A Cruel Season for Dying (26 page)

“What is it, Detective?” he cut in.

“It’s just that we’re wrapping things up and Doss thought you might say a word to Mr. Felton.”

He knew he looked blank.

“Mr. Felton’s group sponsored this meeting,” Talbot explained. “Public relations, Lieutenant.”

The lesser, it seemed, of two evils.

“Tell them I’m coming,” he said.

The tiny bar near Zoe’s old neighborhood was perfect for clandestine meetings. She settled comfortably in the padded high-backed
booth with its faded maroon and gray vinyl. The place, as always, was populated with a few grizzled and slack-cheeked men,
too ornery to be home asleep, too old to give her any real grief. Only the occasional territorial stare, as if her appearances
here were a disturbance, an unwelcome reminder of things long in the past.

She was halfway through her first drink when Johnny showed up. He came back from the bar with a bottle of beer and a refill
of her cocktail.

“You look tired,” she said.

“Interviews.” He slid in across from her. “Feels like I did a million of them today.”

“In Forest Hills?”

“Everywhere.” He took a hit on the beer. “Sakura wanted to start right away, tracking down the clinic staff. I think I might
actually be glad they’re stiffing us on patient lists.”

It was obvious from his attitude what the net result of the interviews had been. “Kind of interesting,” she said, “that the
doc was murdered here in Queens.”

“Yeah, but his clinic’s in Manhattan.”

She waited, sensing there was more.

“The Kerry job was a break-in.” He took a swig of the beer.

She sipped her own drink. Johnny had just confirmed the rumor that was circulating in the media. “Copycat?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Trust me,” he said, “this was the same guy.”

She knew what that meant. There were distinctive details at the crime scenes known only to the police and the killer—details
that little Zoe would kill for. But Johnny Rozelli wasn’t dumb. She could not make a frontal approach. At least not verbally.

She smiled to herself, remembering how embarrassed she’d been when at the age of eleven her breasts had seemed to blossom
overnight. She had slumped around for months, her mother and grandmother wearing themselves out with admonishments to stand
up straight. She had hated the stares and the giggles of the boys at school, until the day it somehow dawned on her that the
stares held awe and the nervous laughter was a mask for something else. Her breasts held power. She had used them like a weapon
ever since.

She had reached across the table to stroke Johnny’s hand. Now she sat up, molding her back to the worn and cracked vinyl.
At the withdrawal of her fingers, Johnny looked up from his drink.

She took an impressive breath. “I thought we had another break in the killer’s pattern,” she said. “Kerry didn’t read gay.
But the guys at Public Information set us straight.”

Johnny grunted disapproval. “Sakura didn’t like that. Hell of a way for the wife and kids to find out what the old man’s been
up to.”

She shrugged. “Good story outing the doc. But better if we’d had some suspense, a few days to play the angle that he’d started
offing straights.”

“Bite your tongue, Zoe. We’ve got enough trouble as it is.”

She smiled, reaching again for his hand. “Poor Johnny.” She let the words hang. Then, “Sure wish I had something hot for tomorrow.”

He pulled free of her grasp. “I’ve told you too much already. Want to cost me my job?”

“Course not, baby.” She filled her eyes with concern. “You know you haven’t given me anything really hard.”

“I don’t know, Zoe.” He leaned back, unaware of her double entendre, shooting his cuffs through the sleeves of his gray Armani.
It was a habit he had. She watched him realign his cuff links.

“Just one thing,” she pressed. “How’d you cop so quickly to the fact that Kerry wasn’t exactly Joe Citizen?”

He picked up his beer and finished it. “His nurse tipped us on an apartment that the doc was keeping in the city,” he said
finally. “A place to shack up with his boys.” He slid up from the booth. “You ready for another one?” He pointed to her drink.

“No, I’m fine…. Any line on who the doc was boffing?”

He smiled, sizing her up, and shook his head appreciatively. “You’re a piece of work, Zoe.”

“You too, baby.” She smiled back. The headline he’d just handed her was all she’d get tonight. At least in the way of a story.

Michael Darius knew he was dreaming, the way some people know they are dreaming. Knew that he was lying cold and sweating
in his bed. But he let the awareness slip, surrendering to the immediacy of what was happening behind the thin flesh of his
eyelids.

Jimmy Sakura was running in the darkness behind him. Darius could hear his partner’s labored breathing, the soles of his shoes
slapping the filthy concrete. Sakura had called out his name once, and each separate letter had seemed to make its own distinct
sound. So that
Da-ri-us
became something drawn out and vaguely foreign.

He’d turned back then, but Sakura was lost. Eclipsed by the night, denser now in this side street, away from city lights.
The smell of rotting garbage was thick in his nostrils, and the image of a white one-eyed cat pulling something long and stringy
out a dark cavity registered in his brain.

