Anatomy of Fear (10 page)
“That could be weeks.”
“Your point?”
“Rodriguez has a profiler’s mind.”
“But again, not the creds.”
“He’s Quantico-trained.”
“In fucking portrait painting.”
“Give me a break, okay, Perry? Let Rodriguez come with me, talk to a few people, do some drawings. If nothing pans out we haven’t lost anything.”
Denton decided to let her have her new toy, but didn’t feel like saying it yet. He was enjoying the fact that he had the power, that he could make her wait.
“Rodriguez has been around the PD for seven years, assisted on hundreds of homicides, rapes, and robberies—more than most cops ever get to work.”
“Making
drawings,
Russo.”
“And that’s all I want him to do. But I want him with me on the street to do it. Jesus, Perry, are you going to make me beg?”
Denton almost said yes, but he was getting tired of the game and had bigger things to worry about. “Okay, if you want this guy so bad.” He took a few steps closer and aimed a finger at her. “But anything fucks up, Russo, I’m holding you responsible. It’ll be your ass on the line, remember that.”
T
erri Russo had called. She wanted me on the case. Just like that.
My grandmother would not agree that the call had come out of nowhere. She believed that everything happened for a reason. She would say that the spirit of the dead had brought Russo to me; that I had been beckoned by someone’s
ori.
I looked around, a bit sorry it had beckoned me here of all places, to the morgue.
The smell of formaldehyde was leeching through my mask, the Vicks VapoRub smeared on my nostrils not quite doing the job.
If I’m smelling death, am I also breathing it in?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to that.
The coroner, a tired-looking guy with streaks of blood and viscera across his smock, said, “Vic never knew what hit him. Bullet went straight into the medulla oblongata and came out the other side.”
Russo was beside me. “Thought it would be good for you to see the real thing to compare it to the drawing,” she said.
I looked at the victim, a Latino man between thirty-five and forty. She handed me a bagged drawing.
“Can you confirm this was made by the same guy?”
“It looks it, but I’d like to see the others along with it to be sure.”
“Right,” she said. “I’ve got copies of everything in my office.”
I looked from the drawing to the corpse. “It’s a decent likeness, which means the unsub stalked him, earmarked him for death. But why?”
“Well, that’s the big question,” said Russo.
“Any witnesses?”
“Not that we know of. But I’d like you to talk to all the people who last saw any of the vics, or had contact with them. Maybe they saw something and didn’t realize it.”
“And you want me to draw a sketch from their descriptions, that it?”
“You think you can?”
“I can try.”
I could see Terri smile even behind her mask. She checked her watch. “I’ve got a meeting, but you can start with this vic’s wife.” She handed me an address and phone number.
“The guy’s hardly cold.”
“That’s why I want you to speak to her now—while everything is still fresh in her mind.”
T
he woman who opened the door was probably in her mid-thirties, but at the moment it was hard to tell, her face strained and pale, eyes red-rimmed.
I showed her my temporary shield. She sighed deeply and let me in. She lived only a few blocks south of Julio and Jess, Eighty-sixth and Park, primo Manhattan real estate.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “I’d like to help.”
She looked up at me, incredulous. “And how are you going to do that?”
“By finding the man who did this.”
She led me into an art-filled living room, Warhol
Brillo Box
on the floor, cool minimal Robert Mangold painting on one wall, Catherine Murphy landscape, Chuck Close portrait on another. An eclectic, expensive mix.
“Amazing art collection,” I said.
“That was Roberto’s realm, but I enjoyed it.” She managed a slight smile. “He started collecting in the eighties, after the Wall Street boom.”
“He was a trader?”
“Oh, no,” she said, as if insulted. “He had his own fund.”
“He obviously did well.
She sighed again. “Yes.”
I got her talking about the art, and she said her husband had recently bought the Warhol at auction, which I knew meant he’d paid well over a million. After a while I asked, “Tell me what happened the night he was killed.”
“You mean
last
night?”
I said I was sorry again, but the sooner we knew, the faster we could do something about it.
