Chapter 2

 

New York, March 1984

 

Damien Walters, captain of detectives, felt a headache starting to throb behind his weary eyes that aspirin wouldn’t calm. Several days of the mayor riding his tail, demanding a quick solution to the Nelson murder, the damn reporters playing it up like a circus, had also given Captain Walters a continuous acid burn in his stomach.

The Nelson broad had too many connections to important people. At first it appeared to be a fairly clear-cut case of a psycho butchering a victim. Not only had the perpetrator cut Andrea’s throat with a knife, he’d slashed her body repeatedly with a box cutter after she was dead; then he’d called it in. The crazy bastard had called it in himself. Of course he hadn’t pinpointed the exact location and they’d been forced to search the entire complex. It had taken them hours to find the body and discover his bloody marks were all over the phone. Naturally they weren’t prints that could be matched up—just squiggles and smears that had come from the latex gloves that lay beside it. What looked like bloody lip marks were on the mouthpiece as if he kissed her before he called.

Had it all been staged? It was starting to look that way and he didn’t like the idea one damn bit.

Now these books had surfaced. Captain Walters wasn’t thrilled by this complication. His first impression of the diaries was they were some kind of sick joke. But it was quickly established Andrea had written them. Who had sent the books was another puzzle. They’d been mailed to him at his home in a carton from a popular boutique. The shop sent out an average of twenty orders a day in such cartons. With the original labeling steamed off it was impossible to trace. His wife had opened the carton and read the first few pages of the top book. She called him shrieking like a lunatic and his head had been pounding since.

Walters didn’t bother to rise as Hal Dexter entered his office. He had several of these young prizes wished on him in the last few years and was certain it had nothing to do with their abilities. It was the quota nonsense and Dexter’s toothy smile irritated Walters, who’d put in long hard years to get to his position. His face maintained its grim mask of authority. “You wonder boys are going to earn your pay on this one. It’s going to be a dirty business.” He shoved the stack of small matching black books across his desk to join several other piles of the same.

Dexter whistled. “How many are there?”

“Thirty-two. Started keeping a record when she was thirteen. Andrea never mentions a last name; anyway I haven’t found one. Most of it appears worthless. We’ll never tag a name on the majority. She used pet names. There’s Virgin Harry, Rubber Ducky, and this fellow she gave a lot of attention to is King Prick. Another poor sucker she dubbed ‘stubby’ and spelled it with a small ‘s’.”

“Nice lady.” Dexter remarked as he finished stacking the books back in their carton. “Are they dated?”

“Oh, yes, carefully by day, month, and year.” The captain shook his salt and pepper hair in disgust. “Hard to believe, Old Holier Than Thou’s kid, with all that money and opportunity, became little better than an unpaid whore. Start with the latest and work backwards. Whoever did the job on her, I’m betting, she not only knew but also was expecting. Andrea Nelson was a big-city girl—unlikely she opened her door after dark to a stranger.”

Walters waited until the young detective nearly reached the door. Then he added the warning. “You fellows make damn certain the press doesn’t get wind of those books.” He knew if that happened the chances of their providing any useful information on the murder would be diluted. The crowd the Nelsons moved in had enough legal wizardry to build impregnable walls around their clients.

Hal Dexter was the last detective Walter’s would have considered appointing to this case. He lacked the finesse necessary in dealing with the kind of people acquainted with Andrea Nelson. But the DA had been adamant; Mark Storm wanted the black detective. Shit! Storm didn’t even know the guy’s name. Giving the case to Hal Dexter also meant giving this nice ripe plum to Dexter’s partner, Terry Sullivan, and that was something Walter’s had been even less inclined to do.

