A Cruel Season for Dying (18 page)

What Zoe liked best about having sex with him was that she didn’t have to fake an orgasm. Of course, she never had to fake
an orgasm. She could come at will. But sometimes she just didn’t want to. Depending on her partner. But with him, she always
came. In multiples.

Why this was so, she never really analyzed. He wasn’t the best-looking man she’d ever slept with, or the best lover. She’d
had better in both departments. But if she’d had to pin it down, it was that he just damn loved screwing her. She still giggled
remembering the story he’d
told her of how his uncle Vito would treat him to an ice-cream sundae every Saturday when he was growing up. He’d dreamed
of putting that first spoonful in his mouth all week. He said she was like that ice-cream sundae.

She rode him now. Her fingers cupping her breasts. Her long legs astride him, bearing in. A smile opening her mouth so that
her white teeth showed bright and perfect. She bent over, her hair falling like a veil, to lick his closed lids.

He twisted his head to the side and moaned, “Oh, baby …”

“You’re sweating like a pig, honey.”

“Shhh …”

She lifted up, angling her hips, grinding him in deeper.

“Yessss …” He exploded and she laughed in pure joy. Better than her own orgasm was watching his.

She lay with her head on his chest, circling his nipple with the tip of her tongue. He tasted salty, and his heart lumbered
against her ear.

“Did you come?” he asked, rubbing his fingers in her hair.

“Why do men always ask that?”

He grunted.

She lifted up, her hazel eyes half lidded. “What’s up?”

“What?” He rolled over onto his stomach.

“What’s up with Pinot?”

“Same shit.”

“After waiting so long, you’d have figured he’d be more particular,” she said. “Pinot was a street punk.”

He turned over. “Obviously, social background ain’t part of our killer’s agenda.”

“So what did he look like?”

“Who?”

“Pinot.”

“The little whore looked just like the pretty dancer, the sweet gallery owner, and the darling model.”

“You’re nasty. So politically incorrect.”

“Crap.”

“I like you in spite of your flaws.” She stretched up to kiss him. “Did he do the same thing to the body?”

“Same damn thing.” He sat up, rolled his legs over the side of the bed. “Every time I go to one of these scenes, I feel like
I’ve been to Catholic benediction with Mama Rosa.”

“Catholic benediction?”

“The asshole burns incense. Uses it to write mumbo jumbo on the walls. Doodle on the victims’ chests.”

“Interesting …”

“You got anything to drink in that refrigerator, Zoe, besides fancy water?”

“Johnny Rozelli, I pegged you for a Perrier man.”

W
illie French had been up before six
A
.
M
., swilling coffee, searching for something unrumpled from her partially unpacked wardrobe. She had taken a taxi to Police
Plaza, arriving early for introductions to the members of Sakura’s regular unit.

She sat with his team now, in the first row of chairs set up in the eleventh-floor operations room, where blowups of the victims
and crime scene photos decorated the walls. This morning’s meeting had gathered a majority of the task force members, most
of whom had never worked a serial case. Despite the popularization of profiling in the media, it was not a process that was
well understood. Hardened homicide cops assumed they knew everything about murder. It was always a tough crowd.

She flipped through her largely unnecessary index cards, jettisoning the niceties of her opening remarks. As Jimmy completed
her introduction, she rose to take his place at the front of the room.

“He’s male and he’s white,” she plunged right in, not particularly loudly. She saw the faces come up, focusing to catch her
words. “Statistically speaking, women don’t commit serial murder, and serial murderers rarely kill outside their race. He’s
at least in his thirties. These are complex crimes, indicating a level of confidence impossible for a beginner. We should
expect a criminal record. And whether he’s been charged with it or not, it’s almost certain that he’s killed before.”

The direct approach, as usual, seemed to have worked. She had their full attention.

“His intelligence is obviously high,” she went on, “but the formal education level is more tricky. College or self-taught
would be my guess. He fancies himself an intellectual.

“He appears confident, even arrogant. He may dress casually, but he’s not sloppy or scruffy. He’s a control freak.

“His victims are gay men, which suggests that the killer may be repressing his own homosexuality. He may be in a relationship
with a woman, or even currently married. But expect a history of failed relationships. He may be impotent, since he’s leaving
no semen.

“He’s nocturnal, killing at night,” she continued, “so it’s possible he’s holding down a regular job. Maybe something in the
arts from the look of these crime scenes. Or he could be working some dead-end job, because he can’t break into the arts.
Either way, he’s probably not very successful, and angry with that lack of success. He’s developed a paranoid scenario to
explain his failure.

“On the other hand, he knows how to use a syringe and a scalpel, so he might be in a medical field. A paramedic or a nurse’s
aide who believes he knows better than the doctors.

“The religious content of these murders makes me believe that we’re dealing with an individual who’s had strong religious
influences, at least in his early life. Who still feels the pull of his spiritual background.

