Body of Lies (17 page)

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Authors: Deirdre Savoy

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Body of Lies
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“Zach, this is Roberta Rosetti, our resident social worker,” Alex said by way of introduction. “Roberta, this is Zachary Stone.”
“Zach,” he corrected, shaking Roberta's hand.
“Well,
Zach
,” Roberta said, “if any of my father's partners had looked like you, I might have let him fix me up with one of them.”
She wasn't flirting with him. He knew that because her gaze wasn't on him, but on Alex.
Alex gave her partner an arch look before shifting her gaze to him. “Maybe you'd like to have a look at that package now?”
Her tone held no jealousy or even annoyance, only impatience. It also held none of the contentiousness she'd exhibited every other time he'd seen her. That surprised him most of all, but all he said was, “Sure.”
She gestured for him to precede her to her office, which he did. She unlocked the door for him and he went inside. The box was sitting on top of her desk, still open. One thing he could say for this bastard: He had great taste in flowers. “When did these come?”
“Early this morning, around eight thirty. I just got around to opening them right before I called you.”
Zach pulled a pair of examination gloves from his pocket and put them on. He probably needn't have bothered. Alex's fingerprints must be all over the box anyway, possibly smudging any prints left by the sender. Besides, if Thorpe was the one who sent her the flowers, there probably wouldn't be any prints anyway. So far he'd been careful not to leave a print, a hair, a fiber, any evidence at all that could be traced back to him. That was the problem with all those CSI shows. It was like Crime School 101—how to cover your tracks without really trying.
He picked up the lid and examined it for any markings. “Why the delay?”
“I had a patient waiting, and I'd figured they'd come from some reporter trying to butter me up for an interview. Even though they're not camped out on my doorstep anymore, they still call. And, well, I wanted to annoy Roberta a little.”
“Why?”
“She was under the impression that they'd come from some man. Possibly you.”
Why hadn't he thought of that? “Would that have been such a bad thing?” When she didn't immediately answer, he glanced over his shoulder at her. She was still standing in the doorway, her shoulder resting against the doorjamb. He'd swear he detected a hint of amusement in her expression. “Would it?”
“It's not your style and I'm not partial to roses. Any man who knew me well enough to send me flowers would know that.”
He wondered if that was a dig aimed at reminding him that he didn't really know her anymore, but decided to let it pass. “That's the only reason?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Until a few days ago I didn't know Roberta had a romantic bone in her body. Now she's gotten herself involved with some lawyer, of all things, and the world is a sunny place.”
“What's so wrong with that?”
“You know the old saying, scratch a pessimist and you get a disappointed optimist. I'd say the reverse is true also: Scratch an optimist and you find a pessimist who thinks he's found the way. I hope she's not setting herself up for disappointment.”
“Which one are you?” he asked. He already knew the answer, but he'd prefer to keep the conversation going. Answering his questions precluded her from asking any of her own, or so he hoped. Undoubtedly she wanted his take on why the killer contacted her and what he meant by this little gift. As of yet, he didn't have one.
The problem with this guy was, he couldn't seem to rape you or kill you or stalk you without investing it is some sort of psychological meaning. But what sentiment was he trying to express here? As ominous portents went, a couple dozen roses with the heads still attached wasn't high on the list. Maybe he wasn't trying to threaten her, at least not yet. Maybe he simply wanted her to notice him.
He thought back to the phone calls she'd received before Thorpe started this madness. Any rube watching TV these days had to know about phone dumps and that finding Alex's number among his contacts would lead the police to her. Is that what he'd counted on all along? Now he wanted to make sure she was paying attention? It was a possibility, one he didn't like, since it suggested she fit in his scheme somehow.
To Alex he said, “Well?”
“I'm optimistic things will turn out poorly.”
That was some comedian's joke, which made it a nonanswer. He decided to let that slide, too, but he wondered about her sudden ability to joke with him. “The card was inside or outside the box?”
“Inside. I wouldn't have opened it if I knew who they were from.”
He picked up the card and read it.
Here's looking at you, kid
. He remembered Alex telling him she'd had the feeling of being watched. If Thorpe had been there, where had he hidden himself? Officers had taken down the names and addresses of everyone in the crowd and the license plates of all the cars in the vicinity. They'd tried checking IDs, as well, but since most people had come out in their pajamas they had nothing on them.
