TO EASE THE TENSION, Jimmy offers up a serving of Jim Beam in mugs. He has the red face of a heavy drinker. It appears redder now than ever. Jimmy’s bald head glows. He fiddles with a set of reading glasses. Gabby wonders why he doesn’t invest in a set of bifocals, puts it down to vanity. Gabby claims any man over fifty has no right to a claim to vanity.
O’Neill has young grandchildren, after who—as a distraction—we politely inquire.
No dice.
Pouring two fingers, he says, “Upton arrives tomorrow.” It comes out like a threat. “He doesn’t abide assumptive policing.”
Matter-of-fact, I say, “No hunches?”
“Don’t be a putz, Dex. The perp is escalating.” O’Neill digs at his bloodshot eyes as if he has bugs. “Bodies are piling up, and you don’t have answers.”
Putz that I am, I don’t disagree. “Where do Gabby and I stand?”
“Carry on as is. But don’t let Upton catch you pushing paper or people. From here on, that’s his job, why he’s landed. He’ll delegate resources, coordinate forensics, manage jurisdictional overlap. He needs you two in the field, not underfoot.” As if hesitant, he adds, “Tomorrow we welcome the services of a criminal Profiler on loan from the State Police.” We groan. “You have piss-all to show so far.” Again, we don’t argue the point. “Make her feel welcome.”
“Like hemorrhoids,” says Gabby.
“Wait till the Feds start scratching your ass,” O’Neill says, smile rueful.
“Is that likely?” I say, alarmed.
“Mayor is under a lot of pressure, Dex. Terrorists are running down people on the goddamn street, for Chris’ sake. With the heat, City’s gone berserk.”
“Isn’t it why we have Upton?”
“We do all we can, PC does what he can. Don’t confuse politics with policing, kids.” Like a man clinging to a life-raft, he says, “Any chance it’s connected to the Gilgo Beach killings?”
I scoff. “Gilgo Beach Killer is a sadist, Jimmy.”
“In a way that a man who’s murdered four women isn’t?”
“The victims aren’t sex-trade workers,” Gabby says. “They’re women living on the down-low, isolated from family and friends. All have lost custody of their children. Loners, losers, and boozers and users, Jimmy. For this perp, it’s a type.”
O’Neill sighs. “Lovely, a serial killer with mommy issues.”
“Every serial killer in the history of mankind has mommy issues,” Gabby says.
“Leave it for the shrink to sort out. Forensics?”
“No prints, no fibers, no foreign DNA. CSU calls the perp meticulous. They don’t envy our odds.”
“Security video?”
“Nothing that gives us a positive ID. We’ve requested video surveillance from Yankee Stadium and hours of street video yet to view. We’re hopeful.”
Jimmy frowns. “In this business, hopeful is hopeless.”
Encouraging, Gabby says, “Each of the victims has a sheet, Jimmy, including the latest, Kelly Plett.”
Jimmy brightens. “That’s something. A connection?”
“It’s the most tangible link we have between victims so far. Plett did time at Albion Correctional, the others elsewhere in the New York State penal system. It can’t be put down to coincidence.”
“At last, progress.” Jimmy offers refills. We decline. Jimmy helps himself. “For better or worse, Dex, you’re still our best link to this shit-bag.”
“What happened to I’m under suspicion?”
“Don’t be a putz.”
It’s been a long day. I’m in a mood to be confrontational.
“I don’t want my legacy to be a string of unsolved serial murders, kids.”
“So, you keep saying, Jimmy. You want me to provoke him?”
Gabby puts a hand on my forearm, digging in her nails. “It’s risky business and could backfire, Dex.”
“It could also force him into a mistake, into the open,” says Jimmy, warming to the thought.
“How would Upton feel about this approach?” I say.
“Discuss it with him when he arrives. If this Chatterbox serves him up another body, he’ll be all-in.”
Gabby says, “The Chatterbox is not stupid. It would be a mistake to underestimate him.”
Reaching for the bottle, Jimmy says, “I’ll leave the details to you. It’s late. Now fuck-off, the both of you.”