Killing Spree (6 page)

Eve mentioned the new outline, but Gillian wasn’t listening. She wandered over to her desk and glanced at the partial news clipping:
POLICE HUNT FOR ‘ZORRO’ KILLER
. It had come in an envelope from the Eve Kohner Agency.

“I’m headed out to a sales conference right now, an overnighter in Atlantic City,
” Eve was saying on the machine. “
Give Becky a call if you want her to dig up that old article and send it to you. Talk to you later, Gill. Bye.
”

Beep.

Gillian studied the handwriting on the Post-it attached to the news story, and realized there wasn’t much resemblance to her agent’s penmanship.

“Doesn’t this seem familiar?” it said.

Before stepping into the fitting room area, she glanced back at the store. She didn’t see anyone suspicious. Most of the customers in Attitude were women.

If someone had been following her, he must have given up, because she didn’t see him now. Maybe she was just imagining things when she’d been outside earlier. She’d gotten the feeling that someone had been in the apartment while she was out yesterday too.

You’re paranoid,
she told herself, shaking her head.

She’d been on her way to another clothing store, and hadn’t planned on stepping inside this place. But actually, it was a pretty nice boutique. A few sale items had caught her eye. She took them into the changing area—a curtained-off alcove with a full-length mirror at one end, and four little booths, each also curtained off. The stalls looked empty. She ducked inside one, hung a batch of items on the hook, then closed the drape behind her.

The saleswoman wasn’t looking at him. He stood by a display of scarves, near a tall mirror. He could see his own reflection, and behind him, the entrance to the fitting room area. He took a sheer, pale pink scarf off the rack, discreetly rolled it up, and stuffed it inside his coat pocket. Then he picked out another scarf. This one was dark blue and very pretty. The material was silky, but strong—strong enough to choke the life out of someone.

He stashed the blue scarf in his other pocket, then wandered toward the changing room area.

Peeling off her ski jacket and sweater, she paused for a moment. The curtain hooks clinked in the booth next to hers. She had company. With a sigh, she stripped down to her bra and panties, then tried on a short, blue cocktail dress. Stepping out of the booth, she checked herself in the mirror at the end of the alcove. The curtain fluttered on the occupied booth beside her. She didn’t pay much attention. She was scowling at her reflection. The blue dress made her look dumpy.

Retreating back into her stall, she started to climb out of the ugly dress. She heard the curtain next door whoosh open.

She tried on a form-fitting, pale green sweater. Pulling it over her head, she was blinded for a moment. She heard a curtain move again, and it sounded like
her
curtain. Something tickled her bare back, and it sent a wave of panic through her. Shuddering, she yanked the sweater over her head. She bumped against the wall and gaped at the curtain—still closed. Then she noticed the tag on the sweater—dangling from a long string. She let out a little laugh and brushed her hair out of her eyes. It had been the stupid clothes tag tickling her back. Good God, why was she so jumpy? What was her problem?

She tried on the sweater again, along with a pair of slacks. As she stepped into the pants, a sheer scarf drifted over the top of the curtain and gently landed on her head. Startled, she swiped it away and almost tripped. A shadow moved on the other side of the drape. “Hey!” she said, annoyed. “What—”

She didn’t get another word out. The curtain ripped open, and she saw him. He had another scarf in his hands, this one all knotted up.

Before she knew what was happening, before she could scream, the scarf was around her throat.

God, no…please…wait…no…

The man was staring into her eyes. He had a determined look on his face, almost passionless—except for a tiny little smile on one side of his mouth.

She frantically clawed at his hands, and struggled. She fought as hard as she could.

The scarf tightened. She couldn’t even wedge her fingers between the silky material and her throat.
This isn’t happening…God…please…

Her mouth open, she tried to breathe, but couldn’t. It was too late.

She had already taken her last breath.

Lateasha, the twenty-four-year-old saleswoman in Attitude, was wearing a new dress today. It was a long-sleeve, off-the-shoulder, form-hugging red outfit. And it looked pretty damn good with her trim figure, the gold hoop earrings, and her hair pulled back in a bun. She was admiring herself in one of the store’s full-length mirrors when she saw someone dart out of the changing area. Lateasha only caught a glimpse of him; then he ducked behind the tall jewelry display case, and threaded around some clothes racks to the front door. She’d busted enough shoplifters during her two years in retail. But this guy was different. He seemed like a phantom. He moved quickly, but no one else seemed to notice him.