Even so, wouldn't blond, blue-eyed Thorpe have stuck out in a sea of black and Latino faces? Thorpe's presence would have been more expected if he'd actually been the doer. Many perps, especially arsonists, liked to hang around the scene to see the reactions to their handiwork. Then again, reports of the discovery had made it to the radio news stations before he'd even gotten to the scene. The only hopeful note in this bit of speculation was that Thorpe must have been relatively close by in order to make it to the scene in order to see Alex there. Maybe those guys beating the bushes for Thorpe locally weren't wasting their time.
“How were they delivered?”
“Alice said some kid brought them up.”
The receptionist hadn't been at the front desk when he'd come in, but had heard the phones ringing and being answered. “Can you get her for me?”
“Sure.”
Alex disappeared and a few moments later a tall, dark-skinned woman with shoulder-length locks took her place at the door. By her demeanor, he'd place her in her midforties, though she possessed the kind of ageless face that made such assessments difficult.
“I'm Alice Blanchard,” she said, entering the room. “I'll help in any way I can.”
He shook the hand she extended. “You can start by telling me about the flowers.”
“As I told Alex, some kid, maybe thirteen or fourteen, brought them up. He came up to the desk and said, ‘Dr. Alex Waters?' as if he was asking me if that was my name. I said something like, ‘No, but this is her office.' He plunked the box on my desk and started to walk out. I called him back to offer him a tip. I figured he might be the deliveryman's son or something helping his dad out. He waved me away, saying it had already been taken care of.”
In other words, someone had already paid him to bring the flowers up. Zach wondered if the same person had paid him to spend as little time in the office as possible, therefore making it more difficult to identify him. “What did he look like?”
“Typical kid. Dark-skinned, skinny, baggy clothes like the kids wear. I didn't get too good a look at his face. He had this white baseball cap for a team I've never heard of, the Rockford Reds, pulled down low. The hat looked brand-new, though. And he was wearing elbow pads, like skateboarders do, but no deck.” She shrugged. “I have a nephew.”
So did Zach, and he doubted any boarder would leave his deck outside somewhere for someone to steal it. Maybe the guard had made him leave it downstairs. That would be a break, since the guard might be able to flesh out Alice's description a little. “What time were they delivered?”
“About eight thirty. I should have known something was wrong then. Who can get a florist to deliver that early?”
Zach placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. It wasn't unusual for people to feel guilty for not being more observant in such situations. “You couldn't have known.”
Alice shrugged and tilted her head from side to side as if she were weighing whether or not to accept what he said as true. “She's in danger, isn't she?” Alice asked, her concern evident in both her voice and her dark eyes.
Zach didn't mince words. “Yes, I think she is.” For all he knew, Thorpe might be as fixated on Alex as he was on the young girls he killed. The only thing he knew for sure was that he needed to keep her safe. He only hoped she trusted him enough to let him do his job.
Sixteen
Later, after the reception desk had been dusted for fingerprints, the offending box had been removed, and the office shut down for the day, Alex sat in the corner of her sofa waiting for Zach to return. He was downstairs talking to the new guard, a man whose name she hadn't learned yet.
She sipped from the glass Roberta had pressed into her hand. The brandy, which the other woman claimed she only kept in her office for medicinal purposes, slid down her throat heating her insides. She rarely drank strong liquor, but at the moment she'd settle for any warmth she could get. She'd been chilled ever since she opened that envelope to find the killer's handiwork on the card inside.
Here's looking at you, kid
. She wasn't up on her
Casablanca
, but weren't those the last words Bogie spoke to Ingrid before putting her on a plane to be with another man, her husband? Did he select those words because of what they meant in the movie or was it a taunt because he'd been close enough for her to feel his eyes on her and she hadn't detected him? Or was it a promise that he was watching her? Whichever, his choice of quote held a note of familiarity to it, suggesting it came from someone she knew.
Walter Thorpe. It seemed more likely now that he was responsible for all this mayhem, though she still couldn't wrap her mind around the idea. There was something, weak, ineffectual at the core of Walter Thorpe that made her mind rebel against the notion he could have pulled off an elaborate set of murders, not to mention her doubt that he possessed the intellectual capacity to conceive of it in the first place.
But if not Walter, who? Surely someone she knew. Perhaps one of her former patients who wanted to let her know they were out and off the wagon. Or maybe it was just some kook in the crowd or a disgruntled member of one of Thorpe's victims' families who'd wanted to let her know they'd be watching her for slipups this time.
