Sigma Curse - 04 (13 page)

The Manhattan bridge loomed large though her windshield. On the other side, she saw the blue-red-white flicker of the flashers.

It was time to focus, dammit. Put her personal crap to one side and do the job she was hired to do.

The job she loved more than anything else in the world.

*

H
armony saw Venn’s tall figure first, made even bulkier than usual by the coat he was wearing. Next to him were the FBI pair, Teller and that harpy Rickenbacker.

She parked the Crown Vic and emerged. Venn raised a hand.

“Take a look,” he said. “Fresh pair of eyes and all that.”

Harmony leaned on the rail, thinking that if she held on too long her palms might freeze to the metal, and gazed down.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She squinted. Her eyes were streaming with the cold, and she wasn’t seeing clearly.

She vaulted over the rail and almost lost her footing on the slippery concrete, sliding down half on her butt until she reached the bottom. The crime scene techs looked up suspiciously. Harmony knew she didn’t look like most people’s idea of a cop, but for once the prejudice neither riled nor amused her.

She dropped into a crouch beside the body. Stared into the waxen face with its neither open nor closed eyes.

She scurried round so that she wasn’t looking at the face upside down.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“What?” said a voice. Probably one of the techs’.

Alice.

Harmony rose to an upright position. Whether it was the slickness of the ground, or something else, she couldn’t keep her balance and dropped to her knees once more.

She kept staring at the face. Was dimly aware of Venn scrambling down the slope and huddling beside her.

“Harm?” he said. “What is it?”

“Alice Peters,” she whispered again.

“What?”

She turned to Venn. Something in her face must have made him flinch.

“This woman’s name is Alice Peters,” Harmony said. “She’s my cousin.”

––––––––

F
rank was waiting for Sally-Jo when she got back to her Gramercy Park apartment. It was after six p.m., and the darkness had long ago descended on the city like a shroud, brining with it a chill that was rapidly deepening into the kind of cold that seeped through into the marrow and made it hard to keep even tolerably warm outdoors.

She felt the ache in her arms and her shoulders. Alice Peters might have been a mere slip of a woman, but carrying her dead weight around for a prolonged period had taken its toll on muscles Sally-Jo wasn’t accustomed to using.

“Everything go smoothly?” Frank asked.

Sally-Jo nodded, her face bright but wary. Yes, everything had gone smoothly. Well, as far as you could use the word smoothly when referring to the act of lugging a body from the woods into the trunk of a car, driving around until a secluded spot could be found, and then hauling said body out and dumping it in the water.

After she’d killed Peters, Sally-Jo had dragged the body further into the woods on the edge of the park and buried it as thoroughly as she could under a pile of dead leaves and branches. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, and she prayed that a nosey dog wouldn’t come by and alert its owner. But she needed one hour. One hour to get back to Manhattan and her apartment, collect her car, and drive back.

As it happened, there was no cluster of people, cops or otherwise, in the park when she returned. The day was waning but the sun was still up, struggling to make its presence known through the cloud cover. It would have been better to dispose of the body under cover of darkness, of course, but that would mean waiting an unacceptably long time, which would increase the risk of discovery.

Sally-Jo didn’t mind the body being discovered. In fact, she positively willed it. What she needed was for all traces of her that might have lingered on the woman to be removed comprehensively. A prolonged soak in a body of water would do it.

So she’d pulled a heavy-duty canvas sack around Peters’ still-warm frame and tied it securely at the top and dragged it further through the woods to the perimeter wall. On the other side was a quiet street where she’d parked her car. The street was lined mostly with the backs of houses, and Sally-Jo knew that while it was possible somebody would be looking through the rear windows of their home, it was a risk she’d have to take. She’d heaved the sack over the wall, climbed down after it and slung it in the trunk of her car.

Frank said: “Sloppy. And you took too many risks.”

She said nothing, biting her lip. Was he going to fly into one of his rages? She didn’t know if she could handle that. Not now.

“It didn’t work,” he said quietly.

Sally-Jo felt numbness creep up inside her belly to her chest. She hadn’t paused to think about it. But she realized she’d known he was right. All along, ever since the life had faded from Alice Peters’ eyes.

“No,” she breathed.

