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Authors: C.E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Kills
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Davey walked through the forest, soaking in its stillness and magic. The woods held a splendor and a wonder that were irreplaceable. The trees seemed ancient and wise beings, centuries beyond us, knowing things that he could only guess at. He tried to listen to them, forgetting the human things humans know; he wanted to think like the trees that stood all around him, silent, watchful, mysterious. They were at the center of things, he thought, and humans were orbiting around the periphery, like lost moons, caught in the gravity pull of the planet beyond.
He took the pair of rubber surgical gloves from his pocket and buried them underneath a pile of dried leaves. He could just throw them out, he supposed, but he had to be careful—very careful. He had already showered and burned the clothes he was wearing when he took his last victim. He had read extensively about trace evidence, and knew you could never be too careful. He covered the gloves with the dead leaves and continued on his walk.
In the country, at the end of the day the woods came alive. Night creatures made sounds different from the creatures of the day—mysterious noises, rustlings and creakings, and long, low whistles or chattering and clickings. The night had its own inhabitants, its own rhythms, and cast its own spell.
He stopped to listen to the distinctive
whoot-whoot-whootoo
of a barred owl, familiar to him from weekends at his Aunt Rosa’s house. He liked visiting her—she was the only family member he ever felt really listened to him. But she too wasn’t well. She has recently been diagnosed with leukemia, another blood disorder.
They all died that way in his family—it was their curse. His father, dead from an aneurism—a brain bleed—and his mother ... well, she more or less wasted away after his sister’s death. He was determined not to suffer the same fate as everyone else in his family. When his aunt got sick, he began searching for blood donors—that’s what he called them, in his head. They weren’t his victims, they were his donors. That was why he got his training in phlebotomy. Finding a school in the city was easy, and the work came naturally to him.
Panic swept over him, and he groped for the vial in his pocket. He shivered with relief as his fingers closed over the smooth glass—it was still there. His jaw set, he walked onward resolutely. No, he would not follow in their footsteps; he would not get ill and waste away. He alone would survive the hereditary blight and emerge victorious. He had come to the conclusion that consuming the liquid orally was not enough now. He must infuse it directly into his own body, to maximize the healing effects. He had been preparing a room in his house especially for the purpose, and it was almost ready.
Again he heard the owl’s call, low and liquid and musical:
whoot-whoot-whootoo.
Davey answered it in a soft whistle of his own:
whoot-whoot-whootoo.
To his surprise, the owl responded.
Whoot-whoot-whootoo.
Perhaps it was calling to its mate, he thought, and had mistaken him for another owl. A little smile twisted his thin lips and he felt a thrill in his bowels. If he could convince an owl he was one of them, he thought, he could convince anyone of absolutely anything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Philadelphia’s best and bravest certainly knew how to party, Kathy Azarian thought as she and Peter finished their second round of drinks. The din in the room had swelled until they had to shout directly into each other’s ear to be heard. People’s faces were getting redder, their voices louder, and pockets of boisterous laughter erupted from clumps of people around the room, as waiters in white dress shirts and black vests weaved between them with trays of hors d’oeuvres. Maybe it was the rum, or maybe it was the mood that rainy nights always created, a unlikely combination of excitement and contentment, but Kathy was feeling loose and light and a little wicked. The night seemed full of possibilities—not the least of which was Peter Sandstrom. When she leaned in to say something to him, the delicious, crisp scent of what—sandalwood? Cedar?—emanated from his adorable left ear.
“Another round?” he asked, reaching for her glass.
“I’m crocked!” she declared, plucking a skewer of chicken satay from a silver tray held aloft by a passing waiter.
“Me too!” he shouted. “I usually don’t drink this much.”
“Me neither!” she yelled back, pulling a piece of chicken off the skewer with her teeth. It was good—thickly coated with salty, spicy peanut sauce. She held the skewer out to Peter. “Want some?”
He nodded and opened his mouth. His lips were so perfect and the effect so unexpectedly sexual that she almost dropped the chicken satay. Flustered, she popped the whole thing in his mouth, almost spearing him with the sharp end of the stick.