He didn’t set off the alarm. Lateasha wondered if she’d find a bunch of the store’s antitheft tags cut off in one of the changing rooms.

Frowning, she parted the curtain to the back alcove and peeked down the little corridor. A sheer, pink scarf was on the floor—a few feet in front of the mirror.

Lateasha had pointed a customer—some dishwater blonde in a ski jacket—toward the changing rooms about ten minutes before. Was the woman still here? “Hello?” she called softly. “Is anyone back here?”

The curtains were halfway open, exposing three empty stalls. Only one drape was closed. “Hello? Anyone in here?” Lateasha pulled aside the curtain.

The blond woman stared back at her. It was a dead stare—from a purple, contorted face. The long, blue scarf was so tightly wound around her neck, some of her flesh folded over the material. It was like a hangman’s noose, with another loop in the scarf tied around the clothes hook. She wore a pale green sweater from the store, and the slacks she’d been trying on were bunched down around her knees. Her feet didn’t touch the ground.

She was suspended from the hook on the wall.

She hadn’t uttered a sound.

Strutting down the street, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and let out a chuckle. It had been amazing. As he’d strangled Gillian’s friend, she hadn’t gasped or even whimpered. Still she’d put up a damn good fight, struggling and clawing at him. He glanced at the red marks on his hands. The bitch had even drawn a little blood. But she hadn’t made a peep.

He remembered how in
For Everyone to See
, Gillian McBride had referred to the changing-room murder as a “
silent strangulation
.” He was amazed at the dead-on accuracy of that description.

He breathed on his hands to warm them up a bit. The new scratches made them extra-sensitive to the cold. Chicago’s Finest would probably discover some of his skin under Dianne Garrity’s fingernails, but so what? They would have a hard time finding him after today.

He was still sweating, but felt exhilarated. Ducking into an alley off Belmont, he pulled her wallet from his coat pocket. He had fished it out of her purse after hanging her up on that hook. The police would probably think robbery was a motive.

He opened the wallet, and saw her identification. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “What is this?”

The woman had a Wisconsin driver’s license. She was from Milwaukee, and her name was Joyce Millikan.

Minutes later, he was barreling down the sidewalk, practically pushing people out of his way. He kept one hand in his coat pocket. The woman’s wallet was in his fist—almost crushed to a pulp. He was outraged. That woman was
not
Dianne Garrity. It didn’t make any sense. What the hell was she doing in that apartment?

Making his way to the brownstone apartment building, he headed around back again. He was so angry, he had to remind himself not to stomp up the back stairs. After taking a few calming breaths, he made a quiet ascent up to the third floor. He used a skeleton key on the kitchen door, as he had the previous morning.

When he’d poisoned the container of cream, he hadn’t gone beyond the kitchen. Between the name on the front entrance buzzer and Gillian’s
Black Ribbons
cover taped on the refrigerator door, he’d figured he had found the home of Gillian’s friend, Dianne Garrity. But now he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t have to go far to figure it out. In the front hallway, he studied a batch of framed photographs on the wall. One was of two teenage girls—both rather gawky and borderline homely. Still, the picture was cute. They wore party hats, and were laughing. One wore a back-brace. He wasn’t sure if that was part of a joke or what. The other girl was unmistakably Gillian—before she started to get pretty. Gillian’s friend was in most of the other snapshots—minus the back-brace. The brown-haired, slightly husky woman in the photos was obviously Dianne Garrity. There were other photos of Dianne with Gillian—both grown up and far more attractive. But the photo that caught his eye was of Dianne with a pretty, long-haired blonde in front of the Jefferson Memorial. It was Dianne’s friend from Milwaukee, Joyce Millikan.

On the other side of the front door was a table—with a note on it. He read it, and had to chuckle. “Dear Joyce,” it started; and then there were instructions about watering plants, operating the TV and DVD player, and a phone number in Palm Springs where she could be reached. “Have fun!” it concluded. “XXXXXXX—Dianne.”