Who knew? The only thing she did know was what Zach would say to her once he came upstairs. Whatever the source, he'd want her to treat that note as a credible threat. He'd want her to do what the police always wanted people in her situation to do: to lie low, disappear for a while until the threat was past. She couldn't do that. Not only did she have patients that depended on her, but altering her plans in that struck her as turning tail and running. But she was still Sammy the Bull's daughter. She couldn't do that. Whether that made her brave or foolhardy she didn't know, but she wouldn't change her mind.
She heard him now, talking to the officer stationed outside her office door. She downed the contents of her glass and set it down on the table. There was no point in giving Zach more ammunition by letting him know she'd already resorted to drink. Although the liquid warmed her insides, the rest of her remained as chilled as before.
He came into the room a moment later and sat in one of the chairs facing her. Lines of fatigue stretched around his eyes and mouth. She knew he hadn't gotten any more sleep than she had and she felt ready to drop. But she knew she'd go home eventually and sleep well that night. Would he?
He stretched out his legs in front of him. “Alex, we need to talk.”
She knew that. She counted on that. But still she wasn't sure she wanted to hear all he had to say. “Did the guard get a better look at the delivery boy?”
“Only slightly. The two of them have agreed to work with a composite artist to see if they can come up with something. And, yes, the kid left his skateboard downstairs. Alice was right about that.”
“In other words, this killer was close enough to the office today for a kid on a skateboard to ride up and make the delivery.”
“Or he could have been right outside. There's a florist a block from here, but she hasn't fill any orders for white roses in the past week.”
“You're trying to trace the box?”
“It's about all we have to go on, until the fingerprints come back.”
Alex rubbed her fingertips together. She hadn't done a great job of removing the ink from when they took her prints to make a comparison. “I take it no one else saw anything,” she said, referring to the canvass of the neighborhood she knew had been conducted.
Zach shook his head. “Aside from this building, the florist, and the grocery store, this is a residential neighborhood. Most folks were probably asleep or minding their own business that hour of the morning. There weren't many people out on the streets.”
He didn't seem to hold out much hope of anyone having seen either the kid or the killer, and truthfully, neither did she. “So where does that leave us?”
“When you leave here, a car will follow you home and sit outside your place. You should take some time off.”
She smiled without mirth. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
“You're a cop's daughter and not too slow on the uptake?”
“I can't do it, Zach. I have patients who rely on me. Not on the strength of one crackpot letter whose source we don't even know. If your guys want to follow me around, that's fine.”
He shot her an impatient look. “I admire your bravado, but it's misplaced. We're talking about a guy who's already killed several women. We know who he is but not where. For all we know he slipped into the crowd last night unnoticed. If you're thinking you're safe because he contacted you here, how hard do you think it will be for him to find where you live? I checked the phone book. You're listed.”
She couldn't argue with any of his statements, but one. “You're sure it's Thorpe now?”
“I never stopped thinking it was Thorpe. I wasn't as content to rush to judgment, as were some of my colleagues. Did he ever make any threats against you?”
“None I took seriously.”
“What does that mean?”
“Threats from patients aren't all that uncommon. Neither are love letters for that matter. It's called transference. The patient projects onto the therapist the emotions he feels for someone significant in his life. Which one you get depends on the emotions churned up by therapy.”
“How did Thorpe threaten you?”
“Nothing specific. Something of the ‘make me sorry I was ever born' variety. I was trying to press him for more information about his childhood that he refused to give me. All I knew about him was that his mother died when he was ten years old and that he and his sister were sent to separate foster homes. There was no other family, or none that would take them in.”
“That was a sore point?”
“Everything was a sore point. You have to remember, he was here because of a court order, not because he wanted help. A lot of these guys would rather put out their own eyes than tell you anything. They'll show up because they have to, but they'll spend the whole time reading the paper or listening to music with headphones on. The court can only mandate their appearance, not that they are actually benefited by the therapy provided. But you have to keep trying.”
“Was Thorpe coming around?”
She nodded. “He'd started to. He was talking to me, anyway. Mostly, I think he wanted to convince me he was innocent, that he hadn't been trying to hurt those girls. He never told me outright but my gut says he was abused himself, which is probably why he didn't want to discuss his childhood.”
Alex inhaled. She was tired of discussing Thorpe herself. She stood and crossed to her desk. “I didn't get a chance to tell you before, but Roberta and I might have found out something.”
