Silent Slaughter (21 page)

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Authors: C. E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Slaughter
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C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-TWO
I
f there was one thing Victoria Hwang hated, it was being late. She stood on the subway platform grinding her teeth and picking at the cuticle of her left thumb, impatience creeping up her spine like kudzu.
She forced herself to take deep breaths, pulling the musty, subterranean air in through her nostrils. It smelled like mildewed gym lockers and stale urine. She exhaled slowly through her mouth, just as she had learned to do in yoga class.
In, out, in, out. Nothing you can do about it, so you might as well relax.
“Easier said than done,” she muttered through clenched teeth as she paced the platform of the 110th Street station. She was supposed to meet her parents in Chinatown at seven, and it was already after six thirty. She dug her cell phone out of her coat pocket and glanced hopefully at the screen, but there was no reception underground, with layers of dirt and rock and steel between her and the nearest cell tower.
“Damn,” she murmured and shoved the phone back into her pocket. A middle-aged woman frowned at her from one of the wooden benches lining the platform wall, then quickly looked back down at her magazine. The woman was tall and reedy, with a green tweed skirt and matching hat. Her sturdy-looking calves protruded from the sensible wool skirt, culminating in thick ankle boots perfect for striding over moors and fens. She brought to mind a British headmistress, ruddy-cheeked and hale from years of hearty lamb stew and brisk exercise in good English air. She had a horsey face, with a long nose and prominent cheekbones, and her big-boned hands clutched a green brocade handbag. Victoria barely noticed the tall man at the other end of the platform, who appeared to be engaged in reading the
New York Times
.
Victoria paced the platform, cursing herself for not getting an earlier start. She knew New York subways could not be counted on, especially on weekends. She saw a young couple in blue jeans and matching black T-shirts gazing longingly down the platform, as if that would cause the train to magically appear. She smiled and turned away, squelching an impulse to do the same. She felt a tap on her shoulder and spun around, her heart throbbing wildly in her chest. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and sweat spurted from her forehead as she turned to see the English schoolmarm, a startled look in her mild gray eyes.
“Sorry to disturb you,” the woman said. Her accent did sound vaguely British, but it had a touch of something else Victoria couldn’t quite place. “I was just wondering if you had the time.”
“Oh, yes—sorry,” Kathy answered, digging out her cell phone. “It’s, uh—six thirty-three.”
“Thanks very much,” the woman replied, smiling to show broad, uneven teeth. Kathy watched as she trundled back to the bench, tottering awkwardly on her sensible shoes. Her gait suggested that the shoes were new, or too small—she didn’t look comfortable in them.
Victoria turned away and forced herself to take deep breaths.
Damn panic attacks
, she thought, blinking to dispel the black dots dancing before her eyes. Lately, anything could set off a panic attack—the tap of a stranger’s hand on her shoulder, the sound of rapid footsteps behind her, the sight of a lone figure lurking in a darkened alley. Ever since being mugged a year ago, Victoria double-locked her doors at night and slept with a baseball bat next to her bed. She’d had an expensive alarm system installed in her apartment, with a state-of-the-art call center that was manned twenty-four hours a day.
She fished around in her bag for the magazine she always carried—and that, it seemed, was just the cue the train was waiting for. It glided into the station, the rows of shiny new silver cars almost entirely empty. At the far end of the platform, the tall, thin man slipped into the last car.
Victoria got into the same car as the sturdy English schoolmarm. The woman plopped her stringy body into one of the seats and immediately immersed herself in her magazine. Kathy tried to read her own magazine, but it was a trade publication in her field, architecture, and she didn’t find it very absorbing right now. She was too disturbed by her panic attack. Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be lulled by the forward motion of the train. She almost missed her stop at Canal Street.
She and the tweed-clad woman were the only two people left in their car as the door opened and the conductor on the loudspeaker blared the name of the stop.
“Canal Street. Change here for the—”
Victoria leaped from her seat and was already halfway out the door before he finished his announcement. She stood on the platform for a moment, trying to remember which exit stairs to use, when she saw the schoolmistress trundling along the platform toward the nearest turnstile. She followed her toward the exit.
She scarcely noticed the tall man behind her taking the stairs up to the street two at a time until he was just a few steps behind her. When she reached the top, she shuddered nervously and headed toward her parents’ apartment.
