The Serial Killer's Wife (23 page)

“He’s here.”
 

There was a pause. “Who’s there? Clarence?”
 

“He just called. He’s somewhere close. I need you to stay nearby in case something happens.”
 

“I’m heading back in that direction now. Do you want me to park and meet you?”
 

She turned and noticed Jim watching her again. The worry had left his face now, knowing that she wasn’t talking to their antagonist this time but instead to the man she had just recently referred to as her boyfriend. Suddenly she had a flash of being back in high school, the dark look of disapproval on her brother’s face when she was talking to a boy he didn’t know anything about and had yet to approve of.
 

“I should be fine. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
 

“Are you sure?”
 

“Yes.”
 

There was another pause, this one lengthier, and then Todd said, “I love you.”
 

She hesitated then closed the phone and placed it back in her bag.
 

“That was what’s-his-name, right?”
 

“Todd.”
 

“Yeah.” Jim nodded slowly. “You trust him?”
 

She snapped her bag shut. “Believe it or not, I don’t need your approval on who I can and cannot date.”
 

“That’s not what I meant. I just—”
 

“Jim, not right now.”
 

He held up his free hand, shook his head, took a step back. Just like they were teenagers again.
 

She glanced across the street at the church.
 

Jim said, “Who are you waiting for anyway?”
 

“Mark Webster.”
 

He snapped his fingers. “That’s right—the lawyer. How do you know he’s in there?”
 

“I don’t.”
 

“Do you even know what he looks like?”
 

She remembered the day she first met Mark Webster, the young brazen lawyer coming to her house and sitting in her living room and talking to her like they were old friends.
 

“I’m sure he hasn’t changed much in five years.”
 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Working in Manhattan does something to your genes. Scientists still haven’t figured out what it is yet.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out an iPhone. “What law firm does he work for?”
 

She didn’t answer him at first, only smirked.
 

“What?”
 

“I never thought I’d see the day you had a cell phone. You used to be one of those doom and gloom people, always certain they would bring brain cancer.”
 

“That’s still inconclusive. Besides, after living in pretty much squalor for two years, you begin to miss all kinds of technology. So having a super smartphone in my pocket, yeah, I’m okay with that now.” He looked at her again. “The law firm name?”
 

She gave it to him and he typed it in and moments later he had brought up the law firm’s website, then the page that gave brief bios of all its lawyers, including pictures.
 

“Here he is,” Jim said, handing her the phone, and the face that stared back at her was one she wasn’t entirely surprised to see. Yes, it was Mark Webster, but the Mark Webster she remembered—the arrogant little shit lawyer—had fallen away like a cocoon and the man she saw now was somehow more handsome, with stronger, sharper features, darker hair, a better complexion. It wasn’t the genes that were affected so much working in Manhattan, she thought, but rather the work of a skilled personal trainer.
 

“So again,” Jim said, “how do you know he’s in there?”
 

“He has to be.”
 

“Maybe he went to an earlier service.”
 

“No.”
 

“Maybe one of his kids is sick and he stayed home with them.”
 

“
No
.”
 

She realized she was shaking and handed back the phone.
 

“Liz, you have to be realistic here. This is not going to have a happy ending. I know all about Clarence Applegate. After all the shit he wrote about you, how could I not know about him? The guy is a psycho. He’s not going to let you or your son live even if you don’t go to the police. I mean, seriously, aren’t you worried about your son?”
 

“Of course I am. But it’s not just about him anymore.”
 

“What does that mean?”
 

“Those trophies that Clarence wants—the fingers and the wedding rings. They need to be found.”
 

For the first time she could remember, Jim looked at a complete loss. “Why?”
 

“What Eddie did to those women was vile and disgusting and evil. But when I saw Clarence last night, saw that he was still wearing his wedding ring, it reminded me about those women’s husbands, and their families, and everything they left behind. And until those fingers and rings are found, those women’s spirits will never be able to rest in peace.”
 

She expected some kind of response from her brother, some kind of rebuttal, but he didn’t say anything, not at first. He just stared back at her for a long moment while around them the city still continued to breathe its strange sense of life and the rain soaked the street and sidewalk and dripped off the umbrella.
 

Finally he said, “So now what do we do?”
 

“We wait.”

•
   
•
   
•

T
HEY
DIDN
’
T
WAIT
long. A half hour passed before the service ended and the doors opened and people began exiting the church. Mark Webster wouldn’t be one of the first—he would want to lag behind, share small talk, make sure his boss saw him—but when he did exit it would be through the main entrance, down the steps. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, and then there he was, Mark Webster and his wife and their two children, all wearing their Sunday best, looking like the perfect American family as they huddled under a pair of large black umbrellas and descended the steps one unhurried step at a time.

CHAPTER 44

T
HEY
WATCHED
MARK
Webster and his family walk to the end of the block, then wait at the corner for the light and cross over Fifth Avenue toward their side.
 

Jim said, “How much do you want to bet they’re headed to the subway station at Rockefeller?”
 

Elizabeth stood silent beside him, the rain beating at the umbrella. She watched as the family headed down East 50th Street, disappearing from their sight, and then said, “Let’s go.”
 