“There’s not much to tell. Roberto was keyed up, so he decided to go out for the paper. I told him it was silly. We get the
Times
and the
Journal
delivered every morning, but when Roberto has his mind set, it’s useless to fight him.” She welled up with tears. “If only he’d listened to me.”
“Don’t blame yourself for something that isn’t your fault, Mrs. Acosta.”
“Cambell. I use my maiden name.”
“Sorry, Ms. Cambell. But you need to put the blame where it belongs, on the man who did this.”
“That’s very kind,” she said, and seemed more eager to talk. We went through the events of the past night: Her husband had gone to a store on Lex for the
Wall Street Journal
and hadn’t made it back; she hadn’t seen the shooting and couldn’t imagine there was a reason for anyone to kill him. “I’ve been through this with the police. Roberto had no enemies.”
I opened my pad and explained what I did. That same look of incredulity passed over her features, but I convinced her to sit down and close her eyes. Then I asked her to think back over the past week.
“Has there been anyone hanging around that looked suspicious? Anyone. A delivery boy who seemed weird?”
“No, I, I don’t think so, but…” A moment passed. “There was this one man; I saw him twice. He wasn’t doing anything, just
standing on the corner of Park Avenue, which was odd, just standing there and looking over at the building.”
“Was he black or white?”
“He was definitely white, but he was across the street, so I didn’t see him close up. He was staring at the lobby entrance when Roberto and I came out. I mentioned him to Roberto, but he didn’t pay attention. I kissed my husband good-bye and…” She stopped and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing. Roberto left for work, and when I looked across the street, the man was gone.”
“And that was it?”
“Well, no. I wouldn’t have thought about him again except he was there the next day. And it’s Park Avenue. People just don’t hang out on Park Avenue. I wondered if he was a Realtor scouting our building. But he didn’t look like a Realtor.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. It was just…a feeling. Maybe it was the baseball cap.”
“Anything else you noticed about him?”
“He had on a long coat. But the impression I have of him is from the back. He turned away after I looked over at him, and the coat sort of billowed out at the bottom, from the wind.”
I started drawing.
“Oh, God.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Do you think I actually saw the man who—”
I didn’t let her go there. “What else did you see?” I asked, and went back to the drawing.
She looked at my sketch. “Yes. That’s it, the general impression I got.”
“What about his face?”
She shook her head. “It’s a blank. He was across the street, and I didn’t really see it.”
“But you said he was white.”
“Yes. I’m pretty sure about that. Though…his face was in shadow.”
“Was he tall or short?”
“He might have been tall, it’s hard to say.”
“Was there anything you can compare him to, something in the street that might tell you more about him physically, why you thought he was tall?”
She closed her eyes again. “Well…he was leaning against a street lamp and his head was not that far from the plaque that tells you when you can and can’t park. That was it! Why he seemed tall.”
“That’s great.”
“If only—” She broke off and started crying.
I tried to console her, to get her back into the drawing, but her housekeeper came in and gave me a dirty look, and that was it.
I
went back home, got a beer out of the fridge, opened my pad onto my work table, and looked at what I’d done. It wasn’t much yet. Nothing I could show Russo, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.
It got me thinking about my last girlfriend, the one who told me she didn’t know me any better after six months of dating than she did after our first, and said good-bye.
I looked around my spare apartment, at the furniture I’d inherited and never improved upon, the once white walls that had yellowed. I usually liked the fact that other than the superintendent I was the only resident in a building filled with small factories and offices, but right now it just felt lonely. Five years ago I’d taken over the lease from a painter with artist-in-residence status, which meant the city allowed you to live in a place other human beings thought uninhabitable.
Any minute I was going to start feeling sorry for myself, so I went back to the sketch I’d made of the man in the coat, and added a little more tone.
But the face was still blank, and nothing was coming to me.
I got another beer, set my iPod into its docking station, and listened to some music—Marianne Faithful, Lucinda Williams, and Tim Hardin, a singer I’d recently discovered who had OD’d in the seventies—real suicide material.
I looked back at my sketch, but another image snaked its way into my psyche.
