole night and not take advantage of it?"
"Why indeed? Let's talk about what you felt like when you woke up."
"I felt like crap, to be honest. The john," she went on, instinctively de-personalizing the client, "had a hell of a time waking me. My head felt like it would split in two. All I wanted to do was to get back home to my apartment and sleep. I didn't work for two days after that."
"So your all-nighter didn't turn out to be such a great deal, after all?" Chris smiled companionably at her.
"That's right. Like I said, it was kind of weird."
"Have you ever felt like that before?"
"Never. Not once in my whole life." She shook her head. "And I hope to God I never do again."
"Is it possible the john could have gone out for a few hours without you knowing it?"
Another lifted eyebrow. "I dunno. Yeah, I guess so. I was really out of it. I offered to give him back some of his money but he didn't want it."
"Did it ever occur to you that you could have been drugged?"
"You mean like the date rape drug? Yeah, I thought about it. But what was the point? He had already paid to have as much as sex as he wanted. I thought he might have tried some sick perversion on me, but there was no sign of that. I checked myself out, all over. Then I figured I must have had the flu."
"So it's fair to say he could have left you sleeping in bed and gone out without you knowing?"
"The hotel could have burned to the ground without me knowing it."
"Fair enough." Chris fished in his pants pocket. "It's two-sixty an hour, right?" He had given much thought to whether he should pay for her time, but it was standard practice for police informants to be paid, and it wouldn't contaminate her evidence if and when she testified under oath. He winced at the thought of the field day defence counsel would have if they ever found out.
"I don't like to take it, but I'll get shit from the agency if I don't." Mai Lin looked at her watch as she took the money. "There's still time to do something, if you like."
For an unexpected moment, he was tempted. But he would be on the stand and subject to counsel's probing questions.
"Thanks, but I'll take a rain check."
The cage was empty. Jesus! Chris shuddered at the thought of the havoc the parrot could have wreaked. Nothing seemed to be disturbed in the living room, nor was there any sign of Nevermore.
"Nevermore, where are you?"
As if in answer, there came a loud, clanging crash from the kitchen. Telling himself there was nothing there that couldn't be replaced, Chris hurried across the living room.
"Hello, Chris." The guttural greeting brought him up short, and he stood in the archway, unable to resist a chuckle as he took in the scene. Nevermore was perched on the overhead metal rack designed to hold the cooking pots and pans. Most of the hooks were empty, the pots and saucepans piled in a heap on the cooking island below.
"Well, that must have been fun!" Still chuckling, and vastly relieved that Nevermore had concentrated his mischief on the cooking utensils, which made such a satisfactory din, Chris smiled up at his unrepentant pet. He would put the pots through the dishwasher before hanging them back on their hooks. Standing on tiptoe, he reached his hand up for Nevermore to climb onto. He refused to have the bird's wings clipped, which was fine so long as he was around to supervise when Nevermore was out of the cage. But now that he could escape at will ... Chris patted the little package in his pocket. On his way to the hotel he had stopped at a hardware store and purchased a padlock, the smallest size they had, but wide enough so that Nevermore couldn't pull it through the bars into the cage.
"Congratulations, my clever friend, you solved that puzzle very neatly," he said as he put the parrot back in its cage.
Head cocked to one side, Nevermore watched intently as Chris rehung the door and fastened the padlock over the sliding bar that held the door closed.
Nevermore had solved his puzzle, and he, Chris Crane, had made considerable progress toward solving his. Not that he particularly cared for the way the answer seemed to be shaping up. But finding answers was what he did. They both deserved a little reward. Chris gave Nevermore three green grapes, put on their favourite Sonata disc, and poured himself a glass of Chambertin.
Nevermore had another little surprise for Chris before he left in the morning. Telephone receiver in his left hand, right hand poised over the dial, Chris paused as he heard the unmistakable sound of numbers being punched in. Another addition to Nevermore's rapidly expanding repertoire.
"Fooled you this time," he told the parrot as he pressed the single key on the speed dial that connected with Gwen at the FCSU office, where she usually went to begin her day. When she answered, he told her he was just leaving for Andrew Davison and asked her to meet him there.
"So our prime suspect is back in play!" Gwen's eyes shone with excitement when Chris finished telling her about his meeting with Mai Lin. "An inspired bit of detective work on your part, if I may say so."
"You may. And thanks. Actually, it was Mason's bull in the china shop tactics that precipitated it. Convinced him it was time to produce his alibi. The alibi he had so cleverly manufactured."
Which, thought Gwen, explains why you've been so cool about that clown barging into Forsyth's law office, instead of dressing him down the way he deserved. Or filing a complaint. But then you're not the kind to file complaints.
