Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dr Levene’s Apartment
November 22, 6.00 a.m.
Denise was woken at 6 a.m. by a persistent knocking at the door. She was dreaming of a prairie. A huge open prairie. Her father was visible but only at a distance. He was calling something that she couldn’t understand. As she squinted into the sunlight to discern what he was saying, his image zoomed with frightening suddenness and she could see that he was calling her name and sinking into the ground.
‘Denise, Denise, Denise.’
Her eyes opened. Her left arm moved out to her bedside cabinet and hit Daniel as she flicked the switch. A low orange glow lit a corner of the room. Daniel groaned and shrugged. Fahrenheit was lying flat out across the foot of the bed and hadn’t stirred. A great guard dog he’d turned out to be. Denise got up and stood in a vest and shorts, on the carpet. She could hear the voice at her door now. It was difficult to discern, but her name was being repeated in a loud whisper.
‘Denise, Denise, Denise.’
At her door, she took the red towelling robe and put it on. She wasn’t afraid for her safety. How could she be? Her man was asleep in the bedroom and her guard dog was slumbering beside him.
As she reached the narrow corridor that led from her living room to the apartment door, she thought she recognized the voice.
She relaxed. Who else would it be? The door opened and she looked down at the crouching figure of Tom Harper calling through the keyhole. Behind her, Fahrenheit appeared around the door of the bedroom, walked across and stared quizzically at Tom.
Tom saw Denise’s legs first, a glimpse of her smooth tanned thigh between the ruby of her gown. He looked up. Her hair was forward on her face, messy from sleep. She had a cross look on her face.
‘Are you having a crisis?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘You want to come in?’
‘Sure.’
Denise turned and walked to the kitchen, leaving Tom to stand and enter by himself. He watched her walk. She was more graceful without her heels, a softer, slightly longer stride - more confident. Then his eyes looked around her apartment. Her office was a temple of order, this was not - clothes and bags and shoes lay all over the room.
‘I’ve heard this happens to some therapists,’ she said, a coffee pot in one hand. ‘You know, guys getting fixated, calling after hours for a chat. I didn’t figure you for the type, but if you need me, you need me.’
‘I need you,’ said Tom, watching her closely. He liked her off-duty attitude.
Denise nodded, but decided not to follow it. ‘How did you get in?’ she asked. ‘And while you’re there, how did you know where I lived?’
Tom shrugged.
‘You’re a cop, right.’
He nodded.
‘So, you like Colombian or Ethiopian?’
‘I’ll leave the decision to you.’
‘Very wise, Detective. I care about my coffee.’
Tom watched her take a small steel scoop and extract some bright brown beans from a jar. She whizzed them in a grinder, then filled her espresso machine with the grind. She was on automatic the whole time. Her eyes were hardly open. In her living room, there was a collection of framed photographs on the sideboard. He picked one up. A lanky guy with a cheesy smile had his arm draped around her shoulder. He was in several of the pictures, but one particular photograph had a spot in the centre. It was a picture of a rugged-looking man with a little girl on his knee. She was smiling like a sunbeam and so was he.
‘I get all my beans from a specialist delicatessen in Little Italy. I recommend a visit,’ Denise called through. She appeared with the coffee. ‘I guess this isn’t social, so what’s up?’
‘I’ve been working through the night. This killer’s working a two-day cycle, which means that today he strikes again. Some poor blonde woke up this morning and she won’t go to sleep tonight.’
‘That’s quite a burden to carry.’
‘Erin Nash still won’t speak. Eddie saw her yesterday. She knew all about Elizabeth Seale. She knew he took her uterus. No one knew that. You read it?’
‘Yeah, course I did. Horrible. She said nothing?’
‘Not a thing. Says she just has a good source. If it’s one of my own team!’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘There just aren’t that many people who know the details. You know he posed Elizabeth like a painting. Like the painting on the wall of Jessica Pascal’s apartment. A nude. She looked beautiful from the front. He’d kept her all nice there, but behind, yeah, he’d gone to work.’
