Silent Kills (16 page)

Authors: C.E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Kills

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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“What is this fascination with death we all seem to have?” Kathy asked, her chin glistening with dumpling grease.

It was Saturday night, and she and Lee were eating at their favorite Vietnamese restaurant on Doyers Street. The location of their first “date,” they returned to it often—the food was good and the prices reasonable.

He leaned forward and ran a finger over her chin, which didn’t so much dispel the grease as spread it around. She smiled and dabbed at it with her napkin.

“I know—I’m a sloppy eater,” she said. “My father is always telling me that.” When he didn’t respond, she laughed. “Aren’t you well bred? You somehow refrained from agreeing with me.”

He leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. “I seem to remember a saying about discretion being the better part of valor.”

She waved her napkin at him. “Coward.”

“All right,” he said. “You are an ... untidy eater.”

She laughed again, a hearty sound, like wood being thrown on a crackling fire. “Oh, that’s good—
untidy
! Your mother did get to you, didn’t she? Or maybe your father was the well-bred one.”

A cloud passed over his face, and he became silent. She looked confused and unsure of what to say next.

“You don’t talk about him much.”

“Nothing much to say,” he replied, hoping to steer the conversational boat from cracking apart on the rocks looming ahead.

Kathy stopped eating and looked at the table of four Japanese businessmen eating with great concentration on the heaping platters of food in front of them. Their faces expressed no pleasure, but a sense of single-minded determination. Lee had an impulse to touch her, but it felt wrong. Something had broken between them. All the unsaid words lay heavy in the air, lingering like grey smoke long after the incense has burned out.

“I get the message,” she said. “You don’t want to talk about him. But is it going to be like that forever, Lee?”

“Can’t we change the subject?”

“Look, you’re the expert on this kind of thing, not me. But I just think that if you keep—”

“Can we just
stop
talking about my damn father?” His voice was louder and angrier than he intended. Rebuffed, she fell silent, staring at the little shrine in the corner, where a fat, grinning Buddha sat perched in front of a flickering votive candle and a small plate of food.

“Look,” Lee said, taking out his cell phone to check the time. “I should probably go.” His hand trembled as he shoved it back into his pocket. He wondered if she noticed. He avoided looking at her, not wanting to see the disappointment in her eyes.

He knew it was the coward’s way out, but he was flustered and anxious to leave. The mention of his father brought the canopy of depression always hovering over his head a little closer to enveloping him. He knew the warning signs by now—the restlessness, the vague sense of claustrophobia and anxiety that threatened to overtake him. Depression was like a kidnapper about to throw a sack over his head, and the only way he could avoid capture was to move as quickly as possible—to go somewhere, anywhere where it couldn’t get to him. Being around other people often made it worse. He had a sudden craving to be alone.

“Lee,” she said, pushing her plate away, “I was thinking that it might be a good idea to talk at some point—I mean, about us.”

“Anything in particular on your mind?”

“No,” she said, but he knew she was lying. Her “tell” was so consistent—a rapid fluttering of her eyelashes, followed by a slight downward tilt of her chin, still glistening from dumpling grease.

“Kathy, I—” he said, but he felt the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number—it was a Manhattan exchange. “Do you mind if I get this?”

She shook her head, so he went out to the street to take the call. He hated it when people talked on cell phones in restaurants.

Doyers Street was deserted except for an old Chinese man wheeling a cart of vegetables up the winding cobblestones—a restaurant owner, perhaps, doing his Sunday-night shopping at one of the dozens of stands lining the major thoroughfares and side streets. You could get anything from cheap wind-up toys to live lobsters at those stands; it was one of the things that gave Chinatown its unique flavor. It had an aroma unlike any other neighborhood—the smell of fish, decomposing vegetables, and cooking grease combined with sharp spices and herbs, ginger, garlic, and ginseng. It was a confusing, glorious assault on the senses, as mysterious and complex as Chinatown itself.

Lee flipped open his phone. “Hello?”

“Is this Dr. Campbell?” The voice was breathy, female, Irish.

“Yes. Who’s calling, please?”

“You don’t know me—my name’s Flossie O’Carney.”

The name sounded familiar... . Then he remembered where he’d heard it. “Yes, Francois Nugent spoke of you. You’re his—”

“I’m his nanny. I got your number from his bedroom. He had your business card on his dresser.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure how to say this, Dr. Campbell, but I’m afraid young Francois is—well, that is to say, I’m afraid he’s about to do something terrible.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t exactly know yet. That’s why I’m calling you, you see.”

Lee watched as the old man pushing the vegetable cart disappeared around the corner, headed in the direction of Mott Street. Thin, ghostly fingers of steam seeped from underground vents in the cobblestones and flickered upward, rapidly dissipating in the humid air.

“What is it you
think
he might do?”

“Well, he’s been acting terrible strange these past few days, you know, muttering to himself and staying in his room and all with the door locked. That’s just not like him at all, so it isn’t. His sister’s death affected him something awful, you see.”

“I can understand that. Has he said anything to you?”

