The sprawling, two-story colonial was in the middle of a cul-de-sac, set well back from the street. A large, well-tended lawn created a wide buffer zone between the house and those on either side. A red Ferrari was parked in the driveway in front of a three-car garage.
Nancy Gordon knew it was going to be bad as soon as she saw the stunned expressions on the faces of the neighbors, who huddled just outside the police barriers. They were shocked by the presence of police cars and a morgue wagon in the quiet confines of The Meadows, where the houses started at half a million and crime was simply not permitted. She knew it was going to be really bad when she saw the grim faces of the two homicide detectives who were talking in low tones on the lawn near the front door.
Nancy parked her Ford behind a marked car and squeezed through the sawhorses. Frank Grimsbo and Wayne Turner stopped their conversation when they saw her. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The call had come while she was sprawled in front of the TV in a ratty nightgown, sipping a cheap white wine and watching the Mets smoke the Dodgers. The clothes were the first thing she could find and the last thing she thought about.
“Newman said there’s a body this time,” she said excitedly.
“Two.”
“How can we be sure it’s him?” Nancy asked.
“The note and the rose were on the floor near the woman,” Grimsbo answered. He was a big man with a beer gut and thinning black hair who wore cheap plaid jackets and polyester slacks.
“It’s him all right,” said Turner, a skinny black man with close-cropped hair and a permanent scowl who was in his second year in night law school. “The first cop on the scene was smart enough to figure out what was going on. He called me right away. Michaels did the note and the crime scene before anyone else was let in.”
“That was a break. Who’s the second victim?”
“Melody Lake,” Grimsbo answered. “She’s six years old, Nancy.”
“Oh, fuck.” The excitement she felt at finally getting a body disappeared instantly. “Did he … Was there anything done to her?”
Turner shook his head. “She wasn’t molested.”
“And the woman?”
“Sandra Lake. The mother. Death by strangulation. She was beaten pretty badly, too, but there’s no evidence of sexual activity. Course, she hasn’t been autopsied.”
“Do we have a witness?”
“I don’t know,” Grimsbo answered. “We have uniforms talking to the neighbors, but nothing yet. Husband found the bodies and called it in to 911 about eight-fifteen. He says he didn’t see anyone, so the killer must have left way before the husband got home. We got a cul-de-sac here and it leads into Sparrow Lane, the only road out of the development. The husband would have seen someone coming in or out.”
“Who’s talked to him?”
“I did, for a few minutes,” Turner answered. “And the first cops on the scene, of course. He was too bent out of shape to make any sense. You know him, Nancy.”
“I do?”
“It’s Peter Lake.”
“The attorney?”
Grimsbo nodded. “He defended Daley.”
Nancy frowned and tried to remember what she could about Peter Lake. She had not done much in the Daley investigation. All she recalled about the defense attorney were his good looks and efficient manner. She was on the stand less than a half hour.
“I better go in,” Nancy said.
The entryway was huge. A small chandelier hung overhead. A sunken living room was directly in front of her. The room was spotless. She could see a small man-made lake out back through a large picture window. Strategically placed around the room, most probably by an interior decorator, were bleached oak tables with granite tops, chairs and a sofa in pastel shades and macramé wall hangings. It looked more like a showroom than a place where people lived.
A wide staircase was off to the left. A polished wood banister followed the curve of the stairs to the second floor. The posts supporting the banister were closely spaced. Through the spaces, halfway up the stairs, Nancy could see a small lump covered by a blanket. She turned away.
Lab technicians were dusting for prints, taking photographs and collecting evidence. Bruce Styles, the deputy medical examiner, was standing with his back to her in the middle of the entryway between a uniformed officer and one of his assistants.
“You finished?” Nancy asked.
The doctor nodded and stepped aside. The woman was facedown on the white shag carpet. She was wearing a white cotton dress. It looked well suited for the heat. Her feet were bare. The woman’s head was turned away. Blood matted her long brown hair. Nancy guessed she had been brought down by a blow to the head, and Styles confirmed her suspicion.
“I figure she was running for the door and he got her from behind. She could have been partly conscious or completely out when he strangled her.”
Nancy walked around the body so she could see the woman’s face. She was sorry she looked. If the woman had been attractive, there was no way to tell now. Nancy took a couple of deep breaths.
“What about the little girl?” she asked.
“Neck broken,” Styles answered. “It would have been quick and painless.”
“We think she was a witness to the mother’s murder,” Turner said. “Probably heard her screaming and came down the steps.”
“Where’s the husband?” Nancy asked.
“Down the hall in the den,” Turner said.
“No sense putting it off.”
Peter Lake slumped in a chair. Someone had given him a glass of scotch, but the glass was still more than half full. He looked up when Nancy entered the den and she could see he had been crying. Even so, he was a striking man, tall with a trim, athletic build. Lake’s styled, gold-blond hair, his pale blue eyes and sharp, clean-shaven features were what won over the women on his juries.
“Mr. Lake, do you remember me?” Nancy asked.
Lake looked confused.
“I’m a homicide detective. My name is Nancy Gordon. You cross-examined me in the Daley case.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t handle many criminal cases anymore.”
“How are you feeling?” Nancy asked, sitting across from Lake.
“I’m numb.”
“I know what you’re going through …” Nancy started, but Lake’s head jerked up.
“How could you? They’re dead. My family is dead.”
Lake covered his eyes with his hands and wept. His shoulders trembled.
“I do know how you feel,” Nancy said softly. “A year ago my fiancé was murdered. The only good thing that came out of it was that I learned how victims really feel, and sometimes I can even help them get through the worst of it.”
Lake looked up. He wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just so hard. They meant everything to me. And Melody … How could someone do that to a little girl? She couldn’t hurt anybody. She was just a little girl.”
“Mr. Lake, four women have disappeared in Hunter’s Point in the past few months. A black rose and a note, identical to the ones you found, were left at each home. I know how much you’re grieving, but we have to act fast. This is the first time we have actually found a victim. That could mean you surprised the killer before he had time to take your wife away. Anything you can tell us would be deeply appreciated and may help us catch this man before he kills again.”
“I don’t know anything. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. I was working late on a case. I called to let Sandy know. I didn’t see anything unusual when I drove up. Then I … I’m really not too clear on what I did after I … I know I sat down on the bottom step.”
Lake paused. He breathed deeply, trying to keep from crying again. His lip trembled. He took a sip of his scotch.
“This is very hard for me, Detective. I want to help, but … Really, this is very hard.”
Nancy stood up and placed a hand on Lake’s shoulder. He began to weep again.
“I’m going to leave my card. I want you to call me if I can do anything for you. Anything. If you remember something, no matter how insignificant you may believe it to be, call me. Please.”
“I will. I’ll be better in the morning and I’ll … It’s just …”
“It’s all right. Oh, one other thing. The media will be after you. They won’t respect your privacy. Please don’t talk to them. There are many aspects of this case we are not going to release to the public. We keep back facts to help us eliminate phony confessions and to identify the real killer. It’s very important that you keep what you know to yourself.”
“I won’t talk to the press. I don’t want to see anyone.”
“Okay,” Nancy said kindly. “And you’re going to be all right. Not one hundred percent, and not for a long time, but you’ll deal with your grief. It won’t be easy. I’m still not healed, but I’m better, and you’ll be better too. Remember what I said about calling. Not the police business. You know, if you just want to talk.”
Lake nodded. When Nancy left the den, he was sprawled in the chair, his head back and his eyes closed.
Hunter’s Point was a commuter suburb with a population of 110,000, a small downtown riddled with trendy boutiques and upscale restaurants, a branch of the State University, and a lot of shopping centers. There were no slums in Hunter’s Point, but there were clusters of Cape Cods and garden apartments on the fringe of the downtown area that housed students and families unable to afford the high-priced developments like The Meadows, where the commuting lawyers, doctors and businessmen lived.
Police headquarters was a dull, square building on the outskirts of town. It sat in the middle of a flat, black-topped parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence. The lot was filled with police cars, unmarked vehicles and tow trucks.
The rose killer task force was housed in an old storage area in the back of the building. There were no windows, and the fluorescent lights were annoyingly bright. A watercooler was squeezed between two chest-high filing cabinets. A low wood table stood on rickety legs against a cream-colored wall. On the table sat a coffee maker, four coffee mugs, a sugar bowl and a brown plastic cup filled with several packets of artificial creamer. Four gunmetal-gray, government-issue desks were grouped in the center of the room. Bulletin boards with pictures of the victims and information about the crimes covered two walls.
Nancy Gordon hunched over her reports on the Lake murders. The flickering fluorescents were starting to give her a headache. She closed her eyes, leaned back and pinched her lids. When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the photographs of Samantha Reardon and Patricia Cross that Turner had tacked to the wall. The photos had been supplied by their husbands. Samantha on the deck of a sailboat. A tall woman, the wind blowing her flowing brown hair behind her, a smile of genuine happiness brightening her face. Pat in shorts and a halter top on a beach in Oahu, very slender, too thin, actually. Her friends said she was overly conscious of her figure. Except for Reardon, who had been a nurse, none of the women had ever held a meaningful job, and Reardon stopped working soon after her marriage. They were happy housewives living in luxury, spending their time at golf and bridge. Their idea of contributing to the community was raising money for charity at country club functions. Where were these women now? Were they dead? Had they died quickly, or slowly, in agony? How had they held up? How much of their dignity were they able to retain?
