Now or Never (47 page)

“I’m going to tell you what he did and how it happened,” Mal said, “so you will know how it feels to be at his mercy.”

Beth grabbed Harry’s hand and clutched it tightly. Tears slid down her cheeks as her friend told the terrible story of that long-ago night.

When Mal had finished, she was silent for a moment. Her shoulders drooped with fatigue and strain; she was almost at the end of her tether. She gripped her hands tightly together, drew herself up, and willed herself to be strong, to go on.

It was if the light went on inside her again, and she was Mallory Malone, the clever TV investigator, the beautiful woman, the celebrity. She was no longer the victim. She was a strong woman, homing in on the killer like a heat-seeking missile.

“I was able to provide the information for this new Identikit picture,” she said, clearly in control of herself now. “This is exactly the way the killer looked when he was younger, when I met him.”

The picture of a crop-headed, bearded man with piercing dark eyes filled the screen.

“And this is the way he may possibly look now.” A picture of the same man, aged, took its place. “I’m asking you please, if you know him or anyone who might resemble him, to call us.

“And now I have a message for William Ethan—though I am certain he no longer uses that name. I know you are out there, listening and watching. And I want you to know that from now on, America and its people will be out there, watching and looking out—for you.

“There is no escape for you now. And when you are caught, which will be soon, you will no longer awaken to enjoy the freedom of a pleasant summer day or a crisp winter morning. You will no longer participate in our society. You will be taken like the beast that you are and locked away in a prison with bars to hold you. You will never again breathe the fresh clean air of freedom that is the prerogative of normal, decent Americans.”

She looked straight into the camera and said to her audience, “I had to forget about myself, about my own fears. I had to come clean and tell you, because we have to
try to stop these killings. Digging up my ugly memories is nothing. We want to stop digging more graves.

“Thank you for listening to my story. I hope you understand and that you will help. Remember those parents, remember those young women. Please, don’t let any of us forget them.

“Good night. And thank you again.”

There was total silence in the studio.

Mal stared down at the notes she had not used. She had spoken freely, without prompting, straight from the heart.

She got up and walked out of the circle of light, then spread her arms wide as if to embrace them all—the production team, the crew, the cameramen. “Thank you for putting up with all the secrecy, and for everything else I put you through this week.”

They stared back at her, then broke into spontaneous applause. As though unlocked from a spell, Beth ran and flung her arms around her. “Oh, Mal, I’m so so sorry,” she said tearfully.

“Don’t be, Beth,” she said gently. “It’s over now.” But it was Harry she was looking at as she said it. He took her hand and said quietly, “Thank you, ma’am.”

She leveled her eyes at him. “Thank
you
, detective,” she said, meaning it.

All the telephone lines were jammed before she and Harry even reached the door. They drove straight home. His hand still gripped hers and she felt comforted, as though his strength were flowing into her. He slid his arm protectively around her shoulders as they walked into her apartment building and took the elevator upstairs.

Inside all was peaceful; the fire was burning in the grate, the lamps were lit, and the apartment was fragrant with the smell of flowers.

Every surface was covered with roses: Mal knew Harry must have ransacked the florists of Manhattan for them.

They were glorious, fat full pale pink buds about to burst into bloom.

“They’re Vivaldis,” Harry said. “I couldn’t find any called Enigma, but I thought that was kind of passé now anyway, if you see what I mean.”

He thought with relief that it was worth every rose in town just to see her smile again. He took her hand and kissed it. “You did good, Mary Mallory Malone, ma’am. You’re the best, you’re the top.”

“I’m the Eiffel Tower,” she finished. “Or did the song say the British Museum.”

“You’re better than both.” She moved into his arms, and they hugged as though they never wanted to let go. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he murmured into her ear. “I know how hard it was. No, it’s not true, I don’t really know. I can never know. All I can do is thank you, along with a great many other Americans. I don’t know how you did it.”

“How could I not?” she asked simply.

