John Mancini leaned back against the fake rattan headboard of the king-sized bed in his room at the Cozy Nook Motel off Route 13 in Delaware, just a breath from the Maryland border, and crossed his arms behind his head. He was tired and irritable and wished to God that he hadn’t answered the phone on Tuesday morning. If he’d let Connie, the receptionist, pick up he wouldn’t have had to speak with Calvin Sharpe. If he hadn’t spoken with Sharpe, he wouldn’t be here, right outside of Nowhere, Delaware, a stack of photographs of a headless woman resting on his lap, a warm beer on the nightstand, and an attitude brought on by indigestion and lack of sleep.
But he had picked up the phone, and when your boss asks you to drop everything and hold the hand of his son-in-law who happens at that moment to be on the verge of screwing up a major investigation, chances are he isn’t really asking at all. To ask implies that there is a choice of responses. When you’re dealing with Calvin Sharpe, there really was only one choice.
One headless woman found in a county park is a sign that there’s a nasty killer on the loose.
Three headless women in as many weeks is a sign that he’s enjoying it. And since Sharpe’s son-in-law, Kurt Fraser, was the chief of police in the sleepy town where the bodies were piling up, and since Sharpe feared that Fraser might have already bungled the investigation of the first victim completely, the second one marginally, Sharpe couldn’t move quickly enough to send in one of his own to help out.
Helping out meant, among other things, to help Fraser—and therefore Sharpe—to save face.
John had met with the young police chief earlier that morning, and quickly recognized that while Fraser was not totally inept, he was inexperienced and intimidated by his father-in-law’s high standing within the Bureau. The first of the three crime scenes had been totally corrupted when the troop of Cub Scouts, who had stumbled upon the body, had gone running off in all directions, covering any and all footprints and disturbing any trace evidence that might otherwise have been recovered. And it hadn’t been Fraser’s fault that a torrential rain had flooded the creek near where the second body had been left, not only washing away almost everything that could have been left behind but moving the body as well. To his credit, Fraser had been smart enough to figure out where the body might have been dumped a quarter mile upstream, by calculating where the creek had crested the night before. Working as a oneman forensic unit, because the small town lacked the funds for full-time specialists, Fraser had personally compiled the detailed notes, over which John Mancini now pored.
The discovery of the last body had been made late the previous morning by an elderly woman who was walking her dog. John had read her statement of the morning’s events at least three times.
“Jelly and I walk here twice each week,” the woman had related. “Always in the same part of the park. I’ve been bringing Jelly here since she was a pup—she’s eight now, so she knows the area. She goes off on her own, just so far ahead of me, then she comes back. Then she goes off again, then she comes back. We were halfway back to the parking lot when she took off, but didn’t come back. I called and called, but she wouldn’t come. Finally, I heard her barking and followed the sound. I thought perhaps she’d cornered something, a deer maybe—that’s happened before—or maybe that cougar that people around here keep saying they’ve seen. Well, there was Jelly, standing over that woman. Of course, at first I wasn’t sure it was a woman. It was there on the ground. . .”
“What do you think?” Fraser had asked when John arrived on the scene. “You seen anything like this before?”
“Close enough,” John had replied as he knelt down carefully beside the body.
“Where do you suppose the head is?” asked the young police chief.
“That’s anybody’s guess at this point,” John muttered.
“It never fails to amaze me that anyone could do something like this.” Fraser shook his head. “This is really the worst.”
John could have told him that this, this headless woman left in a park to be found by an elderly woman in the middle of a summer morning, while gruesome, obscene, was by no stretch of the imagination the worst. And compared to some of the cases John had handled in his career, the headless woman had met a relatively benign end. The body showed no sign of abuse, no wounds, no mutilation below the line of decapitation. There were several cases on John’s desk at that very moment where the victim had met a much more horrific end.
John looked over the photos of the site where the body had been found, on its back, arms crossed over the chest, legs crossed demurely at the ankles. Fully dressed. The body had not yet begun to decompose. Poor Mrs. Turner could well have passed the killer as he had made his way out of the park.
The phone on the table next to the bed began to ring.
“Mancini here.”
“‘Mancini here.’ What the hell kind of way is that to answer the phone?”
John grinned at the sound of his sister’s voice.
“Hey, Ang. How’s it going?”
“I’ll tell you how it’s going. Ma’s on the warpath. She wants to know why she has to depend on the noontime news to find out that her son is close enough to home to come to dinner.”
“I was going to call as soon as I got back to the motel but it was late by the time I got here and. . .”
