Fear Nothing (23 page)

Then, even more challenging, sitting and waiting. Level out the natural adrenaline rush, control the breathing, while resuming a genuine smile, steady eye contact, all the right words, as the contents of the vial slowly but surely went to work.

More practice. Smile. Eye contact. All the right words.

Slip up, slide down, uncork, pour, dismiss.

Too slow, too slow, too slow.

Practice. Practice. Practice.

Who am I?
A master of pain.

What do I look like?
Anyone you’ve ever met.

Purpose of operation:
I can do this!

Net gain: . . .
We all have to die sometime.

Palm the vial, uncork the contents, quick pour, slip it away.

Smile, make eye contact, say all the right words.

Again and again and again.

Because any single misstep and she would know. She’d spent too many years expecting the worst not to recognize it the moment it happened. Everything had to be smooth, controlled, perfect. Right up until the final moment.

No fuss, no muss. Just the way murder should be.

Primary motivation:
A painless death.

Net gain:
The gift that keeps on giving.

Who am I?
Harry Day’s legacy.

Who am I?
Shana Day’s legacy.

Who am I?

Chapter 19

C
HARLIE
S
GARZI WAS A
S
OUTHIE KID
, born and raised. Had the wary expression and set jaw to prove it. Of course, somewhere along the way, he’d traded in calloused knuckles for the smooth hands of a guy who mostly attacked keyboards, not to mention the tough guy’s leather jacket for the classic reporter’s trench. He still maintained the shuttered expression of a former hood turned cynical journalist who’d seen it all. Then again, given what had happened to his cousin when they’d both been just boys, maybe he had.

They’d come upon him as he was exiting his third-floor apartment. He’d glanced up from locking his door, saw D.D. and Phil approach from down the hallway and grunted in acknowledgment.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

“For what?” Phil asked.

He’d tried to get D.D. to wait in the car. Actually, he’d tried to convince D.D. to let him take her home. It had been a big morning, she should be resting her shoulder, focusing on recuperation.

Like hell. She was pumped up, feeling the best she had in weeks. They were onto something. She could feel it in her bones. Shana Day held the key to finding their killer, and Charlie Sgarzi was yet another link to the puzzle that was Shana Day. No way she was sitting this one out.

“Dr. Glen call you?” Sgarzi asked, hand still on his doorknob. “Accuse me of harassing her? Because I’m not. I just want what’s owed to me and my family.”

Fun, D.D. thought, and practically skipped down the hallway.

“So you didn’t threaten Dr. Glen?” she asked now.

While Phil added, “How about we go inside, Mr. Sgarzi. Talk where it’s more private.”

Sgarzi sighed heavily, then unlocked his door and led them inside.

Cramped one-bedroom, D.D. observed. Definitely a bachelor abode, given the ratio of TV size to non–garage sale furniture items. Tidy enough, though. Sgarzi might be living lower on the economic ladder, but he’d made some effort with the space. Countertops were clean; no dirty underwear littered the floor.

State-of-the-art Mac laptop was set up on a TV tray in front of the threadbare brown sofa. His office, she was guessing. Where he could brave the new frontiers of digital reporting, while keeping up on the Bruins.

“You talk to Shana Day yet?” he demanded to know, coming to a halt in the middle of the living space.

“Why don’t you take off your coat and stay a while?” Phil suggested.

Sgarzi shrugged. “Sure, I got nothing to hide. Fact, you guys want something to drink? Water, beer? Hell, let’s hang for a bit. We can talk crime. You know my uncle was a cop? At least till he ate his gun. Does Shana Day get that mark on her record? Still killing, after all these years.”

Sgarzi shed his coat. Then, true to his word, he crossed four steps to the kitchen, banged on the faucet and poured two glasses of tap water. He handed them over without ceremony, then stared at them expectantly.

Without his coat, he shrunk in size, like Superman without his cape. Not a tall guy, probably just a hair over five-nine, but he still carried himself a certain way. Like he was steeling himself for a blow that had yet to come, and was determined not to flinch. Had he always been like this? D.D. wondered. Or was this what losing most of one’s family did to a man?

“How old were you when your cousin died?” she asked.