From the instant the personable young Sullivan presented himself in his office two years ago, Walter’s sensed Sullivan’s objective was to climb quickly. Sullivan’s ability to make friends with everyone, ingratiate himself with the brass, get that good-looking mug of his constantly in the news, confirmed this assumption.

~~~

 

Four days passed by. The small black books were now joined by papers, pens, and pencils, and half-circled the new computer equipment in what appeared to be impossible confusion. For days they had been at this. He had given up counting the overtime.

Many things had galled Hal Dexter since he’d been promoted to Homicide. One bitch was what he was doing this morning, assuming the role of errand boy. He knew it wasn’t done deliberately, hell, he passed Mickey Dee’s on his way in so why shouldn’t he pick up the breakfast order. Still, it emphasized the thing that bothered him even more—their attitude. They were so casual with each other but restrained with him. Not rude but condescending, as if concerned they might make a remark he would take offense at. Just now, as he stepped through the door, the pack had been joking about something. At the sight of him, their laughter stilled instantly so he knew the reason was the color of his skin.

Plopping the paper bags on the desk, Dexter said, “Grab your own.”

From amongst the jumble of brightly trademarked Styrofoam cartons, Dexter extracted a cup marked black. He strolled over to the long table where Terry Sullivan, jacket and tie discarded, worked in rolled up shirtsleeves. Sullivan irritated him more than the others. It wasn’t that he disliked Sullivan; in fact, he admired him. Sullivan could draw a ‘mister’ out of the nastiest perpetrator without trying. The same son-of-bitch that was cursing Dexter would grin at something Sullivan said. They had made detective together, been partnered up for two years, and by now they should have been buddies. Only it didn’t play that way. The easygoing bachelor who hosted poker games in his pad or joined the fellows for a quick one at a shift’s end never included Dexter. Sullivan seemed determined to keep their relationship on a professional level.

“Coming along any better?” Dexter handed Sullivan the cup of coffee.

Terry Sullivan sipped, swore, “Shit! It’s boiling!” and set the cup down. Then he said, “Listen to this.” He read from a copy sheet marked with red notations. “ ‘Big Brother has such high aspirations I nearly had an orgasm when I realized what I could do to them.’ I married that up with several others like this earlier one. ‘King Prick just stood there petrified. He knew I had him and the fear I could see in those blue eyes gave me a bigger thrill than any other part of him ever had. I could have demanded a million bucks and he wouldn’t have flinched.’ “

“Wait a minute.” Dexter interrupted. “What made you link up Big Brother up with King Prick?”

“They’re the same guy.” Sullivan tapped the computer printout with his red pencil. “For some reason we haven’t discovered yet, Andrea re-christened him Big Brother around six years ago. The King disappeared from her later entries.”

“You sure?”

“Hal. For one thing she about spells it out in several places. You just have to catch the comparisons. I marked the ones I found. And unless she had a brother, which we know she didn’t, it’s unlikely two different guys are married to the Ice Princess.” Sullivan again tasted his coffee before he added. “Strange, but that’s the only time Andrea mentions money and if that girl charged for every lay she wouldn’t have needed her daddy’s cash to pay her outrageous rent. Especially before she lined up with Tommy boy. Strange she never tagged a nasty name on that guy.”

“Hey, Terry!” one of the fellow’s from the pack called out. “You see yourself in one of those profiles?” And the room erupted with laughter as Sullivan gave him the finger.

Hal Dexter ignored the tomfoolery. He grunted as he claimed a file that began, Tom, Tommy Boy, (Thomas?) black hair, gray eyes, likely Irish or part Irish extraction. First encounter with the victim was at a Saint Patrick’s Day party March 17, 1976.

“My candidate.” He waved the profile at Sullivan.

“Why? ‘Cause he refused to marry her? Or you just got a hard-on for the Irish.” Sullivan took a deep swig of his coffee. His face settled into a frown. “One thing’s certain and nobody’s going to be thrilled about it. The one she calls Honorable Ass, is Andrea’s daddy.”

Dexter had been moving away—now he spun back exploding. “You’re full of shit!” His hands curled into fists and his features stiffened into a furious mask.

Rocco Carrillo heaved his stocky body up and stepped quickly to block Dexter. Carrillo, who would be the first to admit he had spent the better part of nineteen years on the force stepping between two ready-to-war comrades, kept his tone low. “Ease up, Hal, Terry’s right. Andrea couldn’t have made it plainer if she wrote dada. Hell man.” He gently thumped Dexter’s shoulder. “None of us like the idea but face it, the judge made a move on her when she first sprouted tits. It’s lousy but it happens.”

Elbowing Carrillo aside, Dexter bent towards Sullivan. Slashing the air with the file he still clutched he said, “I say it’s this one,” almost as a dare. “And I’ll even tag a last name on the son of a bitch. Devlin!” He yelled in Sullivan’s face.

Sullivan shrugged. “Didn’t say Andrea’s old man killed her. Just figure it’s time we talked straight to him.”

This shouldn’t be happening, Dexter thought. He stepped back and let the file drop on the table. They shouldn’t be preparing to crucify Judge Nelson. How could he be a party to it? The other detectives didn’t understand and he couldn’t tell them or they’d kick him off the case. Still, how could he confront Judge Nelson with this?

Terry Sullivan unwound his six-foot-two frame from the swivel chair. “It’s what we’re paid to do. Shit, can’t give a guess how we open the subject. Rocco, you better come along and watch Hal’s gun hand, wouldn’t want an accident.” He snickered. “Especially mine.”