“I don’t know how you feel about this,” he said, changing the subject, “but you’ve been living on coffee and Snickers bars for the past few days. I took the liberty of ordering in a little food. Just in case,” he added.

They walked hand in hand into the kitchen and he showed her the treats arranged on a pretty tray. “Miffy just got home. She called Le Cirque,” he said. “She’s been going there for years, and Sergio will do anything for her.”

He opened a bottle of merlot, poured a glass, and told her it would put the roses back in her cheeks again.

“As if I didn’t have enough roses,” she said, smiling.

“That’s my girl,” he grinned, pleased.

“Woman.” She put him straight. He raised an eyebrow, and they both laughed.

Mal felt as though life had suddenly switched back to normal mode again. It was just her and Harry, alone in
their own little world. She wished it would never change. But even as they nibbled at their exquisite supper and sipped red wine, she knew he was waiting for action.

She could see it in the restless way he glanced around the room, deliberately not looking at the telephone. She knew he was waiting for the killer to call.

At first the man had been amused by her program, titillated by the idea that everyone was talking about him. He had laughed at the ludicrous representation of him as he was supposed to be today. He had aged far better than they had depicted and looked a good ten years younger. They had got the hair wrong, and because he had worn a beard when he was young, they couldn’t get the jaw right. Lucky for him. But the early picture still had him worried. True, it had been many years ago, but somebody might remember him.

He went to the kitchen, poured himself some vodka, then wandered over to the window and stared angrily out at his roses. The greenfly were sucking the life out of his carefully nurtured plants. Anger at the aphids, over which he had so little control, spilled into violent anger at Mary Mallory. He shut his eyes, and a turmoil of red floated in front of his closed lids. He wished it were her blood. He wondered how much time he had left.

Grabbing the keys to the Volvo, he ran to the garage. He was out of there in a second, driving quickly. They were closing in on him, but he would get her first, the cheap overconfident bitch. He wanted her dead, and he knew the perfect way to do it.

As he drove, he congratulated himself again on having had the foresight to keep tabs on Mary Mallory. She had been his first. He had botched the killing, and he had always been afraid of her.

He had not left the state as he had told the waitress at the café. All the time Mary Mallory was in Tacoma, he
had been just a short drive away in Seattle. He had rented a cheap car, so as not to be recognized, and followed her. He saw she was pregnant and knew it could only be his. He had kept track of her, knew when she had disappeared and when the baby was found in Seattle, knew whose it was. In fact, he knew more about her daughter than she did.

He was searching for a pay phone on a quiet street corner. Her phone must be tapped, but he knew how the police worked. If he was quick, he would be safe.

The hours slid by. It was one in the morning and still not a peep from Mal’s phone.

“You should go to bed,” Harry said, but she shook her head, drooping against him.

“Not without you,” she murmured sleepily.

And then the phone rang.

T
HEY SHOT APART
. She looked at Harry, wide-eyed with fear.

It shrilled again; shattering the silence into sharp little fragments.

“It’s now or never, Mal,” Harry said, letting go of her.

She stared apprehensively at the shrilling phone. She licked her suddenly dry lips, then picked it up.

“Hello,” she whispered.

“Well, Mary Mallory,” the man said. “That was a very creditable acting performance you gave tonight.”

The sound of his voice sent a tremor through her. It was like an earthquake, shaking her foundations. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, didn’t want to listen. But she had to keep him on the line….

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Isn’t it about time I met my daughter?”

Mal gave a terrified little gasp. Harry was listening on the other phone. The man’s voice sounded muffled, as though he were holding something in front of his mouth.

“She must be about the same age you were when I met you,” the man went on. “Now isn’t that an interesting thought?

“And you know what, Mary Mallory?” he continued. “I’m on my way to visit her right now. But don’t you worry, she won’t know who I am. I’m too clever for you, Mal. Too clever for all of you. You’ll never catch me.”

He was timing the call on his fancy sports watch. He switched off seconds before they could complete the trace. He was home free. Again.

