Killer Look (2 page)

Morning fog, a common occurrence on the Vineyard, delayed Mike's seven-thirty flight to White Plains. The major airlines didn't run this time of year, so he was on a single-engine nine-seater Tradewind flight to a small airport just north of the city.

“So what will you do to figure out who Tanya Root is?”

We were on our third cup of joe in the Plane View coffee shop, in the terminal at the edge of the airfield. I was trying to distract Mike, whose cloud gazing was a hopeless attempt to gauge the turbulence of his flight off the island. He had an intense fear of flying—just about the only thing I knew, other than commitment to a personal relationship, that scared him.

“The usual,” Mike said. “The lieutenant put Jimmy North on the case with me.”

“He's that new kid in the squad who worked with you to—well, to find me, isn't he?”

“Yeah. Whip-smart. Great cop.”

“He must know something by now,” I said.

“Ran a background check on the name and came up with one hundred thirty-seven African American Tanya Roots in the USA.”

“But there must be more specifics in the medical record from the clinic. Date of birth? Home address?”

Mike checked the email on his iPhone—the last case convinced him that his vintage flip had obvious drawbacks—and read from it. “The address Miss Formerly Flat-Chested gave was a flophouse hotel in Rio near the clinic.”

“No help there,” I said.

“The medical history lists her as saying she was from the States, but nobody cared about the GPS coordinates as long as she was paying cash. And the doc noted that he guessed her DOB was phony. She used one that made her twenty-three, but he figures she was closer to thirty.”

“Weird that he would make a note about that.”

“Not so much,” Mike said. “He did it in the context of encouraging her to come back for work on her eyes, and to think about a first facelift before she was forty. So he did his own professional estimate of when she might plan those events.”

Instinctively I reached for my chin. I was thirty-eight, and not the plastic-surgery type. I liked what nature did to the faces of those who lived interesting lives. But I checked to make sure my jawline was still firm. I couldn't imagine a facelift at this age.

“Don't worry, Coop. You flap your mouth too much to develop any flab under there.”

I could hear the engines of the small plane before I saw its white fuselage break through the low clouds. Its wings were tilting left to right, fighting the wind and weather as the pilot struggled to set it down on the runway.

“So why all the talk of work on her face and body?” I asked.

“Because she told the good doc that she was a model.”

“A model?”

“That's what we've got to go on. A name that may or may not be legit. A phony date of birth. No address. And we know that somebody crushed her skull and threw her into the drink from somewhere in East Harlem.”

“Was there enough detail for a facial reconstruction?”

“Forensic anthropology at the ME's Office is working on that now. From what I saw of the remains, it will be rough to do one,” Mike said. “But we've got to get some kind of image into the papers and out in public. The tabs would probably rather put close-ups of her breasts on page one, and the doc has plenty of those.”

“It would be great if they can't get their hands on that stuff.”

“This investigation is going to be worked more like a grand-larceny auto than a homicide.”

“That's cold,” I said.

“Every car has a VIN number, Coop. Find a stolen car, an abandoned one—whether it's a '95 Chevy or a 2015 Jag—the VIN will trace you back to the owner. Just a fact. Tanya's breasts have unique digits. Sooner or later we'll put them together with the right broad.”

The prescreening announcement for Mike's flight came over the loudspeaker. He picked up his duffel bag and left money for the bill and tip.

“Thing is about models,” I said, standing up to walk with Mike to the security check-in, “is that they've sort of made it by seventeen, or twenty-one at the latest. If Tanya Root has any kind of career, someone should call in with info the minute you go live with the story.”

“Hoping so, kid.”

“But a late twentysomething trying to make a change in her professional life by enhancing her bra size doesn't sound like top runway material to me.”

“That's why I expect my day will be knocking on doors and coming up empty till we get some kind of lucky break,” Mike said.

“There's a huge fashion show at the Metropolitan Museum next week,” I said. “I'm sure lots of models are in town and around for that. Might be people involved there you could talk to about your victim. I feel so totally useless to you these days.”

