Forgotten Girls, The (3 page)

There was always this moment in a
homicide investigation—the moment before she entered a crime scene, the place
the victim had spent his or her last moments on earth. It had always felt a bit
sacred to her and still did, after all these years. Usually the place she entered
was abandoned: a ratty motel room, an alley. The victims had usually died some
kind of death long before she saw them, their murder the final formality.
Prostitutes, drug addicts, unwanted children, runaway teens—souls whose light
went out long before leaving their bodies.

These were the kinds of murder
victims she did this work for, the ones who were truly alone in this world. The
ones who broke her heart. But here, on this yacht, there wasn’t much pulling
her heartstrings; nothing but a life of privilege and paradise, as the boat’s name
advertised.

She stood on the teak deck of the
massive white and walnut specimen of luxury and tried to take it in: two white
sail masts protruded thirty feet into the gray sky, perfectly polished aluminum
railings fended off the drizzling rain, blue and white striped seating arched
around the stern and the bow. The cabin stood directly before her and, through
its open door, she could see into a room lined with walnut-paneled walls. A
trail of dark blood led from inside out onto the deck, then back around toward
the right.

Seagulls circled the overcast sky,
squawking loudly, looking for breakfast. A burly forensics officer was bent
over, studying something. When he saw Bella and Mack, he stood and introduced
himself.

“You Bronx?” he asked.

They nodded. His name tag said
McLeary.

“Where is she?” asked Bella.

“She’s over there,” the officer
answered, pointing toward the gunwale.

“After you,” Mack said to Bella.

A clear, plastic tarp covered the
body, but even so, Bella could see the face right through it, eyes wide open, terrified.
The deck beneath was dark with bloodstains. While the rain had washed much away,
a makeshift cover had been placed over the boards in an effort to preserve what
evidence might be left.

There wasn’t much room to maneuver.
The narrow strip of gunwale barely accommodated her, let alone her and Mack. Mack
walked around to the other side of the body, crouched down, and lifted the tarp,
exposing her naked, bent, rigid form. He was eye to eye with her, as though he
wanted to have a chat.

“If only the dead could speak,” he
said slowly.

“No defensive wounds. Nails are perfect,
no scratches or bruises,” Bella remarked as she viewed the woman. “Her elbow
looks beat up,” she added, seeing the scraped skin, maybe from a fall.

The light rain pelted the tarp and
the boat rocked side to side. The victim’s long, blond hair was parted in the
middle, partially covering one side of her face. Her skin was clear and fair,
except for the skin around her eyes, which was markedly red and irritated.
There were blue splotches of skin on her upper left arm and neck. Her body was
contorted, twisted on its side with her arms crooked and her legs bent, as
though she had suffered a seizure. There were no apparent signs of struggle.

The insides of her thighs told a
different story. She had been violently butchered with what looked to have been
a sharp object, cut repeatedly in a haphazard, frenzied manner. It was from her
thighs that this trail of blood originated, it seemed. The sexual attack must have
taken place in the cabin, out of sight; but her killer had dragged her into the
open. He wanted her found.

Officer McLeary appeared behind
Mack.

“ME estimates death between midnight
and two a.m.” he offered, unsolicited.

“Who else has seen her?” asked
Mack.

“Me and Jankoff, my partner; the
Chief,” he answered, counting on his fingers, “Officer Martin, our liaison with
the coroner’s office; and the M.E., of course. We’ve been picking the boat apart.
Rain’s made it tough.”

“Anything so far?” Bella asked as
she studied the body.

“Not much. Scene’s pretty clean.
Still looking for trace evidence but, like I said, rain hasn’t helped. No
prints on the body. Some clothes found in the Dumpster, burnt.”

“Anything left to work with?”
asked Mack.

“Forensics has what’s left,” said
McLeary. “We found her purse over there,” he continued, pointing to a spot near
the hull marked off with tape. A jeweled clutch sat in an evidence bag.

“Nothing seems to have been taken.
Credit card and cash still there. Owner of the boat is out of the country. Valet
guys noticed the fire. Manager put it out.”

