Kiss Me, Kill Me (21 page)

Jordan added, “Erica was way casual about sex. She used to be really overweight, but lost it all and was in totally great shape—worked out all the time. Kind of an obsession.” She looked at Ken for confirmation.

“Every day,” he said. “I think she liked the attention she was getting.”

Suzanne showed the two the pictures of the other victims. They didn’t recognize them.

Sean asked, “In the days before Erica was killed, did she express any concern that she was being watched? Maybe followed?”

Ken shook his head, but Jordan piped up. “Yeah, she did. I didn’t think about it, but for two years she rode the subway here from Brooklyn. Then she started asking me to walk with her. At first she said she just wanted to talk, but then I asked her if she was worried about something. She said she thought someone was following her, but wasn’t totally serious, you know? Like she thought she was being stupid.”

Suzanne wrapped up the interview and they left. “We have time to swing by Jessica’s building.”

On the way there, Suzanne got a call. She didn’t say much, but Sean knew immediately that she was livid about something. She said, “Make sure Panetta knows,” then hung up.

“Bad news?”

“The fucking press released the news that Wade Barnett is our suspect. No one knew!” She glanced at Sean.

“Not me.”

She shook her head. “I’ll bet a million bucks it was the manager at Barnett’s apartment building. Mousey little bastard. Just makes my life more difficult. My idea of hell is standing in the middle of a sea of reporters shoving cameras and microphones in my face, wielding little stubby yellow pencils like swords, and all of them shouting questions at me.”

Neither Lauren nor Josh was at home, so Suzanne drove around the top of Central Park and down the east side to their next destination: an artsy dessert place. She explained, “Whitney Morrissey is the cousin of the first victim. According to Alanna Andrews’s closest friend, Whitney is the one who introduced Alanna to underground parties when she was seventeen.”

Suzanne approached a leggy blonde with enough curly hair for three women, dressed impeccably in a stylish blue suit that matched her eyes. “Thank you for waiting for us,” she said to the attractive woman. “This is Sean Rogan; he’s a private consultant helping on my case.”

Whitney nodded and gave him a half-smile. She seemed preoccupied to Sean, but she had been waiting for them quite a while.

“You work at a gallery?” he asked her as he and Suzanne sat.

“The contemporary art museum across the street. I give tours on the weekends, unless I have an art show.”

Suzanne said, “I’ve been reexamining each victim’s background, specifically men they were involved with in the weeks or months before they were murdered. Do you know if your cousin was seeing anyone in particular?”

Whitney shook her head. “You should talk to her friend Jill. Alanna and I weren’t all that close.”

“But she stayed with you for half a summer.”

“And I liked her, but I’m twenty-four, she was nineteen. We didn’t have a lot in common.”

“Other than the raves?” Suzanne said.

“We went to a few together.”

“Do you know if your cousin was romantically involved with a real-estate investor named Wade Barnett?”

Whitney was noticeably surprised.

“You know him?” Suzanne asked.

“Of course. The Barnetts are major benefactors of the arts. They give away numerous art grants every year. I’d be stunned if Alanna was dating a Barnett.”

Suzanne said, “I have proof they were involved; I’m just trying to figure out when and why they split.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “But—I think I might have introduced them. It was a long time ago. Probably the first party I took Alanna to. But I didn’t know they kept in touch.”

“That helps,” Suzanne said. “Confirms what we already know.”

“I worked on that drawing you asked for,” Whitney said. She reached into her wide purse and handed Suzanne a manila file folder. “I finished it last night, but have been tweaking it on my breaks. It’s not perfect, but it’s close.”

Suzanne opened the folder and Sean leaned over to take a look. Whitney was talented. The pencil drawing was as good as those of any FBI sketch artist. “You could have a career doing this,” Sean told her.

“Thank you,” Whitney said.

The man seen with Alanna the night she died was a young, attractive Caucasian roughly the same age as the victims. “I gather you don’t know what his eye color is?”

She shook her head. “He had brown hair. I made the shading about right in terms of color density. Not dark, not light.”

There was something familiar about the picture, but Whitney hadn’t drawn a full-on head shot. The man’s face was turned partly away, as if to kiss someone.

