Bone Thief (16 page)

“Mrs. Benjamin, I have questions, disturbing questions, and I regret that I must ask them,” said Margaret as she returned the older woman's gaze. There was a sadness to the woman's eyes, a sadness that went beyond the present circumstances.

They were sitting in Mrs. Benjamin's finely upholstered living room. It was quiet and heavily furnished, with thick velvet drapery. Votive candles burned on a table.

“I want to help where I can,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “Sarah would have wanted it that way.”

The response put Margaret at ease. There was no pretense about the woman. And it was apparent that she and the victim shared a loving relationship.

“Did your daughter-in-law tell you where she was going Friday night?”

“To her recital hall. Sarah taught violin. Her class was giving a recital on Sunday. They were to play Beethoven. It was going to be a working weekend filled with practice, late Friday through Sunday. That's why she dropped Robbie off. She was going to pick him up after the show on Sunday. When she didn't, I called the hall. She had never shown up! I got frantic. I knew something had happened. But no one could ever imagine…” Her voice cracked.

Margaret fought back the urge to take the woman's hand. She had interviewed hundreds, if not thousands, of grieving relatives in her career. The nurturing urge was always there. She was proud of it, but she was always able to remain objective and professional by curtailing it. “I'm sorry I have to ask this next question.”

“Go on. I want to help where I can.”

“How was Sarah's relationship with her estranged husband, your son?”

“My son was a scoundrel.”

The answer surprised Margaret. She thought it refreshing to interview someone who displayed a frankness and willingness to be so open with someone she had never met. A smile formed on Margaret's lips as Mrs. Benjamin continued. “Sarah never stopped loving him, though. Even after the divorce. He was the only man she ever loved. She was hoping for a reconciliation.”

“Did you know much about her social life?”

“She was dedicated to her music. That much I know.”

Suddenly, a sobbing child darted into the room and threw himself into the older woman's arms.

“My grandson Robbie is practically an orphan,” said Mrs. Benjamin, cradling the crying boy.

The young boy stole a look at Margaret.

“Robbie, where did your mommy go after she dropped you off?” asked Margaret.

The boy buried his head in his grandmother's arms.

Margaret produced her police shield and held it out to the boy. He raised his head again.

“Can you find the Indian on my badge?” she asked.

Moist eyes searched the shield. A tiny finger pointed out the Manhattan Indian.

“Would you like to wear my badge?”

The boy nodded his head.

“I appoint you Deputy Robbie Benjamin,” Margaret announced, pinning the shield to the boy's shirt.

Mrs. Benjamin smiled.

“Am I a real policeman?” the boy mumbled, tugging on Margaret's sleeve.

“Yes. It's official now.”

“Can I tell my friends?”

“Sure.”

“Do I get a gun?”

“What for?”

“I'm gonna shoot the bad guys.”

“Well, Officer Benjamin, I'll see what I can do.”

“A beeper, too?”

“A beeper?”

“A blue one.”

“Why blue?”

“Like the one I found.”

“Where'd you find it?”

“At the mall. It beeps when someone wants to talk to you, like the guy who beeped us in the car.”

“What guy?” Margaret felt a rush of excitement.

“The guy Mommy talked to.”

“Mommy talked to a guy?”

Margaret and Mrs. Benjamin exchanged glances.

“Mommy made a phone call from the car on her fold-up phone.”

“Do you remember what Mommy said on the phone?” said Margaret.

The boy shrugged.

“Where's the beeper now?”

“Mommy took it when she called the guy from the car.”

“Mrs. Benjamin, did Sarah have a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“I'll need the number.”

“Certainly. It's 917-288-1274.”

Driscoll listened intently to Margaret's voice as it crackled through the speaker of his car phone.

“Cellular One shows Sarah Benjamin's last outgoing call lasted nine minutes. The call was to a pay phone on the first floor of the Kings Plaza Shopping Mall in Brooklyn.”

“Dead end,” muttered Driscoll. He made a left turn off of Eighth Avenue and pulled to the curb in front of 411 Garfield Place.

Mrs. Benjamin's residence was as Margaret had reported, an unassuming brownstone on a street of ordinary attached houses. He climbed the steps leading to a gothic oak door. It was ajar, letting out fragments of conversation from the inner rooms.

He stepped into the vestibule. Men and women, dressed in mourning attire, stood in small groups, talking softly. It felt to Driscoll as though the house were overheated. He took off his Burberry and hung it on an elaborate Victorian coatrack.

“You must be Lieutenant Driscoll,” a voice said. “I'm Anita Benjamin.”

“I'm very sorry for your loss.”

“It's comforting to have you among us.” Mrs. Benjamin ushered Driscoll into a room crowded with visitors.

Driscoll recalled the Irish wakes he had attended. In this house, there was no coffin, no viewing of the departed. Instead, platters of food crammed an elongated mahogany table.

“I'd like to meet your son,” said Driscoll.

“That's him, the scoundrel, over there with the brunette.”

Driscoll walked toward Isaac Benjamin. “Mr. Benjamin, I am Lieutenant Driscoll, and I would like to talk to you.”

A cloud of darkness crowded Benjamin's eyes as he studied Driscoll. The brunette excused herself and disappeared. Benjamin spoke. “I caught the look on my mother's face when she pointed me out. I'm really not the bad guy she makes me out to be. Let's just say we each handle the loss of a loved one in different fashions.”