Chris was still talking. "It was Mai Lin saying she didn't feel like breakfast that got me thinking. And Tom paying for Mai Lin's services with a credit card instead of using cash also struck me as suspicious. He's no dummy, and he would know there's always a possibility of being traced through credit card records. In this case, however, he would want the charge to show up on his statement to further substantiate his alibi. And I once knew a guy who used to doctor his wife's wine with ground-up sleeping pills. She would go to bed right after dinner and he would slip out to carry on his affair with her best friend."
Intrigued, Gwen asked, "What happened?"
"She went to see a doctor, who asked her if she was aware that someone was trying to poison her."
"And?"
"Divorce. A very expensive divorce. And the end of a beautiful friendship."
"I must say you know the most interesting people!"
"Don't I, though?"
"Where do we go from here?"
Much to Gwen's relief, when Chris replied his voice was matter-of-fact, detached. His professional instincts were not to be overruled by the fact that the suspect was a personal friend. "There are several leads that need to be followed up. If Forsyth is our boy, he had to work within a very compressed time frame from Saturday afternoon, when he first learned that Vinney was going to blow the whistle, to sometime Sunday night. Let's think about what he had to accomplish in that time. Remember, it's still hypothetical."
"Yeah. Of course," replied Gwen. "Okay, first, how would he have laid his hands on the drug?"
"I think we can assume it was a street drug. Most likely rohypnol from the way she described what it did to her. Mixed with wine it would be virtually tasteless. And it's readily available on the street."
"Would our boy know that? He practises corporate law, not criminal."
"All he has to do is read the papers. They're full of drug wars and drug busts. Mostly in the northeast. It wouldn't take him long to make a buy up there. I'll talk to the drug squad. They'll know just who to question. They'll need that photo you took along with some others of men in his age group. Maybe we can get a useable ID."
"I'll look after it. What about the hotel? If he snuck out on the escort, some of the staff must have seen him."
"Not necessarily. He could have taken an elevator down to the lower floor where the shops are and gone out the side door. It's locked at night, but it can be opened from the inside."
"The parkade? He would need transportation."
"I'll inquire. But you can bet he'd be too smart for that. There's a free city parking lot less than a block away from the hotel. And we know he rented an SUV that weekend. Both he and Marge, his wife, have cars, so why would he do that?"
"And we think he may have found out how the real killer mutilated his victims from Scott Millard, his good friend and squash partner?"
"Who in turn could have been told about it by an informant. So far, it's rank surmise, but the pieces do seem to fit."
"Chris?"
"I know what you're thinking—shouldn't we bring Forsyth in?"
"Well, shouldn't we?"
Chris shook his head. "There's no direct evidence to connect him with the crime. All we have so far is a set of highly suspicious circumstances. Highly suspicious, but still capable of being explained away."
"He could be a danger to the public if he's left on the loose. Think of that poor, innocent woman, the one you call a victim of convenience. He might be the one who killed her as well. And there could be others if he's developed a taste for killing. That can happen."
"I know. But I don't think that's why the Simpson woman was killed. If Forsyth killed her, it would be to convince us that Adrienne Vinney was another victim of our serial killer. If so, it was a rational act, not a thrill killing."
"If murder can ever be rational," Gwen amended.
"And don't forget," Chris reminded her, "the cross was on the right hand in the Simpson case. Right being left in this case. If it was Forsyth who killed Adrienne Vinney, I don't see him making a career out of it. He would have nothing to gain."
"He could have found out about the hand the same way he found out about the other mutilations. Professional gossip. But you know the guy. You know how he thinks, and I don't."
"What are you saying, Gwen? That I should recuse myself from the case?"
"Of course I'm not, Chris. The way you've investigated this case has been a model of police work. It's just that I worry about him being out there."
"We're on the same page, Gwen. As usual." Chris choked slightly as he heard himself. He had just committed a cliché worthy of the Chief himself. With an apologetic shrug, he continued, "I'm going to arrange to have Forsyth put under surveillance. Starting this afternoon."
"Thank God!" Gwen breathed. "That makes me feel better. Much better."
She started to get up then sat down again as she saw the receptionist approaching with a plastic bag.
"This came in this morning's mail." The receptionist handed Chris the bag. The envelope inside it was addressed to him with the individual letters clipped from a newspaper. Reaching into a drawer he pulled on latex gloves and waited while Gwen went back to her desk for hers.
Slitting the envelope open with a paperknife, he took out the single sheet of paper, holding it by the top left-hand corner. Like the address, the terse message was in newsprint, a random mixture of capitals and lower case:
The heart-shaped signature attested to its authenticity.
