On the Street Where you Live (24 page)

“You mean a private nuisance. Trust me, that's the last thing I'd ever consider you to be.”

“No more incidents with your stalker, I hope?”

“Not a one. And Monday, my friend Eric Bailey came down from Albany and installed security cameras around the outside of the house. The next time someone tries to slip something under the door, he'll soon see his own picture on a mug sheet.”

“And you turn your security system on when you're alone in the house?”

It's not on now, Emily thought. “Always at night.”

“It wouldn't be a bad idea to have it on during the day as well.”

“I guess it wouldn't. But I don't want to live my life in a cage. I don't want to step out on the porch for a breath of air and have that banshee wail go off because I forgot the alarm was on.” A slight edge had crept into her voice.

“Emily, I'm sorry. I don't know what makes me think I have the right to act like some kind of damn monitor.”

“You don't need to apologize. You sound like a very nice, concerned friend. I intend to be very careful, but there is a point where I begin to feel as if whoever is doing this is winning. I'm trying not to let that happen.”

“Believe it or not, I do understand. The papers are full of what happened in Spring Lake yesterday.”

“Yes, it's become quite a sensation in the media. I was out jogging and taking a few mental notes for that project I mentioned I was starting when I saw them digging in that yard.”

“The stories say the police got an anonymous tip. Have you any idea where it came from?”

As soon as they were spoken, Emily would have taken back her next two words if it were possible: “From me,” she said, then immediately had to explain about the postcard.

From the shocked silence at the other end of the phone, she realized that Nick Todd had the reaction to that information that she would have expected from her parents.

Finally he said, “Emily, do you think there is even the
slightest
chance that this Spring Lake killer is also the guy who stalked you in Albany?”

“No, I don't. And neither does Detective Browski.”

Mentioning the name of the Albany policeman meant filling Nick in on Ned Koehler's confession.

When the conversation ended, she had firmly refused Walter Todd's offer of a bodyguard, and accepted Nick's invitation to have a return brunch at the Old Mill on Sunday.

“I only hope we won't be talking about another murder,” she said.

Long after they had said good-bye, Nick Todd sat at his desk, his hands folded. Emily, he thought, why are you so smart and still so dense? Has it never occurred to you that
you
might be targeted as the next victim?

T
OMMY
D
UGGAN
and Pete Walsh began the morning in Elliot Osborne's office, where the desk was covered in newspapers. “You're not very photogenic, Tommy,” Osborne commented.

“I hadn't seen that one,” Tommy muttered. The picture had been taken yesterday and showed him leaving the Ludlam Avenue house. Studying it, he began to consider paying more attention to his diet.

Walsh, of course, photographed like the all-American jock. “Too bad you didn't try out for
Law & Order,”
Tommy observed tartly, looking at a photo of his partner.

“I should have. I was Joe Fish in the fourth-grade school play,
Joe Fish and His Toy Store,”
Pete told him. “That was the lead.”

“All right, let's leave it at that,” Osborne decided.

The moment of levity vanished. Osborne nodded to Duggan. “You first.”

Tommy had his notebook open. “As you know, we now have a positive ID on the skeleton we found yesterday. The dental records confirm it to be the remains of Carla Harper. The section of scarf apparently used to strangle her is part of the same scarf that was used to strangle Martha Lawrence. The killer used one end piece on Martha, and the center piece on Carla. The third piece is missing.”

“Meaning that if the killer follows what seems to be his plan, he'll use the scarf again on Saturday.” Osborne frowned and tilted back his chair. “No matter how many cops we have patrolling Spring Lake, we can't be on every street, in every backyard. How's the background check on Wilcox progressing?”

“So far there's nothing much more than we had before. To go over it quickly, he was an only child, raised in Long Island. Father died when he was a baby. Very close to his mother, a schoolteacher, who helped him with his homework, I guess. Anyway, he was always at the head of his class.

