Rizzo kicked the door open, then reached for the light switch.
For the rest of his life, Kate’s scream would haunt his dreams.
35
Like Handley and Uncle Tony, she’d been stripped naked, and was seated. On a card-table chair. Her legs and arms bound with surgical tape. One hand was clutching an open bottle of Excedrin. They could see that at least a third of the pills were missing.
The other hand was positioned on her lap, its thumb taped beneath the four fingers.
Kate stopped screaming. She was staring at her lover as though a huge practical joke was being perpetrated on her and, if she just waited, Song would wink and say, “Gotcha!”
Rizzo studied the rigid corpse. Song’s body was perfect, not an ounce of fat anywhere, he noticed. Her breasts were perfectly formed, the nipples hard with the caress of rigor mortis. No visible signs of trauma—only the look of surprise on the good doctor’s face seemed out of kilter with what otherwise could have been mistaken for a model posing nude for a painter.
The sonofabitch who had done this to her was painting with human lives.
Kate hadn’t moved, not backwards, not forwards. Rizzo could see she was in shock. “Let me handle this,” he said, taking her by the elbow and backing her toward the door.
With a wrenching effort, Kate snapped out of it and turned her head toward him. “Take your hand off me,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“If you’re fine,” he said. “You’re superhuman.”
“Why her? Who would do this to Song?” Kate sobbed. “She never hurt a fly in her life.”
“My guess is that it had nothing to do with her at all,” Rizzo said, reaching for his cell phone. His nose wrinkled at a familiar scent.
Kate detected it too.
“Burnt almonds,” Rizzo said.
“Cyanide?” Kate guessed.
Rizzo nodded as he speed-dialed.
Then Kate pointed to something else, the shelf to the right of Song’s body.
It was filled with boxes and boxes of blue and green surgical booties.
Δ
For the rest of the day, the entire squad was turned on its ear. Kate’s devastation ignited a slow burn that would not cool until Androg was brought to justice. Cody had tried to send her home, to get her a prescription for valium. She’d refused both.
“Don’t you realize I’d go crazy if I went home?” she said. “Don’t do that to me. I’m staying here. I’m working the case.”
“You know you can’t work the case, Kate. It’s not in your job description. It’d be counterproductive, to say the least. You observe cases, remember?”
“I’m staying here and doing my job,” Kate insisted.
While they awaited Wolfsheim’s autopsy results, no one doubted for an instant Larry Simon’s preliminary analysis that they were dealing with the same psychotic killer who had offed Raymond Handley and Uncle Tony: all three victims ended their lives in a sitting position, all were in their death seats between twelve and one o’clock a.m., none of them seemed to have any connection to the others. “And I’m betting that the cause of death will not be the obvious one,” Larry added. “It won’t be ‘Excedrin laced with cyanide.’”
Simon’s head was focused on the photo showing Song’s thumb taped under her four fingers. “It’s a message from the perp,” he concluded firmly. “He’s warning us that Number Four is about to happen. Maybe even giving us a hint about how it will happen or who it will happen to. If anyone can figure it out, you can,” Simon said. “What are your thoughts?”
“What I think is that it may be something else,” Cody said. “Maybe it’s already happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe she was Number Four.”
36
Tuesday, October 30
The call to Stinelli had not gone well, and Cody threw his empty coffee cup against the wall. Even with three investigations going, his attempt to beg off the Ball tonight had been stonewalled.
“Sometimes politics takes precedence over procedure,” Lou asserted. “I know you’re up to your eyeballs, but believe me it’ll be a much bigger problem if you don’t show up.”
“Why?” Cody wanted to know.
“Because, for one thing Goddamit, your pal Ward Hamilton is going to be there, and that damned Clue prize he received has gotten the whole town talking about his next project, which is you! If you don’t show, he’ll smell fear. And blood—yours. There’ll be no hope of containing the meltdown, and holding him back till you’ve caught this maniac Androg.”
Cody knew his goose was cooked. He had no choice but to join those who were fiddling while Rome was burning.
