The Red Queen Dies (19 page)

She stood up and went back over to the stove. “I can't think of anything else to tell you,” she said. “I need to finish dinner.”

“Then we'll go now,” McCabe said. “Thank you for talking to us.”

Francine Petrie turned and looked at her. “One of Eddie's friends showed us that thread that Redfield man wrote about you. I know the police are doing all that they can on this, and that you've been working hard on this since day one. Don't let them get you down.”

“I…” McCabe stammered in her surprise. “I appreciate your saying that.”

Francine Petrie put the spoon she had been using to stir the sauce down on a saucer. “It's the twenty-first century and some men still can't stand it when a woman's in charge. Got to claim she doesn't know what she's doing. I told Eddie and my brothers that. I get it sometimes on my own job.”

“What do you do?” Baxter asked.

“I'm a truck inspector. I know how to handle myself, but every now and then a driver tries to give me grief. Or date me. Same difference.”

*   *   *

In the car on their way back to the station, Baxter said, “How do you like our girl Bethany as the bully?”

“Because she made a volcano for her science camp project?”

“And because seeing Bethany after she'd mentioned Deirdre, the teaching assistant, got the other kid all shook up.”

“It would make sense that a girl who was awkward and skinny would resent another girl who was … further along in the process. Of course, we don't know if Sharon was telling her mother everything that happened.”

“Yeah, but Sharon was the hardworking college student who wanted to be a doctor in the space program. And our girl Bethany was waiting tables by day and partying by night.”

“What would be really helpful,” McCabe said, looking up from her ORB, “would be if we could find someone who was involved with Girls in Science, the women's group that sponsored the science camp.”

“Still nothing?”

“According to Research, nothing's coming up on the group after that summer. They rented the building for one month. The woman who was the president was a research biologist. She signed all the paperwork. Unfortunately, she's dead.”

“Dead?” Baxter said. “When?”

“Five years ago. Complications following elective surgery.”

“Elective surgery? What kind?”

“Liposuction. She developed an infection.”

“What about the other officers?”

“The vice president was the wife of an engineer. Her husband's out of the country. A project in Brazil. She went with him. They're trying to reach her. The treasurer was from L.A. She moved back there and started her own graphic arts company. The company went under, and she ended up broke. Declared bankruptcy. No address after that. But they're trying to trace her.”

“I wonder where the money came from to rent the building and run the camp,” Baxter said. “Did they do it on their own dime?”

“I wouldn't think so. It doesn't sound like any of them was wealthy. Maybe they were able to get a grant. But I'll remind Research to see what they can find about the source of the money.”

“So are we going to call it a day now?”

“It's almost eight o'clock. Sounds like a good idea to me.”

“I hope Yin and his wife are enjoying the wine.”

“Me, too,” McCabe said as they pulled up to the police garage.

“Want me to follow you home?”

McCabe looked at him. “I think I can manage to get there alone.”

“I thought with the tracker they found on your car—”

“Someone—in all likelihood, Clarence Redfield—wanted to know where I was going. Now he won't unless he's willing to take the chance of trying to get another one in place. And he knows we're onto him.”

“What if it wasn't Redfield?” Baxter said.

“Who else would it be?”

“Just remember what the CO said and watch your back.”

McCabe opened the door of the sedan and picked up her field bag. “I always do that. And in this case, forewarned is forearmed.”

On the way home, she passed a group of women gathered on a street corner. They were holding up huge glow-in-the dark signs that were obviously a response to Clarence Redfield and KZAC. One of the signs read
WE'RE NOT AFRAID OF THE DARK.
The other said
THE NIGHT IS OURS TOO.

They were on a corner that seemed safe. McCabe hoped so anyway. All they needed were victims who had become victims while refusing to be made afraid.

 

20

 

Sunday, October 27, 2019

McCabe woke up at the first hint of dawn. She hadn't closed the blinds completely, and light filtered into the room. She squinted, thought of going back to sleep, and decided instead to go for a run. If she moved quickly, she might be able to get out and back before the humidity began to build.

Outside, she took a cautious breath of air and tasted a hint of the smoke drifting from the north. Best to start with a brisk walk to loosen her muscles, then build to a run.

She had some time. She and Baxter had agreed to go in at eleven. She had nothing to do until breakfast at Stan and Chelsea's house.

Odd, the order of that in her mind. Not Chelsea and Stan's house. Chelsea ran the restaurant. Stan ran the house. Ask her where she'd rather eat, and Stan's place won out every time. Real waffles with real maple syrup and Canadian bacon.

She'd deserve that bacon after putting up with this smoke.

She had picked a route toward New Scotland Avenue rather than Western Avenue. Handy to be on the same street as two hospitals if she should pass out.

But there was no point in being reckless. McCabe took out her mask and slid it on, glanced at her vitals monitor, then slipped into a loping run.

Baxter's friend with lung cancer and his question about cloning … was that something that Adam had thought about? But Adam didn't need a clone. What he needed was an android body. One that looked like his own. Another body into which he could transfer what was Adam.

Soldiers who had lost their arms and legs in battle were given new limbs, computerized body parts that their brains coordinated. Adam could not tell his own immobile legs to move. But he wanted to walk again on his own two legs.

He had rejected the option of replacing his empty eye socket with a prosthesis.

If and when he could chose, would he even be willing to take the other option. To leave his wheelchair to become Adam in an android body?

If it were me, would I choose that? McCabe wondered.

But even the possibility could be a long time away. Long before android hosts were available, Adam or someone else might have a breakthrough that would make it possible for him to walk without computerized braces on his legs or an exoskeleton.

McCabe glanced at her monitor again and picked up her pace.

