The Death Dealer (17 page)

“That’s good,” Adam said gently.

“Good?” she protested, horrified.

He smiled sadly. “You may be able to tap into the victim.”

“Tap into the victim?” she repeated.

He nodded. “Anything else?”

“What the hell else do you want?” she demanded.

“Anything else?” he repeated firmly.

“No.” She realized that she was lying, that she didn’t want to go any further, but she knew she had to. She groaned. “Yes.”

“Talk to me, please,” he said.

She inhaled. “Earlier…when I was leaving tonight, I kept feeling as if there were someone in the garage…someone in the shadows. Or more…as if the shadows themselves were someone. Does that make any sense?” she asked.

“Oddly enough, in a way it does,” he told her, then rose. “Well, I’m going to get some sleep.”

“What?”

“I’m not exactly a spring chicken, you know. I need to get some sleep,” he said. “And your mother has been kind enough to have a room made up for me here.”

“Just like that?” she demanded. “You drop these…bombshells on me, and then you go to sleep?”

“Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Oh, so you can
see
that it will be a long day?” She wondered why she sounded so resentful.
She
was the one who had called
him,
after all.

She was frightened, that was why.

“Adam…”

“Joe will need help tomorrow,” he said, and left the room.

Admittedly, he was angry.

What the hell had he done to cause Genevieve to call Adam Harrison? About him.

He’d never told a soul about speaking to a dead man on the highway—except for the med tech who had assured him that the man was dead, and he wouldn’t have said a thing then, either, if he’d known. He sure as hell had never told anyone about the corpse on the Gurney at the morgue.

When he left O’Malley’s, he didn’t head for his car. He had too much on his mind to go home right away, so he walked. He loved walking, and New York was the city for it. And as he walked, he tried to be rational.

Okay, rationally, he hated the fact that Genevieve had called Adam. Regarding him. There were far more serious matters at hand—tonight’s attempt on Sam’s life, for one thing. The police had suggested that the news not be shared with the news media or anyone else, except for on a need-to-know basis. There was no escaping the fact that there was a serial killer out there, one with either a real or feigned Poe fetish, and holding some information back would help them separate the real killer from the pretenders who were bound to come forward.

The killer was real and needed his concentration. So think about that, he told himself. He’d tried to eliminate at least some members of the New York Poe Society board by examining their alibis for the afternoon and evening when Thorne had been killed. Now the process of elimination would be easier, because he could find out where each of them had been this evening around seven, the night of the car crash and the night Lori went missing, then cross reference everything and eliminate more of them from his suspect pool.

They’d all been at O’Malley’s tonight, but where they had they been beforehand?

He would find out, he thought grimly. Of course, that didn’t mean he would have the killer in his sights. It was still possible that the killer was someone else, and there were millions of people out there in New York to choose from.

But not a million people that Thorne Bigelow would trust.

Joe suddenly realized that his steps had led him back to Hastings House.

Once again, it was closed, since it was only open at night for special functions, as it had been the night Matt was killed at the gala held to celebrate the house’s rebirth as a museum. That night Matt had died and Leslie had touched the other side, but she had returned….

For a year.

Enough time in which to capture his…what? His heart? Or his soul?

As he stood there on the sidewalk, he noticed that the gate was ajar. “No,” he said aloud.

But he couldn’t stop himself. The compulsion was too great. He told himself it was his own determination to prove that nothing was going on that science couldn’t explain, but…

But he knew he was looking for something more.

He let himself in through the open gate and slowly walked up the path to the steps. He looked up at the house and told himself that it was just that. A house. Brick, mortar, wood. A house. It didn’t live and breathe. No matter what Debbie thought, the house hadn’t saved her. Brick, mortar and wood would not—
could
not—reach out to help people.

But Leslie would.

Great. Now he was going to force himself to walk into the house, where he would no doubt imagine that he could hear her voice. That she was still there.

No, he told himself. He was going to step into the house, discover that the wiring was shot and the security system was going haywire.

He walked up the steps to the porch.

The front door opened.

He walked in.

It looked just the same as it had the other night. He looked up the stairway, lit by the pale red security lights. He examined the furnishings there in the entry, checked out the runner that protected the hardwood floor. There was an oil painting on the wall, a rider in a tricorn hat. Candles in sconces.

There were no sounds this time, though. None at all.

Strangely, the house felt warm. It was a museum, he reminded himself. It had to be kept at a certain temperature to protect the antique furnishings. But it wasn’t good, and it wasn’t evil. It was simply a house.

Joe…

The sense of warmth increased, as if he were being comforted, beckoned. He felt something brush against his cheek, the touch almost tender.

