Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (7 page)

I surfed every channel on the tube, one hundred and twenty-one of them, and I couldn’t find a single thing to watch except MTV.
A video was on. I was pretty sure I’d seen it before. I think the title was “Slut of the Century.” I can’t be quite sure. It could have been the singer’s new one, “Millennium Nymph.” It’s a little hard for me to tell, but I think she wore panties in the original. It galls me to think that someone with God-given talent has to come off as a scantily clad trollop in spike heels in order to sell CDs and gain popularity. Sex sells. What can I tell you?

To tell you the truth, very little was going to please me just now. It was two in the morning. I was exhausted and my heart was still pounding like mortar shells landing on Omaha Beach. The goddamn nightmare had come back again, the one I described to Isaacs, the therapist. The horrible dream was awakening me more and more often.

I ran my left hand along my right arm and then did the same to the other. My arms were burnt in the nightmare, not lightly burnt, but third degree. They were bloody and charred. I could almost feel the roasted flesh hardening around me, cracking, tightening, and oozing serum. Not a pretty sight. And there were those two faces, those frightened, panicked faces: a doctor and a nurse. The horror in their eyes was worse than the sight of my own burnt flesh. What did they see? What could have such an effect on emergency room personnel, people who had seen tragedy of every shape and form?

I was hoping that Isaacs could help me figure it out. Would I be able to handle the truth once it was revealed? It frightened me more than anything I had seen on the streets. Why was I being rolled into the ER? What had caused them? Was I pregnant? I had to know. I rubbed my stomach, tenderly embracing the pregnancy fantasy.

I grabbed the phone and punched in Len Isaacs’s phone number and left a message stating that I’d like to see him in the morning. I instructed him to text me. I wasn’t going to take a chance on having him call me at the station house while my peers surrounded me. Perhaps if he helped me with my nightmare, we’d deal with the paranoia next. I prefer death to humiliation. I couldn’t bear the thought of one of the squad clowns hearing that I was seeing a shrink.

Speaking of crazy, I was starting to think about the case again. I wondered where our homicidal maniac was just about now and what he was doing. Was he watching music videos like me, unable to sleep, or was he plotting his next murder? I was sure he was sitting up in bed and gluing photos of his next victim to the wall. I know that sounds pretty cliché, but I’d take a bet that it wasn’t terribly inaccurate. If the pattern continued, there’d be another dead woman in the morgue very soon.

Our slug was a stalker. It appeared that he had selected his victims with great care. What was the connection? What was it about Ellen Redner and Samantha Harris that made our perp want to kill? Was it the color of their hair, perhaps the way they walked? They were of similar age and lived in the same geographical proximity. They were both attractive, intelligent women, and both were successful. None of those similarities told me why they were both dead. There could have been a hundred connections. They both could have dated him or pissed him off. They might have passed him on the street and ignored his glance. It could have been as simple and seemingly innocent as that, but I didn’t think so. The perp had left us clues:
Look back,
and
Are you looking back?
We were looking back, but were we looking back in the right direction? We were looking for priors that matched our killer’s MO, killers with technical training. Was that the right direction? I’d begin looking into the backgrounds of each of the victims in the morning. Perhaps that’s what he meant.

It was almost bizarre that two men had died in the process. The two incidental mortalities demonstrated that our perp had absolutely no respect for human life. I wondered how much insight Lou Strassman could shed on our perp’s raison d’être. Strassman had oodles of psychological training, but did he know this particular criminal mind? Our perp was a real nut job and yet he was intent and purposeful. His homicides had been planned and carefully calculated. What drew people to like Marilyn Manson? Why was I watching Mariah Carey in the middle of the night? It really is a crazy world.

A new video came on. Toni Braxton sang “Un-break My Heart” and smooched with that hunk Tyson Beckford. Now, he was all right! The video was romantic and Ms. Braxton can sing like nobody’s business. Thirty seconds into the video, I started to forget about my nightmare and New York’s maniac-come-lately.