The phone rang. “Gordon,” she answered.
“There’s a Mr. Lake at the front desk,” the receptionist said. Nancy straightened up. Less than seventy-two hours had passed since her visit to the crime scene.
“I’ll be right out,” Gordon said, dropping her pen on a stack of police reports.
Inside the front door of the police station was a small lobby furnished with cheap chairs upholstered in imitation leather and outfitted with chrome armrests. The lobby was separated from the rest of the building by a counter with a sliding glass window and a door with an electronic lock. Lake was seated in one of the chairs. He was dressed in a dark suit and solid maroon tie. His hair was carefully combed. The only evidence of his personal tragedy were red-rimmed eyes that suggested a lack of sleep and a lot of mourning. Nancy hit the button next to the receptionist’s desk and opened the door.
“I wasn’t certain you’d be here,” Lake said. “I hope you don’t mind my showing up without calling.”
“No. Come on in. I’ll find us a place to talk.”
Lake followed Nancy down a hall that reminded him of a school corridor. They walked on worn green linoleum that buckled in places, past unpainted brown wood doors. Chipped flakes of green paint fell from spots on the walls. Nancy opened the door to one of the interrogation rooms and stood aside for Lake. The room was covered with white, soundproof tiles.
“Have a seat,” Nancy said, motioning toward one of the plastic chairs that stood on either side of a long wooden table. “I’ll grab us some coffee. How do you take yours?”
“Black,” Lake answered.
When Nancy returned with two Styrofoam cups, Lake was sitting at the table with his hands in his lap.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“I’m very tired, and depressed. I tried going to work today, but I couldn’t concentrate. I keep thinking about Melody.”
Lake stopped. He took a deep breath. “Look, I’ll get to the point. I can’t work, and I have a feeling I’m not going to be able to work for quite a while. I sat down with the papers on a real estate closing this morning and it seemed so … It just didn’t mean anything to me.
“I have two associates who can keep my practice going until I’m able to cope, if that ever happens. But now all I want to do is find out who killed Sandy and Melody. It’s all I can think about.”
“Mr. Lake, it’s all I can think about too. And I’m not alone. I’m going to tell you some things. This is highly confidential. I’ll need your promise to keep it confidential.”
Lake nodded.
“There were four disappearances before your wife and daughter were killed. None of those women has been found. It took us a while to catch on, because there were no bodies. At first, we treated them like missing persons. But a note with ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten’ and a black rose was left at each crime scene, so after the second one we knew what we were dealing with. The chief has put together a task force to work on the cases …”
“I’m sure you’re working very hard,” Lake interrupted. “I didn’t mean to be critical. What I want to do is help. I want to volunteer to be part of the task force.”
“That’s out of the question, Mr. Lake. You aren’t a police officer. It also wouldn’t be advisable. You’re too emotionally involved to be objective.”
“Lawyers are trained to be objective. And I can add something to the investigation—the unique insight into the criminal mind that I developed as a defense attorney. Defense attorneys learn things about the way criminals think that the police never know, because we have the criminal’s confidence. My clients know they can tell me anything, no matter how horrible, and I will respect their privacy. You see criminals when their false face is on. I see them the way they really are.”
“Mr. Lake, police officers get a real good look at the criminal mind—too good. We see these guys on the street, in their homes. You see them cleaned up, in your office, a long way from their victims and after they’ve had time to rationalize what they’ve done and cook up a sob story or a defense. But none of that matters, because you simply cannot work on this case. As much as I appreciate the offer, my superiors wouldn’t allow it.”
“I know it sounds strange, but I really do think I could contribute. I’m very smart.”
Nancy shook her head. “There’s another good reason you shouldn’t get involved in this investigation—it would mean reliving the death of your wife and daughter every day, instead of getting on with your life. We have their autopsy photos lying around, their pictures posted on the wall. Do you want that?”
“I have their pictures all over my house and office, Detective Gordon. And there isn’t a minute I don’t think about them.”
Nancy sighed. “I know,” she said, “but you have to stop thinking about them that way or it will kill you.”
Lake paused. “Tell me about your fiancé,” he said quietly. “How … how did you stop thinking about him?”
“I never did. I think about Ed all the time. Especially at night, when I’m alone. I don’t want to forget him and you won’t want to forget Sandy and Melody.
“Ed was a cop. A drunk shot him. He was trying to calm down a domestic dispute. It was two weeks before our wedding date. At first I felt just like you do. I couldn’t work. I could barely make it out of bed. I … I was racked with guilt, which is ridiculous. I kept on thinking there was something I could have done, insisted he stay home that day, I don’t know. I wasn’t really making much sense.
“But it got better, Mr. Lake. Not all better, not even mostly better. You just get to a point where you face the fact that a lot of the pain comes from feeling sorry for yourself, for what you’ve lost. Then you realize that you have to start living for yourself. You have to go on and keep the memories of the good times. If you don’t, then whoever killed your little girl and your wife will have won. They will have killed you too.”
Nancy reached across the table and put her hand on Peter Lake’s arm.
“We’ll get him, Mr. Lake. You have so much to deal with, you don’t want to get involved with this too. Let us handle it. We’ll get him, I promise.”
Lake stood up. “Thank you, Detective Gordon.”
“Nancy. Call me Nancy. And give me a call anytime you want to talk.”
A week later, Hunter’s Point Chief of Police John O’Malley entered the task force office. He was usually in shirtsleeves with his tie askew and his top button open. This morning, O’Malley wore the navy blue suit he saved for Rotary Club speeches and meetings with the city council.
The chief had the broad shoulders and thick chest of a middleweight boxer. His nose had been broken by a fleeing burglar when he worked in New York’s South Bronx. His receding red hair revealed an old scar, a memento of one of many gang fights he had been in as a youth in Brooklyn. O’Malley would have stayed in New York City if a heart attack hadn’t forced him to pursue police work in a less stressful environment.
Walking behind O’Malley was a huge man dressed in a tan summer-weight suit. Nancy guessed that the suit was custom-tailored, because it fit perfectly, even though the man was oddly oversized, like a serious bodybuilder.
“This is Dr. Mark Klien,” O’Malley said. “He’s a psychiatrist who practices in Manhattan, and an expert on serial killers. Dr. Klien was consulted in the Son of Sam case, the Atlanta child murders, Bundy. He’s worked with VICAP. I met him a few years ago when I was with the NYPD and working a serial case. He was very helpful. Dr. Klien’s seen a full set of reports on these disappearances and the deaths of Melody and Sandra Lake.
“Dr. Klien,” O’Malley said, pointing to each member of the task force in turn, “this is Nancy Gordon, Frank Grimsbo, Wayne Turner and Glen Michaels. They’ve been on this case since it started.”
Dr. Klien was so massive, he filled the entrance to the office. When he stepped into the room to shake hands, someone else followed him in. O’Malley looked uncomfortable.
“Before Dr. Klien gets started, I want to explain why Mr. Lake is here. Yesterday the mayor and I met. He explained that Mr. Lake was volunteering to assist the task force in finding the killer of his wife and daughter.”
Nancy Gordon and Frank Grimsbo exchanged worried glances. Wayne Turner’s mouth opened and he stared at O’Malley. O’Malley flushed angrily, stared back and continued.
“The mayor feels that Mr. Lake brings a unique insight into the criminal mind, developed as a defense attorney, that will give us a fresh perspective on the case.”
“I hope I’ll be of use,” Peter Lake said, smiling apologetically. “I know I’m not a trained policeman, so I’ll try to keep out of the way.”
“Dr. Klien has a busy schedule,” O’Malley said, ignoring Lake. “He has to take a two-fifty shuttle back to the city, so I’m going to let him take over.”
Lake took a seat behind everyone in the back of the room. Frank Grimsbo shook his head slowly. Wayne Turner folded his arms across his chest and stared accusingly at O’Malley. Nancy frowned. Only Glen Michaels, the chubby, balding criminologist O’Malley had assigned to do the forensic work for the task force, seemed uninterested in Lake. He was riveted on Mark Klien, who went to the front of the room and stood before a wall covered with victim information.
“I hope what I have to say is of some use to you,” Klien said, talking without notes. “One disadvantage a small department like Hunter’s Point has in these cases is its inexperience with crimes of this type. Although even larger departments are usually at a loss, since serial killers, for all the suffering they cause and all the publicity they receive, are, fortunately, rare birds. Now that the FBI has established the Violent Crime Apprehension Program in Quantico, small departments, like yours, can forward a description of your case to VICAP and learn if any similar murders have taken place in other parts of the country. VICAP uses a computer program to list violent crimes and their descriptions throughout the country and can hook you up with other police agencies where similar crimes may have occurred, so you can coordinate your investigation.
“What I want to do today is give you a profile of the serial killer in order to dispel any stereotypes you may have and list some common factors you can look for. The FBI has identified two separate categories: the disorganized asocial and the organized nonsocial. Let’s discuss the latter type first. The organized nonsocial is a sexual psychopath and, like any psychopath, he is unable to empathize, to feel pity or caring for others. His victims are simply objects he uses as he wishes to serve his own perverted needs. Venting his anger is one of these needs, whether through mutilation or debasing the victim. The Boston Strangler, for example, placed his victims in a position so that the first sight anyone had of them as they entered the room was to see them with their legs spread apart. Another killer mailed the foot of his victim to her parents in order to expand the pain and misery he had already caused.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Klien,” Wayne Turner said. “Is it possible that our killer is leaving the notes to torment the husbands?”