She forcibly shook off her bout of nerves as the man followed her through the shadows of the buildings lining Canal Street. He was, she was sure, simply going in the same direction as she and would soon be lost in the endless parade of pedestrians on Chinatown’s busiest thoroughfare.
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-THREE
L
ee rented a car and drove Kylie back to Stockton the next day. After dropping her off, he headed for Philadelphia to meet Kathy. He wanted to make another stab at working things out with her, but he also felt pulled there by the presence of the mysterious Thomas. It was totally irrational to think he could ever hunt him down, but he knew rationality wasn’t always his strong suit.
He hugged the river and crossed into Pennsylvania around Trenton. A shroud of mist blanketed the Philadelphia skyline as Lee drove over the Ben Franklin Bridge. The constant stream of traffic had turned the snow on the ground into slush, hissing under his tires as he turned onto the Race Street exit. Still hugging the river, he headed south toward the Old City, past the beer pubs and cheesesteak joints on Third Street. Driving past the graceful steeple of Christ Church, he was amazed, as always, to think that when it was built, it was the tallest building in North America.
Anxiety began to gnaw the pit of his stomach, so he switched on the radio to distract himself. He turned the dial until he reached the local NPR station, WHYY, where Terry Gross was interviewing a scientist about global warming. Looking out the window, he found it hard to imagine the landscape around him ever being warm again. A wicked winter wind whipped the bare trees lining the sidewalks, and even the buildings looked cold.
A lot of the cops he worked with probably didn’t listen to public radio, with its leftist slant and liberal attitudes. He wondered what Butts listened to at home. There was so much about the pudgy detective he didn’t know. Hell, there was so much about Kathy he didn’t know, when it came to that. And how could you ever really know another person? But he suspected that most people longed to be known, to be
seen
and fully understood. Perhaps it was that, and not sex, that drove people to mate and procreate and live together in hope of forging something deeper and wider than the sum of its parts.
The sum of its parts . . .
The phrase rattled around in his head, like a light aircraft looking for a place to land. He was sifting through the meaning of it when he remembered that Krieger had also suggested that the killer might have a connection to numbers.
The sum of its parts.
Were the strange designs of punctures on the victims a mathematical puzzle of some kind? he wondered as he turned east onto Chestnut Street. He parked at a meter and walked to the restaurant, with its brick-colored walls and black-on-gold painted columns, the colors of the Belgian flag. He didn’t see Kathy downstairs, so he squeezed past the regulars hunched over the bar, sucking on pints of Belgian wheat beer and porter, and climbed the steep steps to the second floor. It was happy hour, and the bar was crowded; the sound of loud laughter and clinking glasses followed him up the stairs.
The place had become a favorite of theirs early on—it boasted over three hundred imported and local brews. The menu included the beer’s country of origin as well as its alcohol content, and the mussels and fries were second to none. There was even a beer called Delirium Tremens (alcohol by volume 8.5 percent.)
On the second-floor landing, a skeleton lay grinning in his transparent coffin—one of the many tongue-in-cheek images of death sprinkled throughout the place. In honor of the season, the skeleton wore a bright red Christmas bow around its neck. Lee liked all the jaunty references to death. There was something unaccountably comforting about eating dinner in a room with a full skeleton in a corner.
He didn’t feel much like food now, though, and the sight of Kathy in the back of the long, narrow room didn’t help. She looked up when he entered, a tight smile on her face.
“Hi,” she said, as he slid into the chair across from her at the long table. The seating was European style, and you might share a table with up to eight other people on any given night. Today all the action was downstairs, though, and they had the upstairs to themselves. Kathy wore a fuzzy red turtleneck sweater that showed off her black hair. She looked fantastic. He wished she didn’t. He decided not to tell her how great she looked.
He thought about ordering a Delirium Tremens but instead selected an equally potent draft ale, Old Curmudgeon. It’s what he felt like lately, so he figured he might as well drink it.
“How’s the case going?” she asked when the waitress had gone.
“Not so good. We’re kind of stuck right now. How about you?”
“My dad’s away at a conference, so I’m staying at his place to look after Bacchus. I don’t know why he doesn’t get rid of that musty old cat—he’s terribly allergic to him.”