“And that’s another thing she was not happy about. ‘A little more than an hour and a half from his mother’s house and he’s sleeping in a motel? What will people think?’ “
John laughed out loud.
“I guess I’d better give her a call first thing in the morning.”
“If you were smart, you’d make a beeline in the direction of Passyunk Avenue first thing in the morning and forget the phone.”
“Can’t do it, Ang. I’m going to be tied up for at least another day here. But I promise I’ll give her a call.”
“Don’t wait too long, pal. The rest of us still have to live with her, you know.”
“How is everyone?”
“Show up at the baby’s christening on Sunday and find out for yourself.”
“I have all intentions of doing that. How is my little nephew, by the way?”
“Cutest thing on God’s green earth, I swear to God.” Angela gave a motherly sigh.
“I can’t wait to see him again.”
“You remembered that Genna is coming? She is still coming, right?”
“When I spoke with her a few days ago, she said she was planning on it.”
“Good. I liked her. We all did.”
“I know, Angie.”
“So what should I tell Mom?”
“About what?”
“Dinner tomorrow night.”
“Doesn’t look good.”
“I’ll tell her you’re still with the body. That’s about the only excuse she’s going to buy.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll talk on Sunday. Call your mother. I gotta go. Carmen’s home.”
“Tell him I said hi and that. . .” John smiled even as his sister hung up the phone, “. . . I’ll see him on Sunday.”
Angela was their mother all over again. Tiny, small boned, dark-haired, smart mouthed. One hundred percent South Philadelphia Italian and proud to be. Such a contrast to Tess, the youngest of the three Mancini children, who was soft-spoken, mild tempered, and gentle of spirit. And John, the only son, fell somewhere between the two.
Their mother, Rita Theresa Esposito Mancini, was a force to be reckoned with, every bit as formidable as Calvin Sharpe. And first thing in the morning, her only son would call her.
John sat on the end of the bed and grinned. He knew exactly how the conversation with his mother would start.
“So you’re only one state away and you can’t come for dinner?”
And how it would end.
“So you won’t forget to not wear your gun to the christening, right? You know how nervous the DelVecchio boys get when you’re around. You being the FBI and everything.”
The DelVecchio brothers all reportedly had some nebulous ties to the Philadelphia Mafia, except, of course, for Carmen, who had married the sister of an FBI agent whose reputation had achieved legendary status in the neighborhood. It never failed to amuse John that certain members of the DelVecchio clan always seemed to be just on their way out when John arrived at family functions.
John closed his briefcase and placed it on the dresser that stood along the opposite wall, then turned the covers down, snapped off the light, and got into bed. He wondered if Genna was still awake. In the dark, he could see the face of the clock on the table. It was almost midnight. Too late to call the cottage. Patsy was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type.
John turned over in the dark, wishing he’d called her earlier. He should have called before he picked up that stack of reports and photographs. He should have known how involved he’d get. If Angie hadn’t called when she did, he’d probably still be lost in the details of this stranger’s death. It was only when he’d stopped for a moment that he realized how tired he was. They’d been at the crime scene from late afternoon the day before until the sun had come up this morning, then at the police station where he’d met with various members of local and state agencies and the press until well after the dinner hour.
He hoped that Genna was enjoying her week with Patsy. Hoped the weather was good so that they’d have lots of opportunity to sail and swim and fish, all those things that they so enjoyed. All those things, he half-smiled in the dark, that city boys like him had to be taught. He thought back to two summers ago, when he’d spent several long weekends at the lake with Genna and Patsy, who seemed to keep up a nonstop pace of activity.
When told they were going to go bass fishing, John had smiled at Patsy and said, “I’ll pass. I think I’ll just grab a lounge and sit in the shade and read a book.”
“John, there is no lounge,” Patsy had told him.
“No lounge?”
Patsy had shaken her head. Behind her, on the deck, Genna had appeared vastly amused.
“Just a folding chair, then. . . ?”
“Sorry.”
“What do you sit on when you come outside to read?” he asked.
“I don’t,” she told him. “I read inside, at night, or if it’s raining. But when the sun is up and the bass are biting, or the water is right for swimming or the wind right for sailing, or it’s a good day to hike, then that’s what I do. And right now, the sun is up and the bass are frisky. Put the book down and take your shoes off. We’re taking the boat out. You’ll like it.”
John hadn’t exactly liked it, but he hadn’t really minded it much, either, which more or less had satisfied Patsy. But later that day, when she’d suggested a hike around the lake, he’d driven the twenty minutes into Wick’s Grove and headed for the nearest shopping center, where he found a store that sold outdoor furniture. He purchased a lounge and a couple of folding chairs, and when he arrived back at the cottage, he planted himself solidly on the deck in the shade and with no small ceremony opened his book. Patsy had good-naturedly brought him a glass of iced tea before she and Genna set off on their trek.