“I want you to be here,” he said aloud, feeling like a fool but unable to stop himself.

His cell phone started to ring. He answered it. “Connolly.”

There was no one there. “Dammit,” he muttered aloud, and closed the phone.

Well, what the hell had he expected? That he was going to walk in and Leslie would be there, waiting for him in jeans and a T-shirt, hair loose and manner easy? That in her casual yet somehow intense manner, she would invite him in for tea?

“I’m an idiot.”

He turned back toward the door.

Then he felt the hand. A hand, dammit. On his shoulder.

Joe…

He heard his name again, but it wasn’t Leslie’s voice.

It was Matt’s!

Oh, hell, he really was crazy. Leslie wasn’t here, welcoming him in. She was here with Matt. They had taken up residence in Hastings House, or maybe just within the tortured confines of his mind.

It’s all right. Please, we can help.

He muttered a curt expletive and turned, staring intently into the shadows.

There! Had that shadow moved? Was there something misty taking shape in front of him? Would he be shaking hands with his cousin in a matter of moments?

He swore again. Maybe it really was time for that psychotherapy now.

He winced. “If…if you’re there, leave me the hell alone, will you, please?” he whispered.

Crazy. He had gone completely crazy.

He turned around and left the house, hardly noticing when the lock clicked into place as the door shut behind him.

Lori Star made all the morning shows.

It was sad, Gen thought, that she would have been glad to know she was, even in such a horrible way, immortalized.

Genevieve had gotten up early and headed home. Now, watching television in her own apartment, she decided to call her mother and reinforce the need for her to stay home, where she would be safe. She was turning into a nagging parent, she realized. Too bad.

“I don’t want you going anywhere alone,” she told her mother. “Or with Lou or Lila or any of them,” she added firmly.

“Genevieve, seriously. It can’t be any of them,” Eileen said.

“I mean it. I can’t believe you went out last night.”

“So did you.”

“I don’t trust that group, and I don’t want you trusting them, either.”

“You trust Adam. And Joe,” Eileen said.

“Don’t turn this around. Just don’t go anywhere today. Promise?”

A sigh. “I promise,” Eileen said. “Speaking of which…I’m curious. About Adam. You called him? You asked him to come?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Leslie believed in him, you know. He was very dear to her.”

“I know. I take it he’s a friend of yours, too?”

“Well, the families, you know. I’ve met him at various functions over the years. And then, last year, when I hired Joe and everyone was looking for you…well, yes, I saw quite a lot of him then.”

Genevieve waited for her mother to elaborate further. When she didn’t, Gen asked, “Did you…?”

“Did I ever need help with anything paranormal? No,” Eileen said. “But Adam is a very good man.” She hesitated. “Joe knows that. I hope he’ll trust him with…whatever.”

“I hope so, too. I…um, I love you, Mother.”

“I love you, too. More than I can ever say,” Eileen said softly.

At ten, Adam called Genevieve. “My friends have arrived,” he told her. “Brent and Nikki Blackhawk.”

“You saw how Joe was last night. I don’t think he’ll want to meet with them.”

“Yes, he will. Brent has some information for him.”

“Information?”

“Yes, he’s not just a ghost hunter, you know,” Adam said, and she couldn’t tell if his voice was teasing or not. “He’s a great investigator, and I think he can help Joe on this. Anyway, don’t worry about it. I’ll call Joe and set up lunch.”

Great, she thought. Joe was going to be just thrilled. But all she said was, “Let me know.”

She hung up and walked back into her living room, where Lori Star’s face was still front and center on the television. She turned away, then heard someone say,
Help me.

She swung back to the television. For a moment Lori seemed to be staring straight at her, but then she realized that the video was from the night Lori had been on television claiming to have “seen” the accident. And that there was nothing unusual about it.

Even so, she had the strangest urge to escape her own apartment. All she wanted was to run.

But she couldn’t run away from herself, and she knew it. She remembered the strange sensation of being the other woman in the dream, remembered how she had seen the shadows come alive in the parking garage. And now she thought that a dead woman on television was looking at her, asking for help.

She thought about how strangely Joe was behaving. Perhaps he was running, as well.

Maybe they were both going crazy.

She turned off the television off, and as she did, she heard her cell phone ringing. It was Adam.

“I made a reservation for one o’clock. I’ve got a car, so I’ll be in front of your place at a quarter of.”

“Joe is fine with this?”

“He’ll be there,” Adam told her.

She hung up, reflecting on the vast difference between “He’ll be there” and “Yes, he’s fine with it.”

