Rachel Laurent followed me as I went through her mother’s house. At one point she asked whether I’d like some coffee, and the effort in that seemed to sap the strength out of her. While I searched her mother’s bedroom she sat in a corner, somberness masking her features. I found a closet full of men’s clothing, but she looked it over and told me it was her father’s.
“I guess my mom couldn’t give up that piece of my dad,” she said, her mouth weakening and wetness showing around her eyes.
Other than that clothing and a shaving kit in the bathroom, which Rachel also told me had been her dad’s, there was nothing to indicate a man had been spending time there. Nothing to indicate Gail Laurent had been involved in a romantic relationship or had problems with anyone. Rachel gave me permission to turn on her mother’s computer, and there was nothing suspicious from her email or from the websites she had bookmarked. I now had little doubt that Gail Laurent’s murder was the random act of a serial killer. It had been too brutal to have been a simple robbery, and unless it turned out to be contract killing made to look like something else it seemed the work of a psychopathic mind. So far it appeared that the only person who would benefit financially from Laurent’s death was her daughter, Rachel, and I had a hard time believing she could be responsible. Her father’s death on 9-11 resulted in a large financial settlement, which Rachel told me her mother insisted on sharing equally with her. She was an only child, and while she was going to be inheriting a large sum from her mother—the house alone, a stately four-bedroom brick colonial in an upper-class neighborhood, was probably worth at least a million—I just couldn’t see it. She’d have to be putting on an amazing act and be one ice-cold sociopath otherwise. Still, I was going to have to look into it and check her phone records and finances.
When I was done with my search I told Rachel that I would have that coffee she offered earlier if it were still available and if she were willing to join me.
We went downstairs to the kitchen. She found some French roast to brew, and while we waited for the coffee she joined me at a small glass table. She looked so worn out emotionally that I hated asking her how much she was going to be inheriting from her mother’s estate. She gave me a puzzled look and told me she wasn’t going to be inheriting anything.
“I thought you were an only child?” I asked.
“That’s right.” From her blank expression it hadn’t dawned on her yet why I was asking about the money, or maybe it had and she was just too exhausted to care. “I was only willing to take money from my dad’s settlement if my mom agreed to leave her money to the types of charities my dad would’ve wanted to support. I couldn’t stand the idea of becoming rich off my parents’ deaths. I also didn’t want to think about losing my mom, and that seemed the best way to distance myself from the idea of it. So we worked out her will together. I did the same with my own will.”
“That includes the house?”
“That includes everything my mom owned.”
“Anyone at these charities know money was being left to them?”
She gave me a puzzled look and shook her head.
The coffee had finished brewing. I got up and poured two cups and brought them back to the table. She just didn’t seem to have the energy left to do that.
“I’d like to see a copy of the will,” I said. “Also your phone and bank records. It will help move things along.”
She nodded. “I’ll call our lawyer and arrange for him to send you a copy of whatever you need. I’ll get my records together also and send copies to your precinct.”
We drank our coffee quietly for several minutes. I broke the silence by asking whether she had a date yet for the funeral. She told me it was that Sunday.
“I don’t have much family left,” she said, struggling to keep her tears held back. “My grandparents are gone, and I only have an uncle on my father’s side. There won’t be many people attending. Just Uncle Robert and friends.”
“I’ll have to be there,” I said.
She gave me a questioning look.
“In case anyone shows up who you don’t know …”
I didn’t spell out that her mother’s killer was the person I was concerned about showing up at the funeral, but she got the idea and her mouth started to tremble. She put a hand to her face as tears leaked from her eyes. I sat frozen, wanting to comfort her but not sure how to do that, not even sure if it was possible. In the end, I sat silently drinking my coffee and feeling like a fraud and a coward. Eventually she fought back her grief and composed herself. When she could talk she gave me the time and place of her mother’s funeral. I left her then.