John lay on his back in the dark and stared at the ceiling of his motel room. He had really loved those days at the cottage with Genna, had loved seeing the interaction between Genna and Patsy. Loved watching Genna’s face when she and Patsy bantered, loved the tenderness she showed the older woman, loved the woman that Genna was when she was there in that place where she felt so secure. There was something about Bricker’s Lake that brought out Genna’s most vulnerable side, and John had found that aspect of her personality sweetly appealing.
Other images played through his sleep-deprived brain. Genna in short shorts, standing at the end of the dock, watching an early morning fog so dense that he could barely see her from the lake’s edge. Genna in the sun, her head thrown back, laughing at something he’d said. Genna in the moonlight, the night the two of them took out a canoe and paddled down to a quiet stretch of man-made beach at the far end of the lake, where they’d rowed to shore and spent an hour wrestling in the sand. . .
“Genna.” He whispered her name aloud in the dark room, and closed his eyes, trying to imagine what the rest of his life would be without her in it.
The picture wasn’t pretty.
Right now, they shared friendship, professional respect, memories. There had to be more. Damn it, there would be more. Having once had Genna’s love, John would not be content until they were together again.
Somehow, someway, he’d have to find a way back into her life, back into her heart. He would find a way. He couldn’t see where he had a choice.
He just had to figure out the right way to go about doing that.
Tomorrow, he’d call her, if for no other reason than simply to hear her voice.
And then he’d call his mother.
Genna stood in the doorway that opened onto Patsy’s deck, her hands on her hips, watching Patsy instruct her new friend and next-door neighbor, Nancy, on the finer points of tying a fly onto the shank of a fishhook. An avid fisher all her life, Patsy simply could not resist seeking a convert to her favorite pastime. When Nancy commented that she’d never gone fishing, Patsy proceeded to plan their day around when the bass might be striking in the lake.
“. . . and of course we practice catch and release,” Genna overheard Patsy tell Nancy.
“What exactly does that mean?” Nancy raised a well-penciled brow that arched over very blue eyes.
“It means that after we catch the fish, we take great pains not to injure it while we remove the hook so that we can let it go.”
“And why might we do that?”
“It’s a way of protecting the species, a way of ensuring that there will be lots of big fish, not just small immature ones, in the lake or stream.”
“So why bother?” Nancy shook her flawless blond page boy.
“For the sport of it.”
“Hmmph. If it’s sport I want, I’ll go to the track and bet on the ponies. If I spend all day chasing after a fish, I expect to eat it.”
Genna smiled and stepped back into the cool of the cottage. Outside the debate continued, and Genna was glad for it. How wonderful that Patsy had someone closer to her own age to do things with. Although Genna wasn’t altogether certain that Nancy and Patsy were totally on the same wavelength.
For one thing, Genna observed through the window as she rummaged in her purse looking for her cell phone, in their two brief meetings, in spite of her more athletic bearing, Nancy had impressed Genna as being more, well, girly than Patsy ever was, with her carefully manicured nails, and carefully made up face. Two, Nancy seemed to favor long, gentle summer skirts over the shorts and slacks that Patsy lived in. Where Patsy was barely five-feet-five and slightly rounded, Nancy was tall, at least five ten, and slender, muscular almost. And while Patsy could keep up a full day’s worth of activities, Nancy seemed to pace herself, preferring to work on her laptop computer while seated on the deck of her rented cabin.
But they do seem to get along just fine, and that’s all that really matters, Genna thought as she finished dialing the number, wondering absently if perhaps she hadn’t met Nancy somewhere before. Was there something about her that stirred something far in the back of Genna’s memory? Her walk perhaps? Genna couldn’t put her finger on it.
But at least she’s good company for Pats and I’m grateful for that. Too bad she’s only here on weekends. . .
“Decker.” The ringing phone had been answered.
“Hi. It’s Genna Snow.”
“Just got off the phone with Lt. Banks up there at the state police barracks.”
“And he told you I was busted by a seven-year-old Amish girl named Rebecca.”
“Yes. Tough break. Though Banks seems to think that the information you gave him will be sufficient for a warrant.”
“I hope they get on with it, then.” Genna bit her bottom lip. “Sir, I have to tell you that I’m not comfortable knowing that the bikers could probably find Patsy if they wanted to. It’s all too easy to put two and two together and come up with Patsy Wheeler.”