He hadn’t killed Gillian McBride’s “oldest and dearest friend.” He’d strangled a woman who was house-sitting for Gillian’s “oldest and dearest friend” while she was in Palm Springs. He wondered if Gillian even knew Joyce Millikan. It could be days—or weeks—before Gillian even found out about the murder. And how much would that really matter to her?

If Gillian didn’t know about this “silent strangulation” in the changing room, his work here in Chicago would be in vain.

He thought about the tree falling in the forest with no one hearing it. Gillian McBride needed to hear about this Joyce woman’s murder—and soon.

He would see to it that she did.

“Oh, that’s just disgusting!” grumbled Ruth.

She got up from their window table at The Joe Bar Café, and hurried to the door. Ruth was a plump, black woman with a big voice and a big, shiny helmet of auburn hair. Everyone within a block must have heard her as she stepped out of the café and yelled: “Hey, you—with the baseball cap on backwards! Get your sorry ass back here and pick up your trash!”

Grimacing, Gillian now sat alone at the table and watched the scene outside. Three young men, who looked like gang members, had strutted past the café a few moments before. One of them had been sipping from a twenty-four-ounce soda container with a Burger King logo on it. He’d unceremoniously tossed the container on the sidewalk, never breaking stride with his buddies.

Ruth didn’t like litterbugs—as this young man, and nearly everyone on the block, was now discovering.

“Did you hear me? Get back here!”

He swiveled around and flipped her the finger. “Yo, fuck off, bitch!” he called.

“Come here and say that to my face. Don’t run away when I’m talking to you! What, are you afraid of me, you weasel? Afraid of an old lady? Get your skinny ass back here, and pick this up!”

Watching from inside the café, Gillian rolled her eyes and took another sip of coffee.

“Is she going to be okay out there?” The emaciated young woman who had taken their order was now standing beside Gillian and gaping out the window. She had piercings in her nostril and eyebrow. “Think I should call the police?”

“She
is
the police,” Gillian replied. “Or at least, she
was.
She’s retired now. Give it another minute, and let’s just see what happens.”

Gillian had been through this before with Ruth. Whenever Ruth Langford saw a wrong, she had to right it. Litterbugs, illegal parkers, people who didn’t clean up their dog’s poop—they were all gambling with the wrath of Ruth when they committed their petty transgressions in her presence.

The young man—with his baseball cap on backwards, and the waist of his jeans down below his butt—was goaded by his two buddies to go face-to-face with the old lady who had been screaming at him. One hand holding onto his jeans to keep them from falling down, the boy stood, slouch-shouldered in front of Ruth, apparently half-listening as she talked with him. Ruth even poked him in the chest with her finger a few times. He nodded tiredly, almost ashamedly. He shuffled back to where he’d discarded the twenty-four-ounce drink container, swiped it off the sidewalk, then marched to a nearby trash can and threw it in there.

A few people who were watching from in front of the movie theater across the street applauded. Ruth patted the young man’s shoulder. He waved her away, then ambled back to his friends, who were laughing—and applauding with the other spectators.

“I think we’re all right,” Gillian told the barista.

Ruth strode back into the café, and sat down at the table. “Did you catch the pants on that kid? The zipper was down at his knees, for God’s sakes. I’ve seen some stupid fashion fads come and go, but that one takes the cake. Cops in all the major cities keep finding these slain gang members with their pants down around their ankles. These idiots can’t run away from rival gangs with their pants riding down so low. Morons!”

Gillian grinned at her. “Feel better now? Did you blow off some steam?”

“I do, and I did. And that kid will think twice before he tosses his trash on the sidewalk again.” Ruth sipped her Coke. “Now, where was I?”

“You were talking to a friend with the NYPD about the Jennifer Gilderhoff case. And by the way, thanks again for doing this, Ruth.”