While walking to my car I held my jacket collar closed and lowered my head against the rain. It was a miserable day, and it pretty much matched my mood. While on I-95 North heading back to Manhattan I almost called Cheryl to let her know how much I appreciated her poisoning my kids against me and Bambi, but I had just enough wits about me to realize what a mistake that would be. Instead I fumbled with my notepad until I found Zachary Lynch’s number, then called him. First time I got his answering machine. I left a message that I knew he was home and for him to pick up to save me a trip to his apartment. I called again afterward, and this time he picked up.
“Detective Green?” he asked, an uneasiness in his voice.
“Yep,” I said. “I wanted to ask you again about your being able to identify the killer if you saw him in the flesh. You’re sure you could do that?”
He hesitated before telling me that he thought he’d be able to. “Why … have you found someone?”
“Not yet. The woman who was murdered, her funeral is this Sunday. I’d like you to accompany me. It’s possible the killer might show up. Sometimes they like to do that.”
“I don’t know … I’m not sure I could … That would mean I would have to look at everyone … You don’t know how hard that would be for me, detective … I’m not sure I’m up to doing that.”
“It could be our best chance to catch this guy before he kills someone else. I’m sure you’d like to do everything you can to help us.”
“I would, detective, but what you’re asking of me … I don’t know.”
According to the odometer my speed had edged past ninety. I didn’t trust these New Jersey staties to pay any special attention to my NYPD badge. The way my day was going they’d write me up just the same as the next guy. I eased my foot off the gas.
“Lisa told me you were a good guy,” I said.
“Lisa?”
“Yeah, from Strombolli’s. Where you go food shopping every Wednesday night. So what do you say, Zach? Will you help us?”
“What … what else did Lisa say?”
“I’ll tell you Sunday. Okay?”
He cleared his throat and in a hoarse whisper told me he would go with me. I let him know what time I’d be picking him up and suggested he wear a suit and tie. After getting off the phone with Lynch I called Phillips. So far the canvass had turned up nothing of interest. They had collected several dozen videotapes and gone through half of them.
“Anything from the daughter?” Phillips asked.
“Nothing.”
“Is she involved?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m checking her out.”
“Anyone else benefit from Laurent’s death?”
“Not that I can see.”
He grunted. “So if you’re right, this killing was random.”
If I was right. Sonofabitch had to stick that in there.
“Yeah. Look, it’s already four thirty and I’m still stuck on 95 North trying to get out of Jersey. As you mentioned to me the other day, I’ve already put in enough overtime this week. I’m calling it a day.”
“We’ve still got videotapes to look through,” he complained sourly.
“Good thing you’ve got other resources on this, huh? I’ll be in tomorrow at eight.”
I hung up before he could say anything else, and for good measure I turned off my phone.
With the rain beating down and the start of rush hour, traffic back to New York was brutal, and it wasn’t until eight that I was able to pick up a pizza and get back to my apartment in Flatbush. There were no messages from Bambi, not that I expected any. I took a couple of beers from the fridge, turned on the set, and saw that the Yankees game was being rescheduled for Saturday—that the weather in Boston had been just as lousy as it had been in New York.
I left the set on but barely paid attention to it as I ate the pie and drank my beer. I guess I wanted the background noise and wasn’t really up to being left alone with my thoughts. After a long while I turned off the TV. In the quiet of my apartment my thoughts started drifting to the murdered woman and the other bodies that were sure to be coming; to my partner, Rich, lying in his hospital bed encased in plaster but having something more wrong with him than just that; to Bambi and her discontentment; and finally to my failed marriage and my kids. The quiet became too much for me. I picked up the phone and called this guy I knew, Earl Buntz, who for the right price could get his hands on anything.
“Three tickets for tomorrow night’s game in Boston,” I said. “How much?”
“Ah, jeez,” he moaned. “Stan, that’s a tall order. It was a bitch of a game to get tickets for in the first place, but fuck, with tonight’s game rained out it’s going to be near impossible. Tickets have all been snatched up already, you know?”
