Sigma Curse - 04 (4 page)

“And we need to be careful not to attribute too much significance to their gender, race, or age,” said Rickenbacker. “That may be coincidence, too.”

“What about location?” said Venn. “All within the New York City bounds.”

The two FBI agents looked at him.

“I mean, that may be confining your thinking, too,” said Venn. “Have you started looking outside New York? There may be other victims elsewhere.”

“Yeah,” said Rickenbacker abruptly. “We have, in fact, run the details through our national databases. But there’s no comparable MO in the recent past, nobody else who’s been killed in the same way, with the same symbol branded on their foreheads. But thanks for the suggestion.”

Beside Venn, he felt Harmony shift angrily. He wondered at Rickenbacker’s sarcasm. He tipped his head, said nothing.

Teller continued: “So far, the press hasn’t gotten hold of this. Either the fact that Fincher is the Judge’s son, or that there’s a serial killer angle. When they do, of course, it’ll be a feeding frenzy here in Manhattan. And we won’t be able to keep it under wraps for too much longer. We need to move fast on this one, and hard, before the media attention starts getting in the way. And before any nut job decides to start carrying out copycat killings. Doesn’t happen very often, thank God, but still.”

Venn glance at the others, who looked mildly back. He wanted to ask a question, but knew he couldn’t. Just what do we bring to the party?

Instead, he decided on an active approach. “Okay. I assume you have a plan of action. So before I hear what it is, let me tell you how I’d approach this. Bearing in mind that I’m not a federal agent, and that I don’t have experience in dealing with serial killers.”

Teller folded his arms. “Go ahead.”

Venn said: “First, I’d talk to the judge. Find out if she can give us anything about her son. She’s smart, she’ll have been thinking it through, even if she is overcome with grief. If there’s anything about her son, anything that might give a clue as to how he might have become a victim, she’ll know.”

Teller nodded. “Okay.”

“Next, talk to his Army buddies, and to his seniors at Fort Irvington. Find out what kind of a guy he was. See if he ever dropped any hints about fetishistic behavior. I’m not saying there’ll be anything, but it’s possible he was a willing participant in something, up to a point. Allowed himself to be tethered to the bed, which would explain why there’s no signs he was forcibly subdued.”

“That’d be a tough one,” said Teller. “Seeing if any of his peers knew about his quirks. It’s the kind of thing he’d keep under wraps in the Army. He wouldn’t want something like that to screw up his career.”

“Nevertheless,” said Venn. “It needs exploring.” He paused. “Since I’ve been brought in on this, I should talk to the Judge.”

“A meeting’s already been arranged,” said Teller. “She’s out of state, but will be in New York tomorrow morning. Taking an emergency flight. And yes, Lieutenant, you’ll be in on the interview. With me.”

Fair enough, thought Venn.

Rickenbacker spoke up. “For now, I’d suggest you and your partner get to know our team. Familiarize yourselves with the way we work, and with the data we’ve gathered already. There’s probably not a lot else you can contribute tonight.”

And if that isn’t dismissing us, I don’t know what is, thought Venn.

He stood up. “No,” he said.

Harmony rose beside him, an instant later.

Rickenbacker and Teller stared at them.

“Excuse me?” said Rickenbacker.

“These aren’t terms I’m prepared to work under.” He jerked his head at Harmony and they headed for the door.

“Just a minute,” said Teller. “What do you mean?”

Venn half turned. “This kind of command approach,” he said. “It isn’t going to fly.”

Teller regarded him for a moment, then indicated the chair Venn had just vacated. His tone was reasonable. “How about you explain?”

Venn stayed put, didn’t sit back down. “I’ve –
we’ve
– been called in because of our special expertise at this kind of thing. Crimes with political connections. We’re also here as the representatives of the New York Police Department, to ensure that this killing remains under the auspices of the local force and doesn’t become exclusively a Federal deal. So, if we’re here, we’re going to have an equal say.”

Rickenbacker made a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding,” she said.

Venn looked straight at her, giving her the thousand-yard stare he’d honed on the streets of Chicago and in the Marines. She didn’t falter.

