Kiss Me, Kill Me (25 page)

“Dennis liked all my girlfriends,” Wade said. But he was thinking.

Sean tried a different tactic. “You lost your license, but this is New York. Why have Dennis drive you to all the parties?”

“I live on the Upper West Side. Most of the parties aren’t walking distance. I don’t take the subway, and I don’t care to walk to Brooklyn. Cabs are unreliable.”

Sean hesitated. “Did Dennis take you to all the parties? Was he at the Haunted House where Alanna was killed?”

Wade thought about it. “No. He wasn’t. That was the night before Halloween. Dennis gets scared easily.”

Sean knew exactly who the Cinderella Strangler was.

   Lucy stared at the photocopy of the drawing that portrayed a mean-looking Dennis Barnett with Alanna the night she was killed. Suzanne and Panetta had pushed, but he never looked like this. But it was
him;
there was no doubt.

Suzanne said, “I don’t know what to think.”

“He could be lying. We need to push him on the last murder,” Panetta said. “He could have killed Hinkle to get his brother out of prison. Did it the same way because he’d watched his brother kill four other girls.”

“No,” Lucy said. “Dennis didn’t kill anyone.”

Panetta rubbed the back of his neck. “Ms. Kincaid, I appreciate your help, but all the evidence points to Wade Barnett and Dennis Barnett working together.”

Suzanne said, “It seems so, but there’s really only one way to know for certain. We interview Kirsten Benton.”

“She’s still unconscious,” Lucy said.

“What did the doctor say about her prognosis?”

“They’re changing her medication and he’s optimistic.”

Panetta said, “We keep both of them in lockup until we can talk to her.”

“We have no reason to hold Dennis,” Suzanne said.

“We have a witness.”

“We’ll need her to view a lineup.”

Lucy only half listened to the conversation. “Suzanne, do you have the original drawing?”

“It’s in the evidence room at my headquarters.”

“Was it done in pencil?”

“Um, charcoal is pencil, right?”

“Charcoal was in the lungs of the first victim. Charcoal and gum.” Lucy pulled out her phone and did a quick search. Suzanne rose from her chair and paced, her hands rubbing the back of her neck. “Gum is a component of charcoal pencils used for drawings.”

“That’s it,” Suzanne said. “That’s the personal connection. I didn’t see it before, but it makes complete sense. The final piece of the puzzle.”

“What is?” Panetta asked.

“That drawing—the artist is Whitney Morrissey. She was at the Haunted House party in Harlem. She’s Alanna Andrews’s cousin.”

“Hold it,” Panetta said. “Are you saying a woman killed these girls?”

Lucy nodded. “It fits everything I said before.”

“But what you said also fits Dennis Barnett.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t jealous of Wade’s girlfriends. He cared about Alanna in particular, and he saved Kirsten. Go ask him about Whitney.”

Suzanne walked into holding and saw Dennis Barnett in the corner, terrified. She told the guard to get him out.

He leaned toward her and said, “I don’t like it here.”

“I have one more question. Do you know Whitney Morrissey?”

Dennis wrinkled his nose. “Yes.”

“How?”

“She’s one of Wade’s girlfriends. She doesn’t like me.”

“Is your brother still dating her?”

“No. Wade heard her say mean things about me. He broke up with her. Then he met Alanna and was happy.”

“Did Whitney do anything to Wade? Threaten him?”

Dennis shook his head. “She told him she was going to kill herself. But she didn’t. She called him all the time. He changed his number. Then she came to Charlie’s apartment for Wade’s birthday in September and made Charlie so mad that he took away the CJB grant he’d given her.”

“Grant?”

“For art. Charlie says ’cause we have a lot of money we need to give a lot of it away. I never knew our dad because I was a baby when he died, but he loved art so Charlie gives money to artists.”

Dennis glanced back at the holding cell. “Please don’t make me go back in there.”

“You don’t have to. I’m going to have a police officer take you home. But Dennis, no matter what, don’t leave your house until you hear from me, okay?”

He crossed his heart with his index finger. “I promise.”

THIRTY

“Tell your boyfriend to stay far away from me,” Suzanne said to Lucy as they pulled up in front of Whitney Morrissey’s Brooklyn apartment.