Mike dropped his duffel to embrace me and deliver a last pep talk. “It's all behind us, Coop. You've got no one looking to do you any harm, there's no bogeyman hiding under your bed, and you've got a bigger and better support system than anyone I can think of.”

I had flashbacks, whether my eyes were open or closed. Before I got out of bed every morning, I had relived the moment of my abduction a dozen times. The smallest exercise that required no thought—brushing my teeth or putting on lipstick—gave me the chance to revisit hours spent with my captors. The videotape in my brain was on a loop that kept replaying itself constantly.

“I know you're right,” I said to Mike.

And he knew I was lying.

“You going straight back to the house?” he asked.

“I am.”

He kissed me on the forehead. “I'll call you when I land.”

“That's if your white knuckles haven't embedded themselves in the armrests on the plane.”

“Glad you haven't lost your sense of humor entirely, Coop,” Mike said. “I've got my big-boy pants on though. I'll be fine.”

There were only two other passengers traveling with Mike. I watched them load up, and waited until the plane taxied out to the runway, revved up its engine, and took off into the dark clouds overhead.

I was back up in Chilmark by the time Mike touched down forty-five minutes later. He had business to do, and I needed to adjust to life alone. I locked the front door of the house—unheard-of to do on the Vineyard, but lately every precaution I took seemed reasonable to me.

The first clap of thunder nearly bounced me out of the chair in my office. It was an odd time of year to have an electrical storm. I didn't need the fury of a sound-and-light show to unsettle me.

It caused the house power to go and my Internet service to crash, but only nineteen seconds later the generator kicked in and rebooted everything.

I tried to distract myself with a good book, but most of the things on my shelf were crime novels or nineteenth-century British literature, the latter an interest that had absorbed me since my days majoring in English at Wellesley College. I'd lost my taste for both the hard-boiled and the dense storytelling—temporarily, I hoped.

I phoned in to some of my team at the DA's Office, but everyone seemed to be in the courtroom or at the morgue or the Special Victims Squad, handling their own cases as well as doubling down to cover my load of investigations and trials, too.

The turkey sandwich I made was dry and tasteless. I played with half of it and threw away the rest.

The rain had stopped by early afternoon. I was reclining on a sofa in the living room—feeling too lethargic to do anything—making my third or fourth attempt to re-create the steps I had taken last month when I left celebrating colleagues at Primola Restaurant to slip off to meet an ex-boyfriend. I was looking for a safer route than the one I had chosen then.

I heard the car's tires crunching on the broken clamshells that decorated the long drive up to my property line before I saw its black silhouette.

I went to the window to check out my visitor. I was shaking uncontrollably as I tapped in the password on my iPhone.

It looked as though there was a driver in front and two heads in the backseat.

I scrolled my contacts to get to the Chilmark Police Station,
two miles away. They would have a quicker response time than the down-island officers who manned the 911 calls.

The rear door on the driver's side of the car opened, and I saw a man's leg kick out and plant itself on the wet path. Then, just as quickly, the man pulled his leg back inside and the idling car lurched into reverse.

“Chilmark Police. How can I help you?”

“This is Alexandra Cooper,” I said, blurting out my address, too. “There's just been an intruder at my house and I need an officer up here immediately.”

“Alex? This is Wally Flanders. Someone broke into your house?”

“Wally! So glad it's you,” I said. I'd known him for years and didn't have to explain my background and why I might be in danger. “Not a break-in, no, but—”

“What do you mean by ‘intruder'? Have you had a burglary?” he asked. “Mike Chapman dropped in the other day. Sort of told me about things. He's with you now, isn't he?”

“No. Mike just flew off this morning,” I said. Of course he stopped at the police station on one of his outings so the locals wouldn't think I was crazy if I called for help. “Not a burglary, no.”

“What then?” Wally asked. “I can be up there in ten minutes.”