“No thanks necessary, hon. I live for this kind of shit.” She leaned forward, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “So Jennifer flew from Portland to New York two days before Halloween. She was traveling alone, and registered at the Best Western Hospitality House in Manhattan. Jennifer met with her publisher for dinner the night after her arrival. Halloween night, she was seen leaving the Best Western in a saucy flamenco-dancer getup, complete with castanets. She took a cab to a Greenwich Village bar, where later she was spotted with someone dressed as Zorro. No one could come up with a decent description of the guy, except to say he was white, about thirty, and looked like—Zorro. Duh! Anyway, Jennifer and her ‘Z-Man’ caught a cab outside the bar. The address Zorro gave the driver was for a travel agency that has been closed for two months. The driver said this character flew out of the taxi and ran into an alley, and only then did he realize the girl in back had been stabbed.”

The barista arrived with their lunch orders. Ruth started digging into her crepes. But Gillian didn’t touch her salad.

“So Jennifer must have been dating this guy who stabbed her,” she said.

“Not necessarily,” Ruth replied, her mouth full. “According to Jennifer’s friends and her family, she hadn’t been seeing anybody recently. And she didn’t know a soul in New York—except her editor.”

“But their Halloween costumes complemented each other. They must have planned it ahead of time together. It’s too much of a coincidence—”

“It was
Halloween,
Gill,” Ruth interrupted. “Jennifer bought the dress at a little thrift shop in St. Mark’s Place that very afternoon. The receipt was in her purse. The salesperson said she came in there alone.”

“Well, maybe this ‘Zorro’ killer sent her there to buy the outfit,” Gillian argued.

“The cops think the coincidence of the costumes is probably what brought them together at the bar that night. The taxi driver and several witnesses in the bar said it looked like a pickup situation.” Ruth glanced across the table at Gillian’s plate. “You’re not eating. Huh, rabbit food. Lord, they have the best crepes in the world here, and you order salad. No wonder you’re so skinny.”

Gillian obligingly took a bite of her salad, then put down her fork. “Then it’s just a coincidence that I knew Jennifer—and that this ‘Zorro’ stabbing is straight out of
The Mark of Death?
You don’t think this guy was at all influenced by the stabbing scene in my novel?”

Ruth shifted in her chair. “I don’t mean to put you down, hon, but no. Sales-wise, that book didn’t exactly make Stephen King nervous. A thriller, whether it’s a book or a movie, has to be a hit before it spawns any real-life imitators. And a ‘hit’
The Mark of Death
was not. I had to explain to my cop friend who you were and what the book was about, and he still didn’t see a connection. Sorry, hon.”

Gillian didn’t say anything. She just picked at her salad.

“This happened on the other side of the country. You barely knew Jennifer Whatever-her-last-name-is. She took a class from you, one lousy semester—what—two years ago? Her being in a coma right now has nothing to do with you or your books.”

“Still, isn’t it a bit bizarre someone pretending to be my agent would send me that clipping?”

Her mouth twisting to one side, Ruth seemed to mull over the question for a moment. “When your agent left this voice message today, had she asked around at the agency to see if anyone else there might have sent you the article?”

“She didn’t say,” Gillian muttered.

“Well, check with her. I bet somebody at the agency sent it to you—an assistant, or a sub-rights person. You get notes and memos from other people at that agency, don’t you?”

Sighing, Gillian nodded. “Maybe you’re right.” She turned to stare out the window of the café. A couple of raindrops hit the pane.

Ruth shoved her plate aside. “Lord, you should see yourself. You asked for my connections and my expertise on this. So I’m telling you, you’re not in any way responsible for that stabbing in New York. You should be relieved. Instead, you look like your pet squirrel just died.”

“There’s something else,” Gillian admitted. “I got a very unsettling, anonymous e-mail last night from someone claiming to have located Barry.”

Ruth frowned. “Exactly what did it say?”

“It said, ‘Gillian, I found your husband.’ When I tried to respond, it bounced back to me marked ‘invalid address.’”

Ruth sipped her Coke. “Could be a crank.”

Gillian shrugged. “When I read that message, I didn’t know whether to be scared or happy or sad—or what.”

“You already know how I feel about the Barry situation,” Ruth said. “You should divorce him on grounds of desertion and have a long-overdue fling or two—or seven. But you don’t want to hear that. You still care about him, even though the rat ran out on you and your son. Honey, you’ve been in a holding pattern for two years. Move on already.”

