Bleeders Page 9
A flash of rage blinded Lassiter. How dare this idiot interrupt him when he was trying to concentrate. Lassiter imagined grabbing him by his ears and smashing his face through the glass countertop, stirring his head through the broken shards, severing the jugular and carotid and slitting his throat, watching his blood slosh over all the pretty neckties. Lassiter would then peer through the front of the case and take in what he’d made, a grand-guignol haberdashery aquarium.
The clerk’s brows slanted back with concern. “Sir, is something wrong?”
Lassiter’s voice was a harsh growl. “I thought we agreed that I would call you if I wanted help.”
The man’s face went pale. Lassiter could only imagine how terrifying he looked and immediately relaxed his expression. “I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“Quite all right, sir. I didn’t mean to harass you.” The nervous clerk started inching away.
“You see,” Lassiter said, holding him there, “my uncle died yesterday. He’d been sick for some time. Anyway, my aunt—his wife—asked me to pick out a tie for him. It’ll be an open casket. We were close—he was my godfather—and for some reason, looking at the ties brought back a flood of memories. He was very particular about his ties. I’m sorry for being so rude.”
“That’s quite all right, sir. I’m sorry for your loss.” The clerk seemed relieved to hear an innocent explanation. “Take all the time you need. I won’t disturb you.”
Lassiter pressed his lips together and nodded with false gratitude. “Thank you.”
The clerk departed, walking quickly, hips forward, as if he had something clenched in his butt. Lassiter would be surprised if he came back. But Lassiter didn’t care about him. He had to find a bleeder.
He scanned the cosmetics counters and spotted an old woman with poufy gray hair, walking slowly with a metal cane. No good, he thought. It wasn’t her age that turned him off; the logistics were just too difficult. He’d never seduced one that old, and he had a feeling she wouldn’t react to his attentions. Besides she moved slowly. It would take forever to get back to her place, and he couldn’t wait that long. He’d go crazy. Crazy vicious. That had happened once. The school teacher in New Haven, the ditzy slow poke. She’d annoyed him so much, he beat her with a table leg and left her face a bloody mash. His behavior had scared him. He vowed never to let himself get that way again.
Two blondes in their fifties came through the front doors, jabbering and giggling with wide eyes and pointing fingers. The smaller one wore jeans and white sneakers. Her friend wore a khaki shirtdress and navy-blue espadrilles. They were obviously tourists who’d wandered up Fifth Avenue after a Wednesday matinee on Broadway. Lassiter sized them up. They were the right age—young enough to still want romance, old enough to be thinking it might not ever happen again. Probably gullible enough to be seduced. But the problem was that they were together. He’d never done two at one time, and that seemed risky. What if one got away? And even if he could separate them and do just one, where would he do it? The woman’s Times Square hotel room? A chambermaid could walk in on them. Other guests might hear because there’s no telling how much of a fuss a woman will put up.
Forget it, he thought, disgruntled with the poor pickings here. He had to try somewhere else. Maybe the Oak Room at the Plaza.
He started toward the doors, walking through the aisles of women’s accessories—scarves, bags, stockings—and that’s when he spotted a familiar face at a leather goods counter. Ginger Wexler, slightly stocky but by no means fat, shoulder-length light brown hair, blue eyes, pleasant but bland face with the hooded eyelids of privilege. An Orchid Club member. A widow who had inherited her husband’s importing business when he died unexpectedly in his early fifties. She was also one of Lassiter’s clients, one of the ones who liked to flirt with him. And she didn’t have any children or any close relatives. He knew that because she’d made him executor of her will. Losing her as a client would actually be a boon to his business. He could skim off her estate, which he’d done with many of his clients. It wasn’t as lucrative as the insider-trading deals, but it was a solid, though not always predictable, revenue stream. He slowed down and watched her sign a credit card slip. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. She was perfect. A sacrificial lamb chained to a stake in the deep dark woods.
A female clerk handed Ginger a small Bergdorf’s bag. Lassiter didn’t hesitate, striding forward with long purposeful steps. “Ginger,” he said as if he’d just noticed her. “How are you?”
She turned toward him, prepared to be annoyed with the intrusion, but when she saw who it was, her face blossomed like a pansy in the sun.
“Gene!” she said with a husky, former smoker’s voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d pick up some ties, but I didn’t see anything I liked. How’s the new place? Are you settled in yet?” She’d recently bought a triplex in 25 Columbus Circle, a deluxe high-rise condo complex overlooking the park.
“Yes, finally. I swear I will never move again.”
“Oh, everybody says that.”
“I suppose.”
They both laughed, keeping it light, but he could feel her eyes assessing him. Like so many women at the Orchid Club, they saw him as an unattainable object of desire but also a private flirt buddy. They all feared that they’d embarrass themselves coming on to a man so much younger, knowing full well the possibility of rejection, but they were all clients and he worked for them, so they exercised their right to flirt and enjoy his attentions.
“Do you have time for coffee?” he asked. “It seems like I haven’t talked to you in forever.”
