First Kill (9 page)

“Quinlan?”

“Yes! Get on the phone—
Now!
”

Precious seconds were ticking by as I raced to the elevator bank and hit the call button. The display above the door indicated that the elevator car was on the ground floor. I switched gears and charged into the stairwell. Stairs again? Shit! Down is better than up … but in pumps? I clattered down the stairs at break-neck speed in my Christian Louboutin shoes, certain I would lose my balance and go head over heels.

I hit the lobby and sped out onto the street. It was silent. I raced across the street to the building Quinlan had fired from. Another loft building—no doorman, entranceway locked. I looked in every direction hoping to notice the slightest movement. Nothing. A barge blasted its whistle in the harbor, and when it trailed off, the night was once again quiet. Quinlan was gone.

Chapter Twenty-One

I was standing in the street looking around aimlessly, disappointed and frustrated, when my cell phone rang.
It was Rodriguez. I was unable to contain my frustration.
“What?”

“Chalice, easy—what the hell?”

I saw Farrell emerge from the elevator in the lobby. He was hurrying toward me. “He got away?” he called to me. I nodded. Farrell was still completely wired, understandably.

“Sorry,” I said to Rodriguez. “What’s up?”

“We found Blick’s car.”

Oh thank God
. “Anything?”

“His last burner was still in the car, hidden in the tire-change kit. Lots of calls, most to the same number.”

“Did you check the number? Who does the number belong to?”

“Who does what number belong to?” Farrell asked anxiously.

The air filled with the sound of approaching police cars, their sirens on full yelp. Farrell couldn’t hear what Rodriguez was telling me. My eyes grew large as I turned to him and disconnected the call. “Where’s your father?”

“My father?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Your father, Steve. He’s Quinlan’s next target.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The residence of Alton Farrell was nearby.
We pulled up in front of the magnificent brownstone just minutes after I received the call from Rodriguez. “You’re going to wait in the car, Steve.”

“No, I’m not!”

I had to be more assertive. “You’re going to wait in the car,
Steve
. You just dodged a bullet. Lay low. Backup is just minutes away.”

He pulled the door release and got out of the Range Rover, shouting at me. “I am not waiting here.” He pulled out his key ring, selected a key, and held it out for me to see. “Let’s go.”

I had just saved his life. Still, how do you convince a man to hide when he knows his father’s life may be in danger? My automatic was already chambered. I wiped the safety. “You stay behind me and the hell out of harm’s way. Got it?” He nodded. “So you have no idea why Quinlan is trying to kill you and your father?”

“Why are you so convinced he’s after us? Maybe he was taking a shot at you. You
did
arrest him.”

There was no time to explain—I sensed it, I felt it, I knew it.
It
is what made me a cop. I was that certain. “Come on.”

Farrell tried his key in the lock, but it wouldn’t open. It wouldn’t even turn. “What the hell?” he said angrily. He tried the lock again. “I don’t understand.”

But I did. “We’re going to have to break it in.”

“What?” he said, perplexed.

“The locks must have been changed.”

“But why?”

“To beef up security. Your father may know that Quinlan is coming for him.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Look, Steve, we’ve got to get in there
now
. I’ll explain later. You’ve got a hundred pounds on me—kick in the door.”

Farrell was motionless for a moment; then he put all of his weight into a powerful kick. I heard the frame splinter. He kicked it again, and the door swung open, revealing an opulent foyer. There was a staircase on the left side of the foyer with a chairlift affixed. “Your father’s infirm?”

Farrell nodded. “Nerve damage from an old car accident.”

I edged to the foot of the staircase. “Give me the layout of the house.”

He pointed straight ahead. “Living room, dining room, kitchen. Bedrooms are on the third floor. Next level is his private library.”

“Better call out to your father. We already smashed the front door. I don’t want him to think intruders have broken in.”

Farrell moved toward the kitchen.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

He opened a door. I could see stairs leading to the lower level of the house. “The pool. He likes to soak his legs before he goes to—”

A knife flew through the air. Farrell shrieked and clutched his shoulder. Staggering a few steps, he collapsed on the floor.