“I’ll mention that to Banks and get his word that he’ll keep an eye on her and her cottage even after he makes his arrest.”
“I’d appreciate that. If someone wanted to hurt me. . . well, she’s my most vulnerable spot. And she is pretty much alone here except on weekends when there’s a neighbor next door.”
“I understand. I’ll call him right back.” There was a slight pause, then Decker told her, “I think you should go ahead and take the week off as planned. You’re due. Then come back next Monday and kick ass on this kiddie porn ring. Liddy has come up with a few good leads. I think he’s already e-mailed them to you.”
“I have my laptop with me. I’ll take a look.”
“Do. Ah, it appears my nine-thirty appointment is here. Rest up, Genna Snow. I’ll see you next week.”
Genna turned off the phone and slipped it back into her bag, then plugged her laptop into the phone jack and proceeded to read and send e-mail for almost forty minutes. When she had finished and closed up her computer, she looked out the window, her attention drawn by the sound of shared laughter, Patsy’s like a bell choir, Nancy’s throatier but no less merry as they inspected a bed of brightly colored daylilies that grew along the side of Nancy’s cabin. Genna opened the back door and went out to join them.
“I take it you gave up on fly fishing,” Genna said as she walked the narrow space between the two small houses.
“Not at all.” Patsy shook her head. “We just got off on a tangent about daylilies. Nancy knows a lot about plant propagation and hybridizing and cultivating, so much more than I.”
“Now, Patsy, you look at how much you’ve already taught me about making those little May fly things.”
“Nancy’s a natural at tying flies, Gen. Her fingers are ever so much longer.” Patsy held her hands up for inspection. “Short and stubby doesn’t tie quite as well.”
“Those short stubby fingers have tied thousands of flies over the years, don’t let her fool you, Nancy.”
“I’m not fooled in the least. Anyone could tell that Patsy knows her way around a tackle box.”
“Is that my phone?” Patsy frowned.
Genna turned to the house and listened.
“It is,” she said, taking long strides to the steps, which she took two at a time. “I’ll get it.”
“Thank you, honey. You know,” she turned to Nancy as they followed Genna at a slower pace, “I keep meaning to get an answering machine, but every time I go into town, I forget to pick one up. . .”
Genna was pacing the length and width of the small kitchen, then into the living room as far as the wall-mounted phone would reach, when the two women came into the cottage. She was speaking in a soft voice, and the slightest hint of a smile played about her lips.
When Patsy pointed to the phone and made an inquiring gesture, Genna put one hand over the receiver and whispered, “It’s John.”
“Oh.” Patsy brightened, then turned to Nancy and asked, “Iced tea?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
Humming as she filled three glasses partly with ice, then with tea from a pitcher in the kitchen, Patsy tried her best to pretend that she wasn’t at all interested in Genna’s conversation, though of course, she was. She handed Genna a glass of tea and took the others into the living room where she and Nancy sat and talked in hushed voices so as not to disturb Genna. When the phone had been returned to its cradle, however, Patsy called to her and asked, “How is John?”
“He’s fine.”
“Was he calling from the office?”
“He’s in Delaware.”
“Oh. Is he working on the headless women case?” Patsy called into the kitchen. “I saw on the national news the other day that they found another headless body and that they had called in the FBI.”
“Yes, John is there.” Genna leaned against the doorway.
“Patsy told me that your boyfriend is some kind of special investigator for the FBI. I’m so impressed. . .”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Genna made a point to tell Nancy, who sped right past her.
“. . . to know someone who knows someone like that. I saw a show on cable not two weeks ago about how the FBI can create these profiles on serial killers.” Nancy turned to Patsy. “It’s uncanny, how they can tell so much about a person with so little to go on. And so often, they’re right on the money! Why, they went over all the details on this one case, and they had this man pegged to a T.”
“It’s true, it seems uncanny, but it’s really not at all random. There’s very little guesswork involved.”
“Now, what does your boyfriend work on when there are no serial killer cases?” Nancy asked.
“There’s always another serial killer,” Genna told her. “Most serial killers are never caught. They travel, they move around. They get lucky or they are very careful. They die of natural causes and are never found out for what they really are. But most of them are never caught until they do something stupid or predictable.”
“Well, then, tell me. . .” Nancy leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.
“Nope. No more.” Patsy shook her head vehemently. “I refuse to waste any more of my day talking about serial killers and crazies.”
Patsy stood up and waved all the ugly thoughts away with one sweep of her hand.
“Now. Who’s ready to do a little fishing?”