The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 (21 page)

“Milk?”

“Or water? That’s about all I can offer you. I don’t have any liquor or soda.”

Lassiter didn’t respond. Paul walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. He returned and helped Lassiter onto a chair. He sipped from the tall glass, reflecting on how different he felt, how confident. The depression was gone completely, the anxiety too.

Thank you, Dr. Levine.

Paul regarded the glass. “Did you know milk has a terroir too, just like wine? You can tell, by analysis of the milk, what the cows were eating during the lactation period: the substances in the soil, chemical residues, even insect activity. Why do you wrap your trophies in silk? The fingers? That’s one thing I couldn’t deduce.”

Lassiter gasped and his eyes, wide, cut into Paul’s like a torch.

“I know it wasn’t on the news. The police don’t even know that.” He explained, “There was a single bloody thread at one of the scenes. It couldn’t have come from a silk garment you were wearing. That would be too ostentatious and obvious for a man on a killing mission. Silk is used for cold-weather undergarments, yes, but you wouldn’t have worn anything like that in these temperatures; very bad idea to sweat at a crime scene. Weren’t the days better for people like you when there was no DNA analysis?”

Did a moan issue from Lassiter’s throat? Paul couldn’t be sure. He smiled. “Well, I’m not too concerned about the silk. Merely curious. Not relevant to our purposes here. The more vital question you have surely is how I found
you.
Understandable. The short answer is that I learned from the newspaper accounts of the murders that you’re an organized offender. I deduced you plan everything out ahead of time. And you plan the sites of the killings and the escape routes meticulously.

“Someone like that would also want to know about the people tracking him down. I decided you’d be at the scene the morning after the killing. I observed everyone who was there. I was suspicious of the man sipping coffee and reading the sports section of the
Post.
I was pretty sure it was you. I’d known that the clue about the Ferragamo shoe was fake—why take off the booties in the dirt, when you could have walked three feet farther onto the asphalt and pulled them off there, not leaving any impressions for the police? That meant you weren’t rich at all but middle-class—the shoes were to misdirect the cops. I knew you were strong and solidly built. All of those described the
Post
reader pretty well.

“When I left the scene I was aware that you followed me back here. As soon as I got inside I grabbed a hat and new jacket and sunglasses and went out the back door. I started following
you
—right back to your apartment in Queens. A few Internet searches and I got your identity.”

Paul enjoyed a long sip of milk. “An average cow in the U.S. produces nearly twenty thousand pounds of milk a year. I find that amazing.” He regarded the unfortunate man for a moment. “I’m a great fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories.” He nodded around the room at his shelves. “As you can probably see.”

“So that’s why the police aren’t here,” his prisoner muttered. “You’re going play the big hero, like Sherlock Holmes, showing up the police with your brilliance. Who’re you going to turn me over to? The mayor? The police commissioner?”

“Not at all.” Paul added, “What I want is to
employ
you. As my assistant.”

“Assistant?”

“I want you to work for me. Be my sidekick. Though that’s a word I’ve never cared for, I must say.”

Lassiter gave a sour laugh. “This’s all pretty messed up. You think you’re some kind of Sherlock Holmes and you want me to be your Watson?”

Paul grimaced. “No, no, no. My hero in the books”—he waved at his shelves—“isn’t
Holmes.
It’s
Moriarty.
Professor James Moriarty.”

“But wasn’t he, what do they say? Holmes’s nemesis.”

Paul quoted Holmes’s words from memory: “In calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law—and there lie the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations—that’s the man!”

He continued, “Holmes was brilliant, yes, but he had no grand design, no drive. He was passive. Moriarty, on the other hand, was ambition personified. Always making plans for plots and conspiracies. He’s been my hero ever since I first read about him.” Paul’s eyes gazed affectionately at the books on his shelves that contained the stories involving Moriarty. “I studied math and science because of him. I became a professor, just like my hero.”

Paul thought back to his session with Dr. Levine not long ago.

The Sherlock Holmes stories resonated with you for several reasons. I think primarily because of your talents: your intelligence, your natural skills at analysis, your powers of deduction—just like his . . .