“That’s a good possibility. The cruelty in torturing a victim’s loved ones, and thereby creating more victims, would be very attractive to a sexual psychopath, since he is unaffected by any moral code and has no sense of remorse. He is capable of any act. Preserving body parts and eating them is not unusual, and having sex with the corpse of a victim is even less rare. Lucas decapitated one of his victims and had oral sex with the head for a week until the odor became so extreme he had to dispose of it.”
“Is that the type of crazy bastard we’re dealing with here?” Grimsbo asked.
“Not ‘crazy,’ Detective. In spite of the extremes of their behavior, these people are not legally insane. They are well aware of what is morally and legally right and wrong. The terrifying thing is that they do not learn from their experiences, so neither treatment nor imprisonment is likely to alter their behavior. In fact, because of the compulsiveness associated with these sexual acts, it is most likely that they will kill again.”
“What does the black rose mean?” Nancy asked.
“I don’t know, but fantasy and compulsion are very much a part of these killers’ actions, and the rose could be part of the killer’s fantasy. Prior to the killing, they fantasize about it in great detail, planning very specifically what they will do. This increases their level of excitement or tension so that ultimately their act is one of compulsion. When the murder is completed there is a sense of relief until the tension builds up again, starting the cycle anew. Son of Sam talked of the great relief he felt after each killing, but he also demonstrated his faulty judgment when he said he did not know why his victims struggled so much, since he was only going to kill them, not rape them.
“Since fantasy is so much involved in their behavior, these killers often take a specific body part or item of clothing with them. They use it to relive the act. This heavy use of fantasy also results in the crimes being very well planned. The Hillside Strangler not only brought a weapon, he brought plastic bags to help him dispose of the bodies. This could account for the absence of forensic evidence at your crime scenes. I would guess that your killer is very knowledgeable in the area of police investigation. Am I correct that an analysis of the notes and the roses have yielded no clues, and that the crime scenes haven’t turned up so much as a fiber or hair that’s been of use?”
“That’s pretty much true,” answered Glen Michaels. “We did get a print from the Lake note, but it turned out to be the wife’s. All the other notes were spotless and there was nothing unusual about the paper or the ink. So far, the lab hasn’t picked up a thing we can use.”
“I’m not surprised,” Klien said. “There is a peculiar interest among these men with police and police work. Some of them have even been involved on the fringes of law enforcement. Bundy attended FBI lectures and Bianchi was in security work and in the police reserve. That means they may be aware of the steps they must take to avoid detection. Their interest in police work may also lie in a need to know how close the police are to catching them.
“Let’s talk about the victims. Usually they’re accidental, in that the killer simply drives around until he fixes on someone. Prostitutes make easy victims, because they’ll get in a car or even allow themselves to be tied up. The victim is generally not from the killer’s home turf and is usually a stranger, which makes apprehension much more difficult.”
“Do you see that as being true in our case?” Nancy asked. “I mean, these women all fit a pattern. They’re married to professionals, they don’t have regular jobs, and except for Mrs. Lake they were all childless. They’re also from the same town. Doesn’t that show advance planning? That he’s looking for a particular victim who fits into his fantasy, rather than grabbing women at random?”
“You’re right. These victims don’t seem to fit the usual pattern of random selection. It’s pretty clear that your killer is stalking a particular type of woman in a particular area, which suggests he may live in Hunter’s Point.”
“What I don’t understand is how he gets to them,” Wayne Turner said. “We’re dealing with educated women. They live in upscale neighborhoods where the residents are suspicious of strangers. Yet there’s no sign of a struggle at any home but the Lakes’, and, even there, the crime scene was relatively undisturbed.”
Klien smiled. “You’ve brought us to one of the major misconceptions about serial killers, Detective Turner. In the movies they’re portrayed as monsters, but in real life they fit into the community and do not look suspicious. Typically, they’re bright, personable, even good-looking men. Bundy, the I-5 Bandit, the Hillside Strangler, Cortez—they’re all respectable-looking men. So our killer is probably someone these women would let into their home without fear.”
“Didn’t you say there were two types of serial killers?” Grimsbo asked.
“Yes. There’s also the disorganized asocial killer, but in this case we’re not dealing with someone who fits that category. That’s unfortunate, because they’re easier to catch. They’re psychotic loners who relate quite poorly to others and don’t have the charm or ability to melt into the community. Their acts are impulsive and the weapon is usually whatever is at hand. The body is often mangled or blood-smeared and they frequently get blood all over themselves. The crime scenes can be very gruesome. They’re also not mobile, like the organized nonsocials. Their homicides often take place close to their homes and they often return to the scene of the crime, not to check up on the investigation, but to further mutilate the body or relive the killing. Rarely do they penetrate the body sexually. They usually masturbate on it or in the immediate area, which can be helpful, now that we have workable DNA testing. But your boy is much too clever to be a disorganized asocial.”
“Why haven’t we found the bodies?” Turner asked.
“He’s obviously hiding them, like the Green River Killer. Chief O’Malley tells me there’s a lot of farmland and forest in this area. Someday a hiker is going to stumble on a mass grave and you’ll have your bodies.”
“What will they look like, Dr. Klien?” Nancy asked.
“It won’t be pretty. We’re dealing with a sexual sadist. If he has his victim isolated and he has time … You see, these men are expressing their rage toward their women victims. The mutilation and murder increases their sexual stimulation. In some instances, where the killer is usually impotent, the violence makes sex possible. The fantasy and the torture are the foreplay, Detective. The killing is the penetration. Some of these men ejaculate automatically at the moment they kill.”
“Jesus,” Grimsbo muttered. “And you say these guys aren’t crazy.”
“I said they weren’t crazy, but I didn’t say they were human. Personally, I see the man you’re looking for as less than human. Somewhere along the way, some of the things that make us human were lost, either because of genetics or environment or … Well,” Klien shrugged, “it really doesn’t matter, does it, because he’s beyond hope and must be stopped. Otherwise he’ll go on and on and on, as long as there are women out there for him to feed on.”
Nancy Gordon, Wayne Turner, Frank Grimsbo and Glen Michaels were waiting in O’Malley’s office when he returned from dropping Dr. Klien at the airport.
“I sort of expected this,” he said, when he saw them.
“Then please explain to us what the fuck is going on,” Turner demanded.
“There’s no way to sugarcoat it,” O’Malley said. “I argued with the mayor and lost, period. We’re stuck with Lake.”
“You’re shitting me,” Grimsbo said.
“No, Frank, I’m not shitting you. I’m telling you the facts of political life.”
“The guy’s a potential suspect,” Grimsbo said.
“Let’s get this on the table, boys and girls, because I might be able to dump him, if it’s true.”
“I don’t think it is, John,” Nancy said. “I’ve met with him a few times and he’s pretty broken up about losing his wife and kid.”
“Yeah,” Turner countered, “but he says he didn’t see anyone coming from the house. Where did the killer go? There’s only one road out of that development from the cul-de-sac.”
“The neighbors didn’t see anyone either,” Nancy said.
“No one saw anyone at the scene of any of the disappearances, Wayne,” said Glen Michaels.
“What I want to know is what a civilian is doing on a police investigation,” Grimsbo said.
O’Malley sighed. “Lake’s fixed politically. He’s known as a criminal lawyer because he won that insanity defense for that fruitcake Daley. But the guy’s specialty is real estate law and he’s made a few million at it, some of which he has contributed to the mayor’s campaign chest. He’s also a major contributor to the governor and he serves on some land use planning council in Albany. The bottom line is, the governor called the mayor yesterday, who then called me to explain how Lake’s experience as a criminal lawyer will be invaluable in the investigation and how lucky we are to have him on our team. The press is already on the mayor’s ass for keeping the disappearances quiet until the Lake murders forced his hand. He’s desperate for results and he’s not going to buck a request from the governor or a major campaign contributor.”
“I don’t trust him,” Turner said. “I had a case with Lake a few years back. We served a warrant on this guy and found a kilo of coke in his room. There was a pregnant woman at the house with no record. She swore the coke was hers and the guy was doing her a favor by letting her stay in his room while she was expecting. The defendant beat the case and the d.a. didn’t even bother to indict the chick. I could never prove it, but I heard rumors that Lake paid the woman to perjure herself.”
“Anyone else heard anything like that?” O’Malley asked.
Michaels shook his head. “He’s cross-examined me two or three times. My impression is that he’s very bright. He did an excellent job in a case involving blood-spatter evidence. Really had me going up there.”
“I’ve heard he’s a smart guy,” Grimsbo said, “but I’ve heard those rumors about the fix too, and a few of the lawyers I know don’t like Lake’s ethics. He’s still a suspect, even if he’s a long shot, and I just don’t like the idea of a citizen working on something this sensitive.”
“Look, I agree with you, Frank,” O’Malley said. “It stinks. But it doesn’t matter. Until I can convince the mayor otherwise, Lake stays. Just try to keep him out from under our feet. Give him lots of busy work, make him read all the reports. If something comes up you don’t want him to see, or there’s trouble, come to me. Any questions?”
Turner muttered something about the mayor and Grimsbo shook his head in disgust. O’Malley ignored them.
“Okay, get outta here and back to work. You all heard Klien. We have to stop this psycho fast.”