She looked at her watch as if she wasn’t sure she could make time, but he knew better. Typical rich-person behavior. There’s nothing they have to do, but they never seem to have time for anything. “For you I have time, Gene.”
“Good. Where shall we go? You must have found some nice places in the neighborhood.”
“Why don’t you come up to see the new place and I’ll make coffee?” She fluffed her bangs, and he noticed that her lids were a bit more hooded than before. Such a sly little fox.
“I’d love to see your place,” he said. “And your Tiffany glass collection. Have you bought anything new lately?”
“I did buy a matching pair of peony table lamps that belonged to the Astor family. Very unusual.”
“Really. I’d love to see them. The craftsmanship on those old stain-glassed lamps is amazing.”
In fact, he had no interest in antiques. He preferred contemporary décor. But he knew how to fake it.
“We can walk,” she said. “It’s just a few blocks. And it’s such a nice day.”
“Indeed it is.”
They walked through the aisles and out into the sunshine and the bustle on Fifth Avenue. The grand fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel was up ahead on the right. Water spouted from the base of a tall pedestal where a brass statue of a naked goddess stood. The water cascaded to a large bowl, sending a rainbow mist into the air. He took a deep breath. His senses were razor sharp. He could almost relax, knowing that what he needed was coming soon.
“This way,” Ginger said, turning left onto 59th Street.
Lassiter smiled at her and she smiled back as they walked side-by-side. He felt good.
Chapter 7
The door to what used to be Natalie’s bedroom was ajar. Trisha sat on the bed, staring out the window at the woods at the edge of the lawn. A gentle knock pulled her out of her thoughts, her sister standing in the doorway.
“You coming down for coffee?” Cindy asked.
Trisha nodded. “Yeah. In a minute.”
“Okay.” But Cindy lingered. “Things seem to be going well with you and Dad.”
“If not talking about things is doing well.”
“It’s better than silence.”
“I suppose.”
“You might not believe it, but he is making a effort. In his Dad way.”
“I know. It’s just… hard.”
“These things take time, and frankly you’re both stubborn as hell. He softens a little, you soften a little, eventually the barriers will melt. Just give it a chance, Trisha. Give him a chance.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”
“Come on, you’re going back to the city tonight. Leave on a good note.”
“You’re right. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be right down.”
Cindy shut the door part way and left.
Trisha ran her hand over the comforter, imagining all the blood. Lilac sheets stained red. The bed was made and had a different comforter now—a watery blue geometric wave pattern. And it wasn’t the same bed—the police had taken that away as evidence—but it was in the same position surrounded by three bay windows.
Trisha had been to her mother’s grave only three times in the years since she’d died, but she came here to this room whenever she visited her father. And even though her relationship with him had been strained almost to the breaking point, she always came here to see him so that she could come to this room, pay her respects, and renew her pledge to find serial killers and save lives.
She looked down at the stage in the backyard, which had been maintained over the years but was seldom used. After that big summer party, her father had cooled it with the rock’n’roll bashes. He only hosted fundraisers for his charity these days, and they were always sedate affairs. If he sang at all, it was just him alone, voice and guitar, and never on that stage. She didn’t blame him for avoiding it because she felt the same way. The county medical examiner had estimated that she and her father had been performing around the time when the killer struck.
Trisha’s stomach lurched, and she closed her eyes until it settled. She remembered seeing her mother dead in this room, her face as pale as the moon. The monster who killed her had dipped his index and middle fingers in her blood and smeared two parallel lines on her left cheek. No one ever figured out what that was supposed mean or if it meant anything at all. Was he marking her as a Native American princess? His Pocahontas? Was it a deliberate act, or was it just an accident? She’d spent hundreds of sleepless hours, pondering the “Indian stripes.”
A framed photograph sat on one of the night tables. It was a copy of the same photo that had been there the day her mother died. The original was also stored as evidence somewhere in a state police warehouse in Albany to preserve the blood spatter evidence. Finding the exact same oak frame had been her idea. After the funeral Trisha had gone a little crazy, insisting that the room be restored exactly the way it had been. She wanted it to be a shrine to her mother’s memory. She had fought bitterly with her father over this, but for once the headstrong Michael McCleery gave in and let her have her way. He had been too devastated by the loss of his wife to put up a fight.
But looking at this photo now brought on the paralyzing fear that sometimes gripped her like a demon’s fist. It was a family photo—her parents, her sister, and her—the Christmas before the cancer had started to do serious damage.
About a year after the funeral, Rolling Stone ran an interview with Trisha’s father in which he was quoted as saying his wife’s murder saved her from a painful protracted death from her illness and that she had talked to him about assisted suicide. Trisha was furious when she read that, and she immediately called him to find out if he’d actually said these things. He told her the interview was accurate. She screamed at him over the phone, said it wasn’t true, that her mother would never have considered suicide, and it was horrible to suggest that dying the way she did was better than dying from breast cancer. He defended himself and told her she had no right to tell him what to think. That was the beginning of the Big Freeze. She didn’t speak to him for almost two years after that phone call, and even when they supposedly reconciled, it was never the same between them.
