On the Street Where you Live (34 page)

This residence, one of the oldest in town, had originally been a farmhouse and still retained the simple lines of its early nineteenth-century design.

The spacious property was composed of two building lots. The house and garden were on the left, while the area to the right was unchanged from its natural wooded state.

It was there, in the shadow of a cluster of sycamore trees, that the body of Natalie Frieze, encased in heavy plastic, was found.

For area residents, the events that followed had the feeling of déjà vu. The media flocked to the scene in large vans with antennas. Helicopters hovered overhead. In contrast, the neighbors gathered in quiet dignity on the sidewalk and on the closed-off road.

After receiving Emily's shocked phone call, Tommy Duggan and Pete Walsh immediately alerted the Spring Lake police, passing on to them the message on the postcard. Before they had reached Emily's home, they received confirmation that the postcard was not a hoax. The difference was that this time the remains had not been interred.

“Wonder why he didn't bury her?” Pete Walsh
asked soberly, as once more they watched the forensic team perform the grim task of examining and photographing the victim and the surroundings.

Before Tommy could reply, a squad car pulled up to the site. A pale and shaken Bob Frieze emerged from the backseat, spotted Duggan and rushed to him. “Is it Natalie?” he demanded. “Is it my wife?”

Duggan nodded, but didn't speak. He had no intention of offering even perfunctory sympathy to the man who might well be the murderer.

A few feet away, Reba Ashby, her identity camouflaged by dark glasses and a scarf that covered her head and shadowed her face, was scribbling in her notebook: “Reincarnated serial killer claims his third victim.”

Nearby, Lucy Yang, a reporter from New York's Channel 7, was facing the camera, holding the microphone and quietly saying, “The eerie repetition of the crimes of the late nineteenth century has claimed its third, and possibly last, victim. The body of thirty-four-year-old Natalie Frieze, wife of restaurateur and former Wall Street executive Robert Frieze was found today . . .”

Duggan and Walsh followed the hearse conveying Natalie's body to the medical examiner's office.

“She's been dead between thirty-six and forty hours,” Dr. O'Brien told them. “I can narrow it down more when I do the autopsy. Cause of death appears to be the same as the others—strangulation.”

He looked at Duggan. “Are you going to dig for the remains of the March 31st, 1896, victim now?”

Tommy nodded. “We have to. We'll probably find
her there. This killer is running true to form, copycatting the 1890s crimes.”

“Why do you think he didn't wait until the 31st to kill her?” the medical examiner asked. “That would have followed his pattern of matching the dates on which the earlier victims died.”

“I think he wanted to be sure he got her when he had the opportunity, and with so much added security in town, he didn't figure he could take the chance of digging a grave. His need probably was to have her
discovered
today, the 31st,” Tommy told him.

“There's one more factor you'd better consider,” the ME told him. “Natalie Frieze was strangled by the same kind of cord the killer used on Bernice Joyce. The third piece of the scarf that was used on the Lawrence and Harper women is still out there somewhere.”

“If that's the case,” Tommy said, “it may not be over yet.”

W
HEN
E
MILY PICKED UP THE PHONE
she was not sorry to hear Nick Todd's voice.

“I've been listening to the radio,” he said.

“It's so awful,” Emily told him. “Just a few days ago I sat with her at the luncheon the Lawrences gave after the memorial Mass.”

“What was she like?”

“Strident good looks. The kind that make other women feel they need a makeover.”

“What kind of
person
was she?” he asked.

“I'll be honest. I wouldn't have chosen her as a friend. She had a hard edge that was inescapable. It's just impossible to think that I was sitting across the table from her a week ago, and now she is dead—murdered!”

Nick caught the distress in Emily's voice. He was in his SoHo apartment and had been planning to catch a movie, followed by dinner at the hole-in-the-wall pasta restaurant in the Village that was his favorite.

“What are you up to tonight?” he asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.

“Absolutely nothing. I want to finish reading the old diaries I've been loaned and then rejoin the twenty-first century. Something inside me is telling me it's time.”

Afterward Nick asked himself why he hadn't suggested he drive down for dinner that evening. Instead, he confirmed that he would pick her up at 12:30 on Sunday for brunch.

But when he hung up, he found he was too restless to even consider going to a movie. Instead, he had an early dinner, phoned and made a reservation at The Breakers, and at seven o'clock got in his car and started driving to Spring Lake.

M
ARTY WAS FINISHING DINNER
when the phone rang. Louise Cauldwell, Eric Bailey's secretary, had just returned home and picked up her messages. Marty got straight to the point. “Ms. Cauldwell, I must ask you something. To your knowledge, does Eric Bailey drive any vehicle other than the two registered in his name?”

“Oh, I don't think so. I've been with him since the company started, and I've never seen him in anything other than the convertible or the van. He trades them in every year, but it's always for the newer model.”

“I see. Do you know if Mr. Bailey plans to be away this weekend?”

“Yes, he's going to Vermont to ski. He does that frequently.”

“Thanks, Ms. Cauldwell.”

“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Browski?”

“I thought there might be, but I guess not.”

Marty settled in the den for an evening of television, but after watching the tube for almost an hour, he realized he had no idea what he was seeing. At nine o'clock he bolted up and announced to Janey, “I've just thought of something,” and hurried to the phone.

EZPass confirmed his hunch. Neither one of Eric Bailey's vehicles showed any activity for the day.

“He has a third car that he's driving,” Marty muttered. “He
has
to have a third car.”

She's probably out, he thought as he tried Louise Cauldwell's number again. It's Saturday night, and she's an attractive woman, he reminded himself.

But Louise Cauldwell picked up on the first ring.

“Ms. Cauldwell, is there a company car that Eric Bailey might be using?”

