“And that’s what happened, Mr. Page,” Nancy Gordon said. “The case was closed. Henry Waters was officially named as the rose killer. Shortly after, Peter Lake disappeared. His house was sold. He closed his bank accounts. His associates were handed a thriving business. And Peter was never heard from again.”
Page looked confused. “Maybe I’m missing something. Your case against Lake was purely circumstantial. Unless there was more evidence, I don’t understand why you’re so certain Peter Lake killed those women and framed Waters.”
Gordon took a newspaper clipping and a photograph of a man leaving a motel room out of her briefcase and laid them side by side.
“Do you recognize this man?” she asked, pointing to the photograph. Page leaned over and picked it up.
“This is Martin Darius.”
“Look carefully at this newspaper picture of Peter Lake and tell me what you think.”
Page studied the two pictures. He imagined Lake with a beard and Darius without one. He tried to judge the size of the two men and compare builds.
“They could be the same person,” he said.
“They are the same person. And the man who is murdering your women is the same man who murdered the women in Hunter’s Point. We never released the color of the rose or the contents of the notes. Whoever is killing your women has information known only by the members of the Hunter’s Point task force and the killer.”
Gordon took a fingerprint card from the briefcase and handed it to Page.
“These are Lake’s fingerprints. Compare them to Darius’s. You must have some on file.”
“How did you find Lake here?” Page asked.
Gordon took a sheet of stationery out of her briefcase and laid it on the coffee table next to the photograph.
“I’ve had it dusted for prints,” she said. “There aren’t any.”
Page picked up the letter. It had been written on a word processor. The stationery looked cheap, probably the type sold in hundreds of chain stores and impossible to trace. The note read: “Women in Portland, Oregon are ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten.’ ” The first letters of each word were capitalized like those in the notes found in the homes of the victims.
“I received this yesterday. The envelope was postmarked from Portland. The photograph of Darius and an Oregonian profile of him were inside. I knew it was Lake the minute I saw the picture. The envelope also contained a clipping about you, Mr. Page, your address and a ticket for a United Airlines flight. No one met me at the airport, so I came to see you.”
“What do you suggest we do, Detective Gordon? We certainly can’t bring Darius in for questioning with what you’ve given me.”
“No!” Gordon said, alarmed. “Don’t spook him. You have to stay away from Martin Darius until your case is airtight. You have no idea how clever he is.”
Page was startled by Gordon’s desperation.
“We know our business, Detective,” he assured her.
“You don’t know Peter Lake. You’ve never dealt with anyone like him.”
“You said that before.”
“You must believe me.”
“Is there something else you aren’t telling me?”
Gordon started to say something, then she shook her head.
“I’m exhausted, Mr. Page. I need to rest. You don’t know what this is like for me. To have Lake surface after all these years. If you had seen what he did to Patricia Cross …”
There was a long pause and Page said nothing.
“I need a place to stay,” Gordon said abruptly. “Can you suggest a motel? Someplace quiet.”
“There’s the Lakeview. We keep out-of-town witnesses there. I can drive you.”
“No, don’t. I’ll take a cab. Can you call one for me?”
“Sure. My phone book is in my bedroom. I’ll be right out.”
“I’ll leave you the fingerprint card, the photograph and the newspaper clipping. I have copies,” Gordon said as she gathered up the note.
“You’re certain you don’t want me to drive you? It’s no trouble.”
Gordon shook her head. Page went into the bedroom and called for a cab. When he returned to the living room, Gordon was slumped on the couch, her eyes closed.
“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” he said.
Gordon’s eyes snapped open. She looked startled, as if she had drifted off for a few minutes and had been scared awake.
“It’s been a long day,” the detective said. She looked embarrassed.
“Jet lag,” Page said to make conversation. “I hope you’re right about Darius.”
“I am right,” Gordon answered, her features rigid. “I am one hundred percent right. You believe that, Mr. Page. The lives of a lot of women depend on it.”