“I know it’s New York”—she smiled—“but he’s probably using a car. He’s packing a lot in his murder kit. The wings, incense,
syringes, the tape, his cleanup paraphernalia. Possibly a camera. The vehicle might be a van, probably black or dark blue….”
She came to a dead stop. “You seem skeptical, Detective Rozelli.”

All eyes turned to the detective, who rose to the bait. He stood, looking amused, the very symbol of unspoken doubt.

“Well, yeah … you know”—the words tumbled out—“I mean, I understand this profiling can be pretty specific … but the
color
of the car?”

“Profiling is both an art and a science. Some say it’s
all
art.” She waited for the undertow of comment. “There is always a creative element to evidence assessment,” she continued.
“But a thing like the color of the car is based on statistics. It’s simply a fact that compulsives favor darker cars.”

“And this guy’s a compulsive?” Rozelli obliged her, continuing to play the foil.

“The cleaning and ritual posing of the bodies are compulsive behaviors,” she said. “And it appears now that he’s injecting
the victims with LSD, which I believe is an extreme extension of his need for domination and control.

“But it never hurts to be skeptical, Detective Rozelli.” She watched as he took his seat, then looked out to include them
all. “The profile I just gave you is based on years of experience with serial-murder cases. So give it due weight. But don’t
let it limit your thinking. If a piece of data doesn’t fit, that’s the piece I want to hear about. The important information
is what you’re
not
expecting—the clue that puts everything in a new light. Profiling is just the best we can do”—she paused—“while we pray for
an eyewitness.”

A round of laughter broke the ice. The questions went on for an hour.

The park today had a hemmed-in feeling for Willie. A bleached-out thickness of air. Against the bleak wintery grayness, Hanae’s
favorite red coat stood out like a pool of blood.

“How did things go this morning?” Hanae turned to her as they walked along the pathway lined in bare-armed trees that seemed
to pray for snow.

“They went well. I like the people in Jimmy’s unit. And he seems to have assembled a very impressive task force.”

“I am glad you are here.”

Hanae’s words sounded heartfelt, and Willie wondered, as she had last night, how much the pressure of a serial case was affecting
Jimmy’s life at home. She opened her mouth to ask but didn’t.

“It’s lucky for me that I could get away,” she said instead. “I don’t know how much Jimmy’s told you, but the killer is injecting
his victims with LSD. I had to be part of this case.”

“And you don’t mind missing Christmas with your family?”

She laughed. “You wouldn’t ask that if you knew my family.”

Hanae shook her head but smiled. “You said you had a good place to stay in the city.”

“A friend’s apartment. In the Village. Dr. Jamili and his wife spend winters away.” She shivered.

“Are you cold?” Hanae’s sensitivity was amazing.

“Yes, I am a little. But it feels good. I don’t get outdoors enough.”

“Taiko and I come here often.”

“I like watching you together. He’s a wonderful dog.”

“Kenjin said I needed a dog.”

“Darius?”

“He said I was too much like my birds. Jimmy had mentioned a dog many times. Kenjin insisted, then helped me through the training.”

“Michael is … unusual.”

“Attractive.”

“No. I mean … that’s not what I was saying, Hanae.”

Hanae had stopped on the trail, letting Taiko sniff something on the ground. Her depthless eyes seemed to search Willie’s.
“You know … what happened?”

“The shooting thing … yes. Jimmy told me about that back at Quantico. I got the idea he felt he’d deserted Michael.”

“I believe that is how Jimmy felt. And then it was worse after what happened with Margot.”

“Who is Margot?”

Hanae’s hand moved on the dog’s harness, and the three of them resumed walking. “Margot was Kenjin’s wife,” Hanae said. “They
met in law school. I do not think she was happy when he decided to become a policeman.”

“Are you saying his wife left him because he didn’t become a lawyer?” Willie asked.

“There were other things.” The smooth brow furrowed, fine line crazing in porcelain. “Kenjin can be difficult. But it was
very cruel, her moving out so suddenly without telling him she was pregnant.”

“Michael has a child?”

“He has sons … twins.” Hanae answered. “I do not know how often Kenjin sees them.”

“Why do you call him Kenjin?”

“It is difficult to translate … old sad wise one.”

“It fits,” she said. “I’m not sure why, but it fits.”

Hanae nodded. “Do you have time to go somewhere else?”

“Sure.”

The sidewalks, when they left the park, were thick with early Christmas shoppers. The crowd parted for Taiko, efficient more
than polite. Willie had to slow her normal breakneck pace, matching it consciously to the dog’s, as he matched his to Hanae’s.
It was Hanae who actually led.

The library was a small private one with an extensive collection in braille. The building that housed it was early twentieth
century, the typical Beaux Arts town house of the district. Willie registered the interior as modern, not as cold as some.
She walked behind Hanae through the security posts, past the checkout desk to the stairs.