Venn said, holding her gaze: “We work with you, but not for you. I have my own offices, and I’ll be based there, together with Detective Jones here and the rest of my team. You carry on here. We’re not part of the task force, we’re allied to you. All information gets shared, both ways. Nothing’s held back.”

Rickenbacker started to say, “Hold on,” but Teller held up a hand.

Venn went on, “No command structure. You’re in charge here, Special Agent Teller, and I’m in charge on my side. But we’re both in charge of the investigation. Neither of us pulls rank on the other, because the term doesn’t apply. I don’t care if you’re Feds. I don’t care if God himself has appointed you. This is my city, not yours.
My
jurisdiction.”

Was there a trace of amusement in Teller’s eyes? Venn thought he saw it there, fleetingly.

In Rickenbacker’s, on the other hand, a cold fury burned.

“All right. All right.” Teller held up his spread hands in a placatory gesture. “You’ve made your point. I can work with that.” He glanced at Rickenbacker. It wasn’t a look that seemed to be seeking her approval. Rather, Venn observed, it was the look of a superior making sure his subordinates understood what was what.

Rickenbacker didn’t return Teller’s glance. She kept her eyes on Venn, with an occasional flick toward Harmony beside him.

Teller said, “At least stick around for a while, as we said. Get to know us, and take a look at some of the data we’ve put together so far.”

Venn nodded. There was a lifting of the atmosphere in the room, an easing of tension that was as palpable as a sigh.

*

H
e reached home a half hour before midnight, after dropping Harmony back at the morgue to collect her own car.

Home was a townhouse west of Central Park. It had a complicated history for Venn. He’d bought it a couple of years ago with Beth, and they’d lived there together until late last summer. Then she’d moved out, for complex reasons, and so had Venn, renting an apartment in Brooklyn.

But now he and Beth were back together again, and because they hadn’t yet managed to sell the house, Venn was back living there. Beth, on the other hand, continued to rent an apartment, this one in the East Village. She’d made it clear she wanted to move back in, but they were taking it slowly. So she visited, three or four nights a week, and stayed over. Except visiting was an odd term, because she jointly owned the house.

Venn saw from the lights on through the upstairs windows that Beth was there. He let himself in, didn’t call out in case she’d nodded off. But she was awake, lying in bed, her eyes sleepy but welcoming.

“Hey,” he said, marveling once again at the rush of delight he felt whenever he saw her. Whenever he grasped that she was back with him, that he hadn’t lost her forever.

“What time do you call this?” she murmured, with a smile. He saw she’d been reading by the light of the bedside lamp: one of the medical journals she always seemed to have her nose buried in.

Venn slung his jacket over the back of a chair and kicked off his boots. He perched on the bed beside her, reached out his hand. She took it.

“New case,” he said. “Looks complicated.”

Beth propped herself up on the pillows. “Tell me about it.”

Her movement dislodged the counterpane. She was wearing a negligee made of something that looked like gauzy silk. Venn’s eyes dropped, then quickly went back up to her face.

“Jeez,” he said. “Talk about distraction.”

He did tell her about the case. Eventually.

––––––––

S
ally-Jo opened the door of her apartment and knew, without doubt, that Frank was there.

She didn’t see him, didn’t hear his movements. But she could feel his presence all the same, immediately.

Her apartment was small, a garret more suited to a starving artist type, which she wasn’t. Located in an achingly trendy street, it had been going for a surprisingly low rent when she’d been scouring the ads in the Village Voice, and she’d been thrilled to discover that she was the first person to call the landlord about it. He’d been an amiable Italian man and seemed to like her at once.

That was four months ago. She’d been there ever since, and it suited her just fine.

She dropped her purse on the coffee table in the small living room and hung her overcoat behind the door. The central heating had kicked in several hours earlier and the place had a snug, toasty feel. She’d have liked a grate with a fire, but she supposed in an apartment of this size it was too much to ask. Maybe, one day when she bought her own place...

Her arms ached, and there was a stiffness in her neck she hadn’t been able to ease away while at work. If anything it had gotten worse as the day progressed. The aches and stiffness were new to her, and she’d need to remember to do some regular exercises to limber up.