It definitely wasn’t Wade Barnett.

Of course, that didn’t mean Wade Barnett was innocent.

“Did this guy kill my cousin?” asked Whitney.

“I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “All I know is what you told me—you saw him with her the night she died. No one has come forward from those parties to say they’ve seen anything, and that’s the crux of our problem. I’d bet if I could talk to six people who were there, I could piece together what happened to Alanna. People observe things they might not necessarily realize are important. But—that was four months ago. Memories fade.” She leaned forward. “The party last Saturday in Sunset Park. Were you there?”

“I told you I wasn’t.”

“Do you know anyone who was?”

She shrugged. “I might, I don’t know. I can ask around, see if I can get anyone to talk to you.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Sean followed Suzanne out. “I can’t believe it took that woman four months to come forward with that sketch,” Sean said. “And that you didn’t call her on the carpet for it.”

Suzanne walked briskly toward her car. “What can I do about it? No one talked to her after the murder, no one knew to ask her if she’d seen anything.”

“But she was at the same party her cousin was murdered, but didn’t go to the police on her own.”

“I can’t tell you how many cases I’ve worked where someone doesn’t cooperate because they think they’re going to get into trouble for a minor crime. The party was illegal, there were illicit drugs, some people think they’ll be culpable. Murder trumps trespassing, but people can be damn selfish. Only think about their own situation.”

That was certainly true in many situations, but Sean had great disdain for such selfishness. He’d gotten his hand slapped any number of times when he’d admitted to breaking the law to expose a greater crime.

“Where to now?” Sean asked.

“Back to headquarters. It’s time to call it a night.”

TWENTY-FOUR

The three-story redbrick building stood alone in a vast cement field. It was silently guarded by construction equipment that twenty-one-year-old Sierra Hinkle doubted was operational. She stood on the top floor, where each window had been broken, leaving only empty holes looking out on the Upper Bay that was laid out before her like a black pit. The rain that had threatened all day now gushed from the sky in endless sheets of water. She stood at one of the openings, her long curly brown hair damp from the weather and her own sweat from hours of dancing.

Holding the wall for support, she looked down. It seemed too far. Would she die if she fell? Three stories? No, but she might break something. Sierra was so stoned she wouldn’t feel it, and then she might die from the cold. Would anyone even see her tumble off the ledge? Would they even find her body, or would she float away in the bay? Would anyone care?

Pounding music from below shook the building, but there was no one except the four hundred of them to hear. She smiled at the illogic. But it was true; to the north was open space, then another abandoned building; to the south was open space, then a road that led to a shipyard in Gowanus Bay. At least, she
thought
that’s where she was. She hadn’t come to the party alone.

Sierra enjoyed the peace up here on the third floor, though it was so much colder without hordes of frenetic bodies moving to the music. Still, she’d nearly passed out from the heat and sweat and wet dog smell as people ran inside to get out of the rain. Even an umbrella couldn’t keep anyone dry. While downstairs the windowless walls protected the dancers from the rain, up here, the wind pushed the rain through the broken windows.

She laughed out loud, stoned, but she could still think. She didn’t remember what had she taken. Pot and some pills—something that made her see colors and rainbows and slowed down time. And a delicious drink someone handed her, even though she knew better than to drink anything but bottled water.

Up here on the third floor, people got a little privacy. Here they could do anything. Sierra laughed again. Privacy in this large, open room with forty people here and there? A guy and girl were fucking in the center, as if they were onstage, and some people watched. In the corner a group of seven was sitting in a circle holding hands and passing around a pipe. Off to one side another group was dancing completely naked, eyes closed, moving to the music that came up from two stories below. She watched them and considered joining. Naked and free.

She wanted to escape.

Downstairs, where it was wild, she’d screwed two guys. She’d never done that before, not two in one night. She’d enjoyed the physical sensations that had been enhanced by whatever drugs she’d consumed, the freedom of being someone she wasn’t. But in the back of her mind, the deep inside part she pretended didn’t exist, she chastised herself for her reckless behavior.

You’re letting him hurt you when you do things like this
.