“Oh my God.” I cautiously moved to his side, looked down the staircase into the basement, and kicked the door shut. Farrell’s jacket was wet with blood. A knife was imbedded in his shoulder. The knife handle was all too familiar—it looked like the knife I had found in Sean Quinlan’s apartment.
Christ, the brachial complex—
sever it in just the right place, and the heart pumps out blood like a power washer.

Farrell’s mouth was wide open, but he was so consumed with pain that he could not speak. I felt my heart pounding. “I can’t pull this out, Steve. You might—” I had a knit hat in my coat pocket. I pressed it against his wound. “Can you hold this?” He nodded. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

Christ, we’re in his father’s house. Who just attacked Steve?
Unless …
I suddenly understood. Whoever it was that threw the knife at Farrell was
expecting
an intruder. Quinlan perhaps? Was Quinlan’s arrival anticipated? A noise startled me, the sound of something sliding, like the opening of an elevator door. It made sense that Alton Farrell would need one to get to the lower-level pool. My police training took over—I rolled behind a sofa and drew my gun. I peeked out and saw a man standing within a small elevator. The door was opening right to left, and I could only see the left side of his body, but from his position, I could tell that he was about to—

I fired before the door was completely open, two shots that knocked the man against the elevator back wall. A knife was still in his hand, ready to throw, as he slumped and fell. It wasn’t until I saw his face that I made the connection. Tully’s words repeated in my ear:
Yeah, one thing, Chalice, the DNA on the twenty indicates he could be Asian.
Nadine Fey’s killer was dead.

I stood over him for a moment and noticed the cap of a small bottle protruding from his pocket. I nudged the bottle with my shoe until the label was visible.
Chloroform? It’s too bad this slug isn’t going to trial. The case would’ve been air—

I stopped myself.
Airtight
was the word I had used to describe the case against Sean Quinlan. Now I knew that I had been wrong.
This
was the monster who killed with knives.

My adrenaline dissipated, and I became cognizant of Farrell’s suffering. He was writhing on the floor, overcome with pain. I checked his condition, called for a bus, and then set off to find his father.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The door to Alton Farrell’s private library was like the door to a vault.
It was three-inches thick, solid oak, so thick it deadened any sound trying to pass in … or out. I used Steve’s key to unlock the door. As soon as I entered, I understood Alton Farrell’s need for absolute privacy.

The library ran the entire length of the house. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with books. Atrium windows at the front and back of the house were covered with heavy curtains. The room was completely dark except for the light emitted by a large, flat-panel TV. Alton Farrell was in his wheelchair, facing away from me, completely absorbed by the images on the TV screen, so much so that he did not hear the door latch open or me enter the room.

The video was black-and-white, like an old Hitchcock movie. I recognized the setting. It was Emma Sands’ bedroom. The Asian man I’d just killed entered the frame, creeping up behind her. His back was arched, his arms swaying back and forth ever so slightly—and then he was on her, subduing her with chloroform. He picked her up and carried her to the bed. The Asian man walked toward the camera. From the subsequent movement, it was clear that he had taken the camera from someone, placed it on the bedroom dresser, and focused it on the bed. He walked off-camera again, only to return carrying a crippled man in his arms—Alton Farrell. He placed him on the bed with Emma Sands and handed him the infamous serrated knife.

Alton Farrell’s face changed as soon as the knife was placed in his hand, like the transformation from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. It was hard enough to watch the demonic expression on his face, but when he stabbed her for the first time … I couldn’t watch anymore. I turned away.

I lifted my head and noticed a shadow silhouetted by moonlight in the narrow opening between the drawn rear curtains. I drew my gun and stepped to the side for a better angle. I fired, but not before Quinlan squeezed off a shot. Alton Farrell died with a whimper, a split second before Quinlan lost his footing on the outside patio and crashed through the atrium window.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The knife wound to Steve Farrell’s shoulder missed the intricate brachial complex by a mere inch.
I watched attentively as an EMT packed his shoulder and prepared him for transport to the hospital. He was loaded up on painkillers and flirting with consciousness while the techs worked on him. He did not know that his father was dead, and I did not want to be the one to explain that his loving father had another side—a side I’m sure he did not want to know.