“Hey, watch out!” he said, grabbing the skewer.
“Sorry!” she yelped. “I told you I was plastered.”
“Next time I’ll believe you,” he said, smiling.
Next time?
she thought, realizing with shame that she very much hoped there would be a next time.
“Have you seen your father?” Peter asked.
Looking around the room, she spotted him in the far corner, talking to a plump blonde in a black cocktail dress with white polka dots. She smiled—her father always preferred women with some “meat on their bones,” as he put it, with his characteristic frankness. Antrias Azarian was almost as well known in forensic circles for his lack of tact as for his intellect—both of which were monumental.
He stood listening to the blonde, his weight shifted onto one hip, the other leg slightly bent, the foot curled inward, as though he were a shot-putter about to heave a shot into the air. It was a pose so familiar to Kathy she would have recognized him from across the room even without seeing his face. He gazed up at the woman, an expression of concentration on his sharp, fine-featured face. The hefty blonde had at least fifty pounds on her father, and towered over him. Antrias Azarian was only about five and a half feet tall, though he lied about his height to anyone who asked. Kathy had inherited his lack of stature as well as his delicate features—no one seeing them together would fail to see she was his daughter (though he was delighted when someone once asked if they were brother and sister). His tightly curled hair was still thick and black, though she suspected he dyed it. She never asked, knowing he would probably lie about it anyway.
“He’s over there,” Kathy told Peter, touching his shoulder. She couldn’t help notice it was tightly muscled, and realized she had used his question as an excuse to touch him.
“Where?” he asked, brushing against her exposed shoulder, raising goose bumps on her bare skin.
“The short man talking to the big blonde,” she said, pointing. Her father caught her eye and smiled, giving a little wave of his hand.
“Oh,” Peter said. “I thought he would be taller.”
“Careful—he’s sensitive about that, and maybe I am too.”
“But you’re a woman—you don’t have to worry about that, do you?”
She made a face. “I’m a woman. I have to worry about everything.”
“Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about your weight,” he said, with an admiring glance at her trim figure.
“Nice of you to say so.”
“Speaking strictly as a scientist, of course.”
“Computer science counts?”
He frowned. “Do I detect a note of scorn?”
She laughed. “Not at all.”
Her father had left the large blonde to the care of a pair of cops with florid Irish faces, and was pushing his way through the crowd toward them. It was a slow process; many people turned to say hello or clap a hand on his shoulder. Antrias Azarian was well known in the Philadelphia forensic community.
Her mother had died before Kathy had any memories of her, and her father never remarried. She was an only child, so he was the only family she had ever known—apart from cousins and aunt and uncles, some of whom still lived in Armenia. The closeness between them had deepened over the years, to the point where Kathy worried that her father would be lost if she ever married. She had often urged him to find another wife, and though he dated many women, he claimed he had never found one who measured up to her mother. Kathy didn’t believe him. She thought he avoided getting too close to women because he was afraid of the pain of losing someone he loved as deeply as he had loved Nairi Azarian.
“Hello!” her father bellowed as he pushed past a group of politicians and their Botoxed, spray-tanned wives. He was beaming, his olive skin glowing from alcohol and good humor. Kathy had rarely known him to be in a bad mood—he was a naturally buoyant person, bouncing back with amazing speed after most setbacks. She suspected her mother’s death was the one event in his life that had shaken his confidence in his own resiliency.
Antrias Azarian kissed his daughter and put out a hand to Peter. “You must be the famous Lee Campbell!”
A look of bewilderment crossed Peter’s handsome face, and Kathy’s stomach clenched like a fist. Of course her father had never met Lee, never even seen a picture of him. He had heard Lee was good looking, so it was a natural conclusion.
“This is Peter Sandstrom,” she said, though the damage had been done. She felt cheap and small, like a two-bit floozy.
Her father and Sandstrom shook hands. “I’ve heard so much about you, Dr. Azarian,” Peter said warmly.