“You and Roberta?”
Alex pulled the file she wanted from her bottom drawer, stood, and met Zach's gaze. She wondered if the incredulousness she heard in his voice came from the fact that they were two women, that they weren't cops, or that he hadn't been aware she'd been looking into the case herself.
“Yes, me and Roberta. Have you ever heard of an organization called Juvenile Justice?”
“Yeah. From what I understand they're a bunch of crazy vigilantes out to stamp out kiddie porn and pedophilia.”
“And you're against that.”
“Not their mission but their methods. They've managed to screw up quite a few investigations by tampering with evidence of online crimes. Aside from that, you've got to wonder about some of the people who get involved in that sort of group. Even though they say they are against child sexual exploitation, how do you catch someone involved without having to view the material yourself? How do you lure a pedophile without listening to the list of things he wants to do to you? Maybe that's what really gets their rocks off. In your neck of the woods isn't that called sublimation?”
Since she couldn't argue with his assessment, she didn't bother. Some of the volunteers might have found a socially acceptable way to view material they claimed to abhor. That thought had occurred to her, too. What bothered her was the scorn with which he spoke. He didn't sound like the man she knew. “That's awfully cynical.”
He shrugged. “That's the place I'm in right now. How did you and Roberta get involved with these people?”
“Her brother is head of the organization. Their sister was held hostage and raped by some man she thought she was in love with.”
“Is she all right?”
“From what I understand, mostly.” She walked back to the sofa and sat. “Do you want to know what we found out?”
“Of course.” He held out his hand for the file.
She handed it over and sat back, folding her feet underneath her. “We were looking for men who had Yourplace accounts going by the screen name Hercules. There were fourteen of them.” Inside the folder were printouts of the profiles the men had registered with the company. “I don't know if any of them is your killer, but I thought it was worth checking out.”
He closed the folder. “It is. Thank you.”
Sensing in him an urge to get going, she stood. “Let me know what you find out.”
He rose to his feet. “I will.” He closed the gap between them. She could feel in him the urge to touch her, but he held back. “Be careful, Alex.” That smile she loved formed on his face. “And lay off the hard stuff.” He winked at her and he left.
She wrapped her arms around herself, watching his departure. If he'd given her the opportunity, she would have told him she'd welcome his embrace. She wasn't foolish enough not to be scared. She wasn't immune enough from him not to want to be held by him. It had been such a long time since she had even the promise of comfort that she craved it.
Who knew he'd pick now, when she was softening, to follow her wishes? Between leaving her undisturbed last night and untouched today, he was giving her what she said she wanted, damn him. But he hadn't tried to convince her again that she should disappear for a while. She thought she knew why. At least, she hoped so.
 
 
“So we finally meet.”
Zach shook the hand of Darryl Ferguson, the detective from online crime that he'd been trying to meet with the past couple of days, but either Darryl's schedule or his hadn't permitted it. Although Darryl was off today he agreed to meet as long as Zach was willing to do it on his turf. Both men settled into lawn chairs at the back of Ferguson's house while the family barbecue sizzled on the grill. “What's going on?”
“You tell me.” Ferguson pulled a Corona from the cooler beside him. “Want one?”
Zach accepted the beer and twisted off the top. The liquid felt cool and refreshing going down. Just what he needed. “You know I'm working on that Amazon thing.”
Darryl nodded before taking a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That's some nasty business.”
“And getting nastier. It turns out some of his victims weren't pros as originally thought. He might have met some of the girls on the Internet. All of them had pages on this site called Your place.”
Darryl nodded again. “I've heard of that site. Popular with the teenyboppers. We're just starting to look into that one. A couple of months ago, a mom catches her daughter sneaking out her bedroom window to meet some pervert she met online. The only information the girl will give us is that she met the guy in one of this site's chat rooms. But there's nothing on her computer—no saved chat logs, no IMs. The kid had 102 names on her buddy list, but she told us we were wasting our time since his name wasn't there. Apparently the perp told her to delete anything of his she'd saved so if her parents disapproved of them seeing each other, they couldn't find out who he was and stop them.”
Obviously the girl had fallen for that explanation, since she'd done what he asked. Had Thorpe done the same thing with his victims? Or could Thorpe and the man Darryl was after be the same man? Two months ago had been the first time the killer hadn't left a victim. Had this mother's attentiveness kept her daughter from meeting the same fate as the others?
“What night was this?”

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