“A car. A car with strangers in it just drove up to the house. A guy started to get out and then they must have seen me in the window and backed off,” I said. “Backed off for now.”

“Drove up to your front door, Alex?”

“Not exactly. But whoever it was trespassed on my property.”

I could hear myself talking but couldn't stop. I had fielded this kind of call from unhinged witnesses—solid people who'd had screws shaken loose by a close call with crime, as well as total wackjobs who had never been grounded in the first place. I didn't want to be the crackpot caller, but I was doing a damned good imitation of one.

“So you're not hurt, Alex, are you?” Wally asked. “And there's been no forced entry at your home?”

“Not yet.”

“To be clear then, we've got a trespass. Unauthorized car drove up to your front door and—”

“Actually, Wally, the car stopped before coming onto my lawn.”

“You mean he was on the path that leads to you from State Road?”

I knew what was coming next. I didn't own that path. It was the common property of the three other neighbors—none of them winter residents—who lived on my deserted dead-end hilltop.

I tried to modulate my voice as my nerves continued to fray. “Still, Wally, there's no one here this week. I'm all alone. There's no legitimate reason for anyone to drive in here.”

“Alex? I'll come up there if you'd like. I can be there in a flash,” Wally said. “But you do know that Fern's house has been on the market for four years, don't you?”

I knew that as well as I knew my name. “Sure.”

“There are real-estate people in and out of there all the time since the price came down over Labor Day. Could be just an honest mistake, Alex, but I'll come up and check it out right away.”

I didn't do my usual and tell him not to bother. I wanted to see a cop on my turf, and I wanted to see him before darkness fell.

“That would be great. I'd really appreciate it,” I said. “Do we have Uber on the island yet?”

I was still confused about why the Uber car I had called the night of my kidnapping hadn't seen what the perps did to me. Everyone was still a suspect in my overworked mind.

“Uber? You mean the car service?” Wally said. “None of that bullshit here yet. Just Patti's Taxi and Aquinnah Cabs. You need a lift?”

“Just asking.”

“I'll be right up, Alex.”

“Thanks so much, Wally. See you shortly.”

I was throwing my clothes and toiletries into my tote when my phone rang.

“Hey, kid, what's keeping you busy?”

“Just trying to relax, Mike. You know. Reading a bit. Thinking about having a massage delivered to me at home,” I tried to joke. “Sweet to hear your voice.”

“You okay, babe? You sound kind of tense,” he said. “Did I forget to put that child-proof safety lock on the Dewar's?”

“Not funny.”

“Look, Coop, Wally just gave me a call.”

“What? Whatever happened to privileged conversations?” I had gone from unbalanced to angry in a flash. “I'm livid that he told you about it.”

“Wally Flanders is neither your lawyer nor your doctor. And he's certainly not a priest or rabbi,” Mike said. “He's looking out for you. How's that? He's doing what I asked him to do in case I had to leave. I just didn't know if the phantom of the black sedan was a real thing or a scotch-induced vision.”

“I haven't had a thing to drink, Mike. That car was—well, okay, this is what you want to hear, right? I'm hallucinating. Does that make you happy?”

“Whoa. The rabid-dog mood is back. Gotta love that pooch.”

“We're about to be disconnected, Detective Chapman. Wally's knocking on the front door.”

And I needed a drink more than I needed oxygen.

“Record time, Wally,” I said. “I think it's only been eight minutes since we hung up. I can't thank you enough.”

“Newspapers made it sound like you've been to hell and back. I don't blame you for being jumpy.”

“I know I'm perfectly safe here.”

“That black car is next door, Alex. Real-estate broker showing the place to some folks from DC. Comfortable with that?”

“It's still here? How long is it going to take them?”

I didn't figure being alone on this road with people I didn't know.

“I'll walk back there and find out, Alex.”

I hesitated for a minute and then decided to ask anyway. “Wally, there's no direct flight to New York after the morning one that Mike was on, right? Is there still a five-
P.M
. Cape Air to Boston this time of year?”