Nancy Gordon’s stomach growled. She guessed it was a little after six. Her watch said it was almost seven. She had been writing reports and lost track of time. On the way out of the station, she walked by the task force office and noticed the lights were still on. Peter Lake was in shirtsleeves, his feet up on the corner of the desk. Near his elbow were a large stack of reports and a yellow pad. He was making notes as he read.
“You’re not going to solve this case in one night,” Nancy said quietly. Lake looked around, startled. Then he grinned sheepishly.
“I always work this hard. I’m compulsive.”
Nancy walked over to Lake’s desk. “What are you doing?”
“Reading about the Reardon and Escalante disappearances. I had an idea. Do you have time?”
“I was going to eat. Want to join me? Nothing special. There’s an all-night coffee shop over on Oak.”
Lake looked at the stack of reports and the clock.
“Sure,” he said, swinging his legs off the desk and grabbing his jacket. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“I was caught up in something too. If my stomach hadn’t yelled at me, I’d still be at my desk.”
“You must like your work.”
“Sometimes.”
“How did you get into it?”
“You mean, what’s a nice girl like me doing in a job like this?”
“That never occurred to me.”
“That I was a nice girl?”
Lake laughed. “No. That you’re not suited for police work.”
Nancy checked out at the front desk and followed Lake outside. After sundown Hunter’s Point was a ghost town, except for a few spots that catered to the college crowd. Nancy could see the marquee of the Hunter’s Point Cinema and the neon signs outside a couple of bars. Most of the stores were shuttered for the night. The coffee shop was only a block and a half from the station. An oasis of light in a desert of darkness.
“Here we are,” Nancy said, holding open the door of Chang’s Cafe. There was a counter, but Nancy led Lake to a booth. Chang’s wife brought them menus and water.
“The soup and the pies are good and the rest of the menu is edible. Don’t look for anything resembling Chinese. Mr. Chang cooks Italian, Greek and whatever else strikes his fancy.”
“You’re not from Hunter’s Point originally, are you?” Lake asked, after they ordered.
“How could you tell?”
“You don’t have the accent. I’m a transplanted westerner myself. Let’s see. I’d guess Montana.”
“Idaho,” Nancy said. “My parents still live there. They’re farmers. My brother is a high school teacher in Boise. Me, I didn’t love Idaho and I wanted to see the world. Fortunately I run a mean eight hundred meters and the U. offered the best scholarship. So I ended up in Hunter’s Point.”
“Not exactly Paris,” Lake commented.
“Not exactly,” Nancy said with a smile. “But it was New York, and without the scholarship there was no way I could afford college. By the time I realized New York City and Hunter’s Point, New York, were worlds apart I was enjoying myself too much to care.”
“And the police work?”
“My major was Criminal Justice. When I graduated, the Hunter’s Point P.D. needed a woman to fill its affirmative action quota.”
Nancy shrugged and looked at Lake, as if expecting a challenge.
“I bet you made detective on merit,” he said.
“Damn straight,” Nancy answered proudly, just as Mrs. Chang arrived with their soup.
“How did you end up here?” Nancy asked, as she waited for her minestrone to cool.
“I’m from Colorado,” Lake said, smiling. “I went to Colorado State undergraduate, then I served a hitch in the Marines. There was a guy in the judge advocate’s corps who went to law school here and suggested I apply. I met Sandy at the U.”
Lake paused and his smile disappeared. He looked down at his plate. The action had an unnatural quality to it, as if he suddenly realized that a smile would be inappropriate when he was discussing his dead wife. Nancy looked at Lake oddly.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I keep thinking about her.”
“That’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with remembering.”
“I don’t like myself when I’m maudlin. I’ve always been a person in control. The murders have made me realize that nothing is predictable or permanent.”
“If it’s taken you this long to figure that out, you’re lucky.”
“Yeah. A successful career, a great wife and kid. They blind you to the way the world really is, don’t they? Then someone takes that away from you in a second and … and you see …”
“You see how lucky you were to have what you had, while it lasted, Peter. Most people never have in their lifetime what you and I had for a little while.”
Lake looked down at the tabletop.
“At the station you said you had an idea,” Nancy said, to break his mood.
“It’s probably just playing detective,” he answered, “but something struck me when I was going through the reports. The day Gloria Escalante disappeared, a florist’s truck was delivering in the area. A woman would open the door to a man delivering flowers. She would be excited and wouldn’t be thinking. He could take the woman away in the back of his truck. And there’s the rose. Someone who works in a florist’s would have access to roses.”
“Not bad, Peter,” Nancy said, unable to hide her admiration. “You might make a good detective after all. The deliveryman was Henry Waters. He’s got a minor record for indecent exposure and he’s one of our suspects. You probably haven’t gotten to Wayne’s report yet. He’s been doing a background check on Waters.”
Lake flushed. “I guess you were way ahead of me.”
“Peter, did Sandy have any connection with Evergreen Florists?”
Nancy nodded.
“I don’t think so. But I can look at our receipts and the checkbook to see if she ever ordered anything from them. I’m pretty certain I never did.”
Their dinner arrived and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Nancy’s spaghetti was delicious, but she noted that Lake just picked at his food.
“Do you feel like talking about Sandy?” Nancy asked. “We’re trying to cross-reference the activities of the victims. See if they belonged to the same clubs, subscribed to the same magazines. Anything that gives us a common denominator.”
“Frank asked me to do that the night of the murder. I’ve been working on it. We were members of the Delmar Country Club, the Hunter’s Point Athletic Club, the Racquet Club. I’ve got a list of our credit cards, subscriptions, everything I can think of. I’ll complete it by the end of the week. Is Waters your only suspect?”
“There are others, but nothing solid. I’m talking about known sex offenders, not anyone we’ve linked to any of the crimes.” Nancy paused. “I had an ulterior motive for asking you to eat with me. I’m going to be totally honest with you. You shouldn’t be involved in this investigation. You have pull with the mayor, so you’re here, but everyone on the task force resents the way you forced yourself on us.”
“Including you?”
“No. But that’s only because I understand what’s driving you. What you don’t understand is how self-destructive your behavior is. You’re obsessed with this case because you think immersing yourself in detective work will help you escape from reality. But you’re stuck in the real world. Eventually you’ll have to come to terms with it, and the sooner you do that the better. You’ve got a good practice. You can build a new life. Don’t put off coming to grips with what’s happened by continuing to work on the murders.”
Nancy was watching Lake as she spoke. He never took his eyes off her. When she was finished speaking he leaned forward.
“Thank you for your honesty. I know my intrusion into the task force is resented and I’m glad you told me how everyone feels. I’m not worried about my practice. My associates will keep it going without me and I’ve made so much money that I could live nicely without it. What matters to me is catching this killer before he hurts someone else.”
Lake reached across the table and covered Nancy’s hand with his.
“It also matters to me that you’re concerned. I appreciate that.”
Lake stroked Nancy’s hand as he spoke. It was a sensual touch, clearly a come-on, and Nancy was struck by the inappropriateness of his action, even if Lake was not.
“I’m concerned for you as a person who is the victim of a horrible crime,” Nancy said firmly, as she slid her hand out from under Lake’s. “I am also concerned that you might do something that would jeopardize our investigation. Please think about what I’ve said, Peter.”
“I will,” Lake assured her.
Nancy started to open her purse but Lake stopped her.
“Dinner’s on me,” he smiled.
“I always pay my own way,” Nancy answered, laying the exact amount of her dinner on top of the check and putting a dollar tip under her coffee cup. She slipped out of the booth and started toward the door.
Peter placed his money next to hers and followed her outside.
“Can I give you a lift home?” he asked.
“My car’s in the lot.”
“Mine too. I’ll walk you back.”
They walked in silence until they reached the police station. The lot was dimly lit. Patches were in shadow. Nancy’s car was toward the back of the station where the windows were dark.
“It could have happened someplace like this,” Lake mused as they walked.
“What?”
“The women,” Lake said. “Walking alone at night in a deserted parking lot. It would be so easy to approach them. Didn’t Bundy do that? Wear a false cast to elicit sympathy. They would be in the killer’s trunk in a minute and it would all be over for them.”
Nancy felt a chill. There was no one in the lot but the two of them. They entered an unlit area. She turned her head so she could see Lake. He was watching her, thoughtfully. Nancy stopped at her car.
“That’s why I wanted to walk with you,” Lake continued. “No woman is safe until he’s caught.”
“Think about what I said, Peter.”
“Good night, Nancy. I think we work well together. Thanks again for your concern.”
Nancy backed her Ford out of its space and drove off. She could see Lake watching her in the rearview mirror.
Nancy stood in the dark and pumped iron, following the routine she and Ed had worked out. Now she was doing curls, with the maximum weight she could manage. Her forearm arced toward her shoulder, slowly, steadily, as she muscled up the right dumbbell, then the left. Sweat stained her tank top. The veins stood out on her neck.
Something was definitely wrong. Lake had been coming on to her. When Ed died, she had lost all interest in sex for months. It had hurt just to see couples walking hand in hand. But when Lake held her hand, he had stroked it, the way you would caress a lover’s hand. When he said he thought they worked well together, it was definitely a proposition.
Nancy finished her curls. She lowered the weights to the floor and took a few deep breaths. It was almost six. She had been up since four-thirty, because a nightmare woke her and she couldn’t get back to sleep.