I walked into the kitchen and started poking around. One of my neighbors had sent me a box of Godiva chocolates for Easter. It had been sitting unopened in the kitchen cabinet for months. It called out to me on occasion: “I’m in here, Steph! Come and get me.” I was feeling a bit weak so I opened the cabinet and stared at the box, hoping that the chocolate had somehow mysteriously disappeared, sublimed right out of the box like snow on a sundrenched mountainside. I was really tempted to have one. I could almost taste the chocolate. Two more seconds and I’d start drooling. Ah hell!

I tore open the box, grabbed the least dangerous looking confection and plopped it into my mouth. The chocolate melted all over my tongue. I covered the box and shoved it into the trash bin at the same time as I attempted to savor the luscious treat. I couldn’t stand the guilt or the thought of insulin injections. I decided to get up a half hour earlier and spend the extra time in the gym. It was so unfair, it took fifteen minutes on the Stairmaster to burn the calories contributed by one medium-sized truffle.

It really wasn’t worth it. Reminded me of this guy I once dated, my satisfaction always came up short. Somehow, the anticipation was always better than the actual reward. He was good-looking and well built but he was no Carl Malone. You know Carl Malone, the pro basketball player they call the Mailman. Well, unlike Carl Malone, my old boyfriend never delivered.

Anyway, the night had disaster written all over it. It was now three in the morning. I had eaten chocolate, which in my mind was tantamount to committing a cardinal sin. I had watched adolescent videos in order to forget about my horrible nightmare. I was going to be tired in the morning, which wasn’t going to help me catch New York’s newest and most wanted psychopath. Who was next? Despite the beefed-up police coverage, we all knew that a committed killer could and would strike again unless we found him first.
Look back! Are you looking back?
What the hell did all that mean?

The streets were giving us nothing.
We had been at it all day long, talking to Samantha Harris’ neighbors, storeowners on Second Avenue, and almost anyone else we could think of. We had obtained a list of everyone who had made a delivery to the building on Friday and Saturday and checked out each and every one. None of the utility companies had been there, no one from Manhattan Cable and no delegates from the Villains, Thieves, and Scoundrels Union. Sorry, Boris and Natasha.

The computer run had come back and as per our expectations, provided us with a ton of possibilities to run down. The 9mm was an extremely popular caliber and as such there were over five hundred open priors on file for shootings with a 9mm. Sonellio had delegated that list to others in his command. As I said before, it was my opinion that Balto’s and Alamento’s shootings had been incidental, two poor stiffs who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Putting time and effort into that list was like pissing into the wind.

There had been only one hundred eighty-four deaths by suffocation in the prior twelve months. Sadly, many on that list were small children who had ingested toys or gotten their little hands on something they shouldn’t have. Only forty-three on the list were adults; of the forty-three, only eighteen were women.

We were running a report on all single women between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five living between Fifty-third Street and Seventy-second Street, between the East River and Fifth Avenue. The number crunchers had promised me a full report by eight in the morning.

There were one hundred thirty-three thousand residents living within our hot zone. If we were lucky, the composite profile would reduce our list of possible next victims to fewer than ten thousand. All the victims had been Caucasian. That might chop a few thousand or so off the list as well.

So what was going on? Of course, our perp could have been one of those territorial nuts. The files were full of crazies who hunted only within a tight geographical area, marking their territories like dogs, or more appropriately, wolves, killer wolves. I was not thinking along those lines. As Strassman had so aptly pointed out, our killer was taunting us with his messages. This crazy SOB was jabbing his finger into our chests, daring us to find him.

It had been a muggy day, an unseasonably warm eighty-five degrees with humidity up around a hundred. The sky had that foreboding look to it, as if a storm might erupt at any moment. The storm never came but the foreboding clouds continued to hang above the city. I for one was thrilled and amazed that my hair hadn’t frizzed.

And what of our psychopath? The air of his insanity hung around us like a deadly shroud and yet, no new information had come forth. He was out there, planning his next act of insanity, coolly calculating who would be next and under which particular circumstances he would carry out his deed.

It was after eight when we arrived at Scores. The guy at the door, a dark, hulking fellow named Vincent, gave me the once over three or four times. With all the pretty ladies about I was surprised that he gave me so much attention. “You here for an audition?” he grunted.