“Find some.”
Earl sighed and told me he’d see what he could do. Ten minutes later he called back. He found three primo lower-box seats along the third base line.
“How much?”
“A future favor, that’s all. Enjoy the game.”
“I’m not doing that. How much?”
He let out a low painful moan, sort of as if he were having his teeth worked on. “Stan, if you want to pay cash I guess that’s your business, but it’s not going to be cheap.”
“How much.”
“A thousand bucks apiece. Three grand. And I won’t be making a dime off this. My good deed for the year. So you want them?”
Fuck. Three grand. My share of the cost of taking care of Mom as well as my child support payments had been bleeding me pretty dry. I wasn’t sure how I was going to come up with three grand, but I told him to get me the tickets.
“You sure you don’t want to owe me a favor instead?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. It might be a few days before I can get you the money, but I’m good for it.”
“Seeing how you’re Mike’s little brother, I can let it slide a week,” Earl said. “After that it’s going to have to be five points. You okay with that? You’re sure you’d rather not just watch the game on TV?”
I told him I was sure. He gave me another heavy sigh and told me he’d have the tickets run over to my apartment by ten the following morning. Before hanging up he told me to say hello to Mike the next chance I had. After I got off the phone with him I called Cheryl. This time she picked up first instead of making me go through her new hubby.
“I don’t know why Stevie said that the other day. I haven’t been saying anything about your girlfriend’s name—”
“Forget it,” I said. “She’s out of the picture now anyway. I want to take Stevie and Emma to the game tomorrow night.”
“What game?”
“The baseball game. Yankees, Red Sox.”
There was dead silence on her end while she digested that. When she finally spoke I could picture the tightness pinching her mouth as she said it was going to be around forty degrees out tomorrow night, and she didn’t feel the ballpark would be a good environment for a seven-year-old.
“Emma will be fine,” I said. “Just bundle her up. There will be younger kids than her there. And it will be a memory she’ll never forget.”
Another hesitation. Then her voice even more pinched she asked, “Do you already have tickets?”
“Yeah. Lower-box seats along the third base line. They’re supposed to be good seats.”
“How can you afford them?”
“That’s my business,” I said. “I’ve never been late with my child support, have I?”
“I’ve never said you have. I’m just asking, that’s all. If you want to do something for Stevie and Emma there are better ways to be spending your money.”
“Not for me. Not right now, anyway. Look, I’ll be picking them up at three so I can take them out to dinner before the game.”
I could almost hear the thoughts running through her head while I waited for her to answer me. When she finally did her voice sounded brittle and with that edge to it that I knew so well.
“I don’t want to get their hopes up,” she said. “I don’t want to tell them about this only to have you cancel at the last second.”
“I’m not going to be canceling.”
“You better not. You have this one last chance, Stan. Not just with me but with them. If you let them down on this—”
“Chrissakes, give me a break, okay?” I told her, and then got off the phone before she could raise my blood pressure any higher than she already had. The only times in the past I had ever disappointed my kids by not showing up to something was when I was on the job and had no choice about it. She knew that as well as I did, and I was sick of her throwing it in my face.
I was too worked up to hang around my empty apartment. I got in my car and drove back to Manhattan. Joe Ramirez seemed surprised to see me when I walked into his office.
“You can’t keep away, can you, Stan?” Joe said, shaking his head, a thin smile showing.
“Not tonight anyway.” I filled him in on what I learned from Lynch’s neurologist and my gut take on Rachel Laurent. He nodded, only half paying attention to what I told him since Phillips must’ve included all of that in his day report.
“We’ve still got a stack of videotapes,” Joe said. “If you want to help out I’ll sign off on the overtime.”
“Nothing yet, huh?”