*   *   *

At the stoplight across from Washington Park, McCabe jogged in place, debating a run through the park versus heading toward downtown. Sunday-morning quiet hung over Madison Avenue, and she was tempted to turn toward the streets that would lead her to the Empire State Plaza.

The shrill sound of a siren turning onto Madison Avenue sent her into the park.

By the time she'd done the circuit around the lake, she would have logged over three miles. She would still have the return run home. More than enough when she hadn't been out all week.

Her mother would never have believed this would happen. That the day would ever come when Hannah, her “wild child,” would have learned how to pace herself.

Now, if she could only manage to put the pieces of the serial killer case together before the commander reassigned her to finding stolen Zip cars. A task force, yes. But she and Baxter were still the primaries on the Jessup case.

And she had been working on the other two cases since the beginning. They now needed a task force because she and Jay O'Connell and the other detectives who had been lending a hand hadn't been able to figure out what was going on before another woman was killed. Clarence Redfield was right about that much at least.

McCabe touched the button on her vest. Maybe music would help unfreeze her brain.

First up, “Harlem Nocturne.” All she needed was a trench coat and a rainy night in the city.

And the Wizard of Oz to give her a brain.

What movie had the teaching assistant been showing that day?

McCabe stopped, hands on knees, catching her breath.

Silly question. But they hadn't asked. Not that Sharon's mother would probably have known.

She touched the button to silence the music.

“Ask Sharon's mother if she knows what the movie was,” she said into the recorder on her vest.

She walked for a few minutes, then started to run again.

She stumbled to a stop when a fat gray opossum wobbled across the path in front of her. When he was out of sight, she ran on.

Back to her playlist. By the time she'd reached the lake, Mike Hammer's theme song had given way to Aaron Copland's
Appalachian Spring.

It was only after the music changed that she thought of Lisa Nichols, the blonde who might be a femme fatale. No reason to think that except for the fact Nichols was beautiful and wore black. And she was the fiancée of a very wealthy man. And Vivian Jessup, the woman who might have been that man's former lover, had been murdered.

But even if she'd had a motive for killing Jessup, why would Lisa Nichols target two young women from Albany?

That was the problem. Two of the murders might go together. Two of the victims had shared a common experience. But that left Jessup, who didn't fit.

But it had to fit, unless this wasn't what it looked like. Unless there were two related murders … and then the third committed by someone else, copying the method of the first two.

They had talked about that during the task force meeting. The KZAC radio host had suggested it when he was interviewing Clarence Redfield. Mike had brought it up, too.

But the thing was, a copycat killer would have had to know how the first two victims had died. Clarence Redfield had hinted that he knew. But when they'd finally had a chance to question him about what he knew and the source of his information, Redfield had lawyered up.

McCabe glanced upward as the starlings that had been sitting in an oak tree took off in a flutter of iridescent wings and squawks.

Either Redfield knew enough about how the vics had died to know it was by the same method or he knew that and also knew what the method had been. Either he had an informant in the department or he had some other way of knowing.

And the only other ways he could have of knowing was if he were the killer himself or in contact with the killer. Maybe that was going to be his next big thread. About how the serial killer had talked to him about the murders and the incompetence of the APD. It wouldn't be the first time a killer had communicated directly with a member of the press … if you could call Clarence Redfield that.

Redfield had even mentioned Jack the Ripper during his radio interview on KZAC. Someone claiming to be the Ripper had sent letters to the London press of his day.

McCabe slowed to a walk to take a long sip from the water tube attached to her mask. One serial killer who had killed all three women. Or someone who had been able to duplicate the method of death of the first two and had hoped the police would attribute Vivian Jessup's death to the same person who had killed Bethany Clark and Sharon Giovanni.

And if the first two murders were for revenge or some other such motive, the victims had not been chosen at random. The killer had gone after them one at a time.

And then after Vivian Jessup?

Science camp. Broadway actress.
Alice,
the Red Queen, and the yellow brick road.

And
Lolita
thrown in for good measure. Ted Thornton had mentioned Vladimir Nabokov when he was discussing the mayor's “It Happened Here” initiative. He had said Nabokov had come to Albany to capture butterflies in the Pine Bush.

McCabe made another note to her recorder, “Check on Nabokov and Albany visit. Check link
Lolita
and
Alice
books and authors.”

Had Lewis Carroll ever come to Albany? Probably not. If he had, then his number-one fan, Jessup, would have made the trip up from the City to see what he had seen. She had not come to Albany until she had learned about the John Wilkes Booth connection.

McCabe broke into a run again. Feet pounding, she ran across the wooden bridge that arched over the lake.

When the weather was pleasant, anglers came out to try their hand at the fish the city stocked in the Washington Park Lake. Most caught and released their catch. When the water in the lake was as stagnant as it must be now, that was a sensible precaution.

She ran along the paved upper path, heading back toward the lake house and the amphitheater and bleachers. Summer theater in the park.

Thornton had said that he'd appeared as Richard III in college. Did his aide-de-camp, Bruce Ashby, have any theater connections?

This afternoon, she and Baxter were going to have to sit down and spread out all the pieces. Check and cross-check until they came up with another lead to follow.

Maybe one more lap around the lake before she headed home.

*   *   *

McCabe was stepping out of the shower when her ORB buzzed.

“Just calling to make sure you're all right,” Chelsea said when she picked up.

“All right? Am I late? I thought Stan said nine-thirty.”

“You haven't seen the story in the
Chronicle
?”

“No. What story?”

“Hold on, and I'll send it to you.”

Towel wrapped around her, McCabe stood there in the middle of her bedroom, reading the article.

“Hannah?” Chelsea said.