What made the conversation even more complicated was that I didn’t even know what I had to keep silent about.
The waiter arrived and Noah ordered shrimp scampi, a side order of linguini and escarole with garlic and olive oil-all without taking his eyes off me. When my turn came, I ordered veal piccata. As soon we were alone again, Noah opened his briefcase, pulled out a fax and handed it to me without saying anything.
It was a news story. One and a half pages long. I read the headline.
Picture of Death
And then I read the subhead.
Missing New Yorker Timothy Wheaton Feared Second Victim
The byline credited Betsy Young-the reporter who had called me earlier that evening.
I looked up. “What is this?”
“It’s a story the Times is running tomorrow.”
“Why do you have it?”
“I’ll explain all that after you read it.”
Yesterday afternoon, the New York Times received a package that included three photographs of bestselling author Les Wheaton’s son, Timothy Wheaton, senior vice president at the MLM advertising agency. Wheaton, thirty-nine, was reported missing over the weekend when Linda Ravitch, his wife, said he failed to come home after a business meeting.
I reached for the wine. Took a sip. Looked up from the paper, found Noah’s eyes, then continued reading the article, which went on to explain that the police had examined the photographs and were withholding comment at the present time. Wheaton’s body, like Philip Maur’s, had not been found.
Detective Noah Jordain of New York’s SVU said that the department is investigating the case as a related incident and is currently speaking to several suspects.
“Is that true? You have suspects?” I asked, interrupting my reading.
Noah shook his head sadly. His strong jaw was set in defiance. I’d seen him look like that during the worst days of the Magdalene Murders. “We don’t have any idea what’s going on.” He motioned to the paper. The next paragraph caught me by surprise, despite my expectation that it would be there.
Dr. Morgan Snow, a sex therapist who works at the Butterfield Institute and who was instrumental in solving the recent Magdalene Murders, said that there are signals in photographs the paper has chosen not to run that these might be crimes of a sexual nature. In one, an unseen photographer shot directly between the victim’s legs. There is black-and-blue bruising on the victim’s wrists, ankles and testicles. This, said Dr. Snow, strongly suggests a sexual component to the crimes.
“Black-and-blue discoloration often indicates S & M. Restraints can heighten both the sense of control and submission in sex play,” said Snow.
I turned to the next page of the fax. There was no copy. I was staring at a grainy photograph, about three inches square, of the soles of a man’s feet. It was almost identical to the photo of Philip Maur’s feet that had previously appeared in the paper.
The difference was that instead of the number 1 on each sole, now it was the number 2.
I put the papers down. Noah reached across the table, took them and put them back in the folder that looked as if it was filled with other photographs, and even in a restaurant with hundreds of food smells wafting in the air, I identified the specific sharp scents of the chemical emulsions used in photography.
“Now can you understand why I wanted to talk to you? You’re quoted. You’ve talked to the reporter who is covering this story. Why?”
“She called me.”
“And you saw her.”
“No.”
He didn’t say anything, but his neon-blue eyes flashed at me.
“What is going on?” I asked him. “Why am I here? Because I talked to a reporter?”
He took a drink, then broke off a piece of garlic bread and chomped on it. Noah loved food, loved to eat it, to cook it, and to plan on what to have and where to have it. In the brief time I’d known him, he’d once taken the contents of my pathetically unstocked refrigerator and prepared a meal that was as good as anything I’d ever had in a restaurant.
“I’m going to tell you what we know and after that ask you a few questions. I trust you’ll answer them.” His drawl made each word sound musical, even those that were brutal, ugly or demanding.
“To the best of my ability.”
“Okay. In the past two weeks Betsy Young, the reporter you talked to, has received two unmarked packages. The first contained photos of Philip Maur’s body. The second contained photos of Timothy Wheaton’s body. In both cases, the family or friends of the victims contacted us with missing-persons reports a few days before Young received the photos. Everything we have past those missing-persons reports, we’ve gotten from Young. And that stinks.”
“Why do you think the killer is sending a reporter evidence of his crimes instead of you?”
Before he could answer, the waiter arrived with our food and Noah stopped talking until all the plates were placed on the table. I could smell the buttery garlic sauce and the scent of the sea.
Picking up his fork, he speared one of his shrimp but, before he put it in his mouth, stopped to ask, “Aren’t you going to eat? It’s hot, Morgan.” He motioned to my plate.
I’d been waiting to hear what he was going to tell me about the murders, but I picked up my knife and fork, cut a piece of the veal and put it in my mouth. It was delicious and so tender I barely needed the knife. While I chewed, I watched Noah. The way he ate reminded me suddenly of the way he’d made love to me that one time. He’d devoted himself to the experience. He’d relished it. Remembering it so vividly, I shuddered, and hoped Noah hadn’t noticed.
“Because the killer wants to make sure, without a doubt, without any possibility, that the news of these killings appears in the newspaper. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a logical conclusion,” I said, forcing myself to concentrate.
“How is your veal?”
“Delicious.”
“Good. So are the shrimp. Do you want one?” Without waiting for my answer, he speared a pink curl and held it out to me. I tried to take the fork but he didn’t let go of it: he wanted to feed me. I could have resisted but instead pulled the offering off with my teeth. The garlic and butter delighted my tastebuds.
“Morgan, what other reasons do you think, from a psychological point of view, that the kidnapper could have for sending the shots to Young?”
“He could have an attitude about the police and could be punishing you. Wanting to embarrass you.”
He nodded. “Anything else?”
“Not that comes to me this second. Can I see the photographs you have in that folder? Are all the other shots there?”
“Not all of them, no.”
“Can I see what you have?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer that but instead asked, “Morgan, what do you know about Timothy Wheaton?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you quoted in the article?”
“I told you. The reporter called me.”
“Why you? Out of every therapist in New York City, why you?”
“Because of you.”
His eyebrows arched.
“She said she called me because you were handling this case and you’d handled the Magdalene Murders and I’d been involved in them, so it made sense to her to call me on this.”
“Did you believe her?”
He was looking at me. Eyes holding mine again. More questions in them than he was asking out loud.
“I didn’t have any reason not to.”
While we ate and drank we continued speculating about why else Betsy Young might have called me and why someone would reveal his crimes to the paper instead of to the police. It occurred to me that Noah suspected Betsy Young of committing the crimes, but when I asked him about that, he danced around the question without really answering it directly.