“His father's sister lived in Spring Lake, which is his connection here. He visited her every summer, for years. His mother died when he was thirty-eight, and a couple of years later, he married Rachel.” Tommy paused. “Chief, if she were my wife, I'd get a job as a traveling salesman.

“He went up the usual academic ladder and was finally offered the presidency of Enoch College in Ohio. Retired twelve years ago at age fifty-five. He writes for academic journals and has done considerable research on the history of this area and written articles about it for the local papers. He recently told the Spring Lake librarian that he's writing a novel with the old Monmouth Hotel as the setting.”

“No smoking guns there,” Osborne observed.

“If Emily Graham is right, there may be. She thinks we have a copycat killer who found explicit details of the 1890s murders and is basing his actions on them. Something else. We've learned that
Wilcox abruptly resigned his presidency of Enoch College. At the time, he'd just had his contract renewed and had all kinds of plans for further expansion, lecture series with major speakers, all that stuff.”

“Any explanation?”

“Ill health was the official reason. Apparently a serious heart condition. Got a big, tearful send-off. They named a building after him.”

Tommy smiled grimly. “Guess what?”

Elliot Osborne waited. He knew Tommy Duggan liked to present juicy information with a flair. Like pulling a rabbit from a hat, he thought.

“Let's have it, Tommy,” he said crisply. “You're on to something.”

“Well maybe. It's more of a hunch than anything concrete. I'd bet the ranch that he has no more heart trouble than you or me or Pete. My guess is that either he was told to resign, or resigned on his own because he had a big problem that he didn't want made public. Now our job is to squeeze out of him what it was.”

“We're seeing him at three o'clock,” Pete Walsh volunteered. “We thought it would be a good idea to let him squirm a little while waiting for us.”

“It is a good idea.” Osborne made a move to get up, but Pete Walsh had more to say.

“Just to keep you posted, sir, I spent last evening going through the records of the police investigation about the disappearance of those three girls in the 1890s.”

It was obvious to Osborne that the newest detective
on his staff wanted to impress him. “Did you find anything at all useful?”

“Not that I could see. It's like what's been happening now. The girls seem to have vanished off the face of the earth.”

“You're giving a copy of those records to Emily Graham?” Osborne asked.

Pete looked worried. “I cleared it with the first assistant.”

“I know you did. I'm generally not in favor of any records, even if they're over one hundred years old, being made available outside the usual channels, but if you've promised them to her, I'll let it happen.”

Elliot Osborne stood up decisively, a signal that the meeting was over.

Duggan and Walsh got to their feet. “One piece of good news,” Tommy added as he headed to the door. “Dr. Madden's killer is better at strangling people than at whacking computers. Our research people were afraid the hard drive had been damaged, but they've been able to get it going. With any luck we'll retrieve Madden's files—and maybe find out that a guest at the Lawrence party that night four and a half years ago also spent some of his time with a shrink who specialized in regression therapy.”

“B
OB, WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL ON ME
?”

“I wasn't aware that I was trying to pull anything on you.”

“Where did you
go
last night?”

“When I couldn't sleep, I went downstairs as usual, and read. I came up about five o'clock, took a sleeping pill, and for once it worked.”

It was nearly noon. Robert Frieze had come downstairs to find Natalie, his wife, sitting in the living room, obviously waiting for him.

“You look very nice,” he observed. “Are you going somewhere?”

“I have a lunch date.”

“I was thinking of inviting you to lunch.”

“Don't bother. Go over and gladhand your customers at The Four Seasons. If you can find any, that is.”

“The name of my restaurant is The Seasoner. It is not The Four Seasons.”

“No, it sure isn't. No argument about that.”

Bob Frieze looked at his beautiful wife, taking in her shimmering blond hair, her near-perfect features, her catlike turquoise eyes. Remembering how exciting he had once found her, he was amazed at how detached he had begun to feel about her now.