“Was her purse moved or is that
where you found it?” Bella inquired, noticing it was outside the cabin, nowhere
near the body.

“That’s where we found it,” he
replied.

“Nothing else in it? No lipstick?
No phone?” asked Bella.

“None of that,” McLeary responded.

“Where are her shoes?” Bella
asked, looking at the woman’s naked, pedicured feet.

“Don’t know,” said McLeary.

“Who found her?” Bella asked.

“Security guard. Guy’s name is
Fred McCourt. Watches the dock when the club hosts big parties. It’s part of
the security package for the boat owners.”

“So was he watching the dock?”
Bella sounded aggravated.

“He was on duty, but says he
didn’t see or hear a thing,” McLeary answered.

“I want to talk to him,” Bella said.

“Do we know what was used to carve
her up?” asked Mack.

“No. If I had to guess I’d say a switchblade
from the cut marks,” McLeary replied.

“Where is Dennis?” Bella asked.

“He’s inside with her husband. Guy
came to identify the body earlier. Dennis asked him to come back once he knew
you were coming.”

“We need to keep a lid on this,
you got that?” Mack sounded grave.

“Three hundred and fifty people
here last night at this big school event, so this is a dammed mess. It’s already
all over the morning news,” McLeary pointed out.

“I mean the details. No one says a
word,” Mack clarified. “Who’s in charge of keeping this scene secure?”

“I am,” McLeary said, nodding.

“OK, we need barrier sheeting.
Once we’re done, this boat is going to be destination 101 for oglers. Who has
jurisdiction? Coast Guard gonna get it?”

“No, it was docked so it’s under
county control,” McLeary replied.

“OK,” said Mack. “Keep an officer
here twenty-four/seven. No one on or off this boat without your direct
permission or without a damn good reason.”

“Got it,” McLeary replied, willing
to take direction. He shook Mack’s hand before he walked away—maybe it was
Mack’s intimidating presence, Bella thought.

When he was gone, they continued
examining her body. Her legs were shaved, her toes were painted soft pink, her
large diamond wedding ring sparkled on her finger, and diamond studs adorned her
ears. She wore very little makeup and her skin was pure alabaster, except for
the nasty rash near her eyes and the blue patches of skin on her arm.

“Definitely not a robbery,” Bella
remarked. “Her ring alone is worth a fortune.”

“Here’s our trophy,” Mack
commented, pointing to the royal blue ribbon hanging around her neck, a
weathered crest on the end.

“Not exactly the kind of necklace
she would have worn herself,” remarked Bella, studying the crest. The boat was rocking
more forcefully now; at least it seemed that way to Bella.

“It looks like a medal they give
out to kids in sports games,” said Mack, seemingly unbothered by the boat’s movement.

Bella reached into her pocket and
took out a tiny flashlight.

“I want to know what this Latin
means,” she said as she examined the crest.

“You think our killer speaks
Latin?” Mack looked surprised. “I guess with this crowd he just might.”

“I don’t know if he speaks Latin,
but he chose this souvenir for a reason. Need to know why,” Bella said.

“It could be a ploy,” he answered.

“Yeah, but even so it will tell us
something about the way he thinks. He obviously wants us to know he killed the
girls too. Antsy for attention,” Bella added. “And he’s escalating with the
rape. Look at her legs. He was angry.”

Mack nodded, shook his head, and
stood up to stretch, looking up toward the drab morning sky.

“Poor broad,” he exclaimed. “You
get all dolled up for a nice evening out, a fancy club, a rich neighborhood. Gated
in with security guards, for Christ’s sake.”

“Gated in with a killer,” she
corrected him. “This thing feels personal to me. She trusted him. He got her
down here without her putting up a fight.”

“Maybe he came on to her and she
resisted. A sexual predator,” suggested Mack.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t explain the
girls. Or why he had the crest with him when he came down. He was prepared.
Maybe he carries them with him for moments like these,” Isabella countered.

The image was disturbing.

“Moments like what?” Mack asked
cautiously.

“That’s the million-dollar
question isn’t it?” she replied.