Frank had considered Lake a suspect and she had disagreed. Now she was beginning to wonder. She remembered what Dr. Klien said. Lake was bright and personable. It would have been easy for him to gain the confidence of the victims. They were the type of women he met every day at his clubs, and he was the type of man the victims encountered at theirs.
The organized nonsocial was a psychopath who could not feel pity or care for others. The type of person who would have to fake emotions. Had Lake been caught off guard in the coffee shop between remembering his first meeting with Sandra Lake and making the appropriate reaction to that memory? There had been a brief moment when Lake’s features had been devoid of emotion.
Klien also said that these killers were interested in police work. Lake, an experienced criminal defense attorney, would know all about police procedure. Nancy dropped to the floor and did fifty push-ups. What was normally an easy set was difficult. She couldn’t focus. Her head filled with a vision of Lake, alone in the shadows of the parking lot, waiting. How did he know about Bundy’s fake cast? Dr. Klien had not mentioned it.
After the weights, she and Ed would run a six-mile loop through the neighborhood. Ed was stronger than Nancy, but she was the faster runner. On Sundays, they raced the loop. The loser cooked breakfast. The winner decided when and how they made love. Nancy could not touch the weights or run the loop for two months after the shooting.
One hundred crunches. Up, down, up, down. Her stomach tight as a drumhead. Her thoughts in the dark, in the parking lot with Lake. Should she tell Frank and Wayne? Was she just imagining it? Would her suspicions sidetrack the investigation and let the real killer escape?
It was six-fifteen. The weights were in a small room next to the bedroom. The sun was starting its ascent over the wealthy suburbs to the east. Nancy stripped off her panties and top and dropped them in the hamper. She had put on weight after Ed died. Except for a month when she was recovering from a hamstring pull in her sophomore year, it was the first time since junior high that she had not worked out regularly. The weight was off now and she could see the ridged muscles of her stomach and the cords that twisted along her legs. Hot water loosened her up. She shampooed her hair. All the time, she was thinking about Peter Lake.
Why were there no bodies found before? Why were the Lake murders different from the others? Sandra Lake had apparently been killed quickly, suddenly. Why? And why would Peter have killed her? Had she discovered something that would link him to the other murders and confronted him with the evidence? And that still left the hardest question of all, was Lake such a monster that he would kill his own daughter to cover his crimes?
As she dressed, Nancy tried to find one concrete fact that she could present to the other detectives. One piece of evidence that linked Peter to the crimes. She came up dry. For the moment, she’d have to keep her feelings to herself.
Frank Grimsbo ran a forearm across his forehead, staining the sleeve of his madras jacket with sweat. He was wearing a short-sleeve, white shirt and brown polyester pants, and had jerked his paisley print tie to half mast after unbuttoning his top button. The heat was killing him, and all he could think about was cold beer.
Herbert Solomon answered the door on the third ring. Wearily, Grimsbo held up his shield and identified himself.
“This is about the Lakes, right?” asked Solomon, a stocky man of medium height who sported a well-groomed beard and was dressed in loose green-and-red-checked Bermuda shorts and a yellow T-shirt.
“That’s right, Mr. Solomon. My partner and I are canvassing the neighborhood.”
“I already spoke to a policeman on the evening it happened.”
“I know, sir. I’m a detective on the special task force that’s investigating all of the killings, and I wanted to go into a little more detail with you.”
“Have there been other murders? I thought these women just disappeared.”
“That’s right, but we’re assuming the worst.”
“Come on in out of the heat. Can I get you a beer, or can’t you drink on duty?”
Grimsbo grinned. “A beer would be great.”
“Wait in there and I’ll grab one for you,” Solomon said, pointing to a small front room. Grimsbo pulled his shirt away from his body as he walked toward the den. Thank God they were canvassing in The Meadows, where everyone had air-conditioning.
“I hope this is cold enough for you,” Solomon said, handing Grimsbo a chilled Budweiser. Grimsbo placed the cold bottle against his forehead and closed his eyes. Then he took a sip.
“Boy, that hits the spot. I wish they could think up a way to air-condition the outside.”
Solomon laughed.
“You an accountant?”
“A c.p.a.”
“I figured,” Grimsbo said, pointing his beer at two large bookcases filled with books about tax and accounting. A desk stood in front of the only window in the room. A computer and printer sat in the center of the desk next to a phone. The window looked out at Sparrow Lane across a wide front lawn.
“Well,” Grimsbo said, after taking another swig from the bottle, “let me ask you a few questions and get out of your hair. Were you around the night Mrs. Lake and her daughter were murdered?”
Solomon stopped smiling and nodded. “Poor bastard.”
“You know Peter Lake?”
“Sure. Neighbors and all. We have a home-owners committee in The Meadows. Pete and I were on it. We played doubles together in the tennis tournament. Marge—that’s my wife—she and Sandy were good friends.”
“Is your wife home?”
“She’s at the club, playing golf. I didn’t feel like it in this heat.”
Grimsbo put down the beer and took a pad and pen out of his inside jacket pocket.
“About what time did you get home on the night it happened?”
“It had to be about six.”
“Did you see anything unusual that night?”
“Not a thing. I was in the dining room until we finished dinner. The dining room looks out into the back yard. Then I was in the living room for a few minutes. It’s in the back of the house too. After that I was in here working on the computer with the blinds drawn.”
“Okay,” Grimsbo said, reluctantly ready to wrap up the interview and trudge back out into the heat.
“One thing I forgot about when the officer talked to me the night of the murder. There was so much excitement and Marge was hysterical. I did see Pete come home.”
“Oh, yeah? When was that?”
“I can get pretty close there. The Yankees played a day game and I caught the score on ‘Headline Sports.’ CNN runs the sports scores twenty after and ten to the hour. I went into the den right after the score, so figure seven twenty-two or so. I saw Pete’s Ferrari when I closed the blinds.”
“He was heading home?”
“Right.”
“And you’re certain about the time.”
“Twenty after the hour, every hour. So it had to be about then, give or take a minute.”
“Did you notice a florist’s truck at any time that night, near The Meadows or in it?”
Solomon thought for a second. “There was a TV repairman at the Osgoods’. That’s the only unusual vehicle I saw.”
Grimsbo levered himself out of his seat and extended his hand. “Thanks for the beer.”
Wayne Turner was leaning against the car, looking so cool in his tan suit that it pissed Grimsbo off.
“Any luck?” Turner asked, as he pushed off the car.
“Nada. Oh, Solomon, the last guy I talked to, saw Lake driving home past his house about seven-twenty. Other than that, I don’t have a thing that wasn’t in the uniforms’ reports.”
“I struck out too, but I’m not surprised. You get a development like The Meadows, you get houses with land. They’re not leaning over each other. Less chance anyone will see what’s going on at the neighbor’s. And with heat like this, everyone’s either inside with the air-conditioning on or out at their country club.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Head back in.”
“You get a hit on a florist truck?” Grimsbo asked, when he had the car started.
“There was a cable TV repairman at the Osgoods’, but no florist.”
“Yeah, I got the TV guy too. What do you think of Waters?”
“I don’t think anything, Frank. You seen him?”
Grimsbo shook his head.
“Our killer’s got to be high IQ, right? Waters is a zero. Skinny, pimple-faced kid. He’s got this little wisp of a beard. If he’s not retarded, he’s not far from it. Dropped out of school in the tenth grade. He was eighteen. Worked as a gas station attendant and a box boy at Safeway. He lost that job when he was arrested for jacking off outside the window of a sixteen-year-old neighbor girl. The girl’s father beat the crap out of him.”
“He sounds pretty pathetic,” Grimsbo observed.
“The guy’s got no life. He lives with his mother. She’s in her late sixties and in poor health. I followed him for a few days. He’s a robot. Every day it’s the same routine. He leaves work and walks to the One Way Inn, this bar that’s halfway to his house. Orders two beers, nurses ’em, doesn’t say a word to anyone but the bartender. Forty-five minutes after he goes in, he leaves, walks straight home and spends the evening watching TV with his mother. I talked to his boss and his neighbors. If he’s got any friends, no one knows who they are. He’s held this delivery boy job with Evergreen Florists longer than any of his other jobs.”
“You writing him off?”
“He’s a weeny-waver. A little twisted, sure, but I don’t make him for our killer. He’s not smart enough to be our boy. We don’t have anything with Waters.”
“We don’t have anything, period.”
Glen Michaels walked into the task force office just as Grimsbo and Turner were finishing the reports on their interviews in The Meadows.
“Whatcha got?” Grimsbo asked. He had shucked his jacket and parked himself next to a small fan.
“Nothing at all,” Michaels said. “It’s like the guy was never there. I just finished all the lab work. Every print matches up to the victims, Lake or one of the neighbors. There’s nothing to do a DNA test on. No unusual hairs, no fibers, no semen. This is one smart cookie, gentlemen.”
“You think he knows police procedure?” Turner asked.
“I have to believe it. I’ve never seen so many clean crime scenes.”
“Anyway,” Michaels said, heading for the door, “I’m out of here. This heat is boiling my blood.”
Turner turned to Grimsbo. “This perp is starting to piss me off. Nobody’s that good. He leaves no prints, no hairs, no one sees him. Christ, we’ve got a development full of people and no one reports an unusual occurrence. No strangers lurking around, not a single odd car. How does he get in and out?”