She hesitated. “We
do
have company cars leased in the names of some of our executives. A number of them have left recently.”

“Where are the cars they used?”

“A couple are still in the parking lot. You can't break those leases, you know. I guess it's possible Mr. Bailey might be using one of them, although I can't imagine why.”

“Do you know the names they'd be registered under? This is very important.”

“Is Mr. Bailey in some kind of trouble? I mean he's been under so much pressure lately. I've been worried about him.”

“Is there something in his behavior that troubles you, Ms. Cauldwell?” Marty asked quietly. “Please don't think about confidentiality now. You won't be doing Eric Bailey a favor if you don't cooperate.”

There was a moment of hesitation. “The company is going under and he's cracking up,” she said finally, emotion in her voice. “The other day I went into his office and he was crying.”

“He seemed fine when I saw him the other day.”

“He puts on a good front.”

“Did you ever hear him mention Emily Graham?”

“Yes, just yesterday in fact. He seemed upset after you left. He told me that he blames Ms. Graham for ruining the company. He said that when she sold her stock, other people got nervous and followed her example.”

“That's not true. The stock went up another fifty points after she sold.”

“I'm afraid he forgets that.”

“Ms. Cauldwell, I can't wait until Monday to get the number of a car he may be driving. You've got to help me.”

Thirty minutes later, Marty Browski met Louise Cauldwell in the darkened offices of Bailey dot-com. She turned off the alarm, and they went upstairs to the accounting office. In a few minutes she had the license plate numbers of the leased cars and the names of the men for whom they were registered. Two of the cars were in the parking lot. The third one Marty checked out with EZPass. It had been on the Garden State Parkway and at 5:00
P.M.
it had gotten off the parkway at Exit 98.

“He's in Spring Lake,” Marty said flatly, as he picked up the phone to dial the police there.

“We'll keep an eye on her house,” the desk sergeant promised. “The town is crowded with media, and the curiosity seekers doing a drive-through, but I promise you—if that car is here, we'll find it.”

E
MILY'S PLEASURE ON HEARING
Marty Browski's voice changed to shock when she realized why he was calling.

“That is absolutely impossible,” she said.

“No it isn't, Emily,” Marty said firmly. “Now listen, the local police are going to keep the house under surveillance.”

“How are they going to do
that?”

“They'll drive by your house every fifteen minutes. If Eric calls and wants to see you, put him off. Tell him you have a headache and are going to bed early.
But don't open the door for him.
And I want you to keep your alarm on the ‘instant' setting. The Spring Lake cops are looking for Bailey. They know what vehicle he's driving. Now, check those locks!”

“I will.” When she hung up, Emily went from room to room, testing the doors that opened to the porch, then the front and back doors. She pushed
INSTANT
and
ON
, and watched the signal on the alarm box switch from green to a flashing red.

Eric, she thought. Friend, buddy, little brother. He was here Monday, installing the cameras, acting so worried about me, and all the while . . .

Betrayal. Hypocrisy. Putting in security cameras and laughing at me while he was doing it. Emily thought of all the nights in the past year during which
she had awakened, startled, sure she'd heard someone in the house. She thought of all the times it had been so hard to concentrate on preparing a defense for a client, because a picture Eric had taken of her had been slipped under her door, or stuck to her windshield.

“I hope when they find that wacko, they throw the book at him,” she said aloud, not knowing that at that very moment she was looking directly into a camera, and that Eric Bailey was parked in his van six blocks away, watching her on his television screen.

“O
NLY YOU WON'T BE AROUND
when they do throw the book at me,” Eric responded aloud.

The shock of realizing that he had been found out, and of having Marty Browski phone Emily Graham and tell her he was the stalker stunned Eric. I've been so careful, he thought, looking at the carton that contained the woman's coat and dress and wig he had worn into St. Catherine's Church on Saturday, and thinking of all the disguises he had used to get close to Emily in the past without being detected.

And now the police were looking for him and no doubt soon would arrest him. He would be sent to prison. His company would collapse in bankruptcy.
The people who had praised him so lavishly would turn on him like dogs.

Then he focused on the screen again and leaned forward, his eyes suddenly wide, excitement rushing through him.

Emily had gone back to the dining room and was on her knees going through the box of books, obviously looking for something in particular.

But on the split screen, he could see that the handle of the door leading from the porch to the study was turning. I know she has the alarm on, he thought.
Someone must have tampered with it!

A figure wearing a ski mask and a dark sweatsuit stepped into the study. In a quick, furtive move, the intruder got behind the club chair in which Emily always sat and dropped to his knees. As Eric watched, the masked man took a piece of material from his pocket, held it in both hands and pulled it taut, as if testing it.

Emily came back into the study carrying a book, settled down in the club chair, and began to read.

The intruder did not move.

“He's
enjoying
this,” Eric whispered to himself. “He doesn't want it to be over too soon. I understand. I understand.”

T
OMMY
D
UGGAN AND
P
ETE
W
ALSH WERE
still in the office at 8:30 on Saturday evening. Bob Frieze had steadfastly refused to answer any questions about his whereabouts on Thursday afternoon and evening, and now, claiming chest pains, he had been admitted to the Monmouth Hospital for observation.

“He's stalling until he can get a story together that will hold up in court,” Tommy told Pete. “There are a couple of ways this could play out. One is Frieze is the serial killer and is responsible for the deaths of Martha Lawrence, Carla Harper, Dr. Madden, Mrs. Joyce, and his wife, Natalie. Two is he may have killed his wife but
not
the others. And, of course, there is a third possibility—that he is innocent of all these deaths.”

“You're worried that the third piece of scarf is still missing,” Pete said.

“You bet I am. Why do I have a feeling that Natalie Frieze's murder was a ploy to trick us into thinking that the killer had completed the cycle?”