He shot her a glance. “You mean was murdered? Fourteen. I was fourteen.”

“Same age as Shana Day.”

“Are you asking if I knew her? Because of course I knew her. I lived in the same neighborhood as Donnie. That’s how it was back then in Southie. Families, even extended families, lived close. Grew up together. Took care of one another.”

Sgarzi’s tone was intentionally flat, but D.D. still caught a faint trace of emotion. Nostalgia. Regret. Back in the day when he’d felt secure in his place in the world. His family, his neighborhood, his world.

“You hang out with Shana?” Phil asked evenly.

“Nah. She was trouble. Everyone knew that. And not the good kind of trouble, either, you know, a reputation worthy of street cred. Shana . . . She was freaky scary. Like a dog gone bad. Kids . . . Most of us who had any sense stayed clear.”

“Except Donnie.”

Sgarzi grimaced, shrugged. “Donnie was . . . different. He liked books, science, math. Hell, if he’d survived, he probably would’ve become another Bill Gates and my mother wouldn’t have any worries now. But a twelve-year-old geek in Southie? The other kids were hard on him. If I heard of things, or if I was around, I made them knock it off. He was my cousin, you know. I tried to take care of him. But he didn’t fit in. And Shana may be freaky, but she was clever. Even back then . . .” Sgarzi shook his head. “My cousin never stood a chance.”

“You follow the trial?” Phil asked.

“Nah, my parents wouldn’t let me. I got my news the way the rest of the neighborhood did, by listening to gossip. Besides, this was a long time ago. Not like today, where there’s twenty-four-hour cable and constant media blitzes. The local news followed the case, of course, particularly when the DA announced he was trying Shana as an adult. But her defense didn’t put up much of a fight. Whole thing was over and done with pretty quick. Then everyone went back to their everyday lives. Except for my aunt and uncle, of course.”

“And you?” D.D. asked curiously. “Thirty years later, still writing letters to your cousin’s killer? Stirring the pot?”

“Still?” asked Sgarzi in clear bewilderment. “Who says still? Letters I sent three months ago were the first time I’ve initiated contact. I mean, Donnie was a good kid, but so was I. Hell, I had bigger plans than spending my life as a murdered boy’s cousin. I got out of the neighborhood. Went to NYU, majored in communications, became a reporter. I’m no schmuck.”

“And yet, here you are . . . ,” Phil prodded.

“I returned to look out for my mom,” Sgarzi replied sharply. “Or didn’t Dr. Glen tell you that part? My mom’s dying of cancer. She needs hospice, a home health aide, someone more capable than her journalist son. Which costs money. And given how financially lucrative it is to be a writer these days, I don’t have a whole lot. Then it occurred to me, digital reporters might not make much money, but some of these true-crime books . . . I mean, we’re talking six-figure, seven-figure advances. I’m capable of doing the work. I just need the right material. You know, such as an exclusive interview with a notorious female killer. Now, you tell me, is that too much to ask? Thirty years later, maybe Shana might even like a chance to make amends. Course, given how she’s never replied to a single letter, I’m gonna guess not.”

“So you went after her sister?”

“Sure. That’s what reporters do. One source says no, find another source that’ll say yes. I need a yes. My mom needs a yes.”

“When was your mother diagnosed with cancer?” D.D. asked.

“Six months ago.”

“And you sent the first letter to Shana . . .”

“Three months ago, give or take.”

“And the first woman was killed by the Rose Killer,” she filled in, “what, six, seven weeks ago?”

Sgarzi stiffened. His hands had fisted unconsciously by his sides. His eyes narrowed warily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, here you are, ostensibly trying to sell a book that features a thirty-year-old case very few people—no disrespect to your family—even remember, and all of a sudden, a fresh string of murders occur with ties to your book subject. Interesting, if you ask me. Might even say convenient.”

“Wait a minute—”

“Where were you Sunday night?” Phil asked.

“Fuck you!”

“You invited us in,” D.D. said mildly. “Said we could talk crime.”

“I’m a reporter! I look for the truth. Something you might want to give a try. I mean, unless you don’t really mind women being murdered in their own beds.”

“How do you know that?”