Grimsbo didn’t answer. He was frowning. He levered himself out of his chair and walked over to the cabinet where they kept the master file on the case.
“What’s up?” Turner asked.
“Just something … Yeah, here it is.”
Grimsbo pulled a report out of the file and showed it to Turner. It was the one-page report of the dispatcher who had taken the 911 call from Peter Lake.
“You see it?” Grimsbo asked.
Turner read the report a few times and shook his head.
“The time,” Grimsbo said. “Lake called in the 911 at eight-fifteen.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Solomon said he saw Lake driving by at seven-twenty. He was certain he’d just heard the sports scores. CNN gives them at twenty after.”
“And the bodies were in the hall,” Turner said, suddenly catching on.
“How long does it take to park the car, open the door? Let’s give Lake the benefit of the doubt and assume Solomon is a little off. He’s still gonna be inside by seven-thirty.”
“Shit,” Turner said softly.
“Am I right, Wayne?” Grimsbo asked.
“I don’t know, Frank. If it was your wife and kid … I mean, you’d be in shock.”
“Sure, the guy’s knocked out. He said he sat down on the stairs for a while. You know, gathering himself. But for forty-five minutes? Uh-uh. Something doesn’t wash. I think he spent the time cleaning up the crime scene.”
“What’s the motive? Jesus, Frank, you saw her face. Why would he do that to his own wife?”
“You know why. She knew something, she found something, and she made the mistake of telling Lake. Think about it, Wayne. If Lake killed them it would explain the absence of clues at the crime scene. There wouldn’t be any strange cars in the neighborhood or prints that didn’t match the Lakes or the neighbors.”
“I don’t know …”
“Yes you do. He killed that little girl. His own little girl.”
“Christ, Frank, Lake’s a successful lawyer. His wife was beautiful.”
“You heard Klien. The guy we’re looking for is a monster, but no one’s gonna see that. He’s smooth, handsome, the type of guy these women would let in their house without a second thought. It could be a successful lawyer with a beautiful wife. It could be anyone who isn’t wired right and is working in some psycho world of his own where this all makes sense.”
Turner paced around the room while Grimsbo waited quietly. Finally Turner sat down and picked up a picture of Melody Lake.
“We aren’t going to do anything stupid, Frank. If Lake is our killer, he is one devious motherfucker. One hint that we’re on to him and he’ll figure a way to cover this up.”
“So, what’s the next step? We can’t bring him in and sweat him and we know there’s nothing connecting Lake to the other crime scenes.”
“These women weren’t picked at random. If he’s the killer, they’ve all got to be connected to Lake somehow. We have to reinterview the husbands, go back over the reports and recheck our lists with Lake in mind. If we’re right, there’s going to be something there.”
The two men sat silently for a moment, figuring the angles.
“None of this goes in a report,” Turner said. “Lake could stumble across it when he’s here.”
“Right,” Grimsbo answered. “I’d better take Solomon’s interview with me.”
“When do we tell Nancy and the chief?”
“When we have something solid. Lake’s very smart and he’s got political connections. If he’s the one, I don’t want him beating this, I want him nailed.”
Nancy Gordon was deep in a dreamless sleep when the phone rang. She jerked up in bed, flailing for a moment, before she realized what was happening. The phone rang again before she found it in the dark.
“Detective Gordon?” the man on the phone asked.
“Speaking,” Nancy said, as she tried to orient herself.
“This is Jeff Spears. I’m a patrolman. Fifteen minutes ago we received a complaint about a man sitting in a car on the corner of Bethesda and Champagne. Seems he’s been parked there for three successive nights. One of the neighbors got worried.
“Anyway, Officer DeMuniz and I talked to the guy. He identified himself as Peter Lake. He claims he’s working on the task force that’s looking into the murders of those women. He gave me your name.”
“What time is it?” Nancy asked. The last thing she wanted to do was turn on the light and scorch her eyeballs.
“One-thirty. Sorry about waking you,” Spears said apologetically.
“No, that’s okay,” she answered as she located the digital clock and confirmed the time. “Is Lake there?”
“Right beside me.”
Nancy took a deep breath. “Put him on.”
Nancy heard Spears talking to someone. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, sat up and rubbed her eyes.
“Nancy?” Lake asked.
“What’s going on?”
“Do you want me to explain with the officer standing here?”
“What I want is to go back to bed. Now, what’s this about you sitting in a parked car in the middle of the night for three straight nights?”
“It’s Waters. I was staking out his house.”
“Oh, fuck. I don’t believe this. You were staking him out? Like some goddamn movie? Peter, I want you at Chang’s in twenty minutes.”
“But …”
“Twenty minutes. This is too stupid for words. And put Spears back on.”
Nancy heard Lake calling to the officer. She closed her eyes and turned on the bedside lamp. Then she raised her lids slowly. The light burned and her eyes watered.
“Detective Gordon?”
“Yeah. Look, Spears, he’s okay. He is working on the task force. But that was heads-up work,” she added, since he sounded young and eager and the compliment would mean something.
“It sounded suspicious. And, with the murders …”
“No, you did the right thing. But I don’t want you to mention this to anyone. We don’t want what we’re doing getting around.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks for calling.”
Nancy hung up. She felt awful, but she had to find out what Lake was up to.
Lake was waiting for her in a booth when Nancy arrived at Chang’s. The little cafe stayed open all night for cops, truckers and an occasional college student. It was a safe place to meet. There was a cup of coffee in front of Lake. Nancy told the waitress to make it two.
“Why don’t you clue me in on what you thought you were doing, Peter,” Nancy said when the waitress left.
“I’m sorry if I was out of line. But I’m certain Waters is the killer. I’ve been tailing him for three days. Believe me, I did a great job. He has no idea he was followed.”
“Peter, this isn’t how things are done. You don’t go running off with some half-baked idea you picked up from ‘Magnum, P.I.’ The task force is a team. You have to run your ideas by everyone before you make a move.
“More important, you don’t know the first thing about surveillance. Look how easily you were spotted by the neighbor. If Waters saw you, and it spooked him, he might go to ground and we’d lose him forever. And, if he is the killer, you could have been in danger. Whoever killed your wife and daughter has no conscience and he has no compunction about taking a human life. Remember that.”
“I guess I was foolish.”
“There’s no ‘guess’ about it.”
“You’re right. I apologize. I never thought about blowing the case or the danger. All I thought about was …”
Lake paused and looked down at the table.
“I know you want him, Peter. We all do. But if you don’t do this right, you’ll ruin the case.”
Lake nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve gone out of your way to help me, Nancy, and I appreciate it. I’m finally starting to cope with losing Sandy and Melody and you’re one of the reasons.”
Lake smiled at her. Nancy did not return the smile. She watched Lake carefully.
“I’ve decided to go back to work. This little incident tonight has convinced me I’m not very valuable to the investigation. I thought I could really help, but that was ego and desperation. I’m not a cop and I was crazy to think I could do more than you’re doing.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear you say that. It’s a healthy sign.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon the case altogether. I’d like copies of all the police reports sent to my office. I still might spot something you miss or offer a different perspective. But I’ll stop haunting the station house.”
“I can have the reports sent, if O’Malley says it’s okay. But you’ll have to keep them strictly to yourself. Not even your associates should see them.”
“Of course. You know, you’ve really taken good care of me,” Lake said, smiling again. “Do you think we could have dinner sometime? Just get together? Nothing to do with the case.”
“We’ll see,” she said uneasily.
Lake checked his watch. “Hey, we’d better get going. We’re going to be dead tired in the morning. I’m paying this time, no arguments.”
Nancy slid out of the booth and said good-bye. It was late and she’d had little sleep, but she was wide-awake. There was no question about it now. With his wife dead less than three weeks, Peter Lake was coming on to her. And that wasn’t the only thing bothering her. Nancy wanted to know the real reason Peter Lake was tailing Henry Waters.
“Dr. Escalante,” Wayne Turner said to a heavy-set, dark-complected man with the sad eyes and weary air of someone who has given up hope, “I’m one of the detectives working on your wife’s disappearance.”
“Is Gloria dead?” Escalante asked, expecting the worst.
They were sitting in the doctor’s office at the Wayside Clinic, a modern, two-story building located at the far end of the Wayside Mall. Escalante was one of several doctors, physical therapists and health care specialists who made up the staff of the clinic. His specialty was cardiology and he had privileges at Hunter’s Point Hospital. Everyone spoke highly of Dr. Escalante’s skills. They also thought he was one hell of a nice guy who was unfailingly cheerful. Or, at least, he had been until a month and a half ago, when he came home to his Tudor-style house in West Hunter’s Point and found a note and a black rose.
“I’m afraid we have no more information about your wife. We assume she’s alive, until we learn otherwise.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I have a few questions that may help us with the case.”
Turner read off the names of the other missing women and their spouses, including the Lakes. As he read the names, Turner placed photographs of the victims and their husbands faceup on Escalante’s desk.
“Do you or your wife know any of these people in any capacity whatsoever, Doctor?” Turner asked.
Escalante studied the photographs carefully. He picked up one of them.
“This is Simon and Samantha Reardon, isn’t it?”
Turner nodded.
“He’s a neurosurgeon. I’ve seen the Reardons at a few Medical Association functions. A few years ago, he spoke at a seminar I attended. I don’t recall the topic.”
“That’s good. Were you friendly with the Reardons?”