Sonellio was swigging Pepto as he marched from his car to the ambulance. “Jesus Christ, Chalice, this is a real
fuckfest
. Is there anyone who isn’t dead?”

“Quinlan’s not dead. He’s inside getting medical attention. I just clipped him.”

“Oh great, Quinlan’s alive—the guy who was supposed to go up the river. Meanwhile we’ve got an ex-cop, a prominent citizen, and an unidentified Asian man dead since late afternoon.”

“I’m only responsible for one kill, Boss, and that one was righteous—self-defense. I almost saved Alton Farrell’s life, but that would have been a travesty of justice. There’s a video playing on the big screen upstairs that’s self-explanatory. The Asian man was a murderer as well. He killed Nadine Fey.”

“Shit, this is messy.” Sonellio popped a Tums and chased it with Pepto. “Do you have any idea what’s going on here?” He grimaced and clutched his gut. “Jesus, I feel like I’m about to give birth.”

“Easy, Boss, it’s coming together. Like I said, Quinlan’s alive. He’ll have to talk this time … although he did
not
kill Emma Sands.”

“No? So justice
was
served.” He gave me an all-knowing smile. “You freakin’ hothead.” I had the crime-scene boys bag a computer printout. I handed it to Sonellio to read. I watched his face while he studied it. “Ah, so this means—”

I was about to explain when a limousine pulled up just beyond the police barrier. I recognized it immediately. It was the car that had slowed to observe Steve Farrell and me at Cronan Hartley’s funeral. This time, the blackened window rolled down. I knew who it was the moment I saw her—the likeness was unmistakable. I knew because I had kissed her son about an hour before.

She screamed when she saw Steve in the ambulance. Her face was awash with tears as she ran to him. “No more,” she cried. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Epilogue

“My God, Stephanie, it looks just like her,” Ma said as she examined Marilyn Monroe’s wax figure.
“Look at her—wasn’t
she
gorgeous?” It was our girl’s day out, just the two of us having some fun at the wax museum. The good news was that she agreed to our outing without running through a litany of excuses:
it’s too cold, it’s too far, my feet hurt.
In her heart, I’m sure she knew that it was time to get on with her life.

I examined Marilyn’s perfect baby-doll face and the imperfect mole that made her so unique. She was wearing the long, sequined, happy-birthday dress, the one she wore when she sang to JFK. “Yes, Ma, she was quite a dish.”

“Dish?” She laughed. “Listen to you—a fan of the Rat Pack, are we?”

“No, not really.” Funny how the mind works—somehow I had made an era-appropriate comment without any conscious effort. Not that I don’t break out a Sinatra CD every now and then—In fact I get downright choked up every time I hear him sing “My Way.” “She was a stunning woman.”

“There was no one like her.” Ma continued to marvel at Monroe, staring at her as if she was in a trance, and then the spell broke. “Not that her personal life was any great shakes,” she blurted. “
Complete
disaster.” I was bracing for
the talk
, a diatribe on Monroe’s life, the mistakes she’d made, and how I should learn from them. Fortunately for me, Ma’s bladder isn’t what it used to be. “I have to go to the ladies room. Be right back.”

I watched her head off and continued to admire the other wax figures. I must have noticed the ominous figure from the corner of my eye because a subliminal image appeared in my mind, and I suddenly heard his subtle but disturbing voice in my head. “Well hello, Chalice.” It was the way he articulated my name that gave me a chill—
Cha-leese,
he said, altering the pronunciation of my name so that it sounded like Clarice. I turned toward the Hannibal Lecter figure. It appeared to be staring at me. Yes, the face belonged to Anthony Hopkins, but that didn’t make the sculpture any less disturbing: Hannibal Lecter in his cell at the asylum. “Did Jack Crawford send you to me,
Cha-leese
?”

I answered telepathically, “Jack Crawford? No.” I had to bury my face in my hands to suppress a laugh.
This is too funny. I’m having a meeting of the minds with a lump of wax.
What would the department shrink say about this?
“I don’t work for the FBI, Dr. Lecter.”