I flashed him my hottest and most provocative smile. “Sure. Got any experience? Jump up on the counter and drop your pants.” I winked at him. He smiled and turned beet red.

I flashed my detective’s shield. Lido did the same. “There was a murder committed on the tram Friday night at about three in the morning. We’d like to see if anyone in the club saw our perp come scrambling out of the tram station.”

“No shit! Someone got killed up there?” Tall, dark, and vacuous looked up at the tram cabin that was passing by overhead. “Wow.” Vincent seemed really taken aback. “Come inside. I’ll get the manager.”

We were led into the sanctified establishment. Everyone in the tri-state area knew that Scores was considered the premiere men’s club in Manhattan. The girls were the crème de la crème of exotic dancers; no skanks or sleaze bunnies. It was sort of like Disney World with giant augmented boobs.

By the way, did I mention that I was wearing this absolutely adorable denim dress, a Guess? Not as in conjecture, but as in the brand. It’s sleeveless with a deep V-neck. It’s about as daring an outfit as I ever wear on the job, but there’s no way in hell that I was going to kowtow to any of those augmented pixies. I’m a whole lot better off for not having had my precious body sliced and stuffed like a Vienna sausage.

I knew that I was going to be on the street and out of the house all day, away from my fellow detectives. It was just the two of us working every angle we could figure, doing the dog work.

We were asked to wait in the lobby while Vincent set off to find his boss. Scores was not unaccustomed to police visits. The establishment had been the target of a money-laundering probe a few years back. There had been a shooting as well, allegations of mob involvement, scantily clad women, inappropriate sexual conduct, fire and brimstone, boiling blood. My God, I felt as if I had sinned by merely stepping foot into the establishment.

Lido walked over to the Barbie doll behind the cigar counter while I said a quick Hail Mary.

“I’ll bet you’re looking for something full-bodied and robust,” Barbie offered.

And they say men are lousy at pickup lines. I think she knew we were cops. I’ve seen women make complete fools of themselves in front of Lido. He’s got that quiet inner strength and cute butt that women go for. Barbie sighed heavily, engaging her flotation devices. I wanted to kick Lido because the jerk was eating it up.

Lido cozied up to Barbie’s counter. “Actually, I’m looking for information.” When she leaned forward, her face came into the light and I could see that she was wearing glitter. It wasn’t a bad look for a tart.

“What would you like to know?”

Lido smiled at her, which really turned her on. I heard her try to suppress a tiny gasp of excitement. For God’s sake, you’d think that he’d unzipped or something. “There was a double homicide on the tram Friday night. Hear anything about it?”

Barbie seemed disappointed by Lido’s question. What is it about strippers and cops? “A couple of the girls are friendly with the old tram conductor. They left the station just as the two DOAs pulled in.”

“DOAs?” Lido knew the lingo but was surprised that it was coming from a civilian.

“I used to be married to a cop,” she replied. Figures. She grinned. As the boys in uniform say, once they’ve had law, they’ll come back for more. Oh please.

I’d had enough. I bodied up to Lido, implying that I was more than just his partner. Barbie shot me a dagger. “We’ll need their names, sweetie.”

“Chantelle and . . . I mean Dina and Valerie,” she recanted.

“Who’s Chantelle?” Lido asked.

“That’s the name Valerie uses in the club,” she replied.

Vincent came back. He and Barbie exchanged glances. “Ready to double-date?” I asked. They looked at each other and grinned.

“It’s pretty quiet tonight. We’ve got a room you can use for your interviews.”

Translation: Get the two cops off the business floor before the Japanese businessmen put away their cash and head for the door.

“Great, but we’ll have to see everyone,” I advised.

Vincent winked. “Not a problem.”

We were led into the club. Lido gave Barbie a parting glance. I whispered into his ear, “You think I should get some glitter?” Lido ignored me. “How about a garter?” He didn’t answer, but I could tell that he was thinking yes.

We were set up in a room with a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. There was an ice bucket in the corner which was still sweating from a recent bottle of champagne. I checked the couch before I sat down. I didn’t want to make contact with some sleazy guy’s gene pool.

The first interview was with a five-foot-ten blonde who said her name was Katrina. As she crossed her legs, her dress spread open to her . . . Well, even I was shocked.