Trisha stared at the photograph. She and her mother looked so much alike in that picture, it terrified her. Would the killer have attacked Trisha if he’d found her first that day? Perhaps he was really looking for her and settled for her mother. Or maybe she was just an easy target, too weak to fight back. Trisha’s biggest fear in life was that someday a serial killer would come out of the shadows and mutilate her. It had happened to her mother; it could happen to her.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she jumped.
“McCleery,” she said, her heart pounding, expecting news of another Drac attack.
“Trisha.” It was Cindy, whispering. “Are you coming down or not? Coffee’s ready, and Dad’s in the living room waiting.”
“I’m—” Trisha cleared her throat. “I’m coming.” She hung up, got off the bed, and rotated her head on tense shoulders, willing herself to get it together.
She took the grand staircase down to the living room. Her sister and father were on a nubby cocoa-brown L-shaped sofa in front a massive yellow-oak coffee table, six feet long and five inches thick, the bark still on the sides. One of her father’s many vintage guitars—a sunburst Gibson jumbo—was propped on the end of the sofa like a silent guest. Cindy and her father sat in the corner of the L as Cindy poured coffee from a stainless steel carafe into three white porcelain mugs. The matching creamer and sugar bowl sat next to a plate of assorted biscotti.
Trisha’s father smiled up at her as she came down the steps, but as usual it was a tight smile, and hers was the same. Michael McCleery was a tall, rangy man who’s body hadn’t changed much since he was a superstar in the 1970s, though his face was deeply lined, the folds encroaching on his button-sized eyes. His hair was much shorter than the shaggy mop he’d worn in the old days, and it was mostly gray.
“We were wondering where you went,” he said.
Trisha stiffened. She took his statement as criticism because he knew damn well where she was. It was where she always went when she came here.
“You look rested,” he said. “The country agrees with you.”
She held her tongue. What did he mean by that? she wondered. That urban law enforcement was taking its toll on her looks? That she should quit her job and move out to the sticks?
Stop, she told herself. She was acting like a moody teenager. It was ridiculous to be holding onto this kind of resentment at her age. She wanted to fix things between them. But she didn’t know where to start. Sometimes it was as if they spoke different languages.
“You haven’t told me what’s new with you,” he said as she took a seat next to her sister.
“Not much. Same old same old.”
He always asked “what’s new?” and to her it was a loaded question. If she told the truth, it would just spotlight his disapproval. He didn’t think much of her career choice so she avoided telling him about work. He wanted her to have a stable relationship with someone—not that she didn’t want that, too—but she had nothing to report. Talking about music was another minefield since he was absolutely convinced that she had the talent and songwriting ability to make it in the music business—an opinion she didn’t share. She had a pretty good voice, she’d admit that, but she had little experience as a performer and her songwriting skills were hit and miss—mostly miss. Besides, she hadn’t done anything with her music since her mother died. What was the point? Her heart just wasn’t in it.
An awkward silence fell over them like a thick fog. Trisha gazed around room. The many musical instruments that used to hang from the walls were long gone. Only the red piano, a pair of guitars, and a mandolin were left from the old days. Her father had sold off most of his instruments and kept the best ones in his studio downstairs. The walls were now covered with large photographs of laughing and smiling children from around the world. They clearly weren’t privileged k
ids, but her father detested the kind of cliché photos most charities used to elicit donations, shots of sick and hungry children staring pitifully into the camera with flies in their oversized pleading eyes. He liked to see happy kids to show him what his goal was—to pull all children everywhere out of poverty.
Cindy, who was good at steering through tense situations, spoke up. “Trisha met Gene Lassiter recently. I think they’re going to be having dinner soon.” She slid a mug of coffee toward Trisha.
Trisha looked daggers at her. Thanks a lot, Cindy.
But she knew this was Cindy’s attempt to throw their father a bone. He loved Gene Lassiter because Gene had doubled his music fortune, enabling him to donate money to worthy causes all over the world. As far as her father was concerned, Gene could do no wrong.
Michael’s tiny eyes twinkled. “Gene’s a good man. He’s certainly done right by me.”
“He seems nice,” Trisha said, trying to stay noncommittal. “I mean, we’re not dating or anything.”
At least not yet, she thought.
But it felt a little strange thinking that. She’d been trying Gene Lassiter on like a new outfit all week, not pining for him, God knows, but considering him, him with her, holding him up to the mirror to see how he might fit into her life. She knew it was the equivalent of writing his name a thousand times in the back of her notebook in middle school, and that embarrassed her, but if she’d learned anything being a profiler, she knew that people felt the way they felt, and it usually defied logic, reasoning, and best interests.
“We just got some incredibly good news,” Cindy said, turning to Trisha as she took a chocolate biscotti from the plate. “Dad has been invited to speak at the U.N.”
“Get out.” Trisha was genuinely wowed. “When?”
“The end of June,” her father said. “Bono will be speaking, too. And Bill Clinton. And Bill and Melinda Gates. It’s a conference on world poverty.”