It had been a brilliant idea, he thought, killing two birds with one stone. He would light up those tabloids like never before.

The line went dead. Harry was on the mobile phone to the squad room, where they were monitoring the call. He said, defeated, “He was too quick. All we know is that the call was made from Boston.”

She had crumpled into her corner of the sofa, looking like a woman who had just had a bad encounter with a steam roller.

He said, “The girl is in danger, Mal. You have to tell us her family’s name, so we can trace her.”

“I don’t want her to know about him,” she cried, panicked.

“I promise you, she never will. Please, Mal, before it’s too late.”

She gave him the name he wanted, then sat on the sofa, a tight ball of agony while Harry called the Seattle Police Department. It was easy. The family was a prominent one, well known in the city for its charitable contributions and its humanitarian work. They had a daughter and two sons. The girl was now a sophomore at Boston University.

Harry looked at Mal. They stared, horrified, at each other. “Oh my God,” she wailed. “Oh my God, Harry—” but he was already talking to the chief of police in Boston.

Two minutes later, Harry slammed down the phone. “Get your coat,” he said.

She pulled herself together, ran to the bedroom, and grabbed a jacket and her purse. He had the elevator waiting. “Where are we going?”

“Boston. We can just make the next shuttle if we step on it.”

An NYPD patrol car was waiting outside. Harry thrust her into the backseat and got in next to her. With sirens wailing, they sped through the traffic to La Guardia.

He was right, they did just make the flight. He held her hand all the way to Boston. They hardly spoke, and she thought sadly that there was nothing to say. All she could do was pray for the girl who was her daughter.

Rossetti was waiting at Logan. “You’re not gonna believe this, Prof,” he said, “but the kid wasn’t in her dorm. She was supposed to go to a concert tonight with her friends, but she complained of not feeling well. She went to the clinic, and they admitted her to Mass General with a suspected kidney infection. I’ve got uniforms posted outside her room and in the halls.”

They were hurrying, half-running through the terminal. The squad car was parked outside, and they piled in.

Rossetti said, “Like you said, Prof, we kept it low key. The girl doesn’t know the killer has targeted her. She knows nothin’ except she’s sick.”

Harry was thankful that at least she was safe. Then he remembered uneasily the imprint of the Gucci shoe on Suzie’s forehead and that several of the doctors at Mass General wore them.

He said to Mal, “I’m going to drop you off at my place. You’ll be okay there with Squeeze to look after you. I have to get back to the precinct.”

They were at the Louisburg Square house in minutes. He let her in, and the dog came running. Harry looked around and checked the windows and doors. Their eyes met for a long minute before he left. “Chin up, Malone,” he said with a grin. “It’s all going to be okay.” And before she could reply, he was gone.

Back in the squad room, he reran the computer list of male doctors in Boston and the surrounding area. The FBI had delved into their past lives as well as the present,
and every cv was on the list. He knew where they were born and when; he knew the details of their educations, from grade school to university, and all the marriages, births, and deaths. He knew their medical qualifications and what towns or cities they had lived in prior to Boston. He knew their home addresses and what schools their children attended, and who their wives were.

An image of Suzie Walker came into his mind. He could hear her saying over and over again, “What are
you
doing here.”

Suzie had worked closely with Dr. Waxman. He pulled up Waxman’s curriculum vitae and read his life history again.

It was simple enough. Aaron Waxman was fifty-six years old and married to his college sweetheart. He lived in the suburbs and had three children, one of whom was in med school. He came from a blue-collar family in Chicago, had never been involved in any medical disputes, and was known as a good doctor. He drove a black Mercedes, and his wife drove a white Suburban.

Harry frowned: he couldn’t find a gap in Waxman’s life that suggested aberrant behavior. The doctor scarcely had time; his hours were long, plus he was a busy family man, deeply involved in the affairs of the local Jewish community.

Frustrated, he drummed up the names of the other doctors Waxman had said Suzie had worked with. He worked patiently down the list. All were longtime married and all were family men—except for Dr. Bill Blake.