On the Street Where You Live

  Duggan and Walsh followed the hearse conveying Natalie’s body to the medical examiner’s office.

  “She’s been dead between thirty-six and forty hours,” Dr. O’Brien told them. “I can narrow it down more when I do the autopsy. Cause of death appears to be the same as the others—strangulation.”

  He looked at Duggan. “Are you going to dig for the remains of the March 31st, 1896, victim now?”

  Tommy nodded. “We have to. We’ll probably find her there. This killer is running true to form, copycatting the 1890s crimes.”

  “Why do you think he didn’t wait until the 31st to kill her?” the medical examiner asked. “That would have followed his pattern of matching the dates on which the earlier victims died.”

  “I think he wanted to be sure he got her when he had the opportunity, and with so much added security in town, he didn’t figure he could take the chance of digging a grave. His need probably was to have her discovered today, the 31st,” Tommy told him.

  “There’s one more factor you’d better consider,” the ME told him. “Natalie Frieze was strangled by the same kind of cord the killer used on Bernice Joyce. The third piece of the scarf that was used on the Lawrence and Harper women is still out there somewhere.”

  “If that’s the case,” Tommy said, “it may not be over yet.”

  eighty-one ________________

  WHEN EMILY PICKED UP THE PHONE she was not sorry to hear Nick Todd’s voice.

  “I’ve been listening to the radio,” he said.

  “It’s so awful,” Emily told him. “Just a few days ago I sat with her at the luncheon the Lawrences gave after the memorial Mass.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Strident good looks. The kind that make other women feel they need a makeover.”

  “What kind of person was she?” he asked.

  “I’ll be honest. I wouldn’t have chosen her as a friend. She had a hard edge that was inescapable. It’s just impossible to think that I was sitting across the table from her a week ago, and now she is dead—murdered!”

  Nick caught the distress in Emily’s voice. He was in his SoHo apartment and had been planning to catch a movie, followed by dinner at the hole-in-the-wall pasta restaurant in the Village that was his favorite.

  “What are you up to tonight?” he asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.

  “Absolutely nothing. I want to finish reading the old diaries I’ve been loaned and then rejoin the twenty-first century. Something inside me is telling me it’s time.”

  Afterward Nick asked himself why he hadn’t suggested he drive down for dinner that evening. Instead, he confirmed that he would pick her up at 12:30 on Sunday for brunch.

  But when he hung up, he found he was too restless to even consider going to a movie. Instead, he had an early dinner, phoned and made a reservation at The Breakers, and at seven o’clock got in his car and started driving to Spring Lake.

  eighty-two ________________

  MARTY WAS FINISHING DINNER when the phone rang. Louise Cauldwell, Eric Bailey’s secretary, had just returned home and picked up her messages. Marty got straight to the point. “Ms. Cauldwell, I must ask you something. To your knowledge, does Eric Bailey drive any vehicle other than the two registered in his name?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve been with him since the company started, and I’ve never seen him in anything other than the convertible or the van. He trades them in every year, but it’s always for the newer model.”

  “I see. Do you know if Mr. Bailey plans to be away this weekend?”

  “Yes, he’s going to Vermont to ski. He does that frequently.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Cauldwell.”

  “Is there anything wrong, Mr. Browski?”

  “I thought there might be, but I guess not.”

  Marty settled in the den for an evening of television, but after watching the tube for almost an hour, he realized he had no idea what he was seeing. At nine o’clock he bolted up and announced to Janey, “I’ve just thought of something,” and hurried to the phone.

  EZPass confirmed his hunch. Neither one of Eric Bailey’s vehicles showed any activity for the day.

  “He has a third car that he’s driving,” Marty muttered. “He has to have a third car.”

  She’s probably out, he thought as he tried Louise Cauldwell’s number again. It’s Saturday night, and she’s an attractive woman, he reminded himself.

  But Louise Cauldwell picked up on the first ring.