Doctor Frank Arbitter was a homebody. It was just that his home seemed to be the morgue, Joe thought. The man could eat, drink, chat and read the comics, all with a corpse awaiting his attention, and apparently be no more worried about it than he was about the phone on his desk.

An elderly white woman lay beneath a sheet that morning, only her head visible, so Joe wasn’t sure what stage her autopsy was at. As Frank welcomed him and indicated a chair by his desk, Joe paused. The other man watched but didn’t comment when Joe gently pulled the sheet up to cover the woman’s face.

“She was murdered?” Joe asked.

“No, she was just alone. It was a heart attack, I’m fairly certain, but since no one was there, we have to do the autopsy. Hey, do you want a cat?”

“What?”

“She came in with her cat. They didn’t know it was hiding in the blanket she had around her when she died.”

“Frank, I’m the last person in the world who should own a pet. I’m never home.”

Frank lifted his shoulders and let them fall, shaking his head. “It’s a beautiful cat. Rag doll or something. Furry.”

“Maybe she died trying to brush it,” Joe suggested.

“And I always thought you were a nice guy.”

“I’ll ask around. Raif Green has kids. Maybe they’ll want it.”

“You should reconsider, Joe. You have a place, not a home. A pet would make it a home. Let me take that back. A wife would make it a home. Hell, even just a live-in lover.”

“Frank, give me a break. Can we move on?”

“Sure. Sit.”

Joe took the offered chair. “Have you talked to the guy over in Jersey?”

“By ‘the guy over in Jersey,’ I’m going to assume you mean the medical examiner in charge of Miss Star, Dr. Benjamin Sears?”

“Yes, that guy,” Joe agreed.

“He sent me a copy of his initial report,” Frank said. “But why are you asking? You were at the autopsy. I wasn’t.”

“Sears said the bulk of the injuries were postmortem, including those to the genital region. What does that mean to you?”

Frank frowned, looking at him. “Hey, I’m basically a mechanic. I look at the pieces. I’m not a psychologist.”

“All right, I guess I want collaboration. Do you think the killer could have been imitating a crime, rather than committing one out of personal passion?”

Frank looked steadily at Joe. “I watch the news. You want to know if he was mimicking a real crime, or maybe the literary version of it. Mary Rogers. Marie Roget. Did you know that a number of researchers have bemoaned the fact that there were two autopsies done on Mary Rogers, the original in New Jersey and one later, in New York? No one ever definitively answered the question of whether she died as the result of a botched abortion, or if she was assaulted and killed by a gang. Back then, the Five Points area was overrun by gangs. Most people wanted to think it was gang members, wanted to use that as ammunition to get the police to clean up the streets.”

Joe stared at him, surprised.

Frank grinned. “Hey, I live in New York. I may not be an expert on Poe, but I know my share of local history.”

“Okay, what’s your take on this theory?” Joe asked, leaning forward. “The killer is an opportunist. Thorne Bigelow needed to die. The killer didn’t want the finger of truth pointing back at him, so it had to look as if Thorne died for some reason other than the real one, so the killer left the note referencing Poe, even though he hadn’t done a very good job of making the murder fit any of Poe’s works. And maybe, almost by accident, Bigelow became the first in a series of killings. The killer happened to see Sam Latham on the FDR and figured if he took him out, it would really give credence to the Poe connection. He only landed Sam in the hospital, but it was still good enough for his purposes. Maybe too good. Lori Star sealed her own fate when she went on television, purporting to be a psychic and saying she knew what happened. He couldn’t have that, but luckily for him—or her—Lori was easy to get rid of. All he had to do was convince her that he was a reporter or a writer or something, and that he was ready to make her really famous. He demanded to meet her alone, and you know the rest. This time, though, he had time to make a big deal of the Poe connection. With Lori dead, he should have felt safe, but then he started thinking about Sam and whether he might start remembering more of what happened on the highway, so he took steps.”

“Someone tried to kill Sam? I didn’t see anything about that in the news.”

“You won’t. The police are hoping that keeping something secret will give them an edge in finding the killer.”

“What was the method?” Frank asked, his brow creasing.

“They’re pretty sure it was an overdose of morphine, administered by someone in hospital scrubs and a mask. And if he’d succeeded, I bet a note would have shown up, too. So what do you think about my theory?”

“It sounds pretty convincing, but at this point it’s only a theory, right? The police haven’t actually figured anything out, have they?”

“Not yet, no,” Joe admitted.

“And it could have started out as a random killing that escalated.”

“It can’t be random,” Joe said. “Thorne Bigelow let his killer in. That wasn’t random.”