“You hear about the incident on the tram?” Lido asked.

“Everyone’s heard.” Katrina cracked some chewing gum. She sounded like a ranch hand. Her voice and her Eastern European alias were incongruent. Perhaps she told the customers that she was from a kibbutz.

“Where you from?” I asked.

“Dallas. I used to commute a lot, but I got tired of all the traveling. Now I live here permanently.”

All the way from Dallas, really? I scrutinized her carefully. At least twenty percent of her body weight was non-biodegradable. Her giant boobs protruded well out of her dress. How, I wondered, did she ever squeeze those things through the airport’s metal detector?

“How long have you been in New York?”

“About two years,” she replied.

“You came to New York to dance?” I continued.

“Well, sure,” she replied. “Everyone wants to work here.”

“Good money?” Lido asked.

“Great money!” she replied emphatically. She also gave us an affirming nod.

“Were you working here Friday night?”

“Uh huh.”

“What time did you get off?” I asked.

“About two. I wasn’t feeling well.” Katrina put her hand up to the side of her mouth partially covering it, and whispered to me as if Lido couldn’t hear what she was saying. “I got my period.”

“Sorry,” I whispered back. Katrina didn’t know diddly. I was bracing myself for a long night. I was checking the carpet for telltale stains when someone knocked on the door. “Come!” I said come, not cum.

Vincent opened the door. Paul Reynolds, one of the detectives on the squad, was with him. Paul had a duffle bag in his hand which he lifted and shook triumphantly.

“We caught a break,” he announced. There was a huge grin on his face.

Lido and I jumped to our feet. “Thanks,” I said to Katrina. “That’ll be all. Hope you’re feeling better.”

Katrina cracked her gum. “I am. Thanks.” She got up and strode to the door. I couldn’t get over the way she walked. It was like her butt swiveled on ball bearings.

Reynolds checked out her behind as she passed. “No, no. Don’t let me interrupt,” he pleaded.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I said. Reynolds smiled. It was a typical guy’s caught in the act, shit-eating grin. I asked Vincent to give us ten minutes before he sent the next girl in. I turned back to Reynolds. “
Whatcha
got?” I asked excitedly.

“Our boys were cleaning up the basement of Samantha Harris’s building. Look what they stumbled on.” Reynolds reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a foot-long length of two-inch PVC plumbing pipe wrapped in a clear bag.

“What the hell’s that?” Lido asked.

“Check it out, Gus, it’s a homemade silencer. Our perp must have dropped it on the way out. It was the damnedest thing. They were kicking this thing all over the floor before someone took a good look at it. They thought it was a hunk of scrap just lying about.”

Lido and I studied the device. As I said, it was about a foot long. Restricting caps with three-quarter-inch openings were screwed onto each end. “I shined my Maglite in there,” Reynolds said, “Looks like it’s filled with tennis balls.” Reynolds pointed to the end in Lido’s right hand. “The barrel of the gun was inserted in here. There’s scorch marks on the other end. Pretty damn clever if you ask me.”

“That’s fabulous,” I said, “Nothing like a techno-fucking-homicidal-maniac to make things interesting. We’re looking for a guy like MacGyver with a few loose screws.”

“This explains why the ME found bits of yellow fiber on the two gunshot victims,” I offered.

“Good point,” Lido replied.

“I’m going to rush this down to Aaron Kurtz in forensics. He’ll go crazy when he sees it. He’s into all this homemade weaponry shit,” Reynolds said.

“I’ll take it. You know you want me to,” I said.

“I’ll take it, Chalice,” Reynolds said in a totally unconvincing manner.

I took the silencer out of Lido’s hands. “I don’t think I can take one more pair of enormous heaving breasts in my face. This is a man’s job. Besides, fair is fair.”

“What do you mean, Chalice?” Lido asked.

“You two can have at the bimbos. At least I’m leaving with something that’s long and hard.”

Lido and Reynolds cackled and then smiled sheepishly. “Thanks, Chalice. We owe you big,” Reynolds said.

I put the silencer into the duffle bag and headed for the door. “Just take it easy, you two. I’m going to dust the two of you for fingerprints in the morning.”