“In that case, Chief,” Cody said, “I guess I’d better take a nap. I haven’t been home for forty-eight hours.”
Stinelli’s grunt was how he terminated the call.
Δ
Feeling way more uncomfortable in a tuxedo than Bruce Wayne could ever imagine, Cody walked up the stairs to Amelie Cluett’s apartment. A glance at Handley’s door made him even more uncomfortable. He’d spent the afternoon listening to TAZ report that nothing new had been found to throw light on Raymond’s death and Bergman was getting nowhere with the Venezia interviews.
Instead of riding whip on the group, Cody was dressed in a monkey suit and going to the fairytale ball as though the grim realities of his day to day job had been whistled irrelevant.
But there she was, opening the door before he could knock or ring: tastefully stunning in a midnight blue silk dress, faux diamonds around the hem, excited to see him looking ruggedly dashing.
Amelie did a little girl’s twirl, to show off the dress—and to waft a delicately tantalizing perfume in his direction. “How do I look?”
“You look…” Cody took the time for a full detective’s perusal. “Edible.”
“A man of many words,” Amelie giggled. “You don’t look too bad yourself. Please come in for an aperitif.” Then she caught herself. “I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t drink. Haven’t gotten around to it, I mean.” She confused herself into a blush that only accented her finely-chiseled features.
“That’s not it,” he said. “It’s just that this is an official function.”
“You can’t be going to a ball ‘on duty,’” she replied, disappointed.
“Believe me, I can,” he said. “It’s about the only way you could drag me there.”
“So that makes me, what, official volunteer arm candy?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. She reached for her clutch. “Okay, officer, lead the way.” She offered her hand.
And Cody took her hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
Δ
En route to Gracie Mansion, Amelie quickly realized small talk wasn’t happening. “Spill the beans,” she said. “What’s on your mind? Or are you always this silent on a second date.”
Cody laughed. Is that what this was? Well, if so it didn’t feel that bad.
But she was insistent, and somehow he wanted this one to start out differently. So he swore her to secrecy and told her about Uncle Tony and Song Wiley and TAZ’s belief that they were both murdered by the same killer who ended her neighbor Raymond’s life. How there was no logical sequence, no geographical location in common—other than they were all in Manhattan. The victims weren’t connected in any obvious way and there were no definitive clues.
“There’s something all these killings have in common besides the confusing ways of death and we’re missing it,” Wolf had said. Either something the killer left behind or something the perp took from each of the victims.
“And he’s right,” Cody told her. “Androg is screwing with us. All we have to go on is the Number Four.”
“Four?” she asked. “I thought you had three victims.”
“Yeah, unless there’s one we haven’t heard from yet. That’s what I think.” At the mention of each name he had to stop and parse the list of players for her. He was impressed that she
could follow his report at all, but it seemed to come easily to her.
“I’m a good listener,” she said, as though reading his mind. “The better my hands work, the more I hear,” she added in a teasing tone of voice.
Δ
The chemistry with Amelie was on fast track, and Cody found himself surprised that he was doing nothing to curtail it. He couldn’t afford this distraction right now, could he? Nonetheless he couldn’t take his eyes off her and noticed with satisfaction and—was it pride?—that other men in the mayor’s crowded ballroom couldn’t either.
At one point the electricity arcing between them got so intense that Amelie grabbed his drink, set it down, then took his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor just as the band struck up a sentimental version of “My Funny Valentine.”
Cody fumbled for the right moves, but Amelie moved for him, slipping into his arms as though she were meant to be there and guiding his right hand to the naked small of her back. He felt her pressing against him, and realized he wanted to be fully in this moment even though professionally he clearly needed to be somewhere, anywhere, else: the Loft, Raymond’s apartment, the Venezia, Bellevue, the morgue.
Amelie sensed his hesitation, but was determined to ignore it as she finessed him into leading her around the floor. He was beginning to respond to her one step at a time, but, just as she pressed the issue by resting her head on Cody’s chest, the cavalry arrived in the persons of Lou and Valerie Stinelli.