Suzanne had wanted to throttle Sean for talking to Wade Barnett, but then she’d have to take on a battle with the Washington Field Office and her liaison with Rikers. That her suspect wasn’t guilty meant squat—Sean had interfered with a federal murder investigation and was still in hot water with her.

“He’s at the hospital with Kirsten and her mother,” Lucy said.

“Tell me you didn’t know what he was up to,” Suzanne growled.

“I didn’t.”

“I’ll call you up when we secure the apartment.”

Suzanne met Panetta outside the building. He said, “She’s either not in the apartment or not answering the door. I have officers at each exit.”

“I’m ready.”

Two NYPD officers followed Suzanne and Panetta up the stairs to Whitney Morrissey’s loft apartment. Suzanne knocked on the door. “Whitney, it’s Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI. Remember me? We need to talk.” She waited. “Whitney, open the door.”

There were no sounds of movement, but they proceeded with caution. Panetta nodded to the officer to unlock the door with the master key they’d retrieved from the property manager. It worked one lock, but not the other.

“She has to make this difficult,” Panetta mumbled and called the locksmith waiting downstairs.

Five minutes later, they were inside Whitney’s apartment.

The officers searched the two-room apartment and quickly ascertained that Whitney wasn’t inside.

The living area was as Suzanne remembered it: bright, airy, with art everywhere. She put on gloves and walked through, not seeing anything that struck her as odd. Whitney’s art was truly exceptional. She stopped in front of a large, incredibly detailed charcoal drawing of a street scene: a row of town houses on a tree-lined street, people walking, a hot-dog vendor on the corner.

What had been the tipping point in her obsession with Wade Barnett, turning her from stalker to killer? That he was sleeping with other women? That his brother had pulled her art grant? Or that Barnett was sleeping with her cousin, Alanna?

“Suzanne.” Panetta motioned for her to come into the bedroom.

She stopped in the doorway. She couldn’t speak. She’d never seen anything like this—no level of obsession came even close.

One wall was covered with corkboard on which hundreds of drawings were pinned. But it was the subject matter that was so disturbing: image after image of Wade Barnett and Whitney Morrissey.

Most of the drawings were of Wade. Some were just his face; others looked almost like photographs, with Wade sitting in a coffee shop by the window, the perspective from across the street. Or Wade at Yankee Stadium cheering. Or Wade at a party. There were other people in the pictures as well, but they were indistinct compared to Wade, who seemed to have a light shining on him.

Then there were the drawings of Wade and Whitney, most of them highly erotic. Suzanne would have admired the level of attention and detail if the whole scene weren’t so deeply disturbing.

His face was everywhere, in all sizes. On every wall and surface. She looked around the room, and noticed something painted on the ceiling. She walked over to the bed and looked up. Whitney had painted a portrait of Wade Barnett over her bed.

Calling Whitney Morrissey sick seemed both obvious and a gross understatement.

“We need to call in my ERT unit,” Suzanne said. “They’re waiting outside.”

“And you should probably call in Ms. Kincaid,” Panetta said, looking at Whitney’s slanted art desk. He’d turned on the small lamp that cast a bright light over the surface.

A sketchbook was open to the first page: a familiar image, not just because it was Wade, but because it was Wade and Alanna at the Yankees game, the same photo that had been published in the newspaper. Except for one stark difference.

Alanna’s features had been exaggerated to the point of being monstrous. Her large eyes were made larger and off-center; her long nose had been drawn longer, with a hook at the end; the hand that had rested on Wade’s shoulder had grown warts and hairs. Her hair, which had been blown out by the wind, was now snakes, all looking to attack Wade. Every detail was so perfect, yet grotesquely twisted.

“There’s more,” Panetta said, turning the page. It was Erica Ripley, behind the counter where she worked, talking to Wade. Out of her mouth flowed bile that dripped onto the counter.

Suzanne had seen a lot of tragedy in the ten years she’d been an FBI agent. She’d even seen a dead body when she was a kid, something that had had a lasting impact on her. But somehow, the twisted art of Whitney Morrissey disturbed her on a far deeper level. Blood, violence, murder—Suzanne understood the basic dark side of human nature. But the vicious mind of an obsessed killer who used her talent to distort reality into something so perverse it became a scene from a horror movie? Suzanne was unusually shaken.