“Antrias, please,” her father said, beaming. “And don’t believe anything you hear—it’s all a pack of lies!”
Peter laughed. “Only good things, I assure you.”
“Then you’re talking to the wrong people. Anyone who really knows me will tell you I’m arrogant, insufferable, and vain.”
“He’s right about the vain part,” Kathy said when Peter laughed. “But insufferable is going too far, don’t you think?” she asked her father.
He shrugged. “Depends on who you talk to. As chief pathologist in the city of brotherly love, I see a lot of un-brotherly behavior. And I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut. I tell it like it is, no matter if I make enemies.”
“Well, I have heard that you’re very ... frank,” Peter said.
Antrias Azarian let out a hoot of laughter. Even with the ambient noise level in the room, several people turned around to look at him.
“You’re being far too tactful, young man! I’m a grumpy old bear—just ask my daughter. Isn’t that right, Katydid?” he said, using her childhood nickname.
“A grumpy, lumpy old geezer,” she said, pinching his elbow.
He frowned. “Well, not
quite
a geezer—not yet, hopefully.”
Kathy laughed. “My father is very vain,” she told Peter. “He doesn’t like to tell people I’m his daughter, so they won’t know how old he is.”
Peter smiled. “That’s a switch. Isn’t the woman supposed to be the vain one?”
“Oh, she’s vain enough,” Antrias said. “She just likes to tease me about it.”
“Someone has to,” Kathy responded, poking her father in the ribs.
“What do you do?” Antrias asked Peter.
“I’m a computer crimes specialist.”
Her father frowned. “Really? You don’t look like a nerd.”
“Daddy!” Kathy said, but Peter just laughed.
“Oh, but I am—I’m glad I fooled you.”
“Prove it,” Kathy said. “What planet was Luke Sky-walker born on?”
“Tatooine,” Peter said without missing a beat.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “You
are
a nerd.”
She noticed that people moving toward the dining room, so she nudged Peter, feeling the heat of his body even through his jacket.
“Should we go in now?”
“Sure,” he said, turning the full force of those blue eyes toward her, and she felt her bones go weak.
Stop it!
she coached herself, but Peter’s honey-colored hair bounced as he walked, and she knew the devil on her shoulder was grinning.
“Who is Lee Campbell?” he said.
She hesitated, and in that pause the maw of hell opened before her. “He’s a friend of mine.”
The devil had won.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Chuck Morton grunted as he completed the last rep of bicep curls, feeling the sharp burn in his arms as the muscles strained to comply with his demands. He let the heavy barbell hang halfway down, at ninety degrees, until he could hold it no longer, then released it. Bending from the waist from his perch on the workout bench, he let it fall to the basement floor, where it landed with a thud. He grabbed his white cotton towel and wiped the sweat from his upper body, then reached for the bottle of Evian water at his feet. He gulped some down, cold and clear and pure. He loved the taste of water when he was really thirsty. He snuck a peek in the full-length mirror to see if his workout was having the intended effect, which was to please his wife. Susan liked him trim and fit, he knew—and he was pleased to see the nicely defined bulges on his upper arms, threaded with tiny blue veins. Susan would approve.
Charles Chesterfield Morton was not a proud man, and yet he allowed himself certain vanities. First and foremost of his blessings was his wife Susan. He had married the most beautiful woman he had ever known—and after years of marriage and two children, he still thought she was stunning. He could see that other men appreciated her too, though he tried not to take too much notice of it. He was determined never to be a jealous husband, and he disliked men who paraded their wives in public as if they were prizewinning racehorses.
There was no doubt that Susan Beaumont Morton was beautiful, but she was also bright and attentive to him and the children, and she ran an efficient, organized house. She had the kids doing dishes and tidying up after themselves practically by the time they could walk. Chuck approved—he felt structure and discipline were essential to raising children. It made him uncomfortable to see the way some of their friends and neighbors let their kids get away with anything. He knew they were in for trouble later on.