“There you are!” Lou’s voice boomed to break the spell. “Glad to see you could make it,” he added.
Cody flinched, as if caught playing hooky. He pulled back from Amelie, causing her to frown.
“You remember my wife Valerie,” he said, eying Amelie with interest and approval.
“Of course,” Cody said, taking Mrs. Stinelli’s hand and squeezing it. “Let me introduce you to Amelie Cluett. Amelie, this is Chief Lou Stinelli and his wife.”
Amelie greeted them warmly.
“Have you met the Taylors?” Stinelli’s gesture took in the three attractive young socialites who had materialized at their side. “They’re sisters,” Lou explained, “Margaret, Anne, and Clay. Their parents sponsor the Ball every year.”
The Taylor sisters smiled brightly.
“They’re environmental attorneys,” Lou added. “I call them Earth, Wind, and Fire.”
As the young ladies assessed Cody, Stinelli noticed Amelie taking Cody’s hand territorially in hers. The Chief signaled his approval by putting his arm around her. “Watch out for this guy,” he told her. “Down deep, he’s a real wolf.”
Thanks to her encounter with David Runningfox, Amelie got the joke and laughed.
“Anything new on Androg?” Stinelli asked Cody, as the ladies chirped their greetings to one another.
Cody let him know about Larry Simon’s interpretation of the four fingers message. Stinelli looked thoughtful.
“Sorry to read about your friend Steamroller Jackson,” came a voice behind them that made Cody bridle. They turned around to see it belonged to Ward Hamilton, looking unusually dapper in his new tuxedo, Victoria in hand.
“How did you know we were pals?” Stinelli asked the writer.
“That was a long time ago,” Valerie said. To her husband she added, “And you weren’t that close.”
“You know me, Chief,” Hamilton said. “I pay attention to details,” making sure Cody heard the comment. Hamilton flashed a Cheshire cat grin that made Cody’s blood boil. “Long time no see,” he winked at Cody.
Something about the whole thing bothered the hell out of Cody. Stinelli walked away without replying, leaving him and Amelie with the whipdick writer and his society moll. The pair had in tow a tall, striking, thirty-something woman with dark blue eyes.
“Meet Captain of Detectives Micah Cody,” Hamilton said with a singsong lilt in his voice, and purposefully mispronouncing Cody’s first name. “The detective here will be needing some good P.R.,” he said. “Patricia here is a P.R. consultant.”
Cody’s nose wrinkled at the whiff of strong cologne that assaulted him as Hamilton doubled over in a ridiculous laugh.
Patricia Robert’s card materialized out of nowhere, and landed in Cody’s vest pocket. Cody could see that the woman’s pixie smile and innocent wide eyes hid a clever and intelligent mind. He wondered what the hell she was doing in the company of the decadent duo.
Victoria was dressed in a red silk Versace pantsuit, and wore a thin pink ribbon around her flawless neck.
“Nice touch,” Amelie said to her, admiring her neck, and noticing the heart tattooed at its base. That must have hurt, she thought. It’s directly on top of the disc!
Victoria responded to the comment with an icy smile.
Hamilton stared Cody down. “A little birdie told me you’ve been a very busy boy—yet another fish on the line. You won’t want to miss the last installment in my homicide series,” Hamilton added.
“I’d love to know where you find your little birdies,” Cody said. Once they stopped Androg, ferreting out leaks would be his top priority. It had to be Stinelli’s office. He trusted his own troops one hundred percent. If Cody had his way, he wouldn’t report to anyone until a case was closed.
Victoria threw down her own superfluous challenge. “You should never underestimate the past, detective. It always comes back to bite you.”
When Cody turned away to keep from decking them both, Amelie, who had observed the exchange with growing irritation, handed Victoria her card. “Judging from those neck muscles,” she said. “You’re as tight as a fist. Give me a call sometime and I’ll work you in.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” Victoria pushed back the card as if it contained germs. “Ward and I find our own ways of relaxing.”