“He makes these strange statements about revenge, and getting back at whoever did this to her—but the thing is, you don’t really know what fellow did it, do you?”

“No, we don’t.”

“So I’m afraid he’s going to go out and assault some poor soul—or worse.”

“But you don’t have anything concrete? He hasn’t threatened anyone that you know of?”

“Not that I know of, no. But I don’t like the way he’s been talking lately.”

“Okay, thanks for letting me know.”

“I guess there’s nothing you can do, then, is there now?”

“I can talk to him.”

“Would you do that, then?”

“Sure. I’ll give him a call.”

“Thanks very much—I do appreciate it, you know.”

“No problem—thanks for letting me know.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, panicked, but it was Kathy.

“I’m ready to go,” she said.

“What about the check?”

“I took care of it—my treat.”

“Thanks—I’ll get the next one,” he said as they set off together down Doyers Street. They walked in silence past the barbershop on the corner with its old-fashioned red and white striped pole.

“I wonder if there’s a bordello in the basement?” she said.

“A bordello?”

“In some parts of Asia where prostitution is illegal, they use a barbershop pole as a symbol for a brothel. It cuts down on the number of police raids, apparently.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said. “I did know that the red stripe symbolizes blood, since barbers used to do surgery in the old days.”

“Yeah. Imagine that—and no anesthetic.” She shivered. “We’re very lucky to live when we do.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, though he wasn’t feeling very lucky these days. “I have to make a phone call. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“It’s nothing, really,” she answered. “I’m tired, and it can wait, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” he said, but something in her tone was off, and though he said nothing, he didn’t believe her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The New York Society for Ethical Culture was housed in a splendid Art Nouveau building at the corner of Central Park West and Sixty-fourth Street. Lee had been there once years ago, for a piano recital in the concert hall. He took the A train to Columbus Circle and walked north, entering the five-story landmark building through the side door on West Sixty-fourth, where a small foyer led to an elevator. Stepping into its cool, quiet interior after the heat and noise of the subway was a relief. The only sounds inside were the murmur of voices and the soft click of footsteps along the hundred-year-old hardwood floors.

The Society offered its members an alternative to theistic religion. There was a meeting every Sunday, the focus being on ethical living and community, answering to each other and the world rather than a deity. In addition, there were lectures, classes, and social events, as well as musical presentations and field trips. Lee had always found their philosophy of secular humanism appealing.

Francois had told him the meeting was in the Adler Study, on the third floor, and he decided to walk up the handsome marble staircase with its wrought-iron banister. He could hear the sound of a chamber music ensemble practicing a Brahms quartet in the concert hall. One flight up, a group of elementary-school children passed him on the stairs. They clattered noisily down the steps with the heedless energy of youth, in spite of their teacher’s futile attempts to quiet them.

He reached the meeting just as it was breaking up. The moderator was a pale, bearded man in his thirties, with a twitchy, neurasthenic manner and sad, basset hound eyes. He stood talking to two women who appeared to be mother and daughter, both dressed in wrinkled, all-natural looking fibers in earth tones. The mother’s hair was long and grey; her daughter wore her dark curls short. Her hair reminded him of Kathy. But then, everything reminded him of her these days.

Francois was sitting alone at the far end of the room, studying a handout from the meeting. Lee noticed a few others scattered about on empty chairs. They were advertising for the next lecture:
LIVING A CONSCIOUS LIFE
.

Lee went over to Francois and sat next to him. “How was the lecture?”

He shrugged. “I’ve heard better. He misquoted Sartre. I read a lot,” he said in response to Lee’s surprised expression.

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I’m a total geek.” He got up and stretched his skinny torso. “Let’s go to Café des Artistes. I’m starving.”

“Isn’t that a little pricey?”

Francois dismissed his objection with a wave of his hand. “My parents have an account there. I can go anytime I want.”

Lee frowned. “I don’t want to impose on your parents.”

“Hey, don’t worry—they’re loaded. You’ll be my guest. They don’t even look at the bill. It gets paid automatically every month.”

“I don’t really think—”

“Hey, you want to talk to me or not?”

He had to admit Francois had the upper hand there. “All right. Lead on, Macduff.”

Francois smiled as he stuffed the flyer into his pants pocket. “Quoting the Scottish play—isn’t that supposed to be bad luck?”

Lee rolled his eyes. “You’re right—you
are
a geek.”

They walked the three blocks to the restaurant along Central Park as the September sun slid lower in the sky over the Hudson River. The leaves on the trees in the park were a dusky, tired green, as if they were just waiting for summer to finally end. They gave off a dry, dusty smell, the smell of defeat.

Café des Artistes was quite possibly the most beautiful restaurant in New York. It certainly was one of the most romantic. The history of the café, as well as its famous murals of naked nymphs cavorting, was a throwback to an earlier time in the life of the city. Housed in the Gothic/Tudor Revival Hotel des Artistes, the café was originally built to serve the painters living in the hotel. Since early apartments in New York had little in the way of kitchens, the artists would buy their own food and bring it to the restaurant to be cooked.