She and Panetta stepped out of Whitney’s bedroom and already she breathed easier. She called Andie, her head ERT. “We’re ready for your team, and Lucy Kincaid.”

   Sean talked to the NYPD guard at length before he was comfortable enough to leave Kirsten under his watch.

Evelyn and Trey were taking turns sitting with her. She’d responded to the new antibiotics, awakening for the first time since she’d been admitted right after Evelyn arrived. Now the doctors were scheduling surgery to repair the damage to her feet and remove glass and rocks that had become embedded under her skin. Kirsten would be moving to a private room tonight.

Sean stepped into the room and told Evelyn he was leaving, but that the guard would be on the door until Whitney Morrissey was arrested.

Evelyn rose, tears in her eyes, and hugged him. “Thank you, Sean.”

“You should thank Trey. He’s the one who went from hospital to hospital until he found her.”

“I’m just so happy to have her back. I’m going to take her back to California. New start. Go to college. Try and get my life together so Kirsten can have her own life, too.”

“I’m glad.”

Sean was about to leave when he saw Trey sitting in a plastic chair in the hall, his head in his hands. Sean sat next to him, put a hand on one shoulder. “You’re tired. Maybe you should go back to the motel and sleep a couple hours.”

He shook his head. “I just don’t know what to do now. I love her. I don’t want to go back to the way it was.”

“It’ll never be the way it was.” Sean wasn’t one to be giving advice—until Lucy, he’d never gotten past the superficial stage in any relationship. But if he had learned anything in the six weeks he and Lucy had been together, it was that he’d become a better person. He needed Lucy, and he’d do whatever it took to make her happy.

“We’ve all made mistakes, but what matters is who you are inside. You’re a good man, Trey.”

Evelyn stepped out and waved to Trey. “She’s awake again and wants to see you.”

Trey rubbed his wet eyes and smiled. “Thank you, Sean.” He followed Evelyn back into Kirsten’s room.

Sean wished he could be more elated at the good news that Kirsten was alive and would survive her ordeal, but he knew she was going to have a long, tough road ahead of her. Physically, she’d heal. But the emotional and psychological damage of her online activities, coupled with finding her friend dead and being the target of a serial killer—those would take much longer to fade.

But Kirsten
was
safe, and Sean took heart in that.

He left the hospital and drove to Whitney Morrissey’s Brooklyn apartment, where the police were serving their warrant. Lucy had sent him a message thirty minutes ago that Whitney was gone, but that there was ample evidence of her guilt.

He pulled up behind an NYPD police car and parked. He was stopped by a patrolman as he tried to walk down the sidewalk, and waved to Suzanne, who was standing in front of Morrissey’s building. She pretended to ignore him.

Sean knew she was furious with him for talking to Wade Barnett, but they’d saved time in getting the information, and he hadn’t screwed up her investigation. However, he decided not to mention that to her because it would probably irritate her even more.

He didn’t see Lucy. “Officer, I’m expected,” he said.

The cop didn’t budge. “Sure.”

“Agent Madeaux and Detective Panetta.”

The officer looked over his shoulder. “They’re in conference. You can wait.”

Fortunately, it had stopped raining, but it was cold and everything was wet.

He walked a few feet away and called Suzanne with his cell. He watched her look at her phone, then across the street at him, then pocket it.

He hung up and dialed again. On the third try, she answered, her eyes on him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No you’re not.”

“Okay, I’m not sorry. But let me through anyway.”

“I don’t know how Lucy puts up with you. You’re really annoying.”

“And handsome and charming and I drive a cool car.”

He saw her smile, but she quickly hid it. “You owe me big-time for not slapping you with a misdemeanor.”

“The paperwork wouldn’t be worth it.”

She hung up on him. For a moment he thought she really wasn’t going to let him through, but then a detective approached and said, “Mad Dog said you can go upstairs if you wear gloves, don’t touch anything, and stay out of her way.”

“Mad Dog?” Sean took the latex gloves the cop handed him.

The detective grinned. “She’s something else. Google her when you get home.”