“I understand.”

“Why don't we move into the study? We can continue our conversation in there.”

Driscoll followed Benjamin into a small room where a simple pine desk supported a laptop computer and a cluster of bills.

“The papers say Sarah was the target of a serial killer. Is that true?”

“It's a strong possibility. How long have you and she been divorced?”

“Goin' on three years.”

“And when was the last time you saw her?”

“I'm a banker. An international banker. I was in Tel Aviv when she was killed, if that's what you're getting at.”

“And you saw her for the last time, when?”

“When the divorce became final. Three years ago. And if you're gonna ask me the usual questions, you may as well forget about it.”

“And what are the usual questions?”

“Did I know of anyone who may have wanted to harm Sarah? Was I aware of any strange telephone calls? Trouble at work? And on and on.”

“I take it you didn't know much about Sarah's life since the divorce.”

“I didn't know much about Sarah's life before the divorce! That's why we're divorced.”

Silence settled between the two men. It was Benjamin who broke it.

“Was she mangled like they're saying on the news?”

“It was a very brutal slaying. For the most part, the newscasters have it right.”

“They're saying her body washed up under the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“That's right.”

“That part's ironic.”

“Why's that.”

“Fourth of July, 1989, our first date. We watched the fireworks from a sailboat as it made its way under that bridge.”

The thought rocketed to Driscoll's consciousness. Did the killer know that? Was that why he dumped the Benjamin woman in the waters under the bridge? Was there some sort of distorted significance to the drop site?

The Sixty-first Precinct located Sarah Benjamin's car. It was collecting parking tickets at an expired meter on Emmons Avenue and East Twenty-first Street,” Margaret reported as she sat beside Driscoll's desk. “That's Restaurant Row. I'm running her photo by every hostess and waiter. Maybe we'll get lucky. And since the last call she made from her car was to a telephone inside the shopping mall, I checked the incident reports at the mall for that day. They logged in two arrests for shoplifting, and nothing more.”

“That's dead end number seventeen and eighteen. But who's counting?” Driscoll grumbled. “Do me a favor, call your buddy, White, over at the Computer Investigation & Tech Unit. See what they've got on the two victims' computers. They seem to be taking their sweet time. I thought you said White had a thing for you.”

“Speaking of computers, your postman's ringing.”

“My what?”

“Your computer. You have e-mail.”

Driscoll rolled his chair over to the monitor and typed in his password. His correspondence flashed on the amber screen.

WOMEN OF GOTHAM
,
WANT TO REKINDLE YOUR FIRST LOVE
?

Could she be right
? thought Driscoll. Had this precocious teen really unearthed the murderer? Was this what the victims had in common? Had they all been lured to their deaths by some fiendish Internet psycho, only to have their bodies recovered at the site where they had once rendezvoused with a first love? Moira's pace was astounding. And if on target, so was her find.

He reached for the desk phone and pounded in her number. Moria answered on the first ring, and once Driscoll greeted her, continued to show off what she had learned. “Deirdre McCabe's screen name was DeeDee22 at America Online. Monique went by Candy-Ass at Netscape. And the tea heiress picked Chamomile33 at Juno. The Benjamin woman was out of the pattern. She has no online service. She never went near a computer, but I'll bet the waters under the Brooklyn Bridge have some significance.”

“More than you know, Moira. You've beaten our technicians at their own game. How'd you get this?”

“Women are savers. They save their love letters. I downloaded their e-mail and retrieved all of their correspondence with Godsend.”

“So let's see. You burglarized the hard drives of the victims' computers, stole their passwords, and downloaded their correspondence. Do I have it right?”

“You really live up to your name, Detective.”

“I want all that stolen data in my office. Within the hour!”

“I already sifted through it. It doesn't reveal the killer's identity.”

“OK. You arranged this exchange. Suppose you tell me the next step.”

“I wanna be the one to collar him.”

“What!”

“I wanna nab the bad guy.”

“Moira, need I remind you you're barely fourteen?”

“There you go again with the age bit.”

“What you did was illegal.”

“I did it to help you. Take the present, will ya?”

An awareness struck Driscoll. This young girl, who had shown up the Department's technical experts, was putting herself in harm's way. She was delusional in thinking she could apprehend the killer. But, there seemed to be no stopping her. Was he to blame? Was he so blinded by the memory of his daughter Nicole that he overlooked the caution flags and invited Moira into the chase?

“Lieutenant, go back to your screen. Check out my response to Godsend's ad—”

“Oh, Jesus!”

“I have Lieutenant White from Technical Support on the other line. The kid's right. The victim's computers show correspondence with Godsend,” Margaret whispered. “Wait, there's more,” said Driscoll.

“
Is mise le meas!
That's Old Irish! Moira, get in here! Now!” he barked into the phone.

There was no one on the other end of the line.

“Moira? Moira? She's gone.”

“She's off-line too. But, wait, she left you a message.”

Driscoll and Margaret peered back into the screen.

“Can you believe this kid?” Driscoll hit the phone's redial button. After four rings, Seamus Tiernan's recorded voice sounded in his ear.

“Hi! You've reached the Tiernans. Sorry no one is available…”

Driscoll hung up.

“My God! What if…” Driscoll's face drained of all color. “Margaret, could she be serious about trying to collar him?”

“With her, anything's possible.”

“I've got to stop her.” He reached for his Burberry and headed for the door.