Escalante laughed harshly. “People with my skin color don’t travel in the same social circles as the Reardons, Detective. I don’t suppose you were permitted to interview the esteemed doctor at the Delmar Country Club.”
Wayne nodded.
“Yeah. Well, that’s the type of guy Simon Reardon is …”
Escalante suddenly remembered why Turner was interested in Samantha Reardon and his wife.
“I’m sorry. I should be more charitable. Simon is probably going through the same hell I am.”
“Probably. Any of the others ring a bell?”
Escalante started to shake his head, then stopped.
“This one is a lawyer, isn’t he?” he asked, pointing at Peter Lake’s photograph.
“Yes, he is,” Turner answered, trying to hide his excitement.
“It didn’t hit me until now. What a coincidence.”
“What’s that?”
“Gloria was chosen for jury duty six months ago. She sat on one of Lake’s cases. I remember because she said she was glad it wasn’t a medical malpractice or she would have been excused. It didn’t matter though. The lawyers settled the case halfway through, so she didn’t vote on it.”
“You’re certain it was Peter Lake’s case?”
“I met her after court. We were going to dinner. I saw him.”
“Okay. That’s a big help. Anyone else look familiar?” Turner asked, although, at this point, he really didn’t care.
“It’s Lake, Chief,” Frank Grimsbo told O’Malley. “We’re certain.”
“Are we talking hard evidence?” O’Malley asked.
“Not yet. But there’s too much circumstantial to look the other way,” Wayne Turner answered.
“How do you two feel about this?” O’Malley asked Glen Michaels and Nancy Gordon.
“It makes sense,” Michaels responded. “I’m going back over the evidence in all of the cases tomorrow to see if I have anything I can tie to Lake.”
O’Malley turned toward Nancy. She looked grim.
“I’d reached the same conclusion for other reasons, Chief. I don’t know how we can nail him, but I’m certain he’s our man. I talked to Dr. Klien this morning and ran Lake’s profile by him. He said it’s possible. A lot of sociopaths aren’t serial killers. They’re successful businessmen or politicians or lawyers. Think of the advantage you have in those professions if you don’t have a conscience to slow you down. In the past few days, I’ve been talking to people who know Lake. They all say he’s charming, but none of them would turn their back on him. He’s supposed to have the ethics of a shark and enough savvy to stay just this side of the line. There have been several Bar complaints, but none that was successful. A few malpractice suits. I talked to the lawyers who represented the plaintiffs. He skated on every one of them.”
“There’s a big difference between being a sleazy lawyer and killing six people, including your own daughter,” O’Malley said. “Why would he endanger himself by getting so close to the investigation?”
“So he can see what we’ve got,” Grimsbo said.
“I think there’s more to it, Chief,” Nancy said. “He’s up to something.”
Nancy told O’Malley about Lake’s stakeout.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Turner said. “Waters isn’t really a suspect. He just happened to be around the Escalante house the day she disappeared. There’s no connection between Waters and any other victim.”
“But there is a connection between Lake and every victim,” Grimsbo cut in.
“Let’s hear it,” O’Malley said.
“Okay. We have Gloria Escalante sitting on one of his juries. He and the Reardons belong to the Delmar Country Club. Patricia Cross and Sandra Lake were in the Junior League. Anne Hazelton’s husband is an attorney. He says they’ve been to Bar Association functions the Lakes attended.”
“Some of those connections are pretty tenuous.”
“What are the odds on one person being linked to all six victims?” Turner asked.
“Hunter’s Point isn’t that big a place.”
“Chief,” Nancy said, “he’s been coming on to me.”
“What?”
“It’s sexual. He’s interested. He’s let me know.”
Nancy recounted the way Lake acted during their two meetings at Chang’s.
O’Malley frowned. “I don’t know, Nancy.”
“His wife died less than a month ago. It’s not normal.”
“You’re attractive. He’s trying to get over his grief. Maybe he and Mrs. Lake didn’t get along that well. Did you find any of that when you talked to the neighbors?”
Grimsbo shook his head. “No gossip about the Lakes. They were a normal couple according to the people I talked to.”
“Same here,” Turner said.
“Doesn’t that undercut your theory?”
“Dr. Klien said a serial killer can have a wife and family, or a normal relationship with a girlfriend,” Nancy answered.
“Look at the Lake murders,” Turner offered. “We know from one of his associates, who was working late, that Lake was at his office until shortly before seven. The neighbor sees him driving toward his house at seven-twenty, maybe a little after. There’s no 911 call until forty-five minutes later. What’s he doing inside with the dead bodies? If they’re dead, that is.”
“We think he came in and his wife confronted him with something she’d found that connected him to the disappearances.”
“But they weren’t news. No one knew about them,” O’Malley said.
“Oh, shit,” Michaels swore.
“What?”
“The note. It was the only one with prints on it.”
“So?” Grimsbo asked.
“The other notes had no fingerprints on them, but the note next to Sandra Lake’s body had her prints on it. According to the autopsy report, Sandra Lake died instantly or, at least, she was unconscious as soon as she was hit on the back of the head. When did she touch the note?”
“I still don’t …”
“She finds the note or the rose or both. She asks Lake what they are. He knows the story will break in the paper eventually. No matter what he tells her now, she’ll know he’s the rose killer. So he panics, kills her and leaves the rose and the note next to the body to make us think the same person who’s taken the other women also killed his wife. And that explains why only Lake’s note has a print and why it’s Sandra Lake’s print,” Michaels said. “She was holding it before she was killed.”
“That also explains why no one saw any strange vehicles going in or out of The Meadows.”
O’Malley leaned back in his chair. He looked troubled.
“You’ve got me believing this,” he said. “But theories aren’t proof. If it’s Lake, how do we prove it with evidence that’s admissible in court?”
Before anyone could answer, the door to O’Malley’s office opened.
“Sorry to interrupt, Chief, but we just got a 911 that’s connected to those women who disappeared. Do you have a suspect named Waters?”
“What’s up?” Grimsbo asked.
“The caller said he talked with a guy named Henry Waters at the One Way Inn and Waters said he had a woman in his basement.”
“Did the caller give a name?”
The officer shook his head. “Said he didn’t want to get involved, but he kept thinking about the little kid who was murdered and his conscience wouldn’t leave him alone.”
“When did this conversation at the bar take place?” Nancy asked.
“A few days ago.”
“Did Waters describe the woman or give any details?”
“Waters told him the woman had red hair.”
“Patricia Cross,” Turner said.
“This is Lake’s doing,” Nancy said. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“I’m with Nancy,” Turner said. “Waters just doesn’t figure.”
“Can we take the chance?” Michaels asked. “With Lake, all we have is some deductive reasoning. We know Waters was around the Escalante residence near the time she disappeared and he has a sex offender record.”
“I want you four out there pronto,” O’Malley ordered. “I’d rather be wrong than sit here talking when we might be able to save one of those women.”
Henry Waters lived in an older section of Hunter’s Point. Oak trees shaded the wide streets. High hedges gave the residents privacy. Most of the homes and lawns were well kept up, but Waters’s house, a corner plot, was starting to come apart. The gutters were clogged. One of the steps leading up to the shaded front porch was broken. The lawn was overgrown and full of weeds.
The sun was starting to set when Nancy Gordon followed Wayne Turner and Frank Grimsbo along the slate walk toward Henry Waters’s front door. Michaels waited in the car in case he was needed to process a crime scene. Three uniformed officers were stationed behind the house in an alley that divided the large block. Two officers preceded the detectives up the walk and positioned themselves, guns drawn but concealed, on either side of the front door.
“We take it easy and we are polite,” Turner cautioned. “I want his consent or the search and seizure issues could get sticky.”
Everyone nodded. No one cracked a joke about Turner and law school, as they might have under other circumstances. Nancy looked back at the high grass in the front yard. The house was weather-beaten. The brown paint was chipping. A window screen was hanging by one screw outside the front window. Nancy peeked through a crack between a drawn shade and the windowsill. No one was in the front room. They could hear a television playing somewhere toward the back of the house.
“He’ll be less fearful if he sees a woman,” Nancy said. Grimsbo nodded and Nancy pressed the doorbell. She wore a jacket to conceal her holster. There had been some respite from the heat during the day, but it was still warm. She could feel a trickle of sweat work its way down her side.
Nancy rang the bell a second time and the volume of the TV lowered. She saw a vague shape moving down the hall through the semi-opaque curtain that covered the glassed upper half of the front door. When the door opened, Nancy pulled back the screen door and smiled. The gangly, loose-limbed man did not smile back. He was dressed in jeans and a stained T-shirt. His long, greasy hair was unkempt. Waters’s dull eyes fixed first on Nancy, then on the uniformed officers. His brow furrowed, as if he were working on a calculus problem. Nancy flashed her badge.
“Mr. Waters, I’m Nancy Gordon, a detective with the Hunter’s Point P.D.”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” Waters said defensively.
“I’m certain that’s true,” Nancy answered in a firm but friendly tone, “but we received some information we’d like to check out. Would you mind if we came in?”
“Who is it?” a frail female voice called from the rear of the house.
“That’s my mom,” Waters explained. “She’s sick.”
“I’m sorry. We’ll try not to disturb her.”
“Why do you have to upset her? She’s sick,” Waters said, his anxiety growing.
“You misunderstood me, Mr. Waters. We are not going to bother your mother. We only want to look around. May we do that? We won’t be long.”