“Those two give me the creeps,” Amelie said, as she caught up with Cody and reached for his hand.
Cody noticed the gooseflesh on her arm. “They are the creeps,” he quipped. “Let’s finish that dance.”
Δ
The three of them watched Cody and Amelie walk away. “Nice ass,” Victoria commented, admiring Cody’s build.
“Nice asses,” Hamilton said, eying Amelie’s.
“I’m really turned on just talking about it,” Victoria said, matter-of-factly.
“Me too,” said Hamilton. “How about you, Patricia?”
“…Uh… Uh-huh.”
“I think I’m up for a standup Dutch fuck,” Victoria added.
“Excellent,” he answered. “Let’s drink to that.”
“Okay, you got me. What’s a standing Dutch fuck?” asked Patricia, toasting her champagne glass against theirs.
“Well, we stand up and take turns inhaling into each other’s mouths and do whatever turns us on while we’re inhaling. We do three inhale-exhales each. Want to join us?”
“Why the hell not?” Patricia said, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Tomorrow’s a business day—but business is slow.”
37
“Maybe this Androg practiced before he killed,” Amelie told Cody. They were en route back to her apartment after stopping for a bite. “That could be why the murders are so perfect. Maybe that’s why he skipped a number? To point you backward to find it.”
“I’m not sure. Somehow I don’t think the practice murder was Number One. I can’t fit the two-year gap into the puzzle. Handley was Number One, Uncle Tony Number Two, and if Dr. Wiley was Number Four, we haven’t figured out Number Three yet.”
Amelie shivered. “Great job you have,” she said.
“Somebody has to do it,” Cody responded.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, both lost in thought. Once they reached her place, Cody parked the SUV in a no-parking zone, relying on his police plate to protect it from bounty towers.
He knew she’d feel better if he escorted her to her door and had to admit he was pleased when she invited him in.
At the look on his face as he considered the offe
r, she said, “Don’t worry. I’m not asking you to tuck me in or anything.”
He chose the brightly striped Scandinavian chair in her living room rather than the couch, and she pretended she thought nothing of it as she headed for the kitchen and returned with a small glass filled with golden amber liquid.
“You sip this,” she handed it to him. “It’s my favorite after-dinner wine. It’s called ‘ice wine’ because it’s made from the grapes bitten by the first frost. You’ll love it.”
“What about you?” he asked her, accepting the glass.
“I did you a favor, now I’m going to ask you to do me a favor.”
“What do you need?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. Take the time to enjoy your first drink.” With that, she headed into what he guessed was her bedroom.
Surprised at how piercingly sweet and pleasant the wine was, Cody surveyed the apartment, his mind for the moment miles away from the Loft and its homicidal horrors. He remembered how cozy Amelie’s place had felt when he first entered what already seemed like ages ago.
Before he could analyze his thoughts, she reappeared before him. She’d slipped into something more comfortable—but not at all the usual. She was wearing what looked like surgical scrubs. Then he realized it was her masseuse uniform.
She took his hand, and led him across the room. “Come into my parlor,” she said. “I can’t stand seeing so much tension in your neck. It’s time for that massage I promised you.”
The wine had its admittedly pleasing effect on him, and he didn’t even feel like protesting. She modestly retreated while he slipped out of his clothes and climbed on the table, beneath the waiting towel.
Cody couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a massage. Somehow it didn’t fit with the routine of a NYPD homicide detective, though a few minutes into it he realized he should order every member of TAZ to have one once a week, whether they wanted to or not. He could imagine the kind of ribbing he’d get for that.
Amelie’s hands were soft and gentle and very, very strong. They were demanding hands, hands that knew their way around a man’s body and how and where to find the knots. She was very thorough, and very sensual. But she stopped short of crossing the line. When she told him to turn over, Cody found himself embarrassed by the incipient erection she’d caused. “That’s okay,” he said. “Let’s skip the rest. This is more pleasure than I should be allowing myself right now. Rain check?”