“She was a married woman. If she
wasn’t meeting her husband down here who the hell was she meeting?”

“Someone she knew, I would bet,”
Bella observed.

Mack nodded. “Guy’s a cool
customer, that’s for sure. Before, during, and after. Might have lured her down
here.” Mack looked at the victim as though he wanted her to answer.

Bella’s hand lightly grazed the
woman’s hair as she peered closer at the rash. Mack caught the tenderness in Bella’s
eyes as she gazed at the woman’s face.

“This has gotta be hard for you,”
he was about to say when a man’s voice boomed:

“Jesse Martin.”

Bella and Mack stood as the man
introduced himself. “I’m with the coroner’s office. You must be SVU. Dennis
told me to expect you.”

They exchanged introductions.

“I’ve called a forensic
pathologist in on this one. We’re gonna need an autopsy to figure out what
happened to this woman. I’m not buying she bled out from the sexual attack.
Body’s gonna be taken in after you’re done with it,” said Martin.

“Looks like she was raped,” Mack
said.

“Looks that way. I’m more
interested in how she died,” said Martin.

“Any thoughts?” asked Mack.

“Ruling things out at this point,”
said Martin. “She wasn’t strangled, no blunt force trauma that I can see, no
stab wounds, and she wasn’t shot, so we can put those babies to rest.” He
sounded very calm and detached as he spoke.

“Her body looks convulsed. Could
the rape have brought on a seizure?” asked Mack.

“Maybe,” answered Martin. “There’s
no fluids or puke anywhere.”

“We found some vomit near the dock
entrance,” Bella told him. “Forensics got a sample.”

“So she threw up beforehand then.
Wasn’t brought on by seizing,” he replied.

Bella nodded.

“What’s your take on this?” she
asked, pointing to the woman’s arm. Martin bent to take a closer look.

Before he could answer she added:

“And the rash around her eyes? Any
thoughts?”

“Looks like a reaction to
something. Hard to say just yet,” was all he offered. “Some kind of systemic
overload. Need her health history to be sure, gotta see about allergies, heart
issues, nervous system disorders, etc.”

“Well, let’s get a full tox screen
and blood work up, ASAP. I want the blood results as soon as they come in,”
said Bella.

“Something specific you’re looking
for?” asked Martin.

“Cyanide,” Bella answered
casually.

Martin looked shocked.

“Cyanide?”

“Yeah,” she answered without
enthusiasm. “And we better move fast because after an hour fifty percent leaves
your blood, as you may be aware. Unfortunately, I know too much about it. Which
means if I am right, half of our evidence is already gone. The blood needs to
be taken this morning. First thing.”

“It will take days to get tissue
samples back,” Martin said.

“I can wait days for the tissue,”
Bella replied. “I need blood results like, yesterday. If you can get me three
samples within the next ten hours you should be able to tell me what I want to
know. Can you do it by tonight?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Martin looked disgruntled as he
walked away.

“I don’t know what he’s aggravated
about,” Bella quipped. “He should be thanking me.”

Mack smiled. “For what?”

“For doing his job for him,” she
answered sarcastically. “How do you work at the ME’s office and not guess
instantly by looking at her skin that she may have ingested some kind of
poison?”

Mack just shrugged.

Bella looked at the woman’s
beautiful face and hair, but couldn’t ignore the look of terror in her eyes. It
was daunting.

“Poor broad probably didn’t even
know what was happening,” said Mack.

“Don’t be so sure,” Bella
whispered. “Don’t be so sure.”

Dennis was on his feet walking
toward them the second they entered the club dining room. At 6 foot 4, with a stock
of thick, wavy, white hair and ruddy red cheeks, he was hard to miss. He
welcomed them warmly and gestured for a server to bring over food.

The room had been cleared of
tables for last night’s event and was now empty except for a few small tables
by the windows in the back. Bella looked over to study the guy Dennis left
sitting at one of those tables, alone. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, cropped
salt and pepper hair, tan, fit, well dressed in an azure-blue cashmere V-neck
sweater over a white tee, khakis, and chocolate brown suede loafers with no
socks. A solid gold Rolex adorned his wrist and caught the light as his hands
wove their way through his hair. He looked down at his lap, his face strained.