The clock on the wall told her it was five after midnight. Which meant twenty-one hours had passed since she’d killed Dale Fincher.

All day, at work and in the coffee shop she went to at lunchtime, and in the subway home, she’d burned. Burned with the conviction that what she’d done was written all over her, tattooed on every inch of exposed skin like a bizarre kind of public confession. How could the man who stepped aside for her on the steps of the subway station not smell the guilt on her? How could the couple of middle-aged evangelists who approached her on Broadway to ask if she’d given her soul to the Lord not feel the sin radiating off her?

But she’d been through this before. Had learned to handle the crushing weight of fear, the dread of imminent discovery, and to accept that it was a normal part of the process. If she held her composure, it would float on past, and before long it would be gone. And sure enough, by the middle of the evening, she felt more able to relax, as if the tension of the day had uncoiled itself like a snake and slipped away.

Usually, after a long day at work, Sally-Jo would pour herself a drink and curl up on the second-hand couch in front of the TV for a few minutes, not watching anything, sometimes with the tube switched off, just listening to the stillness of the apartment and the distant night sounds of the city around and below her. Today, though, she went into the apartment’s single bedroom.

Frank was there. He watched her, saying nothing.

She smiled.

Sally-Jo slipped off her coat and trousers and hung them carefully on their hangers, leaving them out of the closet to air overnight. She unbuttoned her blouse and let it drop, then stepped out of her underwear.

Naked, she stood before the full-length Venetian mirror propped against one wall. She’d gotten the mirror at the thrift sale in Hell’s Kitchen, and it suited her purposes perfectly. It was just long enough for her to be able to observe herself fully.

She stood, rapt, gazing at herself.

Perfection. The work rose unbidden in her mind, as she knew it would.

She pivoted this way and that, eyeing as much of herself as she was able. Not a flaw in sight. Not a bulge or a sag or a jiggle as she moved.

A temple. And she treated it just like one.

Frank said, “You can’t stop now.”

“I know.” She couldn’t take her eyes off her body in the glass.

“Even though you might want to.”

“It’s not whether I want to or not,” she murmured. “Want has nothing to do with it.”

He was suddenly close, his presence forceful and immediate, his voice at her ear. “Choose more wisely next time.”

She said nothing.

“This time, you erred. You thought he’d understand, but he didn’t.”

“It wasn’t a bad choice,” she whispered.

“But it was still the wrong one.” Frank’s tone had taken on a harsh, ragged aspect. “You need to reconsider your approach. Think about a new angle. Spend a little more time and effort in research the next time.”

“I will.”

Sally-Jo went over to the closet and brought out a box of scented candles. She placed them in their holders throughout the room, beside the full-length mirror and on the bedside table and on the dresser, and she lit them one by one with a long taper.

The flickering light made shadows dance across the hollows and curves of her body, as though the skin was rippling, sensuously alive.

Frank’s face faded into the darkness. “Remember,” he said. “Remember.”

Of course she’d remember. How could she ever forget?

Sally-Jo wasn’t sure how long she spent in front of the mirror, gazing at herself. At some point, she was aware of Frank leaving. He could be back any time, later that night or a week from now. He came and went as he pleased. Sometimes he frightened her. Other times, he comforted and inspired her. But he was always there, even when he was absent. Always close by, even when he was hundreds of miles away.

She never thought to check the time when she went to bed. Lying there in the darkness, her body newly layered with oils suffused with herbs and heat, she allowed her thoughts to soar, up through the ceiling of the garret and far above the cityscape of Manhattan, out over the harbor toward the Atlantic.

Her best ideas came to her this way, with her mind roaming freely, unfettered by earthly constraints.

The next one would, as Frank had said, have to be different. Not just different physically, but more importantly different in his or her outlook. The trouble was, it was difficult to know beforehand just how much insight and understanding, how much wisdom, a person possessed. You couldn’t tell until you put them to the test, and by then it was by definition too late to back out if you discovered you’d made a mistake. If you realized the person you’d chosen wasn’t as special as you thought they’d be.