“Nothing.” Joe shrugged and gave me a tired look. “Assuming that Lynch is right about what our perp was wearing, we’re still wasting our time. Odds are our guy ditched his Mets sweatshirt after he was spotted. We’ve been checking trash receptacles in the area, and nothing yet, but city trash collection in that area was last night so we’re pretty much fucked there. Checking those tapes is about as useful as sitting around holding our dicks, but I guess right now that’s the best we got.”
I thought he was being overly pessimistic, but given the mood he was in I wasn’t going to argue with him. There was a chance we’d catch the sonofabitch on tape.
“I’m surprised we haven’t found any more bodies yet,” I said.
“Yeah, so am I.”
I told Joe that since the tapes were my idea I’d help out with them. I turned to head toward the video room, then asked him without much hope whether there’d been any luck tracking down sales for the make and model of the knife that the perp had used. Joe’s expression turned more dour as he told me that our Crime Center was still trying to track down Internet sites selling that model, but we both knew it wouldn’t help much even if we were able to get all those sites to hand over their customer lists. We’d still have all the pawnshop and back alley sales that we would never find out about, and that would be the vast majority of sales. It would be an amazingly lucky break if we found our guy this way—about the same as drawing four aces from a pair—but sometimes you do get lucky.
What we used as a video room had been the smallest of our interrogation rooms when I started with the department fifteen years ago. Now it had four TV monitors and video players, as well as computer equipment for printing images from the video and for transferring the images to a format the computer could deal with. Matt Chase and Allen Wang were in there going through videotapes. Wang worked the same day shift I did. He gave me a bleary-eyed look and nodded to me before turning back to his monitor. He had a kid in college and could use the overtime. Chase appeared even more pissed off than his usual self as he stared at his screen. “What a way to waste a night,” he complained bitterly. “I heard this was your idea, Green. Thanks a lot, pal. I could be out there doing some good instead of this shit.”
“Anytime,” I told him. “By the way, Yankees game was rained out.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“No Mets fans yet, huh?”
Chase didn’t bother answering me. Wang shook his head.
There was still a large stack of tapes to go through. I picked up three of them and took them to one of the open stations. Since, as Joe had pointed out, there was a good chance our perp had ditched his sweatshirt after the killing, the protocol we were using was to search through the tapes from two hours before the murder to a half hour afterward. It was tedious work. Even with fast-forwarding through the tapes, I still had to pause every time someone came into view wearing a dark jacket, sweater, or sweatshirt to make sure it wasn’t a guy wearing a black hooded Mets sweatshirt. It ended up taking four hours to get through those three tapes, and when I was done I was feeling as bleary-eyed as Wang looked. At that point it was one o’clock. Joe had brought in pizza and I ended up hanging around another hour and a half to help finish off the remaining tapes.
“Fucking waste of a night,” Chase muttered as he turned off his monitor. I couldn’t disagree with him, although given the mood I was in spending the night occupied with busy work was better than the alternative, namely sitting alone in my apartment and feeling like a failure. Anyway, at least I had a clean conscience that all current leads for the case had been explored, at least to the extent I was capable of doing. That would help when I saw Rachel Laurent at her mother’s funeral. The six hours of overtime would also help to make a dent toward paying off those baseball tickets—after deductions a smaller dent than I’d wish, but at least it’d help somewhat.
I left the station and was back in my Flatbush apartment by three, and in bed ten minutes later. As exhausted as I felt I was again too wired to sleep and had too many thoughts running through my mind. I couldn’t shake this uneasiness inside me. It had been two months since I had seen my kids, and the thought of seeing them the next day mostly scared the shit out of me, especially thinking about the indifference I’d been hearing in their voices lately. I couldn’t help feeling as if Cheryl was right, that this was my one last shot with them, that if I waited until Thanksgiving it would be too late.
At some point I must’ve dozed off for a couple hours. The last thing I remembered before the alarm woke me at nine was looking over at the clock and seeing it was past seven and thinking how I was going to be dead on my feet later. All the two hours of sleep did was leave me feeling drugged. I stumbled out of bed. I had a busy day ahead of me.