‘Calm down, Tom.’
‘Nate’s death has got to us all. After that picture in the Frick, I’ve been trying to track down any art links with the victims. Ten hours solid and nothing. It’s not art. Sorry. I’m wired.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘Listen, I’ve been thinking all night. Going over the fiasco at the Laker Building. The killer knew what we were up to, he knew it was a set-up and he set us up. Made fools of us. But he had Williamson’s home scoped already. He was seen parked in his road twice in the past week. I think he was going to kill Nate anyway.’
‘And now you’re the lead detective. You thinking that he’s after you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe he went for Nate because he thought he wasn’t high-profile enough.’
‘Yeah, I thought of that.’
‘I guess he wants to prove he’s the best. Or maybe he wants you all to know you’re not invulnerable.’
‘The one thing that keeps coming up in my mind is the fact that you knew how he’d react. You were able to predict his behaviour. No one else has got close to this guy, but you got him. I know he played us, but you got him to speak to us. How the hell did you do that?’
‘I trained in psychology; you know that.’
‘No, this was special. You were able to think like him, think how he felt. Where did you learn to think like a killer?’
Denise shuffled in her seat. ‘My research meant I spent time interviewing killers. I went to training sessions at Quantico. I picked it up.’
Harper looked at her suspiciously. ‘I don’t believe you. There’s more, isn’t there? I’ve been to those training sessions with the FBI and I couldn’t have predicted his behaviour like you did.’
‘It was a lucky shot.’
‘Bullshit.’ Tom looked into her eyes. ‘I’m sorry to call so early, but if we can’t track down how these women knew the killer then we need to work out where he stalks his victims. I want to do a reconstruction. I want to run through the murder at the Elizabeth Seale crime scene and I need you there. I need that talented head of yours. You might see something everyone else has missed. What do you think? Might help? Would you?’
Denise’s eyes widened. ‘Get out of here, Tom.’
‘Come on. I need some fresh thoughts. You predicted his behaviour. You understand him. I’ll keep you safe. It’ll be okay.’
‘Visiting a murdered girl’s apartment at dawn with a cop I’m supposed to be treating - are you kidding?’
The door to the bedroom opened and Daniel walked in. ‘Lot of commotion for six a.m. Are we in trouble?’
‘Sorry,’ said Denise. ‘We’ll try to keep it down.’
‘Is that coffee I smell?’
‘Yeah. I’ll get you some. This is Detective Harper, North Manhattan Homicide. Tom, this is Daniel Mercer.’
‘Morning,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
Denise walked through to the kitchen to fetch the coffee. Daniel stood looking at Harper. ‘My girlfriend under arrest, Detective?’
‘No.’
‘Early for a house call, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re talkative, aren’t you?’
‘I’m on police business, sir. Got nothing to say.’
‘What do you want with Denise? She’s a psychotherapist, not a cop.’
‘It’s confidential business, sir. I can’t say.’
Denise arrived back with the coffee. ‘Daniel, we’re kind of in the middle of something. Would you give us a minute?’
‘Sure, but it all sounds very secretive to me. Hope you’re not getting in too deep, Denise.’
‘Hey, if I wanted a handler, I’d be wearing a collar.’
Daniel took his coffee and left the room. Harper looked across to Denise. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had someone here. I’ll go. I’m just not thinking straight. My apologies.’
‘What about your reconstruction?’
‘I can go through it alone. We can talk later.’
‘You think I can help?’
‘It might make the difference.’
‘It’s a long shot,’ she said, breathing in the aroma of her coffee. ‘I’ve never even been to a crime scene.’
‘It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?’
‘And what do I do?’
‘You’re the victim.’
‘Oh, that’s just terrific. I’m typecast on my first case.’
‘I’m not much good in heels. And I need to walk in his shoes a while. I got to feel this guy think. But don’t feel you ought to.’
‘Don’t you worry about me. I’m coming,’ Denise said. ‘But no weird shit. Give me ten minutes.’ She drank the espresso down in one.