  “Ms. Cauldwell, is there a company car that Eric Bailey might be using?”

  She hesitated. “We do have company cars leased in the names of some of our executives. A number of them have left recently.”

  “Where are the cars they used?”

  “A couple are still in the parking lot. You can’t break those leases, you know. I guess it’s possible Mr. Bailey might be using one of them, although I can’t imagine why.”

  “Do you know the names they’d be registered under? This is very important.”

  “Is Mr. Bailey in some kind of trouble? I mean he’s been under so much pressure lately. I’ve been worried about him.”

  “Is there something in his behavior that troubles you, Ms. Cauldwell?” Marty asked quietly. “Please don’t think about confidentiality now. You won’t be doing Eric Bailey a favor if you don’t cooperate.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. “The company is going under and he’s cracking up,” she said finally, emotion in her voice. “The other day I went into his office and he was crying.”

  “He seemed fine when I saw him the other day.”

  “He puts on a good front.”

  “Did you ever hear him mention Emily Graham?”

  “Yes, just yesterday in fact. He seemed upset after you left. He told me that he blames Ms. Graham for ruining the company. He said that when she sold her stock, other people got nervous and followed her example.”

  “That’s not true. The stock went up another fifty points after she sold.”

  “I’m afraid he forgets that.”

  “Ms. Cauldwell, I can’t wait until Monday to get the number of a car he may be driving. You’ve got to help me.”

  Thirty minutes later, Marty Browski met Louise Cauldwell in the darkened offices of Bailey dot-com. She turned off the alarm, and they went upstairs to the accounting office. In a few minutes she had the license plate numbers of the leased cars and the names of the men for whom they were registered. Two of the cars were in the parking lot. The third one Marty checked out with EZPass. It had been on the Garden State Parkway and at 5:00 P.M. it had gotten off the parkway at Exit 98.

  “He’s in Spring Lake,” Marty said flatly, as he picked up the phone to dial the police there.

  “We’ll keep an eye on her house,” the desk sergeant promised. “The town is crowded with media, and the curiosity seekers doing a drive-through, but I promise you—if that car is here, we’ll find it.”

  eighty-three ________________

  EMILY’S PLEASURE ON HEARING Marty Browski’s voice changed to shock when she realized why he was calling.

  “That is absolutely impossible,” she said.

  “No it isn’t, Emily,” Marty said firmly. “Now listen, the local police are going to keep the house under surveillance.”

  “How are they going to do that?”

  “They’ll drive by your house every fifteen minutes. If Eric calls and wants to see you, put him off. Tell him you have a headache and are going to bed early. But don’t open the door for him. And I want you to keep your alarm on the ‘instant’ setting. The Spring Lake cops are looking for Bailey. They know what vehicle he’s driving. Now, check those locks!”

  “I will.” When she hung up, Emily went from room to room, testing the doors that opened to the porch, then the front and back doors. She pushed INSTANT and ON, and watched the signal on the alarm box switch from green to a flashing red.

  Eric, she thought. Friend, buddy, little brother. He wa
s here Monday, installing the cameras, acting so worried about me, and all the while . . .

  Betrayal. Hypocrisy. Putting in security cameras and laughing at me while he was doing it. Emily thought of all the nights in the past year during which she had awakened, startled, sure she’d heard someone in the house. She thought of all the times it had been so hard to concentrate on preparing a defense for a client, because a picture Eric had taken of her had been slipped under her door, or stuck to her windshield.

  “I hope when they find that wacko, they throw the book at him,” she said aloud, not knowing that at that very moment she was looking directly into a camera, and that Eric Bailey was parked in his van six blocks away, watching her on his television screen.

  eighty-four ________________

  “ONLY YOU WON’T BE AROUND when they do throw the book at me,” Eric responded aloud.

