Turner knew what that was. If Nancy Gordon found the man who had haunted their dreams for the past ten years, she would kill him. The civilized side of Wayne Turner wanted to tell Gordon that she should not take the law into her own hands. But there was a primitive side of Wayne Turner that kept him from saying it, because everyone, including the senator, would be better off if the man Homicide Detective Nancy Gordon was after died.
The microwave buzzed. Alan Page backed into the kitchen, keeping one eye on the television. The CBS anchorman was talking about the date that had been set for Raymond Colby's confirmation hearing. Colby would give the Supreme Court a solid conservative majority and that was good news, if you were a prosecutor.
Alan took his TV dinner out of the microwave, giving the food the briefest of glances. He was thirty-seven, with close-cropped black hair, a face that still bore the scars of acne and a sense of purpose that made most people nervous. His rail-thin body suggested an interest in distance running. In fact, Alan was thin because he had no use for food and ate the bare minimum that would keep him going. It was worse now that he was divorced. On a good day, breakfast was instant coffee, lunch a sandwich and more black coffee and dinner a pizza.
A reporter was interviewing someone who knew Colby when he was c.e.o. of Marlin Steel. Alan used the remote to jack up the volume. From what he was hearing, there was nothing standing in the way of Colby's confirmation as Chief justice of the United States. The doorbell rang just as the Colby story ended. Alan hoped it wasn't business. There was a Bogart classic on at nine that he'd been looking forward to -all day.
The woman standing on Alan's doorstep held a briefcase over her head to shield herself from the rain. A small, tan valise stood beside her. A taxi was waiting at the curb, its wipers swinging back and forth and its headlight beams cutting through the torrent.
"Alan Page?"
He nodded. The woman flipped open a leather case she was clutching in her free hand and showed Alan her badge.
"Nancy Gordon. I'm a homicide detective with the Hunter's Point P.D. in Hunter's Point, New York. Can I come in?"
"Of course," he said, stepping back. Gordon signaled the taxi, then ducked inside. She held the briefcase at arm's length, shook off the water on the welcome mat, then pulled in the valise.
"Let me take your coat," Alan said. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Hot coffee, please," Gordon answered as she handed him her raincoat.
"What's a detective from New York doing in Portland, Oregon?" Alan asked as he hung the coat in the hall closet.
"Does the phrase "Gone, But Not Forgotten' mean anything to you, Mr.
Page?"
Alan stood perfectly still for a second, then turned around. "That information hasn't been released to the public. How do you know about it?"
"I know more than you can imagine about "Gone, But Not Forgotten," Mr.
Page. I know what the note means. I know about the black rose. I -also know who took your missing women."
Alan needed a moment to think.
"Please sit down and I'll get your coffee," he told Gordon.
The apartment was small. The living room and kitchen were one space divided by a counter. Gordon chose an armchair near the television and waited patiently while Alan mixed water from a tea kettle with Folger's instant. He handed the cup to the detective, turned off the set, then sat opposite her on the couch. Gordon was tall with an athlete's body.
Alan guessed she was in her midthirties. Her blond hair was cut short.
She was attractive without working at it. The most striking thing about the detective was her utter seriousness. Her dress was severe, her eyes were cold, her mouth was sealed in a straight line and her body was rigid, like an animal prepared to defend itself. Gordon leaned forward slightly. "Think of the most repulsive criminals, Mr. Page. Think of Bundy, Manson, Dahmer. The man leaving these notes is smarter and far more dangerous than any of them, because they're all dead or in prison.
The man you're after is the man-who got away."
"You know who he is?" Alan asked.
Gordon nodded. "I've been waiting for him to surface for ten years."
Gordon paused. She looked into the steam rising from her cup. Then she looked back at Alan.
"This man is cunning, Mr. Page, and he's different.
He's not human, the way we think of human. I knew he wouldn't be able to control himself forever and I was right. Now he's surfaced and I can catch him, but I need your help."
"If you can clear this up, you've got all the help you want. But I'm still confused about who you are and what you're talking about."
"Of course. I'm sorry. I've been involved with this case so long, I forget other people don't know what happened. And you'll need to know it all or you won't understand. Do you have the time, Mr. Page? Can I tell you now? I don't think we can wait, even until morning. Not while he's still out there, free."
"If you're not too tired."
Gordon stared into Alan's eyes with an intensity that forced him to look away.
"I'm always tired, Mr. Page. There was a time when I couldn't sleep without pills. I'm over that, but the nightmares haven't stopped and I still don't sleep well. I won't until he's caught."
Alan did not know what to say. Gordon looked down.
She drank more coffee. Then she told Alan Page about Hunter's Point.
Part Two.
HUNTER'S POINT.
Chapter Five.
The sprawling, two-story colonial was in the middle of a cul-de-sac, set well back from the street. A large, welltended lawn created a wide buffer zone between the house and those on either side. A red Ferrari was parked in the driveway in front of a three-car garage.
Nancy Gordon knew it was going to be bad as soon as she saw the Stunned expressions on the faces of the neighbors, who huddled just outside the police barriers.
They were shocked by the presence of police cars and a morgue wagon in the quiet confines of The Meadows, where the houses started at half a million and crime was simply not permitted. She knew it was going to be really bad when she saw the grim faces of the two homicide detectives who were talking in low tones on the lawn near the front door.
Nancy parked her Ford behind a marked car and squeezed through the sawhorses. Frank Grimsbo and Wayne Turner stopped their conversation when they saw her. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The call had come while she was sprawled in front of the TV in a ratty nightgown, sipping a cheap white wine and watching the Mets smoke the Dodgers. The clothes were the first thing she could find and the last thing she thought about.
"Newman said there's a body this time," she said excitedly.
"IT we."
"How can we be sure it's him?" Nancy asked.
"The note and the rose were on the floor near the woman," Grimsbo answered. He was a big man with a beer gut and thinning black hair who wore cheap plaid jackets and polyester slacks.
"It's him 'all right," said Turner, a skinny black man with close-cropped hair and a permanent scowl who was in his second year in night law school. "The first cop on the scene was smart enough to figure out what was going on. He called me right away. Michaels did the note and the crime scene before anyone else was let in."
That was a break. Who's the second victim?"
"Melody Lake," Grimsbo answered. "She's six years old, Nancy."
"Oh, fuck." The excitement she felt at finally getting a body disappeared instantly. "Did he… Was there anything done to her?"
Turner shook his head. "She wasn't molested."
"And the woman?"
"Sandra Lake. The mother. Death by strangulation.
She was beaten pretty badly, too, but there's no evidence of sexual activity. Course, she hasn't been autopsied."
"Do we have a witness?"
"I don't know," Grimsbo answered. "We have uniforms talking to the neighbors, but nothing yet. Husband found the bodies and called it in to 911 about eight-fifteen. He says he didn't see anyone, so the killer must have left way before the husband got home. We got a cul de-sac here and it leads into Sparrow Lane, the only road out of the development.