Sean walked up the stairs to the third-floor apartment. He found Lucy in the bedroom with Andie Swann, the head ERT. They were cataloguing drawings.

Lucy had emailed him a heads-up about the shrine to Wade Barnett in Whitney’s bedroom, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the sheer volume of drawings, or the painting on the ceiling.

“A psychotic Michelangelo?” he said.

Lucy glanced over her shoulder. She was in her cool, professional mode. Her face was blank and serious, her eyes dark, intelligent, and observant. He’d seen her like this before. She closed off her emotions so completely she was almost like an android. He didn’t like it, even though he knew it was for self-preservation. He much preferred the Lucy who’d made love to him with heart and passion last night.

It was a sudden revelation, striking him as if God himself had put the knowledge in his head with the force of lightning. Lucy needed him to save her from herself. She wanted this life fighting the bad guys and saving the innocent, and she was so good at it, Sean would never expect her to walk away. But the violence, the intensity of the work, the inhumanity of the psychopaths she understood in ways even Hans Vigo couldn’t, would kill her spirit until she wasn’t able to shed the robotic shell she erected when she was working. He’d seen her shields go up in a fraction of a second, and it took hours—sometimes days—to bring them down.

In some ways, Lucy was a lot like his oldest brother. Sean barely knew Kane. A lifelong soldier, he’d been a mercenary in South America for at least the last fifteen years. He was hard as a rock, cold, and calculating. Sean never remembered him smiling or relaxing. He was always on alert, always at attention. He’d taken it upon himself and his team of dedicated men to rescue Americans kidnapped for ransom out of the country; he fought human trafficking in the trenches, sometimes as brutally as those who bought and sold human beings. If Kane had any humanity left, Sean hadn’t seen it, except in the cause he was fighting.

Lucy had that same capacity: to close herself off so completely, to shut down her own emotions, in order to do a job few people wanted and few people did well. Like Kane, she was a mercenary, but instead of doing it for money or a political cause, she did it for justice. She didn’t have to be in this killer’s obscene bedroom helping the FBI gather evidence that they hoped would lead to Whitney Morrissey’s capture. But Lucy was here because she could help. She wanted justice for the victims as much as she wanted Morrissey stopped simply because it was the right thing to do, and she had the skills to do it. And maybe deep down, she had to do it to give her past, and her future, purpose.

Sean had to provide her a wall of protection so she could let down her shields and be truly happy, truly free, when she wasn’t working. She needed to feel safe and loved every day, every night, so she could work these hard cases and not lose her empathy, or her humanity.

He walked behind her, touched her lightly on her back, kissed her hair. He looked at the sketchbook Andie and Lucy were going through. On the page was Wade Barnett, naked, being pulled by ugly witches with warts on their faces and boils on their backs.

“Well, and here I thought Whitney loved him in a sicko kind of way.”

Lucy shot him a glance. “Look at the faces.”

He did, repulsed by the realism; then he saw what Lucy meant. “That’s Jessica. And Kirsten. And Alanna—who are the others? There are nine.”

“When we show this to Wade Barnett, he’ll confirm that he slept with or had an online sexual relationship with all these women through the
Party Girl
site.”

“How long has she been stalking him?” Sean asked.

Andie said, “The first entry in her journal is dated two and a half years ago.”

“Whitney transferred from a small college in Connecticut to NYU,” Lucy said. “Her first day on campus she bumped into Wade coming out of her advisor’s office. She dropped her purse and he helped her pick everything up. She fixated on him.”

“Because he acted like a gentleman?”

“I need to go through her journal in more depth,” Lucy said, “but from what I read, she learned everything she could about him and his family. I don’t know when they actually started dating, but it was months, maybe a year, after that initial meeting. I doubt Wade even remembers it.”

“Why start killing these women now?”

“Before Alanna, Whitney didn’t personally know any of Wade’s girlfriends,” Lucy said, slipping into her psychoanalytic role so smoothly that it disturbed Sean. “Before Wade started sleeping with Whitney, she considered other women her competition. She would be prettier, more talented, kinder, not as clingy, more attentive—whatever it was she thought Wade wanted. Wade played around; he wasn’t serious about any of the women he slept with.”