The murals, with their naked women and air of licentious innocence, were the work of hotel resident Howard Chandler Christy. Legend had it that he painted them in exchange for food and lodging.

When Francois entered the front room, with its abundant array of potted plants and sensuous arrangement of fresh fruit, he was greeted warmly by the maître d’, a small man with slicked-back black hair and a tiny pencil mustache—straight out of Central Casting.

“Monsieur Francois, it’s good to see you!” Even his accent was a cliché—vaguely European, perhaps French, perhaps an actor pretending to be French.

“Hello, Abelard,” he replied with the easy superiority of one to the manner born.

Abelard’s face assumed a sad expression. “Such terrible news about your sister. How are your parents?”

Francois made a wry face. “They’ve gone back to Africa, looking for more orphans to rescue. Do you have a good table for me and my friend here?”

“There is always a good table for you,” Abelard replied, ushering them past courting couples and businessmen and women on expense accounts. All were expensively dressed. Lee felt shabby in his Top-Siders and chinos. He recognized a local news anchor in one of the booths, and a popular Broadway actress among a group of people at another table.

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” Francois asked, sliding into the leather banquette the maître d’ offered them. In the mural behind them, a perky brunette with equally perky breasts thrust her nipples toward an unseen observer. Her girlish face wore an expression that somehow managed to straddle innocence and raunchiness. It was a come-on without a promise, seduction by a creature who might not know what she was getting into—a lusty virgin. She was every man’s fantasy.

“Don’t you love it?” Francois said, leaning back into the buttery leather as though he owned the place. “Surrounded by naked women, and being waited on by a guy named Abelard. I swear to god I think he changed his name just to work here. Maybe the accent is fake too, for all I know.”

Lee looked around before sitting down. He wanted to make sure no one was within hearing distance.

“I want to check on how you’re doing.”

“Fine. I’m doing fine. You didn’t come all the way up here to find out how I’m doing,” Francois said, plucking an olive from a bowl of them on the table. “What has she told you?”

“Who?”

Francois tossed the olive pit into a white ramekin next to his bread plate. “Oh, man, don’t play games with me.”

A waiter in a crisp white jacket appeared at the table with a drink in a Manhattan glass. “Your usual, Monsieur Francois,” he said, placing it in front of the boy.

“Thanks, Louie,” Francois said, taking a sip. “Perfect, as usual.”

The waiter beamed. He was short and broad and bald, a eunuch in a dinner jacket.

“Is that a Manhattan?” said Lee.

Francois smiled and took another swallow. “What else? Want one?”

“Sure.”

“Right away, Monsieur,” the waiter said, and hurried off.

Francois leaned in toward Lee. “Come on, man. I know Flossie must have called you, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Why do you think that?” Lee asked, determined to protect her as long as possible.

“Because I know her. She gets all mother hennish about me, goes nuts, calls someone. It’s really irritating,” he added, but he couldn’t disguise his satisfaction, obviously more pleased than irritated by Flossie’s concern. Poor kid, Lee thought—Flossie was probably the only person he felt really
did
care about him.

“What if she did call me?” Lee said. “Would it make any difference?”

“Don’t go all lawyer on me, okay? I’m just asking.”

The waiter returned with Lee’s drink, and Francois ordered the porterhouse steak frites, while Lee asked for a salad.

“If Flossie did call me, it’s because she’s concerned about you,” Lee said. “About what you’re planning to do.”

“Which is what?”

“You tell me.”

Francois shrugged and popped another olive, spitting out the pit.

“That’s rabbit food, man,” he muttered when the food came, shoving half a buttered roll into his mouth. For a rich kid, Lee thought, he had pretty bad table manners. “Look,” he said, smearing steak sauce all over his porterhouse, “my sister gets killed by some psycho, and nobody does anything about it. So then another girl is murdered, and I’m thinking, why don’t you guys catch this bastard?”

“I understand how you feel.”

“Don’t patronize me, okay? I’m sick of that psychobabble crap. It’s not about how I
feel
—it’s about what’s still going on out there! How many more girls have to die before you guys figure this out?” he said, reaching across the table for the horseradish sauce.

“Do you think we’re not trying our best?”

“How should I know?”

“Does it occur to you that we might be just as frustrated as you are?”

Francois stabbed a piece of steak with his fork and shoved it into his mouth. “You can’t know how I feel. You haven’t lost your only sister to a—oh, shit, man, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

Lee looked away. “Never mind.” He didn’t want to go into it, in this restaurant, with this kid.

“God, I’m really sorry. How long ago was it? Did they catch the guy?”

“It was six years ago, and no, they didn’t catch him.”

“Jeez.” Francois chewed his steak, dangling his fork over the plate. “That’s rough, man, really rough.”

“So I do know how you feel.”

“Okay, so you know how I feel. How is that going to help catch this guy?”

Lee had no answer to that question. Looking out the window at the rapidly dimming September twilight, he felt as if they were chasing a ghost.