Frank said matter-of-factly, “No biggie. You’ll just have to do it again.”

“Yes.” He understood. He wasn’t angry. Sally-Jo felt a rush of relief, and of warm gratitude.

“Wait a while, though,” said Frank. When he was like this, he was the sweetest man in the world. “There’s no point rushing into it. Take a few days to relax. Recalibrate yourself.”

She nodded again.

Frank moved close, his presence overwhelming her. He murmured: “Hold firm, Sally-Jo. You’ll get there. Sooner or later, somebody will understand. And then you’ll be free. Free to stop doing this. Free to move on with your life. And I’ll be gone.”

“No!” She felt a rush of panic. Of grief, even, which was absurd. Though she’d heard of people who had relatives with a terminal illness, and who began to experience grief even before the loved one died.

Frank said, gently, “It has to be that way, Sally-Jo. By the time you’re through this, you won’t need me any longer. If I’m still around, it’ll mean you haven’t succeeded yet.”

Her throat felt choked. She wouldn’t have been able to get the words out even if she’d known what to say.

Frank made his exit then, and Sally-Jo was left alone in the apartment. She wished he’d stay the night, like he used to, but he was becoming ever more distant from her.

She supposed he was right. It was for the best that they gradually separated from one another.

She sat in the shadows of her living room, the only light coming from a table lamp, and felt the tears well in her eyes and creep slowly down her cheeks.

––––––––

T
hey tried to get Harmony to sit down, Venn and Teller, but she paced the office like a caged and starved animal. On the table, the cup of coffee Venn had poured her sat untouched.

“Harm,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you to relax. But let’s channel what you’re feeling. We can use it.”

She stopped for the first time, glared at him. He understood what some of the criminals she’d caught felt when she was in full cry.

“Don’t you say that, Venn,” she spat. “Don’t you dare talk about what I’m feeling. You have no goddamn idea.”

“Hey,” he said, allowing his own anger to come through. “It’s written all over you. Don’t smart-mouth me.”

It worked, better than touchy-feely sympathy might have on anybody else. Harmony still glowered, but some of the defiance faded from her eyes.

Teller watched, saying nothing, allowing Venn to handle things. Rickenbacker lounged against the wall by the door. Her fingers came up now and again to her mouth, as if she’d forgotten she was back in the FBI office and no longer held a cigarette. She’d said nothing since they’d gotten back to the office.

Venn tipped his head at the chairs around the table. “Come on. Let’s go through this again. We gotta strike now, while it’s all fresh.”

Harmony balled her hands into fists. But she dropped into one of the chairs. Venn and teller followed suit. Rickenbacker stayed against the wall, arms folded.

Teller caught Venn’s glance of irritation and beckoned Rickenbacker with a small movement of his head. Taking her time, she came over and sat down too.

“Okay,” said Venn.

Harmony drew a few breaths, as if about to speak but then thinking better of it. Her gaze was leveled at the table top.

Finally she said: “Alice is my second cousin. My mom’s brother’s ex-wife’s kid. We’re not – we
weren’t
– close. I last saw her maybe at Christmas. But we got on okay.”

Venn waited, giving her time.

“She’s something of a celebrity in certain circles,” Harmony continued. “She was headed nowhere as a kid. Drugs, hooking, petty crime. When I was a rookie cop, ten years ago, I tried to get her out of the life. For my brother’s sake. I didn’t like her much then, thought she was a lost cause. Also an obnoxious, snot-nosed brat, even though she was a couple years older than me. She spat at me, told me to get lost. Eventually I gave up.”

There was a tap on the door. One of the other FBI agents, Abbot, came in and handed Teller a note. He read it, nodded.

“Alice Peters failed to show up to a couple of appointments yesterday afternoon and evening,” he said. “Nobody’s been able to get hold of her. It’s unlike her, so people were getting worried. But she hasn’t been filed as a missing person yet.”

Venn indicated for Harmony to continue.

“She’s a classic story of turning your life around. She busted out, got cleaned up, went back to school. Now she teaches retarded kids, and helps young people in the same situation she was in to free themselves and make something of their lives. She’s done good, Venn. Better than I ever could have managed.”

And you feel rotten because you quit on her
, Venn thought.