“I ain’t done nothin’,” Waters repeated, his eyes shifting anxiously from Grimsbo to Turner, then to the uniformed officers. “Talk to Miss Cummings. She’s my p.o. She’ll tell you.”
“We did talk to your probation officer and she gave you a very good report. She said you cooperated with her completely. We’d like your cooperation too. You don’t want us to have to wait here while one of the officers gets a search warrant, do you?”
“Why do you have to search my house?” Waters asked angrily. The officers tensed. “Why the hell can’t you leave me be? I ain’t looked at that girl no more. I’m workin’ steady. Miss Cummings can tell you.”
“There’s no need to get upset,” Nancy answered calmly. “The sooner we look around, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair.”
Waters thought this over. “What do you want to see?” he asked.
“The basement.”
“There ain’t nothin’ in the basement,” Waters said, seeming genuinely puzzled.
“Then we won’t be here long,” Nancy assured him.
Waters snorted. “The basement. You can see all the basement you want. Ain’t nothin’ but spiders in the basement.”
Waters pointed down a dark hall that led past the stairs toward the rear of the house.
“Why don’t you come with us, Mr. Waters. You can show us around.”
The hall was dark, but there was a light in the kitchen. Nancy saw a sink filled with dirty dishes and the remains of two TV dinners on a Formica-topped table. The kitchen floor was stained and dirty. There was a solid wood door under the staircase next to the entrance to the kitchen. Waters opened it. Then his eyes widened and he stepped back. Nancy pushed past him. The smell was so strong it knocked her back a step.
“Stay with Mr. Waters,” Nancy told the officers. She took a deep breath and flicked the switch at the head of the stairs. There was nothing unusual at the bottom of the wooden steps. Nancy held her gun with one hand and the rickety railing with the other. The smell of death grew stronger as she descended the stairs. Grimsbo and Turner followed. No one spoke.
Halfway down, Nancy crouched and scanned the basement. The only light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. She could see a furnace in one corner. Odd pieces of furniture, most with a broken look, were stashed against a wall surrounded by cartons of newspapers and old magazines. A back door opened into a concrete well at the back of the house near the alley. Most of the corner near the door was in shadow, but Nancy could make out a human foot and a pool of blood.
“Fuck,” she whispered, sucking air.
Grimsbo edged past her. Nancy followed close behind. She knew nothing in the basement could hurt her, but she was having trouble catching her breath. Turner aimed a flashlight at the corner and flicked it on.
“Jesus,” he managed in a strangled voice.
The naked woman was sprawled on the cold concrete, swimming in blood and surrounded by an overpowering fecal smell. She had not been “killed” or “murdered.” She had been defiled and dehumanized. Nancy could see patches of charred flesh where the skin was not stained with blood or feces. The woman’s intestines had burst through a gaping hole in her abdomen. They reminded Nancy of a string of bloated sausages. She turned her head aside.
“Bring Waters down here,” Grimsbo bellowed. Nancy could see the tendons in his neck stretching. His eyes bulged.
“You don’t lay one hand on him, Frank,” Turner managed between gasps.
Nancy grabbed Grimsbo’s massive forearm. “Wayne’s right. I’m handling this. Back off.”
A uniform hustled Waters down the steps. When Waters saw the body, he turned white and fell to his knees. He was mouthing words, but no sound came out.
Nancy closed her eyes and gathered herself. The body wasn’t there. The smell wasn’t in the air. She knelt next to Waters.
“Why, Henry?” she asked softly.
Waters looked at her. His face crumpled and he bleated like a wounded animal.
“Why?” Nancy repeated.
“Oh, no. Oh, no,” Waters cried, holding his head in his hands. The head snapped back and forth with each denial, his long hair trailing behind.
“Then who did this? She’s here, Henry. In your basement.”
Waters gaped at Nancy, his mouth wide open.
“I’m going to give you your rights. You’ve heard them before, haven’t you?” Nancy asked, but it was clear Waters was in no condition to discuss constitutional rights. His head hung backward and he was making an inhuman baying noise.
“Take him to the station,” she ordered the officer who was standing behind Waters. “If you, or anyone else, asks this man one question, you’ll be scrubbing toilet bowls in public rest rooms. Is that understood? He hasn’t been Mirandized. I want him in an interrogation room with a two-man guard inside and another man outside. No one, including the chief, is to talk to him. I’ll call from here to brief O’Malley. And send Michaels in. Tell him to call for a full forensic team. Post a guard on the stairs. No one else comes down here unless Glen says it’s okay. I don’t want this crime scene fucked up.”
Grimsbo and Turner had drawn closer to the body, making certain to stay outside the circle of blood that surrounded it. Grimsbo was taking short, deep breaths. Turner willed himself to look at the woman’s face. It was Patricia Cross, but barely. The killer’s savage attack had not been limited to the victim’s body.
The young uniformed officer was also riveted on the body. That is why he was slow to react when Waters leaped up. Nancy was half-turned and saw the action from the corner of her eye. By the time she turned back, the cop was sprawled on the floor and Waters was bolting up the stairs, screaming for his mother.
The officer who was watching the cellar door heard Waters’s scream. He stepped in front of the entrance to the basement, gun drawn, as Waters barreled into him.
“Don’t shoot!” Nancy screamed just as the gun exploded. The officer stumbled backward, crashing into the wall opposite the cellar door. The shot plowed through Waters’s heart and he tumbled down the stairs, cracking his head on the cement floor. Waters never felt the impact. He was dead by then.
“It was on the late news. I can’t believe you caught him,” Nancy Gordon heard Peter Lake say. She was alone in the task force office, writing reports. Nancy swiveled her chair. Lake stood in the doorway of the office. He wore pressed jeans and a maroon and blue rugby shirt. His styled hair was neatly combed. He looked happy and excited. There was no indication that he was thinking of Sandra or Melody Lake. No sign of grief.
“How did you crack it?” Lake asked, sitting in the chair opposite Nancy.
“An anonymous tip, Peter. Nothing fancy.”
“That’s terrific.”
“It looks like you were right.”
Lake shrugged his shoulders, stifling a smile.
“Say,” Lake asked sheepishly, “you didn’t tell anyone about my stakeout, did you?”
“That’s our little secret.”
“Thanks. I feel like a fool, going off on my own like that. You were right. If Waters caught on, he probably would have killed me.”
“You must feel relieved, knowing Sandy’s and Melody’s killer has been caught,” Nancy said, watching for a reaction.
Lake suddenly looked somber.
“It’s as if an enormous weight was taken off my shoulders. Maybe now my life can go back to normal.”
“You know, Peter,” Nancy said casually, “there was a time when I tossed around the possibility that you might be the killer.”
“Why?” Peter asked, shocked.
“You were never a serious suspect, but there were a few inconsistencies in your story.”
“Like what?”
“The time, for instance. You didn’t call 911 until eight-fifteen, but a neighbor saw you driving toward your house around seven-twenty. I couldn’t figure out why it took you so long to call the police.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Nancy shrugged.
“I was a suspect because of this time thing?”
“What were you doing for almost an hour?”
“Jesus, Nancy, I don’t remember. I was in a daze. I mean, I might have blacked out for a bit.”
“You never mentioned that.”
Lake stared at Nancy, openmouthed.
“Am I still a suspect? Are you interrogating me?”
Nancy shook her head. “The case is closed, Peter. The chief is going to hold a press conference in the morning. There were three black roses and another one of those notes on a shelf in the basement. And, of course, there was poor Patricia Cross.”
“But you don’t believe it? You honestly think I could have …?”
“Relax, Peter,” Nancy answered, closing her eyes. “I’m real tired and not thinking straight. It’s been one very long day.”
“I can’t relax. I mean, I really like you and I thought you liked me. It’s a shock to find out you seriously thought I could do something … something like what was done to that woman.”
Nancy opened her eyes. Lake looked distant, like he was visualizing Patricia Cross’s eviscerated body. But he had not been to the crime scene or read an autopsy report. The media had not been told the condition of Patricia Cross’s body.
“I said you were never a serious suspect and I meant it,” Nancy lied with a forced smile. “If you were, I would have told Turner and Grimsbo about the stakeout, wouldn’t I?”
“I guess.”
“Well, I didn’t and you can’t be a suspect anymore, what with Waters dead, can you?”
Lake shook his head.
“Look,” Nancy told him, “I’m really whacked out. I have one more report to write and I’m gone. Why don’t you go home too, and start getting on with your life.”
Lake stood. “That’s good advice. I’m going to take it. And I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without you.”
Lake stuck out his hand. Nancy stared at it for a second. Was this the hand that ripped the life out of Patricia Cross and Sandra and Melody Lake or was she crazy? Nancy shook Lake’s hand. He held hers a moment longer than necessary, then released it after a brief squeeze.
“When things get back to normal for both of us, I’d like to take you to dinner,” Lake said.
“Call me,” Nancy answered, her stomach churning. It took every ounce of control to keep the smile on her face.
Lake left the room and Nancy stopped smiling. Waters was too good to be true. She did not believe he was responsible for the carnage in his basement. Lake had to know about the alley and the back door. With Waters at work and the mother an invalid, it would have been simple to drive behind the house without being seen, put the body in the basement and butcher it there. Lake was the anonymous caller, she was certain of it. But she had no proof. And O’Malley would soon tell the world that Henry Waters was a serial killer and the case of the missing women was closed.