Gillian rubbed the back of her neck. “You’re right, Ruth. I don’t want to hear it. Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay?”

“Tactless Ruth strikes again,” her friend muttered. “Listen, if you get another one of those e-mails, let me know. Maybe I can dig up somebody over at the East Precinct who’s a computer expert. It’s worth a shot.”

“Thanks, Ruth,” she replied quietly.

As she stepped outside with her friend, Gillian thought about how everything happening now seemed reminiscent of two years ago, when Barry had disappeared. She’d been teaching that class, and Jennifer Gilderhoff had been one of her students. It had been such an awful time to find herself suddenly alone. A series of homicides had plagued the campus where she’d taught her night class. The victims had been students at the college, and their age didn’t matter to the killer—as long as they were women. The predator had made the campus his hunting grounds—as well as his dumping site. He’d left their bodies in various locations in and around the college. It baffled police, and spread terror throughout the area. He’d dressed his victims—grown women, all of them—in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms: a white blouse, madras kilt, knee socks, and saddle shoes. By the second murder, people were already calling him The Schoolgirl Killer. For several weeks, every woman at that community college had feared for her life.

“You look like your mind is about a million miles away,” she heard Ruth remark.

Suddenly, Gillian was aware of her friend standing beside her—in front of the café. She felt the light, misty rain on her face. “I was thinking back to two years ago—and everything that happened, including the Schoolgirl Murders. I remember before Barry left, I thought I was getting an ulcer. I had this constant feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. And it wouldn’t go away, not for a few months. It was like—evil all around me.” She shrugged. “I know it sounds crazy.”

“You were going through a lot back then, hon,” Ruth replied, patting her shoulder. “But you’ve survived. And they caught the Schoolgirl Killer. That case is closed. Maybe it’s time to make a decision about your AWOL husband and close the book on that too. Screw the past and all the stuff that happened two years ago. Get on with your life, Gill.” Ruth nudged her. “Y’know, we’re standing here in the rain. Do you want a lift home?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine,” Gillian said. “I can walk home. It’s only a few blocks. Thanks, Ruth.”

The two women hugged good-bye on the street corner. Gillian watched Ruth start toward her car. She hadn’t told her friend about something else that had happened last night. She hadn’t told her that the knots in the pit of her stomach had come back.

The automatic light over the cellar door went on as he crept around the back of Gillian’s duplex. At one o’clock in the afternoon, it shouldn’t have been noticeable, but the skies had turned dark within the last few minutes. A silent, gentle rain came down. The ravine behind the gray cedar-shaked house remained oddly still.

Gillian wasn’t home. He’d watched her step out an hour ago.

He skulked past the kitchen window toward the garbage cans and the recycling bin. He wanted to know what her kid had thrown away last night—and why he’d been so secretive about it.

The two large aluminum garbage cans stood between the kitchen window and Gillian’s rosebushes. He opened the lid to the first, and dug out a couple of lawn bags full of yard waste. This wasn’t it. He tried the next can—and found a big, garbage-filled Hefty bag. It stank. But beneath it lay a small, black plastic bag—resting on top of some loose debris. The kid had taped shut the bag’s opening.

He pulled at the plastic until the bag ripped. It felt like some loose papers. He reached inside, but then quickly pulled out his hand. His fingertips were smudged with black soot. The kid had burned something—and obviously gone to a lot of trouble hiding what was left of it.

Reaching inside the bag again, he pulled out a half-burnt scrap of paper. It looked like part of a magazine article.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps—someone climbing the steps to the front porch. “Shit,” he murmured. Tucking the plastic bag under his arm, he crept around toward the front of the duplex. He hovered near the side of the house, and peeked around the corner. He couldn’t see Gillian, but he recognized the back of her trench coat as she stopped to check the mailbox. Though less than twenty feet away, he wanted a better look at her. He took another step forward.

The automatic light over the cellar door went on.

Gillian must have seen it too, because she glanced over her shoulder.

He turned and ran into her backyard—and along the ravine’s edge. Then he zigzagged through some bushes into the neighbor’s yard. All the while, he clutched the plastic bag under his arm.