  The shock of realizing that he had been found out, and of having Marty Browski phone Emily Graham and tell her he was the stalker stunned Eric. I’ve been so careful, he thought, looking at the carton that contained the woman’s coat and dress and wig he had worn into St. Catherine’s Church on Saturday, and thinking of all the disguises he had used to get close to Emily in the past without being detected.

  And now the police were looking for him and no doubt soon would arrest him. He would be sent to prison. His company would collapse in bankruptcy. The people who had praised him so lavishly would turn on him like dogs.

  Then he focused on the screen again and leaned forward, his eyes suddenly wide, excitement rushing through him.

  Emily had gone back to the dining room and was on her knees going through the box of books, obviously looking for something in particular.

  But on the split screen, he could see that the handle of the door leading from the porch to the study was turning. I know she has the alarm on, he thought. Someone must have tampered with it!

  A figure wearing a ski mask and a dark sweatsuit stepped into the study. In a quick, furtive move, the intruder got behind the club chair in which Emily always sat and dropped to his knees. As Eric watched, the masked man took a piece of material from his pocket, held it in both hands and pulled it taut, as if testing it.

  Emily came back into the study carrying a book, settled down in the club chair, and began to read.

  The intruder did not move.

  “He’s enjoying this,” Eric whispered to himself. “He doesn’t want it to be over too soon. I understand. I understand.”

  eighty-five ________________

  TOMMY DUGGAN AND PETE WALSH WERE still in the office at 8:30 on Saturday evening. Bob Frieze had steadfastly refused to answer any questions about his whereabouts on Thursday afternoon and evening, and now, claiming chest pains, he had been admitted to the Monmouth Hospital for observation.

  “He’s stalling until he can get a story together that will hold up in court,” Tommy told Pete. “There are a couple of ways this could play out. One is Frieze is the serial killer and is responsible for the deaths of Martha Lawrence, Carla Harper, Dr. Madden, Mrs. Joyce, and his wife, Natalie. Two is he may have killed his wife but not the others. And, of course, there is a third possibility—that he is innocent of all these deaths.”

  “You’re worried that the third piece of scarf is still missing,” Pete said.

  “You bet I am. Why do I have a feeling that Natalie Frieze’s murder was a ploy to trick us into thinking that the killer had completed the cycle?”

  “Unless, of course, Natalie’s murder was the result of a quarrel between husband and wife, disguised to look like one of the serial murders. That would point toward Bob Frieze as a suspect but would take it out of the serial killer loop.”

  “Which also means that another young woman may die in Spring Lake tonight. But who? I checked a short while ago—no one has been reported missing. Let’s call it a day. It’s getting late, and we can’t accomplish anything more here,” Tommy said.

  “Well, something was accomplished. While we were at the crime scene, Wilcox called and allowed our guys to wire him. We’ve got Gina Fielding on tape, trying to extort money from him.”

  “And now his guilty secret will be featured in The National Daily the day after tomorrow. I still say he was trying to get one jump ahead of us by agreeing to implicate her. In a way, it makes him sympathetic. But I still don’t trust him. And so far as I’m concerned, he’s still very much in the running as a suspect.”

  They started to leave when Pete said, “Wait a minute,” and pointed to an envelope on Tommy’s desk. “We never did drop this enlarged photo at Emily Graham’s like we promised.”

  “Take it with you and run it over tomorrow morning.”

  As Pete picked up the envelope, the telephone rang. It was the Spring Lake police, relaying the message that Emily Graham’s stalker had been identified and was believed to be somewhere in town.

  On hearing the news, Tommy said, “On second thought, maybe we’ll drop that photo off tonight.”

  eighty-six ________________

  EMILY HAD HER CELL PHONE in her pocket, a habit she had developed since the picture of her in church was slipped under the door last Sunday. She reached for it now, hoping that her grandmother hadn’t turned in early and shut off the phone. She had been reading the final diary of Julia Gordon Lawrence that had been included in the material the Lawrences had loaned her, and she had a question about it she hoped her grandmother could help answer.