Dennis led them to a table near
the inside wall and, as they sat, Bella checked out the room: its fourteen-foot-high
ceiling, emblazoned in gold leaf, its two huge crystal chandeliers that dangled
in the middle of the room, a twenty-five-foot-long nautical-themed bar lining one
wall, with a painted mural behind it of what looked to be three sailboats struggling
against high waves on a rough sea, seemingly in danger. A large gold plaque was
mounted next to the mural by the bar, which read:

For those who love
the peace and serenity of the Sound.

The mural’s image was anything but
peaceful and serene, Bella thought. A server brought over hot coffee, cream and
sugar, and a plate of warm muffins, bagels, and scones with butter, cream
cheese, and jam. Dennis began speaking with an air of gravity and seriousness
impressive at first, but soon unbearable, as he articulated every syllable of
every word, painfully slowly, all information she already knew. Bella found her
eyes wandering over to the table where the man who she assumed was Mr. Freed
sat. She caught him looking at her.

“Excuse me, Dennis,” Bella
interrupted when she couldn’t take his droning one second longer. “We’ve got a
lot of ground to cover. Time is of the essence. Here, take this,” she said as
she handed him a pad and pen. “For notes.”

Mack buttered a bagel as Bella recited
a laundry list of what she needed done. She went over protocol, witness lists, the
crime scene, PR, how to handle the media, arranging sit-downs with witnesses. Dennis
took notes and stole occasional glances at Mack, who sat way back in his chair,
eating.

Bella spoke fast:

“I want a sit-down with the
deceased girls’ parents ASAP—can you arrange that? I need the contact info for Mrs.
Freed’s friends. Do you have that yet?”

When Dennis shook his head, she
nodded and continued.

“We need someone to begin calling
everyone on last night’s guest list. Someone had to have seen something. May
not even realize it. I want to hear about anything suspicious, out of the
ordinary, noteworthy—you get the picture. But I don’t want anyone to hear we
have reopened the girls’ cases.”

“We have what?” Dennis looked
incredulous.

“It’s unavoidable, Dennis,” Bella
said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The crests are no
coincidence. You know that yourself. The coroner’s finding of suicide is now
called into question.”

“What is this going to entail?”
Dennis looked crestfallen.

Bella grudgingly answered:

“Pulling the files, reexamining
evidence, re-interviewing witnesses, friends, family members. Looking for that
needle in the haystack that might cast what happened to them in an entirely
different light. Something was clearly overlooked first time around.”

She didn’t mean to sound harsh,
but she knew she did.

“My men did a thorough job,”
Dennis said quietly.

Bella ignored him and continued. “Put
a unit in front of the Freeds’ home and tell your guys to report anything
suspicious or unusual—Mr. Freed will be told they are there for his own
protection. And maybe they will be. Media will be all over. Who owns
Lucky
Lady
? I mean... No, I am sorry,
Paradise Found
,” she uttered not
bothering to hide her sarcasm.

“Jacques Amsellem,” Dennis
replied. “He is out of the country. In Capri, I have been informed.”

“I want him on the phone, ASAP. We
need to know whether our vic had any kind of personal connection to the boat.
If not, maybe the killer did. Hard to believe it was random when one of them
had keys to the cabin.”

Dennis nodded. She went on with
her list of tasks for him:

“Pull her cell phone records and
see when the phone was last used, whether it has a signal anymore. I want that
phone. Now, about these crests.” She shook her head. “What do you know about
them?”

“Not much,” he replied,
sheepishly.

“We need to change that. We need
to find out where they are sold, manufactured, used, their symbolic meaning,
their history, etc.—you get the idea. Be ready to educate me and Mack on every
aspect of them as soon as possible.”

Dennis looked overwhelmed and
Bella noticed. She gently put her hand on his forearm.

“Dennis, who else knows another
crest has appeared?” Bella asked quietly.