“Where did she live?” he asked.

“Harlem, off Lexington. She was alone. I think she preferred it that way, having her own space, after years of living in a damn whorehouse.” Harmony glanced away from the table, at the wall. “Maybe she’d have got married one day. Had kids.”

Teller said: “I’ve sent King and Leonard to her apartment. They got the address from the manager of the community center she was supposed to be speaking at in Brooklyn yesterday, when she never showed up.”

Venn said, “Okay. We need a map of her movements yesterday. As detailed as we can get. What time was she supposed to be in Brooklyn?”

“One o’clock,” said Teller. “Though they were expecting her there a half-hour earlier, to get set up. Before that, she was at the Greenbury Baptist Church hall in Sugar Hill. She finished there at approximately eleven thirty. Told them she was heading straight to this other appointment in Brooklyn.”

“So she got taken between eleven-thirty and twelve thirty,” said Venn. “That’s pretty tight. That’ll be a help.”

“We need to look at routes from Sugar Hill to Prospect Avenue in Brooklyn,” said Teller. To Harmony: “Did she have a car?”

“I don’t know,” said Harmony. “But she wouldn’t have driven across the city. Or even have taken a cab. She liked to get around on the subway and on busses. It reminded her she was part of the community.”

“So it’s the subway,” said Venn. He looked at Teller. “We need to get publicity out on this, and fast. Flyers and posters everywhere. TV and newspapers.”

“Yeah,” said Teller. “The press are about to run with the Fincher murder anyhow.” He stood up. “I’ll tell Abbot to get on it. We’ll call in the admin team early, put them to work.”

“A press conference would be a good idea,” said Venn.

“We’ve thought of that,” Rickenbacker said sharply.

Venn ignored her deliberately. To Teller he said: “Leave me and Harmony out of it, though. The public doesn’t need to know we’re involved.”

“Low profile,” Teller said. “I get it.”

Teller left the room. Rickenbacker took her time, but followed him, after a speculative look at Harmony.

Harmony stood up after a few seconds. “I need to call the rest of the family.”

“Harm,” said Venn. “Stay here awhile. Let’s talk.”

“Dammit, Venn.” The anger was back on the surface once more. “I don’t need coddling. We’ve got shit to do.”

“Harm,”
he said again, more insistently. He stood between her and the door.

“You want me to go through you?” she snarled.

“No. I want you to sit down and listen to me.”

She didn’t sit down, but she remained standing where she was.

“Beth said she saw you at the hospital on Friday,” Venn said quietly. “She didn’t get a chance to come over and say hi. Is anything wrong?”

“Jesus.” She ran a hand through her cornrowed hair. “It’s like Big Brother.” She seemed to be debating with herself. Then she threw her hands up. “My father’s sick, okay? His heart, and his diabetes. I don’t get along with the old bastard, yet I’m the one he relies upon. The fact that he’s brought his problems upon himself doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.” She fixed Venn with a challenging stare. “So that’s it. Over and done with. Now can I get on and investigate my cousin’s murder?”

“Wish you’d told me before,” said Venn. “But I’m glad you have now.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Venn thought he’d better drop it, because she looked like she was holding herself together with an effort, and he knew she’d feel humiliated if he saw her break down. He stepped out the way.

“Meet you back at the office,
our
office, around nine, okay? We need to get Fil on board with this publicity stuff.”

“Uh huh.” Tight-lipped, she brushed past Venn on her way out.

*

V
enn found Teller and Rickenbacker in the main office, looking at a series of photos fanned out on a desk. They’d been taken at the scene by the tech guys, and showed the dead woman, Alice Peters, from assorted angles, mostly in close up.

“Ligature mark,” Teller said, pointing at a picture of Peters’ neck.

“Yeah.” Venn hadn’t spotted it when he’d seen her lying there, but there was no doubt about it. A welt arced across her throat. It would probably have been an angry red under different circumstances, but the spell in the river had rendered it a bluish purple. The skin was slightly abraded, as if something thick had been used rather than a narrow cord which would have cut more deeply. Venn fingered his own neck, and saw the two FBI agents noticing, though they must have seen the scar before. He’d come close to getting garrotted himself a few months ago. By a woman, too.