  She had read earlier that Richard Carter’s second wife gave birth to a baby girl in 1900. In relation to that, an entry in 1911 puzzled her. In it Julia had written: “I have heard from Lavinia. She writes that she is very happy to be home in Denver. After a year, her little daughter has quite recovered from the loss of her father and is flourishing. Lavinia herself confesses to being tremendously relieved. In fact she was rather astonishingly frank when she took pen to paper. She writes that Douglas had a deep well of coldness within him, and at times she was quite frightened of him. She feels that it was a blessing that his death released her from that marriage and has given her child a chance to grow up in a more congenial and warm atmosphere.”

  Emily put down the diary and snapped open the cell phone. Her grandmother answered with a quick hello, a sure sign that she was watching television and wasn’t thrilled to get a call.

  “Gran,” Emily said. “I have something I have to read to you because it simply doesn’t make sense.”

  “All right, dear.”

  Emily explained the entry and read it to her. “Why would she refer to him as Douglas when his name was Richard?”

  “Oh, I can tell you that. His name was Douglas Richard, but in those days it was common to call a man by his middle name if he had the same name as his father. Madeline’s fiancé was actually Douglas Richard III. I understand the father was a very handsome man.”

  “He was a handsome man, with an invalid wife, and she was the one who had the money. Gran, you’ve been a great help. I know you were watching television, so go back to it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Emily clicked off the phone. “It wasn’t young Douglas who was the killer,” she said aloud. “It wasn’t his cousin Alan Carter either. It was his father. And when he died, his wife and daughter moved to Denver.”

  Denver! Suddenly she saw the connection.

  “Will Stafford was raised in Denver! His mother lived in Denver!” she said aloud.

  Emily suddenly felt a shadowy presence hovering over her and froze in stunned terror as she heard a voice whisper in her ear.

  “That’s right, Emily,” Will Stafford said. “I was raised in Denver.”

  Before she could make a move, Emily felt her arms being pinned to her sides. She tried to struggle to her feet, but a rope was quickly looped around her chest, holding her to the back of the chair.

  Moving with lightning-swift efficiency, Stafford was on his knees before her, tying her feet and legs.

  She forced herself not to scream. It would be useless, she realize
d, and he might decide to put tape over her mouth. Make him talk to you, an inner voice whispered, keep him talking! The police do have the house under surveillance. Maybe they’ll ring the bell, she thought, and when they don’t get an answer, they’ll force their way in.

  He stood up. Pulled the ski mask off his face. Unzipped his jacket. Stepped out of the baggy ski pants.

  Underneath his outer layer of clothing, Will Stafford was wearing a very old-fashioned high-collared shirt and string tie. The wide lapels of his turn-of-the-century dark blue suit accentuated his stiffly starched white shirt. His hair was combed in an uncharacteristic side part and brushed tightly across the top of his head. It was also somewhat darker than his natural color, as were his eyebrows.

  Then Emily noted with a start that he had painted a narrow mustache above his upper lip.

  “May I introduce myself, Miss Graham?” he asked with a short, formal bow. “I am Douglas Richard Carter.”

  Don’t panic, Emily warned herself. It’s all over if you panic. The longer you can stay alive, the better chance you have that the police will check on you.

  “I am very pleased to meet you,” she said, struggling to mask her terror, managing to speak through lips almost too dry to form the words.

  “You do know, of course, that you must die? Ellen Swain has been waiting for you to join her in her grave.”

  His voice is different too, Emily thought. The words are more precise, clipped almost. It sounds as if he has a slight British accent. Reason with him, she ordered herself fiercely.

  “But Natalie Frieze is with Ellen,” she managed to say. “The cycle is complete.”

  “Natalie was never meant to be with Ellen.” His tone was impatient. “It was always you. Ellen is interred near the lake. The drawing I sent showing Natalie’s tombstone next to Ellen’s was meant to mislead. They are not together. But you will sleep with Ellen soon.”