Dennis thought for a moment before
he answered. “Me and Nick, I mean Lt. Glades, my number two. And the
investigators who were down on that boat this morning investigating,” Dennis
answered.

“And before last night, did the
crests ever become public knowledge?” Bella asked.

He answered this question right
away:

“It was known inside my
investigatory team, but it never showed up in the press. The girls’ parents
knew about them, of course.”

“OK, who else besides you and Glades
worked on the girls’ case? It is imperative we keep this connection under
wraps,” she replied.

“Three others,” Dennis said,
scratching his head. “But they haven’t seen Mrs. Freed yet. Only me, Nick, and officers
from Forensics and the medical examiner’s office.” He exhaled.

“OK. Keep it that way. We will
talk to Glades. Our killer is hoping it gets in the news, I am sure of it. We
don’t want to feed into that,” Bella pointed out.

She took a breath and poured herself
a cup of coffee as Dennis scribbled feverishly. He finally looked up, realizing
now who was in charge.

Her voice broke his thoughts:

“Two more things. I noticed a
video camera at the front gate. Was it on last night? If so, we want footage. Also,
does this club have security, other than those two pimply-faced valet kids and
the half drunk sitting at the booth in front? How does a marina and a club of
this stature not employ security, especially with three hundred fifty guests at
an event?”

“Acme handles security for the
club and provides extra eyes for events,” Dennis replied. “I spoke with them
myself this morning personally—no one saw a thing.”

“No one? How many sets of extra
eyes did you speak with?” Bella asked, sounding a bit derisive.

“Three security officers were
present all night. Not including Fred McCourt. Would you like to question them
again?” Dennis asked.

Was he really that naïve? Bella
resisted the urge to say “Duh” and simply said, “Yes, I would, Dennis.”

“I think they may have left.” He
looked worried.

“Bring them back,” was all she
replied.

He nodded and sat there quietly,
looking grave.

“Billy is checking the county’s sex
offenders database,” she said, pouring cream into her cup. She took a huge bite
out of a blueberry muffin. Mack was eating and pouring more coffee, listening. “We
need to hear what the ME concludes as to cause of death and what forensics finds
ASAP. Where are the reports going—you or Billy?”

“To us both,” Dennis answered.

“OK. Let me know the second you
hear—that goes without saying, I would hope.” Bella was antsy. She wanted to
get over to the husband. “That’s all for now. You have our cells. Keep us in
the loop.”

When it was clear she was through,
Dennis ripped the piece of paper out of the pad and folded it in half. The poor
guy looked flummoxed and grave.

“Young lady,” he said, as he
placed his hat on his head. “We’ve got a lunatic in our midst. It defies
comprehension, but I see that it is so. Be careful.”

Bella bristled at the warning. Was
he kidding? Psychos were her life. She could teach him a thing or two about
them. She wasn’t the one up here in paradise, away from it all. Outwardly
though, she smiled respectfully, understanding that for a man of Dennis’s age
and station in life, it was a good-natured, well-intended remark.

“I will, Dennis,” she answered
nicely. “Don’t you worry.”

He didn’t say a word to Mack
except to lean across the table and shake his hand before he walked away.

After a few quick sips of coffee
and one more bite of her muffin, she was warm and ready to go. She glanced at Mack,
who was looking at his phone.

“You want to play or would you
rather sit here and relax?” Bella challenged as she stood.

Mack looked up from his cell, unruffled,
almost amused. His nonchalance was beginning to piss her off. Then he spoke up:

“Billy has a lead, but he wants
you to talk to Freed before he fills you in.”

Bella raised her eyebrows.

“Go on,” she said simply.

“Sex offender named Ridley Westin
got out of Sing Sing three months ago, two years shy of his ten-year sentence
for the murder of one of his mother’s friends.”

“OK,” Bella replied. “So what?”

“Apparently he’s moved back home. Guess
he missed good old mom and her buddies.”

“Why do we care?” Bella asked
impatiently.

Mack was quiet for a moment.

“Like I said, he moved back home.
To Greenvale.”