And she lied to her inner voice, told it that though her stepfather had hurt her and stolen her innocence,
she
was now in control. She could fuck who she wanted and when. He no longer had power over her.

Why was it, then, that she always thought about him when she was partying? Did he still have such control over her that even though she’d escaped, she lived wild to punish him? Wasn’t it she who was being punished?

Self-hate flowed through her veins.

I hate you I hate you I hate you!

Maybe she should jump.

She held her arm out the opening and let the rain pummel her flesh. It felt wonderful. Suddenly, the need to be clean overpowered her. She didn’t want to jump, she didn’t want to die; she wanted the rain to cleanse her, to make her whole and complete and fully alive again.

Sierra jumped off the ledge and skipped across the floor, down two flights of stairs, bumping into people but no one cared and neither did she. She ran out the back exit, toward the open field that led to the bay she’d seen from the window. The rain soaked her before she’d gone twenty feet.

She laughed and spun around. She didn’t know how long she danced alone, drenched but giddy. All she knew was that
this
was true freedom, standing in the rain in the middle of nowhere, black all around, no sound but water hitting the broken ground.

She tripped, caught herself, then stopped and looked around. She didn’t hear the music anymore; the lights were way far away. And she was freezing.

How long had she been standing in the rain? Her short hair was plastered to her head and she was shaking so violently her teeth chattered.

Her vision blurred, but she stared at the lights until the building came more into focus. Wow, she’d run a long way! Hugging herself, she headed back and hoped Becca hadn’t left. She wouldn’t do that to her, would she? Make her walk to the subway alone?

Now she heard it. The party was still going full blast. She had sobered up some, and had a headache and a nasty taste in her mouth. She was starving. She hoped she could find Becca and they could head back to their apartment in Brooklyn, hitting an all-night diner on the way.

She passed a bulldozer that had been stripped of everything but the metal body. The music got louder; she was close. How foolish she’d been to run outside, alone, in the rain! What drugs had she taken? Her mouth was so parched, all she wanted was to drain an entire water bottle. She stopped walking and tilted her head up, opening her mouth to quench her thirst.

Sierra felt something on her forehead and put her hand up thinking it was a bird, but that was silly in this weather. Then the rain stopped, because no more water was falling into her mouth. Something was on her face, and she realized with panic that a plastic bag had been pulled over her head.

She stumbled back, trying to grab the bag that was wrapped around her neck. She bumped up against someone and opened her mouth to scream. She stayed silent; she had no air. Hands flailing, she tried again to grab the plastic around her neck, but it was slick and wet and smooth and she couldn’t get a grip. She scratched herself, then thought,
break the plastic!

She clawed at it, but it would not break. Her eyes were open, but she couldn’t see. Was she already dead? So dark, no air, she reached behind her and touched a raincoat, tried to pull it, but her fingers couldn’t hold on to anything so slick. She was cold and hot at the same time, and she couldn’t breathe.

Someone was standing right behind her! Touching her. Holding her. Holding the plastic over her head.

You’re going to die
.

Her chest burned as her heart raced, faster, faster, using the last of the oxygen in her body. The carbon dioxide her body created couldn’t be expelled, and it poisoned her. Her blood burned. She’d been so cold before; now she was combustible.

In her panic, she had one clear thought.
Play dead
.

Against all instincts, she fell to her knees and relaxed her body.

“Good try, but I know that game,” a harsh voice whispered in her ear, distorted through the plastic.

The bag pulled tighter. Sierra fought, adrenaline surging even as her consciousness began to fade. She tried to turn around, to face her attacker, to push back, anything to loosen the hold on her. Her neck rubbed painfully against the edge of the plastic, but that was minor compared to the pain in her chest as carbon dioxide filled her lungs and flowed through her bloodstream. She half turned, fighting for her life, knowing this was her last chance. She pushed, and kicked and hit something while she tumbled down, arms reaching out for someone to save her. She grabbed on to something and pulled; her attacker grunted.

“Fucking bitch!”

A sharp pain stabbed her head as she hit the ground; then she was numb; then she felt nothing.

A full two minutes later, the killer yanked off the plastic bag, removed one of Sierra’s shoes, and slowly walked away.