More than detached, he realized. Fed up.
Sick to death of her.

Natalie was wearing a tailored dark green pantsuit that he had never seen before. Obviously new. Obviously pricey. He wondered how she found room for it in her closet.

“Since I'm not to have the honor of your company, I'll be on my way,” he said.

“Not yet, you won't.” Natalie got to her feet swiftly. “Believe it or not, I'm not sleeping very well myself. I came down here at two this morning. You weren't here, Bobby. And your car was gone. Now will you please explain to me where you were?”

She wouldn't tell me that unless it's true, Frieze thought frantically. I don't know where I was. “Natalie, I was so tired I forgot. I did go out for a spin. Wanted to get some fresh air and do some heavy thinking.” He groped for words. “It's going to be a setback, but I've decided to take Bonetti's offer, even though he's low-balled me. We'll sell this house and move to Manhattan, maybe take a smaller apartment than we'd planned, and—”

Natalie interrupted. “When you were taking your spin last night to clear your head, you apparently thought that a drink would clear it more. A drink with a friend, I mean. Here's what I found in your pocket.” She tossed a piece of paper at him.

He read what was written on it. “Hi, handsome. My number is 555-1974. Don't forget to call. Peggy.”

“I don't know how that got there, Natalie,” he said.

“I do, Bobby. Someone named Peggy put it there. I have news for you. Get rid of that restaurant. Sell this house. Pay off your stock loans and cash out your
holdings. And then figure out what you were worth the day I became your blushing bride.”

She stood up and walked over to him, brought her face to within inches of his.

“Let me explain why. It's because half of what you were worth that day is what I intend to take out of this marriage.”

“You're out of your mind, Natalie.”

“Am I? Bobby, I've been doing a lot of thinking about the night at the Lawrence party. You were wearing that boxy jacket that you think is straight from the pages of
Gentleman's Quarterly.
You could have hidden that sash under it. And the next morning when I got up, you were digging in the garden. Any chance you were getting rid of Martha's body until you could move it to the backyard of the Shapley house?”

“You can't believe that!”

“Maybe I can. And maybe I can't. You're a strange man, Bob. There are times when you look at me as if you don't know me. You have a way of just disappearing without telling me where you're going. Maybe it's my civic duty to tell Detective Duggan that I've become concerned about your behavior and, for your own sake as well as for the safety of the young women in this community, feel I have to report it.”

The veins in Robert Frieze's forehead began to bulge. He grasped Natalie's wrist and tightened his grip on it till she cried out in pain. His face was flushed with rage.

Between clenched teeth he spat out, “You tell Duggan, or anyone, a story like that, and you'd better start being concerned for
yourself!
Got it?”

A
T
3:00
A.M.
on Wednesday morning, the missing Joel Lake was found. He was in the process of burglarizing a house in Troy when the police arrived, summoned by the silent alarm.

Seven hours later, Marty Browski went to the jail where Lake was being detained to interview him.

“In your natural habitat again, I see, Joel. You never learn, do you?”

The permanent sneer on Joel Lake's face hardened. “I
do
learn, Browski. I stay out of houses with old ladies in them. Too much trouble.”

“It could have been a lot more trouble if Emily Graham hadn't gotten you off on the murder charge. We all thought you did the hit on Ruth Koehler.”

“You
thought
I did it? You changed your mind?” Lake looked surprised.

The bad seed, Browski thought, as he looked intently at Lake. Twenty-eight years old and in trouble since he was twelve. A juvenile rap sheet an arm long. Probably attractive to some women, though, in a cheap kind of macho way, with his powerful build, dark curly hair, narrow eyes, and full mouth.

Emily had told Browski that Lake had tried to come on to
her
a couple of times. He's the kind who won't tolerate rejection, Browski decided now as his hopes began to build that he was face to face with the stalker.

The time frame was right. Joel Lake had broken parole and dropped out of sight right about the time the stalking began.