How had he gotten hold of "crane"? It was in lower case. Of course. Last week a window cleaner had been trapped on the fifth floor of the Sun Life Plaza and a mobile crane had been used to rescue him. Both local papers had run the story.
The question mark was written in blue ink. Question marks weren't all that easy to find in a newspaper.
"Make copies for us, and send the original to Forensics," he instructed Gwen. "I'll call Mavis."
"She'll be here in half an hour," he said when Gwen came back with the photocopies. "And we both know Mavis likes to form her own opinion and doesn't appreciate being told what to look for. Let's take a pee break while we wait."
"It'll be interesting to hear what she has to say about the note Dummett claims to have received," Gwen remarked. Chris had discussed the freelancer's visit with both her and the profiler and shown a copy of the communication to both. He had not mentioned it to anyone else. Not even Patterson.
"Let's talk first about the communications directed to the police. Either generally, or now more specifically to you." Mavis Ross looked at Chris. "In my opinion these are the genuine article. I believe them to be from TLC. For one thing, the letters and words are all from the Sun."
Chris nodded, half-mesmerized as always by the luminous hazel eyes that regarded the world and its foibles with such calm appraisal. Those eyes had widened in mild interest when Chris, in one of their earlier sessions on a previous case, had informed her she was named after a bird—a European song thrush. "What do the letters being from the Sun tell us?" he asked.
"Its readership, generally speaking, is different from the other papers."
"More blue-collar?" Gwen put in.
"That's true. To a certain extent. It also appeals to a younger audience, and those who follow sports. Spectator sports primarily."
"That could be helpful." Chris was well aware that demographics often played a vital role in solving a crime.
"It could," she agreed, then cautioned, "But lots of people who don't fall into any of those categories read the Sun. Or the sender could have used it for the reason that he or she isn't a regular reader."
"Okay. You said all the messages are from the same person. TLC. What do they tell us about him or her?"
"Most importantly that this person doesn't want to be caught. When serials start communicating with the police it often means they want to be found out. Sometimes it's because they want to stop; sometimes it's because they crave the publicity that an arrest would bring. The notoriety that to them is the same as fame. Not TLC, however. He's narcissistic, like most serials. Maybe even more so. My guess is he will continue with his campaign. That's what this is," she said, tapping the photocopy with her index finger. "A campaign. Killer versus the police. He's selected you, Chris, as his real opponent. The Chief always mentions you in his press conferences as the detective heading up the crack Homicide team investigating the crimes."
"Does that mean Chris is in danger?" demanded an alarmed Gwen.
"No. I'm pretty sure not. This killer is fixated on women. It's clear he hates them. Look at what he does to them. He now regards Chris as his opponent in a game of his own making. I find myself referring to the killer as ‘he,' but that's just for convenience. It could also be a woman."
"Do you really think so?" Chris shook his head. "The vibes I'm getting tell me we're dealing with a man. And very few women have the sheer physical strength to do what this guy does."
As he said this, Chris realized that the profiler, with her large, muscular build, was one woman who was quite capable of doing exactly that.
An amused half-smile told him that Mavis had read his thoughts. She had a disconcerting way of doing that from time to time. Her smile was replaced with faint frown lines as she studied the communications spread out on the table. "There's no question in my mind that our killer is waging war with the police. And as I said, it's pretty clear that he has selected Chris as representing the police. But I'm beginning to suspect that you may have been his designated target right from the start."
"Steve Mason won't like that," breathed Gwen. "He was all puffed up when that letter was sent to him with his neighbour's address on it. He went around saying that TLC realized that he was the real threat. The one most likely to track him down."
Before he made a sardonic remark about Mason's inimitable investigative style, Chris checked himself. It wasn't necessary for Mavis to know about Forsyth's effort to establish an alibi.
"Anything more to be gleaned from TLC's missives, Mavis?"
"He will kill again. And again. We don't know what got him started. But he's addicted to it now. The power over life and death. It's what serial killers get off on. Some of these psychopaths keep score. Compare their numbers with those racked up by their famous counterparts—Dahmer, Gacy, Bundy, our own Clifford Olson and Paul Bernardo. Our boy still has a way to go to catch up to most of them. Maybe not Bernardo, but he made up for it in other ways."
"Phil Dummett talked about the power syndrome as well. But I think it was more of a general comment on his part. Something he picked up from his reading. He hasn't had the advantage of seeing the other letters you believe to be authentic. But what about the letter Dummett allegedly received? Do you think it's genuine?"