And Susan liked sex—oh, did she like it! Vanilla or kinky—it didn’t matter to her. She was game for anything. He had rarely known her to be not in the mood—if anything, her libido burned hotter than his. After a long day at the station house, he sometimes could barely drag himself home, but those were just the days she would be waiting in a silk negligee with a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon. He usually rose to the occasion, he thought with a smile. It was hard to turn down an opportunity when it presented itself in the form of a beautiful woman wearing something from Victoria’s Secret.
He turned up the volume on the CD player until his ears rang with the sound of “Hotel California.” He picked up a set of smaller free weights and began his tri-cep curls, leaning forward on the bench and swinging the weights out behind him, holding them at the extension until the muscles quivered from the effort. He concentrated on the music to distract himself from the pain, moving his lips along to the lyrics.
He was aware that not everyone in his North Jersey community was fond of Susan—but that group included mostly other women, so he wrote off any stray gossip he overheard as the product of envy. If he noticed sidelong glances and whispering when they were at a dinner or cocktail party, he tried to think of the most innocent possible explanation. Chuck Morton was not given to thinking the worst of other people, much less his beautiful, adored wife. He had built far too much of a life with her, knitted the fabric of their shared existence too closely, to entertain doubts about her now. It was too late for that. He was a fiercely loyal man, ready to come to the defense of women.
Unlike his friend Lee Campbell, Chuck Morton had never deeply investigated his life, so his motives, drives, and desires lived largely in the shadows of his unconscious mind. Now that he was commander of the Bronx Major Case Unit, he was even less likely to indulge in self-reflection. He had neither the time nor the inclination. So while he might not argue that he had a tendency to protect and worship women, he probably wouldn’t be interested in delving into the reasons behind it. If someone told him that his mother was a product of learned helplessness, and emotionally manipulative, he would probably shrug and leave the psychoanalysis to people like Lee Campbell. Chuck’s job was to run a precinct house. He knew he wasn’t a born leader, but that only made him work harder.
He let the weights dangle as he listened to the guitar-solo section of the song, his favorite part. Chuck had played guitar in college, and loved to hear the steel strings sliding in and around the melody, surrounded by the wall of sound coming from his very expensive speakers. He had balked when Susan set her heart on this stereo system—she always wanted the best of everything—but now he was glad. He loved to listen to music down here, which made working out so much easier. That was probably why she had insisted on them, he thought—she knew he would enjoy them more than she did.
She worked out too, of course, but not at home. She went to a fancy gym in Upper Montclair, taking Pilates classes from a sleek Italian woman who had the body of a greyhound and knew Yogi Berra. But then, everyone in Montclair knew Yogi Berra by sight. He was hard to miss, since people stared at him wherever he went. Even if you weren’t a baseball fan, you’d know he was a celebrity by the way people treated him—with a kind of jovial, familiar reverence, as if he were a favorite uncle who just happened to be one of the greatest catchers in the history of the game.
Chuck had seen him around town, but never had the nerve to go up to him. Naturally shy, Chuck Morton had done his best to morph his personality to fit the rigid mold of a commander in the NYPD. But he still couldn’t work up the courage to speak to one of his baseball idols. In high school, Chuck had been a southpaw with a wicked rising fastball, and everyone said he showed great promise. He continued to play freshman year at Princeton, until a batter smacked one of those fastballs back to the mound, slamming it into his left eye, detaching the retina. His sight was never quite the same after that, and he had trouble hitting the strike zone. Some people said it was nerves, and maybe they were right, but just to show them he took up rugby, a far more violent sport, and played on the school team for two years, until his father died suddenly and he had to leave before getting his degree.
The song finished and the CD player whirred as another disc slid into place. Chuck was about to start his sit-ups when he heard the click of the front-door latch. Susan was home from her Saturday-afternoon shopping ritual. Even after all these years, his groin tingled at the thought of her. His testosterone level surging, he slung the towel over his shoulder and bounded up the basement steps, two at a time. He hoped she had found something nice at Victoria’s Secret.

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