“No.” Frank was quiet for a long moment. “You know, Joe, back then…the killer was never identified. There were theories, plenty of them. But no one ever went to trial.”

“I know. But this can’t end this way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m afraid it won’t end at all if this guy isn’t stopped.” Joe stood up suddenly. “Thanks Frank.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did. You just made me focus on a really important question.”

“What’s that?”

“Exactly why did Thorne have to die?”

Genevieve paced in her apartment, feeling like a caged tiger.

She’d spent her life being active, taking steps to make the world a better place, not just attending charity functions and luncheons. She’d majored in social sciences, received a degree in psychology and another in social service. She’d worked the streets convincing hookers to quit working for two-bit pimps, and she’d gotten a lot of women real jobs. She knew how to keep herself safe on the streets. She’d only been kidnapped because she’d been taken unaware by someone she knew and had thought she could trust.

Just like Thorne Bigelow.

Who hadn’t survived.

She thought about Lori Star and suddenly felt the urge to know her better.

It was a bit too late to get to know the woman herself, but there were other ways to find out more about her. Of course, Joe would be furious if she went out, investigating on her own.

Screw Joe. He certainly wasn’t consulting her about his plans.

She grabbed her keys and hurried out, but she didn’t take her car. Downstairs, she greeted the doorman, and asked him to hail her a cab. At Lori Star’s building, she exited and walked up the three flights of steps.

There was crime-scene tape on Lori’s door, but she hadn’t come to see the apartment. She strode over to Susie’s door.

Before she could knock, it opened and Susie, her face swollen, peered out, looked around warily, then quickly drew Gen inside.

“Sorry for acting so hush-hush. The press keep coming around, even though they’re not supposed to be able to get into the building,” Susie said.

“Oh? No one stopped me,” Genevieve said.

“I guess most of the cops have cleared away. And maybe whoever is down there decided you didn’t look like a reporter.”

“I guess.”

Gen didn’t think the police were actually watching the building at all anymore. She didn’t tell Susie so, but she suspected the reporters probably thought they’d gotten all they could from the neighbors.

Susie had evidently been through the wringer. She looked as if she had cried a lot and might start crying again at any moment. Genevieve’s heart went out to her.

“Some guy down there offered me a bunch of money if I had any sexy shots of Lori, or if I could tell him any sordid stories,” she said, and sniffed contemptuously. “And they called her a whore! They’re just a pack of pimps themselves. I’d never sell out a friend.”

“I’m sure Lori would have appreciated that,” Genevieve said, touching her arm consolingly.

Susie sniffed again, and wiped her cheeks, then tried to smile. “You’re different, you and that guy, Joe. He wanted to help. I know he did.”

“Yeah. He’s a good guy,” Genevieve said.

Susie frowned. “So, uh, why are you here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Why?” Susie asked, her tone slightly apprehensive.

“I’m not even sure,” Genevieve admitted. “I guess…I guess I just wanted to get to know Lori now, even if it’s too late. I feel that…knowing more about her might somehow help.”

Susie indicated her couch. It was worn, but the apartment was neat and tidy. “Sit. I’ll tell you what I can. She really did want to be an actress, you know. She worked a lot as an extra, and she went to auditions…even got some callbacks. But she didn’t get that one break she really needed.”

Genevieve nodded encouragingly and waited for Susie to go on.

“She was…she was just real, I guess you could say.” Susie hesitated. “Did she turn tricks? Well, yes, but she was discreet. She went with guys she liked and accepted what she could get. But she really worked at being an actress, and I think she would have made it.”

“So why did she go by Candy Cane? Why did she give that name when she was arrested?” Genevieve asked.

Susie laughed with dry humor. “I’m Peppermint Patsy. We all use names when we go clubbing. You don’t always want to be known. Hell, if I’m out for a good time and need a little sustenance from a guy, I don’t want him knowing who I really am.”

Genevieve asked, “Do you think she realized, when she went to the press, that they would check her out and discover her arrest record?”

“Maybe she thought it was worth the risk. The thing is, when she talked about what she saw, she was telling the truth. She believed it with her whole heart. She wouldn’t have lied to me.” Another big tear fell on Susie’s cheek. “Life’s a bitch and then you die. Sucks, huh?”

Genevieve felt her old life suddenly wrapping around her. “Susie, I can’t help Lori now. But if
you
want to get a real job—where you have to work hard, but you’ll make good money—I can manage that for you.”

Susie grimaced. “I work hard now. I just don’t seem to get anywhere. I flipped hamburgers for a while, but I couldn’t pay the rent.”