“Please, that detail is common knowledge. What you should know, without me having to tell you, is that Shana Day is just as crazily clever now as thirty years ago.”

“How would you know? She never wrote you back.”

“She didn’t. But again, trick to this trade is to keep on digging. I tracked down some of her fellow inmates—”

“She’s in solitary.”

“They all share a corridor. Think they don’t talk across the hall? Let alone cross paths in medical, or on their way to visiting hours. There are opportunities enough to socialize, even in solitary. It’s not like they have anything else to do.”

“Who did you talk to?” D.D. asked, eyes narrowing.

“Please, like they’d even be willing to talk to you. As you can imagine, they’re not so partial to law enforcement. Whereas, a good-looking guy like me . . .”

“Just tell us what they said,” Phil spoke up.

“Shana has a friend.”

“Who?”

“A fan. From way back. Maybe even someone she knew in the neighborhood, or foster care. No one really knows, but a supporter from all those years ago, who keeps in touch, even performs small favors for her.”

“Such as?”

“For starters, spies on her sister.”

“Dr. Adeline Glen?”

“Yep. Shana’s obsessed with Adeline. Her sister’s job, apartment, car. Adeline has everything Shana’s ever wanted. Course she can’t let it go.”

“And how do Shana’s former fellow inmates know all this?”

Sgarzi shrugged. “Things Shana said, alluded to. But also . . . Things Shana would know. Including about her fellow prisoners. Apparently, her little friend would research for her, because if anyone got in an argument with Shana, suddenly she would start making very specific threats. You know, stop humming that same goddamn song, or the next time your drunken whore of a mother takes your six-year-old son to Billy Bear’s day care, they’ll both be sorry. Crap like that. But very detailed crap. Enough so, the other girls did what Shana said. She spooked them then, she scares them now. I’m not kidding. Research among yourselves. Shana’s rep reaches far beyond prison walls. She may have her sister and all the prison officials thinking she’s some depressed lonely soul, but take it from me, it’s all an act. She’s running the biggest con in MCI history. Pathetic prisoner by day. Homicidal genius by night.”

D.D. stared at Sgarzi. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think.

“One hundred and fifty-three,” Phil said.

“What?”

“One hundred and fifty-three. You’re the supposed expert on Shana Day. Tell us what that number means.”

Sgarzi frowned at them. “Hell if I know.”

“You research Harry Day, Shana’s father?”

“Course.”

“Then, what did it mean to him?”

“You mean, like a lucky number?”

“Was it?”

“Beats me. I’ve never run across mention of a lucky number before.”

“Address?” D.D. asked. “Significant to him or his victims?”

Sgarzi shook his head, looking as confused as they felt.

“What about for Shana?” D.D. pressed. “Your cousin, her foster family, where did they live?”

“Not at one hundred and fifty-three anything.” Sgarzi’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “So what’s the significance? Is it a clue from the Rose Killer? A code you have to crack? I can work on it. First dibs on the story, though. Full quid pro quo.”

“Please,” D.D. informed him. “You gotta pay to play, and so far, you haven’t told us anything we didn’t already know.”

“I gave you Shana’s friend.”

“What friend? You mean her imaginary friend? The one she talks to but no one has ever seen? You might as well have told us to track down Casper the Friendly Ghost.”

“She’s got eyes and ears beyond prison walls.”

“Already knew that.”

“She spies on her sister.”

“Knew that, too.”

“Really?”

“Dr. Glen isn’t as dumb as she looks. Wait, she looks plenty smart. And she is a professional psychiatrist with few illusions about her own gene pool. Come on. We want something good. Why do you think Shana is connected to the Rose Killer?”

“For starters, the whole removal of skin. And not just because Harry Day was known for keeping such things as trophies, but because I know what Shana did to my cousin. Come on, fourteen-year-old boy. Of course I had to sneak in my uncle’s study and look at the photos. I mean . . .” Sgarzi’s voice broke off. For all his bravado, thirty years later, his composure grew strained. “When I read the details of these latest two murders in the paper, first image that flashed through my mind was the picture of Donnie’s arm, his stomach. I . . . I knew what had been done to those women. Because I’d seen it before. In the photos of my cousin’s body. Tell me I’m wrong, Detectives. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”