“He probably loves Bacchus.”
Her look said,
Don’t go there
, so he didn’t.
She took a long swallow of beer. “It’s a myth, you know.”
“What is?”
“This whole notion that you meet someone, fall in love and live happily ever after. The idea that anyone can fulfill all your needs or desires or fantasies.”
“But does that mean you can’t be happy with someone?”
“Expectations are too high. We want perfection, when what we’re stuck with is human nature.”
“Well, sure . . .”
She frowned, which deepened the little dimple in her chin. “See, I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say ‘sure’ when I make a point.”
“I was just agreeing with you.”
“No, you weren’t. You were implying that you’d thought of it already, and what I’m saying is obvious.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“It sounds arrogant.”
“You think I’m arrogant?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is Peter arrogant?”
She put her beer mug down with a thump and glared at him. “Oh, come on, Lee—really.”
“Sorry, it’s just that—”
“I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for me too.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” he said, hoping she’d disagree. But she didn’t.
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe not.”
Silence lay between them like a puddle of unhappiness. He felt soggy, sodden, miserable.
His cell phone rang, and he seized it, grateful for the interruption. It was Butts.
“What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“Philly.”
“How fast can you get back?”
“What’s wrong?”
“We got another body.”
“I’m on my way.” He pocketed the phone, relief flooding his veins with equal parts shame. Someone was dead, and yet he was glad for the chance to be rescued from this desultory conversation. He would have to wait for another time to hunt down the mysterious Thomas, but that could wait.
He looked at Kathy, struck once again by the graceful symmetry of her face.
“I have to go.”
Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought she, too, looked relieved.
“Go,” she said, and he went.
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-FOUR
T
raffic was light. Lee reached lower Manhattan in two hours flat, coming in through the Holland Tunnel. He headed straight for Cortlandt Alley, a narrow lane in Chinatown between Canal and White Streets. He found a meter on White, parked the car and showed his credentials to the sergeant guarding the area. Ducking under the yellow crime scene banner, he walked past the graffiti-covered metal grates, deserted loading docks and looming fire escapes to where Detective Butts stood, surrounded by a cadre of crime scene technicians.
The detective grunted when he saw Lee. “’t’Bout time. What the hell were you doing in Philly?”
“Long story,” Lee said, looking at Elena Krieger, crouched over the body. “Who’s the victim?”
“Name’s Victoria Hwang. She lives uptown, but her parents live down here. We sent a uniform to their place to tell them a little while ago.”
“Is there a note?”
“Uh, yeah.” Butts looked away. “There’s something I should tell you about that.”
“What?”
“It’s addressed to you.” He handed Lee a pair of white latex gloves. “Give Detective Krieger another coupla minutes, and then we’ll have a look.”
“Where’s Jimmy?” Lee asked as he pulled on the gloves.
“Chen? Over there,” Butts said, pointing. “Interviewing potential witnesses.”
Jimmy was surrounded by a group of middle-aged Chinese men, who were smoking and talking with animated gestures. Jimmy towered over them. Butts pointed to a faded red sign tacked over one of the rusted doorways. The top of the sign was in Chinese. The bottom read: NY TTF
“TTF?” said Lee.
“Table Tennis Federation,” Butts replied. “It’s a big deal down here, apparently.
“His knowledge of Mandarin should come in handy,” Lee said, looking at his friend. A stocky Chinese man with thick shoulders and eyeglasses was explaining something to Jimmy as his companions watched, nodding. Jimmy’s face was serious, as he bent his long back down to lessen the distance between them—he had at least half a foot on the other man.
“Chen says this place is a big deal,” said Butts. “All kinds of people train here, even Olympic athletes.”
Peering down the narrow stairs leading to the basement room, Lee could hear the rhythmic plunk of a dozen Ping-Pong balls and the occasional shout of victory or defeat. Apparently the presence of a murder victim a few yards away wasn’t enough to dim the enthusiasm of the table tennis community.
He turned his attention back to the alley, the pavement glistening damply in the gray afternoon light. The warm snap had melted most of the snow in the city, but this narrow passageway saw little sunlight, and the street was still wet. Lights glowed softly in some of the apartment windows facing the alley. The whole scene was disconcertingly beautiful.
Elena Krieger straightened up and brushed the dirt from the knees of her tight-fitting navy ski pants.
