In the Shadow of Gotham (35 page)

Stella’s death also made me wonder anew whether she—and not Sarah Wingate—had been the killer’s intended victim all along. Or had she been killed because she witnessed Sarah’s murder? Both possibilities seemed reasonable at this point. And my list of potential suspects was wide open once again, for the timing of Stella’s murder had exonerated Lonny Moore; I myself could vouch for his whereabouts.

Stella’s building near Third Avenue teemed with city police, or so it seemed the moment we entered. There were six men outside, and another four in the basement, where the cramped space was stifling. I scanned their ranks in search of a familiar face.
When I recognized Roy Goodman, I breathed a sigh of relief that might have been audible. I knew him from his days as the evidence-room secretary downtown. Most of the department found him to be intolerable and gruff, but those officers who complained about him were generally the same ones who mishandled their evidence. He reserved a gentler manner for those who respected protocol. He was now in the field, which meant he had gotten a promotion since I last saw him. But I had no doubt he still approached his work with the same care.

He was examining a bloodstained object between white cotton-gloved fingers as I approached him. Behind me, Tom flinched, his eyes darting around the room.

“Ziele,” Roy acknowledged without surprise, as though it had been three days and not three years since we had last seen one another.

“It’s been a while, Roy,” I said. “You in charge here?” I doubted it, since it was unlikely he had advanced through the ranks that quickly, but it was always better to be politic about these matters.

“Malloy is. Think he’s outside.” Roy gestured above us to where the other group of police officers had congregated outside the building.

But I made no move to leave. I remembered Timmy Malloy, an oafish lieutenant who delighted in exercising whatever authority he had, and I would get better information from Roy. So I introduced Tom and explained how Stella Gibson’s murder might be closely related to my investigation of a killing in Dobson earlier this week. With some remorse, I omitted mentioning (at least for now) that we had spoken with Stella just hours earlier. If Cora had told them—something I doubted, given her
mistrust of the police and her penchant for secrecy—then they would ask me about it. Until then, I wanted to learn more information before I shared any.

“So what have you found here?” I asked, eyeing the leather pouch in Roy’s hands, brightly discolored with fresh blood. My stomach lurched as I breathed in the unmistakable smell of it.

“The coroner took her body not ten minutes ago,” he replied. “She’d been shot once. The bullet entered through her left temple. Must have killed her instantly.”

I felt a stab of guilt and wondered again whether we had been unwittingly responsible for leading Stella to her death.

Roy was saying, “The killer either had impressive aim or a stroke of good luck. She probably felt nothing, not for more than an instant.” He eyed us for a moment. “You got gloves on you? Your friend knows not to touch anything?”

“Of course. I have gloves,” I said, putting on the pair that was always in my satchel, “and my colleague will simply observe.” I glanced at him. Tom looked calmer, with full color returning to his face. I suspected it had been a relief to learn Stella’s body was already gone.

“She was killed over there.” Roy motioned to an area by the massive furnace still marked by a pool of blood. “We assume he forced her down here, to the basement.”

“But no one heard anything?” I asked.

“The only person at home other than Stella was her landlady, Mrs. Logan. She lives on the first floor and rents out rooms on the second and third floors. She claims to have heard nothing until she heard the gunshot. And by the time she made it down here to see what had happened, the killer was gone.”

“Can we talk with her?”

“Too late,” replied Roy. “She’s been taken to the hospital
with chest pains, from the strain of it all, she says. You didn’t miss much; when we spoke with her, she prattled on but had little worthwhile to say.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I gather you’ve spoken with Cora Czerne, the victim’s friend. She showed up with some groceries and supplies after Mrs. Logan found Stella’s body. We questioned her briefly.” He shot me a pointed look. “She mentioned that she and Stella had been assisting you on a different case.”

I admitted it. “They were, but I am at as much of a loss as you at the moment. I was interviewing my most likely suspect in the Dobson murder when Stella was killed. Assuming both murders are connected,” I added lightly, “I find myself in need of a new prime suspect.”

Satisfied by my explanation, Roy turned to offer me the bloodstained pouch he had been holding.

“This is the most interesting thing we found at the scene,” he said. “It’s part of a whole set.” He showed me how to open the case to reveal a collection of barber’s shaving blades. I heard Tom’s sharp intake of air; it was just the sort of murder weapon we had theorized about that first day, when Alistair had been utterly convinced of Fromley’s guilt. Sarah’s throat had been slit, and her body slashed, with just such a sharp blade.

“And this paper was with it,” Roy continued, showing us a diagram that he had found on the ground, near the shaving blades.

“Step-by-step instructions for defiling a corpse,” Tom commented in amazement. “Look at this.” He showed it to me.

“This more or less mirrors the exact condition of Sarah Wingate’s corpse when we found it. You know Fromley’s handwriting. Is this it?” I asked. The script was in pencil, slanted to the right, written with heavy pressure that made dark lines.

He shook his head in amazement. “I’d say so; as you can see, his handwriting was quite distinctive. So the murderer was either given it by Fromley, or it somehow made its way into the wrong hands.”

“Who is this Fromley you are talking about?” Roy asked, exasperated. “Is he a suspect I should be aware of?”

“No,” Tom said. “He’s a dead man who nonetheless continues to play a key role in the case we are investigating.”

“But Stella was shot. These knives were never used?” I wanted to clarify that point.

Roy nodded affirmatively.

“I don’t understand it,” Tom said. “Fromley’s dead. Why would the killer continue to copycat a dead man?”