He stopped. Caught his breath. Gazed upward to the net of fire escapes crisscrossing the failing buildings. Beneath the high
blank bubble of reflected urban neon, the craze of metal stairways descended like Escher drawings into the alley. He lowered
his sight, scanning a
patchwork of doors and broken windows that opened on his left into an abandoned warehouse. He had lost track of the halo of
acid green light, bobbing ahead of him, moving with the same jaunty rhythm as Hudson’s surefooted gait.

He had just decided that maybe Hudson was hiding somewhere in the warehouse, when he caught sight of him again, stepping out
of the darker shadows with a
Here I am
confidence. He was dressed in black leather, his head seeming to float on his shoulders, disembodied, the intense light from
it pulsating like a large animal’s heart. For a split second he thought he could glimpse Hudson’s teeth through the brilliance,
giving him a cocky, welcoming smile.

The dream, which never changed, was always both more and less than the reality. The imagined smile, a point of departure,
when the dream became clearer than what had actually happened—Hudson’s empty hand coming out from inside his dark jacket,
fingers exploding like Roman candles.

What would always remain infinitely certain, then and after, was Jimmy Sakura’s scream as he’d lifted and fired his gun.

He sat up straight in bed and reached for his cigarettes. Avoiding Sakura’s phone calls was avoiding the obvious. He’d have
to go see him tomorrow.

A
full complement of the city’s newspapers littered Sakura’s desk, all with screaming headlines about the latest victim in
the gay serial murders. He sat forward in his chair, remembering this morning’s confrontation with the chief of detectives
over the leaking of Kerry’s homosexuality to the press.

You’re damn right I let Phil Doss give it to them.
At least McCauley had had the good grace to appear uncomfortable.
The gay-rights people are already halfway up my ass. You think I want to make room for the rest of the population?

Sakura hadn’t bothered to answer. He had made his point. A Pyrrhic victory for Lylah Kerry and her children.

In the wake of his silence, McCauley had gone on offense, insisting that Public Information had said nothing to the media
about Kerry’s apartment. So how had the
Post
so quickly come up with the love nest story?
Better plug your own leak, Sakura.

He squeezed his lids shut in a weak attempt to zap out the pain growing behind his eyes. The pressure inside his head filtered
through his defenses and he reached for his cup of tea. It was no longer hot, but he took a lukewarm sip anyway and fished
in the drawer for some aspirin. The last resort. He hated pills.

Outside the glass-fronted office he could see the change of shifts in Major Case. He looked down at his desk and picked up
the petition lists that had been gathered at Sunday’s community meeting. Columns of signatures snaked down legal-size sheets—small,
scratchy scrawls
barely legible alternated with big, bold styles that were more print than cursive. He rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t dismiss
the possibility that the killer’s signature might be inscribed in the clutter of penmanship on at least one of these lists.
Most serials liked to insinuate themselves into the investigation. It was another way to embroider upon their fantasies.

He let his head roll back onto his shoulders. The case was going nowhere. And if he despised his own ineffectiveness, it was
in great part due to the reservoir of tragedy that murder left in its wake. William Kerry’s death had added a widow and two
young children to the growing list of living victims. It was becoming a killing field.

Frustration, anger, and guilt were a lethal mix, and it was eating him alive. He slammed his fist down on his desk. The edition
of the
Post
featuring a photo of Kerry’s love nest sailed to the floor.

Darius appeared at his door.

“Tea?” he offered as Michael came in. “I could use a fresh cup myself.”

“No … thanks.” Darius pulled a chair in front of the desk and sat staring at nothing. “I can’t do this, Jimmy. I have commitments
for several projects.”

“The carpentry work?”

“It’s what I do.” Darius looked at him. “Besides, you don’t need me.”

He didn’t bother to rebut the point of Michael’s work. They both knew it was an excuse.

“There’s just no reason,” Darius went on. “You’ve got a serial offing gays. I’ve got no special insight. You’re the one with
the training.”

Michael was never petty. The Quantico jab stung, but was an indication of something deeper. It meant that the case disturbed
him.

Darius stood. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

“It’s okay.”

For a moment Darius seemed frozen in place, but then he was gone.

He tried not to feel disappointed. It had probably been wrong to involve his former partner in this case. He was, as Michael
had said, the one with the training. The problem was that they kept running into blank walls. They had nothing really, except
for Willie’s profile. And now, with Kerry’s murder, the killer had expanded his comfort zone, branching out from the city
to the boroughs.

Calling in Darius had been simply an attempt to gain an edge. Now he was left with the playbook. Until something clicked.
Or unless Kelly was right and he had an edge of his own.