Fifty-Seven

You can tell your editor that the NYPD does not use civilians as bait to catch a killer,” Den said over the phone, which left me only somewhat relieved.

I left it alone. “Have you gotten anywhere?”

“Not yet. None of the leads have taken us anywhere.” He paused. “But police work is like that. Sometimes just when I’m ready to give up, something happens.”

Which reminded me of my dad. Odd. I barely remembered him. I mostly recalled parts of him. His hand cupping my hand. The nook between his arm and shoulder where I’m told I’d crawl and lie. I remembered the feelings he left me with when he held my hand or hugged me.

We had given up on him a long time ago. You presumed a person dead when he was gone for such a lengthy period.

Why had he written to Mom after all these years? Didn’t he know what he’d put her through? Let alone his only child? I tamped down my confusion and anger and concentrated on the moment.

Den. On the phone. “We’ve learned that Luther entered the country seven months ago,” he was saying.

“Soon after our Jean Harlow look-alike arrived in Hollywood.”

“Yeah,” he said. “He was tracking her. I can’t believe it. Her own father.”

Den kept coming back to this. A cop who’d seen just about every form of deviation in human behavior. This part disturbed him. I didn’t know him well. Maybe he was troubled a lot. Perhaps he was too sensitive for it not to bother him. Most cops didn’t talk about their worst cases, but I had a hunch they were more like Den than not.

“Families can be complicated,” I said, once again, thinking of my own. My dad, gone for twenty-eight years. Husbands killed wives. When a woman showed up dead, the husband was always the first suspect. And, of course, they murdered their own kids. “But usually when a parent kills a child, it’s when they’re young. Or even as a teenager. In the heat of passion. To chase one down across the world, now that’s a different kind of killer all together.”

Den laughed a little. “Have you been investigating again?”

“Of course. I looked more into Luther. I know you guys are researching him, but I’m trying to understand him at least enough to write about him. I’m meeting with Maude later.”

“Who’s that?”

“She’s a psychoanalyst we often work with to help piece together personalities of people we never knew. Like Jean Harlow.”

Den grunted. “Let me know if she tells you anything helpful. I’m worried we’ll never get that first date.”

My turn to laugh. “We need a deadline.”

“Don’t you think we’ve both had enough deadlines?”

We signed off, and I hurried to dress to meet with Maude. It would be only the second time I’d see her in person. We usually worked over the phone.

She sat at a table studying the menu. Short cropped gray hair surrounded her slightly chubby unmade-up face.

“Hello,” I said. “Nice place.”

“I come here often. Too often,” Maude said, glancing up at me. “How are you?” she asked after I sat down.

I shrugged. What do you say when a psychoanalyst asks you that question? Was it loaded? “I miss Justine, I’m stressed about the book and everything going on with it, and I’m finding it difficult to leave the apartment because I know the killer is out there. He could be here. He could be just outside the door waiting for me.”

Maude cracked a compassionate smile. “What you’re describing is normal. Your stress will go away when the book is done. You’ll always miss Justine, but it will lessen with time. And Christ, you were attacked. Everybody deals with that in different ways. You’ve gotten back in the saddle. That says something.”

The servers approached us. We ordered drinks and beet salads. We were saving room for dessert. This place had the best cheesecake in the city.

“So what you’re describing is not a typical father killing a son. Many times when that happens, they’re what we call family annihilators. Something has gone wrong in the marriage. Custody is an issue. It’s a threat to his masculinity,” she said as she sipped her Bloody Mary.

“So what about this guy?”

“I think his masculinity was also threatened, but for different reasons. His son identified as a woman. For some that would be difficult.”

I remembered Kate’s dad beating her when he found out she would get the operation.

“In my practice, I see more of the dads trying to be supportive and come to terms with it. They reach out to me for help. That says something about their character. But these other men? Very vengeful.”

“Small penises?” I said after a minute.

“Who knows? Let’s not go there, doll.” Maude paused, taking another long drink. “So you say he’s traveled around the world chasing his son for this ring his son supposedly had? It belonged to his mother’s family? Is he estranged from his wife as well?”

“Dead. He gallivants.” The beet salad was excellent. I ate every bite.

“From the picture you paint, I think he felt betrayed. His son turned into a woman, which was a threat to his masculinity. Not only did he become a female, he became Jean Harlow. Another blow. Deeper. Then she came here, bringing the ring with her to Hollywood to prove her relationship with Harlow. It’s like she was obsessed with starting over and shedding her past. Once again, betrayal.”

“And she ran to Justine,” I said. “Gave Justine the ring for safekeeping. Somehow he figured it out. And Justine wouldn’t give the ring to him.”

The server came along and took away our plates. “Desserts?” he asked.

“Cheesecake for both of us,” Maude said. The server nodded and walked off carrying the plates. “But it seems you’ve also got a man who may suffer from extreme delusions of grandeur. Many of these art collector types and wealthy guys exhibit similar traits. Not only does this guy think he has the right to do anything he wants, but he also thinks he has all the answers. If people don’t live his way, in his mind he’s justified in killing them.”

I drank my Bloody Mary. A cold tingle traveled the length me. His hands had been on my back.

“Simply put, you’re dealing with the worst kind of psychopath, someone who has no empathy for others, including his own child.”