“But the killer may not be aware we know Fromley is dead,” I said, hazarding a theory. “It’s possible.” And it was, though I realized it was also unlikely. The real killer had always been a step ahead of us, showing he knew nearly as much as we did. “The diagram and the blades do suggest he intended to model Stella’s death after Sarah’s. But something happened to make him abandon that plan, so he settled for killing her fast.”

“The landlady, Mrs. Logan, was in the kitchen when he forced Stella down here. She must have been banging around with her pots and pans,” Roy said. “Maybe there were others around, too, and he couldn’t take the time.”

“I also suspect he didn’t intend to leave these notes and blades behind. He may have been startled by something or someone,” I said. “It’s positive proof for us. Without these, we would suspect the killings were connected given the remarkable coincidence—but we would not be positive.” I paused a moment. “What puzzles me is how the murderer ended up with Fromley’s written plans. It seems only two possibilities are plausible: He
either stole the notes from Fromley himself, or he stole them from your case files at the research center.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “I don’t recall ever having seen anything like this in Alistair’s case files.”

We spent another twenty minutes at the crime scene, gathering what information we could. The officers formally assigned to Stella’s case needed to complete their jobs. I thanked Roy for his help, and gave him instructions for how to contact me. A day or two more, I promised myself, and I would tell Roy all we knew about Stella.

As we made our way back uptown, Tom asked, “How did he—whoever he is—manage to find Stella? Didn’t you check to be sure no one was following you?”

I shook my head. “The park was quiet this morning. I saw no one except for Alistair, Stella, and Cora,” I said. “If we were followed, I missed it. But her killer had to be following us. How else would he have known we planned to meet Stella?”

“He’s keeping close tabs on us,” Tom said.

That was exactly what Alistair had warned me, the moment Fromley was confirmed dead. The real killer was close—watching us and disrupting our progress whenever he could. But why? Because he delighted in feeling he outwitted us? Or because we were beginning to threaten him, forcing him to lose control?

“The real question is, why kill Stella?” I asked aloud. “If she was killed because of Sarah, then why did he perceive her as a threat? She had not seen his face; in fact, she had mistaken him for a dead man.”

“But how was her killer to know that?” Tom reminded me. “You didn’t until early this morning. I think we should assume she was killed because of what the killer presumed she knew.”

“Unless she was the killer’s target all along,” I said, “in which case the true reason may lurk in Stella’s background.”

“If I did not know Fromley was secure in his grave, then I should have no doubt of the man we are looking for,” Tom said.

“But that is the point—to confuse us,” I said grimly. “So we must disregard it, as much as we can. Alistair may never be convinced of it, but murder is not always about method and conditioned behavior. In the end, what counts is motive. That must remain our focus: Who had the motive and the means to kill both of these women?”

Yet my voice was filled with much more confidence than I actually felt. I did not like the way in which the dead Michael Fromley continued to shadow our case everywhere. And our lack of progress, even as this other killer spiraled out of control, was infuriating.

“She’s not with you?” Alistair was lying in wait for us as we returned to the research center, and there was no mistaking the panic in his voice.

Tom and I froze, staring at Alistair, who was wild-eyed and agitated.

“Who’s not with us?” I asked. But my stomach had gone hollow; I already knew the answer.

Alistair’s voice was unnatural and high-pitched when he said her name. “Isabella. She’s gone missing.”

Panic is a contagious thing. Its danger lies in its ability to spread quickly, without warning. It had taken hold of Alistair already—and he needed to regain his sense of control before he undermined all of our efforts.

He repeated himself. “She’s missing. She ought to be here but she’s not.”

I tried to be reasonable. “Perhaps she went for a walk,” I said. “Or even finished up here and returned home.”

“No, no. Fred said she took the dog for a walk, but that was hours ago. Oban is back; she should be, as well.”

Oban materialized at once upon hearing his name, his golden tail thumping as he ran from one of us to another. When
my eyes met Alistair’s again in startled realization, my concern rose to a level that must have almost equaled his own.

“That’s right,” he said. “Isabella would never have left for this long without him. At least, not without asking me or Mrs. Leab to take care of him.”

He paced back and forth. “She had something to tell me. I was on the telephone with one of those infernal reporters, so I put her off. Now she’s gone.”

“I’ve not seen her, either,” said Mrs. Leab, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “The professor called me to come in around eleven. She wasn’t here then.”

“Why are you so worried, Alistair?” Tom asked. “I certainly don’t mean to make light of your concern, but you don’t normally keep such close tabs on your daughter-in-law. I understand, of course, that Stella Gibson’s murder has unnerved all of us. But I see no cause for alarm.”

Alistair froze—and in that instant, I realized it was the first he had heard of Stella’s murder. After I filled him in, he began pacing wildly.

“When was she last seen?” I asked.

Alistair’s reply was anguished. “Fred saw her just before eleven.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He left a few moments ago to look for her,” Alistair said.

I turned to Tom. “Did you see her at any point this morning?”

He frowned. “No, I didn’t. But when I came in at half past ten, the light was on in her office.”

We hastened down the hallway to the small room where Isabella and Horace shared a small office with two desks and a file cabinet.

“Has Horace been in this weekend?” I asked, surveying the papers strewn across his desk.

“No,” Alistair said, adding dryly, “Horace isn’t exactly one for weekend appearances.”

I ignored his comment. Our only focus now needed to be on Isabella. I flipped through several of the pages atop her desk. “Check Horace’s desk,” I directed Tom.

“All these papers appear to be hers,” Tom said. “I expect she spread out, using all available desk space.”

I began to examine more thoroughly the pile of documents Isabella had been reading.

Alistair paced the length of the room. “Where could she be?”

“She’s not in danger, is she?” Mrs. Leab asked, and her voice betrayed a sharp edge.