"Who's to know? It's a toss-up either way. It does-n't have the drawing of a heart and the newsprint is from the Herald, not the Sun. On the other hand, it's completely logical that TLC would seek out somebody like this journalist. He would see him as a way to get his message out to the public. And of course this freelancer would realize it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Mavis's profile of the serial doesn't exactly fit Forsyth, does it?" asked Gwen.
"Not at all," Chris agreed, returning to the interview room after escorting Mavis to the elevator. "The most interesting part is what she said about this being a game. That doesn't fit Forsyth. Not at all. I can't see him as a serial killer. I'm pretty well convinced he killed Adrienne Vinney, but what we need is a piece of evidence to link him to that crime. If only the guys had come up with something from the SUV."
"Like the feather of a meadowlark?" asked Gwen innocently.
"We wish!" laughed Chris. Back in his days with the FCSU, it had been his recognition of a feather lodged inside the grille of a Nissan as that of a meadowlark that had led to the arrest and eventual conviction of a murderer. The western meadowlark, whose range was fast contracting as its habitat disappeared with the advance of urban sprawl, was a bird of the open grasslands and country roadside ditches. The presence of its feather had contradicted the murderer's claim that he'd never been near the scene of the crime.
"There's no way we can get authorization for an arrest with what we have so far," said Chris as he and Gwen remained sitting around the table.
"Everything fits. But it's all circumstantial."
"Convincing, but circumstantial. All right, let's go through it one more time. After all, most murder trials are based on circumstantial evidence."
He had barely begun when there was a knock on the door and the receptionist, at his nod, ushered in two uniformed police. Both wore big smiles.
"We may have struck out on the plastic, but we got a hit on the tape," said the senior constable, a blonde in her late thirties, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "We got a positive ID of the suspect purchasing two rolls of duct tape from the proprietor of a little convenience store tucked under the Crowchild Trail overpass."
"Beautiful!" Chris and Gwen sighed in unison.
"Congratulations," Chris added. "This proprietor is willing to testify?"
"He is. It's a positive ID, and he will be a very credible witness. Here's his name and address." Still smiling, the two constables left.
"Now what use do you suppose a murderer could have for two rolls of duct tape?" Gwen couldn't repress a gleeful grin.
"‘Let me count the ways.'" Momentarily elated by this telling piece of evidence, Chris almost chortled as he quoted the famous line from the poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, ticking off each point on his fingers. "First you keep her from calling for help by taping her mouth. Then you render her immobile by taping her hands and feet. And then you use it to seal whatever you're wrapping her body in to keep it from leaking blood."
"Now what?"
"Now I apply pressure to Mr. Scott Millard and see if he can add anything to the case against Forsyth."
"I already told you I have nothing more to say on that subject!" The criminal lawyer glared across his desk, strewn with court documents, at Chris.
"So you did," agreed Chris. "But things have moved on since then, and it looks as though you will find yourself being served with a subpoena. Which of course means you will have to tell what you know in open court."
"I know what it means, for Christ's sake!" Millard inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "You wouldn't be talking about this unless you plan to arrest Tom. Right?"
"The case against him is looking pretty compelling. More and more as we look into it."
"Yeah. I know all about the police and their tunnel vision once they've got a suspect in their sights."
"It's not like that. I'm a little puzzled, Scott. I would have thought that if Forsyth was the one who killed Adrienne and did those things to her, you would be the first to want him brought to justice."
"That's right. I would. But there's a big if. Isn't there?"
"Not as big as you might think. Well," Chris got to his feet. "I guess we'll have to see what the subpoena brings out."
"Sit down! Look, here's what I know. And what I could have mentioned to Tom."
"Could have?"
"Okay. Did tell him. I told him about her nipple being cut off, and about something being jammed up her ... you know what."
Holding his breath, knowing he couldn't lead him, Chris looked at the lawyer, willing him to continue.
"I also told him about the perverted son of a bitch carving a cross on her hand and folding her hands as if she was praying. Like she was some kind of religious sacrifice, for Christ's sake!"
"Hence your ‘religious pervert' comment at the Country Club. Did you happen to mention which hand?"
Millard paused, as if trying to remember. "No. I didn't. I didn't know myself." Another pause. "I take it from the way you look that it could be important?"
"It is. This is what you will testify to, if called upon?"
"I will."
"What happened?" Gwen came forward to meet Chris as he arrived back at Homicide.
"Forsyth knew. Now we go see the chief prosecutor and brief him on what we have. He's certain to authorize an arrest." The knowledge that they would be arresting someone who had once been a good friend was a sobering thought, but Chris couldn't deny the thrill of finally fitting the last piece of the puzzle in place.
"We'll take Mason along with us as well. If anything will throw Forsyth off, that should. You never know, maybe he'll be steamed enough to let something slip. Keep an eye on his reaction."