Dr. Levine had assumed Paul worshipped Holmes, and the patient didn’t think it wise to correct him; therapists presumably take role modeling of perpetrators like Moriarty, even if fictional, rather seriously.

“Moriarty only appeared in two stories as a character, was mentioned in just five others. But the shadow of his evil runs throughout the entire series, and you get the impression that Holmes was always aware that a villain even smarter and more resourceful than he was always hovering nearby.
He
was my idol.” Paul smiled, his expression filled with reverent admiration. “So. I’ve decided to become a modern-day Moriarty. And that means having an assistant just like my hero did.”

“Like Watson?”

“No. Moriarty’s sidekick was Colonel Sebastian Moran, a retired military man who specialized in murder. Exactly what I need. I wondered whom to pick. I don’t exactly hang out in criminal circles. So I began studying recent crimes in the city and read about the Upper East Side Slasher. You had the most promise. Oh, you made some mistakes, but I thought I could help you overcome your flaws—like returning to visit the scene of the crime, not planting enough fake evidence to shift the blame, attacking victims who were very similar, which establishes patterns and makes profiling easier. And for heaven’s sake, eating a power bar while you waited for your victim? Please. You are capable of better, Lassiter.”

The man was silent. His expression said he acknowledged that Paul was correct.

“But first I needed to save you from the police. I helped Detective Carrera come up with a profile of the perp that was very specific, very credible . . . and described someone completely different from you.”

“Maybe, but they’re out there looking for me.”

“Oh, they are?” Paul asked wryly.

“What do you mean?”

He found the cable box remote. He fiddled for a moment. “You know, in the past we’d have to wait until the top of the hour to see the news. Now they’ve got that twenty-four/seven cycle. Tedious usually but helpful occasionally.”

The TV came to life.

Actually it was a Geico commercial.

“Can’t do much about those,” Paul said with a grimacing nod at the screen. “Though they can be funny. The squirrels’re the best.”

A moment later an anchorwoman appeared. “If you’re just joining us—”

“Which we are,” Paul chimed in.

“NYPD officials have reported that the so-called Upper East Side Slasher, allegedly responsible for the murders of three women in Manhattan and, earlier tonight, of Detective Albert Carrera of the NYPD, has been arrested. He’s been identified as Franklyn Moss, a journalist and blogger.”

“Jesus! What?”

Paul shushed Lassiter.

“Detective Carrera was found stabbed to death about 5
P.M.
near the Harlem Meer fishing area in Central Park. An anonymous tip—”

“Moi,”
Paul said.

“—led authorities to Moss’s apartment in Brooklyn, where police found evidence implicating him in the murder of Detective Carrera and the other victims. He is being held without bond in the Manhattan Detention Center.”

Paul shut the set off.

He turned and was amused to see Lassiter’s expression was one of pure bewilderment. “I think we don’t need these anymore.” He rose and unhooked the handcuffs. “Just to let you know, though, my lawyer has plenty of evidence implicating you in the crimes, so don’t do anything foolish.”

“No, I’m cool.”

“Good. Now when I decided I wanted you as an assistant, I had to make sure somebody else took the fall for the killings. Whom to pick? I’ve never liked reporters very much, and I found Franklyn Moss particularly irritating. So I datamined him. I learned he was quite the fisherman, so I fed Carrera this mumbo-jumbo that that was the killer’s hobby.

“Earlier today I convinced Carrera we should go to Central Park, one of the fishing preserves there, to look for clues. When we were alone at the Meer I slit his throat and sawed off his index finger. That’s a lot of work, by the way. Couldn’t you have picked the pinkie? Never mind. Then I went to Moss’s apartment and hid the knife and finger in his garage and car, along with some physical evidence from the other scenes, a pair of Ferragamos I bought yesterday, and a packet of those energy bars you like. I left some of Carrera’s blood on the doorstep so the police would have probable cause to get a warrant.”

Paul enjoyed another long sip of milk.