She led the way, not quite sure yet how she was going to do this. What she would say, what she would do—these were all things she had been worrying about since the moment they entered her mind, and she had always assumed that when the time came everything would fall into place. It hadn’t, though. No, if anything she was at an even greater loss for words or actions, and as she rounded the corner and spotted Mark Webster and his family farther down the block, she hurried her pace.
 

“Elizabeth,” Jim said behind her, but she ignored him and continued on, crossing over the street to Mark Webster’s side, the rain assaulting her now, her hurried pace matching three strides for every one stride the Webster family took.
 

Then, before she realized it, she was right behind them, the only thing separating her and the family a thin sheet of rain, and before she could second-guess herself any further, she called out Mark Webster’s name.
 

As one unit the family paused, and Mark Webster shifted so he could glance back at her.
 

Elizabeth said, “Could I have a moment of your time please?”
 

“Mark,” the man’s wife said, annoyed, and Mark Webster sighed, said, “Listen, if this is about the Rodriguez case, a statement was already issued Friday afternoon. And come on, this is Sunday. I’m with my family.”
 

“This isn’t about the Rodriguez case,” Elizabeth said. Jim had caught up and now stood behind her. “This is about Edward Piccioni.”
 

Mark Webster’s eyes narrowed slightly at the name, and he stared at her with a renewed kind of interest.
 

“Mark,” his wife said again, the children standing between them—a boy and a girl, completely adorable just as they were expected to be—looking up at their father as if seeking some kind of wisdom.
 

He shifted his gaze away from Elizabeth to his wife. “Head inside. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
 

“Mark,” she said again, now glaring at him, and he said forcefully, “Julia, it’s okay. Head inside and I’ll meet you. I won’t be more than a minute.”
 

Julia Webster—a beautiful blonde in her thirties with piercing green eyes—glared back at Elizabeth for a second before she said something to her children and ushered them ahead, around the corner into the courtyard of Rockefeller Plaza. The moment they were gone, Mark Webster cleared his throat.
 

“From what I read in the news,” he said, “the police are looking for you.”
 

“I’m being setup.”
 

“Is that right?”
 

“A man abducted my son. If I don’t do as he says and get him what he wants before a certain time, he’s going to kill him.”
 

Mark Webster didn’t seem impressed by this news. He glanced past her and nodded at Jim. “Who’s that?”
 

“My brother.”
 

“So this is like a family event, huh?”
 

“This is a serious matter.”
 

“I’m sure it is.”
 

“The man doing this is Clarence Applegate.”
 

Mark Webster nodded slowly, this news not seeming to impress him either. “I’m familiar with the name.”
 

“He wants my husband’s trophies.”
 

“That’s nice.” The man stood stock-still, holding his umbrella up straight, the space between them less than ten feet. “Why are you bothering me with this information?”
 

For an instant Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. She’d thought her reason for coming to him would be obvious, and she realized after a moment that maybe it was. Mark Webster had been an asshole five years ago, and it looked like he was an asshole now. Just a bigger, more experienced, and better paid one.
 

“I need you to get me in so I can speak to my husband.”
 

Mark Webster shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”
 

“Without speaking to my husband, I won’t be able to get Clarence what he wants.”
 

With a bored expression Mark Webster held his umbrella with his right hand, jerked the wrist of his left hand so he flashed an expensive Rolex. He glanced at it and said, “I’ve given you more than your minute. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
 

He turned and started down the sidewalk.
 

Elizabeth glanced at Jim. Jim glanced at her. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Her entire body shook. Her blood boiled. Before she knew it she was moving, hurrying down the block, coming around the corner into the plaza and catching up with Mark Webster.
 

“You have to help me,” she said, stepping in front of him.
 

“I don’t have to do anything.”
 

“He’s going to kill my son.”
 

“I don’t give a shit.”
 

“How can you say that?”
 

“I tried to help you five years ago, but you wouldn’t let me. Instead you disappeared. You ruined my case.”
 

“Eddie was going to jail whether I stayed or not.”
 

“Perhaps. But I needed you as a character witness.”
 

“I wasn’t going to step foot inside a courtroom. Not for him.”
 

Mark Webster said, “My family is waiting for me inside. I’m going to go meet them, and when I see the next police officer I’m going to tell him that Elizabeth Piccioni is out here. So if I were you, I would get the fuck out of my face.”
 

He went to step around her and she moved to block his way again. Beyond him she could see Jim standing a couple feet back, just watching her, a look of complete helplessness on his face.
 

“Just call and put me on the list,” she said. “Please, I’m begging you.”
 

The corners of Mark Webster’s mouth twitched. “Begging me? That’s rich. I’d have you get down on your knees and beg, but something tells me you’re just so desperate enough you’d actually do it. I’m sorry, but none of this is my concern. If I were you, I’d go to the FBI.”
 

He went to step around her again and this time Elizabeth didn’t move. She stared past him at Jim who stared back at her, and then she noticed movement beyond her brother—something more than the passing traffic and the other people in the plaza—and there was Clarence Applegate, bundled up in a trench coat, coming around the corner and reaching into his pocket, his hand shifting just enough for her to see the flash of gunmetal in the rain.

CHAPTER 45