“Well,” she said, joining them, “there’s a new twist.”
“What’s that?” asked Lee.
“He took two fingers this time,” Butts said.
Krieger glared at him. “I was about to say that this girl is Asian.”
“You think that’s why he left her in Chinatown?” Butts asked Lee.
“It could be significant, but it’s hard to say. It could also be because there are more alleys downtown.”
“Or maybe he attacked her here,” suggested Krieger.
Lee shook his head. “Even if he did, he probably transported her somewhere else to—”
“To do what he does,” Butts finished for him.
“Right. He has to complete the ritual somewhere private, where he won’t be disturbed.”
“His place?” Butts suggested.
“I think we should keep our minds open about that.”
“Why’d he take two fingers this time?” asked Butts. “Does that mean his signature is—whaddya call it—evolving?”
“I’m not sure what it means,” said Lee.
“Oh, my God,” said Krieger.
“What is it?” Butts said.
“
One is the loneliest number.
Do you think he was referring to—to the fingers?”
“Could be,” said Lee. “But still, why would he take
two
this time?”
Just then Jimmy Chen finished with the Ping-Pong players and walked over to join his colleagues. The Chinese men stood for a moment smoking and talking in low voices. Then, taking a final drag on their cigarettes, they filed back down the stairs to the table tennis club.
Jimmy glanced back over his shoulder at them. “I told them to keep their damn cigarette butts away from our crime scene. If I see one butt in this alley, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“Learn anything?” asked Butts.
“None of them saw anything. The guy who discovered the body said there was no one else in the alley when he found her. Communicating was a bit of a challenge, though—some of those guys speak Cantonese.”
“You mean you couldn’t understand them?” said Butts. “I thought Chinese was Chinese.”
Jimmy regarded him coolly. “There are fourteen separate language groups in mainland China. The Han Chinese alone speak eight mutually unintelligible languages.”
Krieger crossed her arms. “In Germany we have regional dialects, but we can all understand one another.”
“China is an ancient culture,” Jimmy said. “In fact—”
“Okay, knock it off,” said Butts. “I’m sure it’s all fascinatin’, but we got work to do here.”
“Detective Butts said the note was addressed to me this time,” Lee said to Krieger.
“Yes,” she said, looking uncomfortable. “I haven’t had a chance to study it properly yet. After it’s been processed at the lab for fingerprints and trace evidence, I’ll analyze it. Do you mind waiting a while to read it?”
“All right,” he said, though he did mind.
“Right,” said Butts. “And once they’re done with Miss, uh, Hwang at the ME’s, we’ll have a chance to look at her—”
“To see what he did to her this time,” Jimmy added grimly.
“Yeah,” said Butts. “So until then, let’s try and canvass the area for any more potential eyewitnesses, huh?” He squinted up at an apartment window, where a couple of people were peering down into the alley. “You take this building,” he said to Jimmy, “and I’ll send a coupla sergeants to cover the one across the street.”
Because they were shorthanded, Krieger agreed to accompany one of the sergeants on interviews, leaving Lee and Butts standing alone in the gathering dusk. They could hear the bustle of Canal Street, the constant stream of pedestrians and traffic on one of Manhattan’s busiest thoroughfares. The occasional squeal of brakes and impatient honking punctuated the rumble of trucks as they clattered over Canal Street’s numerous potholes.
“You wanna have a look at her before they take her away?” Butts asked as the ME’s black van backed down the alley.
“Yeah,” said Lee. He trudged over to where Victoria Hwang lay. She was the center of all the action, as the crime scene techs scurried about, collected evidence, dusted for prints—but in a way she looked neglected, lying unattended in the same spot where the killer had dumped her.
He gazed down at her. She was young, though not especially pretty; she was fully dressed in a red wool coat, and her shiny black hair looked as if it had been combed and carefully arranged. She lay on her back in the same pose as the others, her hands clasped over her stomach. The index and pinky fingers of her left hand had been neatly severed.
A tech from the ME’s office approached him, a slight young man with pale eyes and freckles. “ ’Scuse me, but mind if we move her now?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Lee said, stepping aside, relieved. He made a silent vow that she would be the last victim of this killer he would ever have to look at. He just hoped it was a vow he could keep.

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