“The evidence’s circumstantial, but compelling: he drives a BMW, which I told Carrera was his vehicle—because I’d seen it earlier. Public records show he has a lake house in Westchester—which I also told Carrera. And I suggested that the ligature marks were from fishing line, which Moss had plenty of in his garage and basement . . . You used bell wire, right?”

“Um, yes.”

Paul continued, “I also fed the detective this nonsense that the killer probably spent a lot of time keyboarding at a computer, like a blogger would do. So our friend Moss is going away forever. You’re clean.”

Lassiter frowned. “But wouldn’t Carrera have told other officers
you
gave him the profile? That’d make you a suspect.”

“Good point, Lassiter. But I knew he wouldn’t. Why bring the file to me here in my house to review, rather than invite me downtown to examine it? And why did he come alone, not with his partners? No, he asked my advice
privately
—so he could steal my ideas and take credit for them himself.” Paul ran his hand through his hair and regarded the killer with a coy smile. “Now, tell me about the assignment—about the person who hired you. I’m really curious about that.”

“Assignment?”

But the feigned surprise didn’t work.

“Please, Lassiter. You’re not a serial killer. I wouldn’t want you if you were—they’re far too capricious. Too driven by emotion.” Paul said the last word as if it were tainted food. “No, you came up with the plan for the multiple murders to cover up your real crime. You’d been hired to murder a particular individual—one of the three victims.”

Lassiter’s mouth was actually gaping open. He slowly pressed his lips back together.

Paul continued, “It was so obvious. There was no sexual component to the killings, which there always is in serial murders. And there’s no psychopathological archetype for taking an index finger trophy—you improvised because you thought it would look suitably spooky. Now, which of the three was the woman you’d been hired to kill?”

The man gave a why-bother shrug. “Rachel Garner. The last one. She was going to blow the whistle on her boss. He runs a hedge fund that’s waist-deep in money laundering.”

“Or—alternative spelling—‘waste-deep,’ if it needs
laundering.
” Paul couldn’t help the play on words. “I thought it was something like that.”

Lassiter said, “I’d met the guy in the army. He knew I did a few dirty tricks, and he called me up.”

“So it was a one-time job?”

“Right.”

“Good. So you can come to work for me.”

Lassiter debated.

Paul leaned forward. “Ah, there’s a lot of carnage out there to perpetrate. Lots of foolish men and women on Wall Street who need to be relieved of some of their gains, ill- or well-gotten. There’re illegal arms sales waiting to be made, and cheating politicians to extort and humans to traffic and terrorists who may hold intellectually indefensible views but have very large bank accounts and are willing to write checks to people like us, who can provide what they need.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “And, you know, Lassiter, sometimes you just need to slice a throat or two for the fun of it.”

Lassiter’s eyes fixed on the carpet. After a long moment he whispered, “The silk?”

“Yes?”

“My mother would stuff a silk handkerchief in my mouth when she beat me. To mute the screams, you know.”

“Ah, I see,” Paul replied softly. “I’m sorry. But I can guarantee you plenty of opportunities to get even for that tragedy, Lassiter. So. Do you want the job?”

The killer debated for merely a few seconds. He smiled broadly. “I do, professor. I sure do.” The men shook hands.

BRENDAN DUBOIS

FROM
Ice Cold

I
N THE
N
EW
H
AMPSHIRE
island community of New Castle, Michael Smith spent nearly a month conducting a surveillance op at an oceanfront park called the Great Island Common. It was small, with a tennis court, gazebo, and picnic tables and benches scattered on a scraggly green lawn. There was a stone jetty sticking out into the near channel, from which ships entered and left nearby Portsmouth Harbor to the Atlantic, and across the narrow channel was the state of Maine.

Near the stone jetty was a good downstream view of the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, which had been building warships for the U.S. Navy since 1800.

It was now one year after the hammer-and-sickle flag had been lowered for the last time over the Kremlin, and sitting in a rented blue Toyota Camry, Michael thought it ironic that his work and the work of so many others was still going on, despite peace supposedly breaking out everywhere.

Cold war or hot war, there was always plenty of work to be done.