“We are so cold on this one I need a winter coat,” Jordain said.
“I’m not as sure about that as you are.”
“I’m betting she is not our Delilah. All I’m hoping at this point is that she knows who is, and might lead us to him.”
“Well, something’s going on. She’s the most important crime reporter in the city right now, and that is more motive than anyone else we can think of.”
“Talk about willing to do anything to get ahead, that’s-” He was interrupted by his cell phone.
“Jordain,”
“It’s Butler. I’ve got the information you wanted.”
Jordain mouthed the police officer’s name to Perez. “Good, go ahead. I’m waiting with bated breath.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you guys, but I came up with absolutely nothing on Young being linked romantically with the last victim.”
“Let me guess,” he said wearily. “It’s the same as with the other three. You talked to business partners, friends, doormen, and did some quick phone-record searches. No calls from our new Samson to Young’s home number, cell number or office.”
Perez shook his head after Jordain had filled him in on Butler’s investigation. “Maybe she didn’t know them. Maybe she saw them somewhere and for some reason targeted these four men-stalked them. Maybe she tried to date them and they all rejected her.”
“And then she drugged them and killed them to exact her revenge? She’s a perfectly normal-looking woman- even if she’s a little pugnacious and aggressive-no reason to assume she’s that hard up for a social life that if a guy said no, she’d go to this extreme. No, if this is tied in any way to her, it’s the career thing.”
A woman walking an apricot-colored miniature poodle stopped alongside the car while her dog sniffed at the sidewalk. She glanced into the window, saw the two men talking to each other, but didn’t focus on them. Jordain watched her without looking directly in her face.
“Have we found out if there’s another exit to the building?”
Perez shook his head. “Most buildings in the city don’t have one. If this one does, and if she used it, it would mean she knows we are on her tail. So, do we get out and check and risk bumping into her, or do we wait? And how long do we wait?”
“Most sessions last forty-five minutes. We’ve got a ways to go.”
“Do they ever let a patient go more than a hour?”
“Morgan would if it was important. If the patient was in crisis. She’d break a rule like that.”
“But not break a rule for us?”
“She’s got integrity.”
“Oh, is that what she’s got?”
Jordain arched his eyebrows.
“Come on, partner, I’ve known you long enough to be able to tell when you are interested in someone. Christ, I’ve been waiting for that to happen.”
“Well, give it up.”
“I’ve seen the two of you in a room together and-”
“I’m hungry,” Jordain interrupted. “Do you have one of those nutrition bars you’re always eating instead of real food?”
Forty-Five
After Betsy blurted out that she was responsible for the deaths of all four men, she sat there, head in hands, while I opened the envelope and inspected the contents. I’d seen so many photos like these at the police station I should have been inured to them, but the new shots made me sick to my stomach, and when I saw the red number 4 on the new man’s feet, my head started to pound. “Betsy?”
She looked up. “They wouldn’t be dead if I’d told the police about the Scarlet Society.”
“What would you have told the police?”
“How can you sound so calm? You don’t sound as if you care.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You can’t care about them-you didn’t know them.”
“But you did, didn’t you? You had sex with them and talked to them.”
She nodded.
“Did you care about them?”
“I cared about Bruce Levin.”
I nodded, not surprised that Betsy had known this last man better than the others. Something had brought her to me.
“But I killed him.”
“How?”
“I didn’t do anything to protect him.”
“Actually, you did. You wrote articles that were picked up on every television station and in every newspaper in the country. All the men involved in the Scarlet Society heard or read that news and should have been careful. Extra careful.”
“I thought that, too. But they weren’t, were they?”
“Or if they were, it wasn’t careful enough.”
“I can’t go to the police.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” I said.
“But you think I should.”
“Betsy, I didn’t say that. Do you think you should?”
“I can’t. I took an oath to the society.”
“But surely if you can prevent someone’s death by revealing that information-”
“It’s more complicated than that,” she said.
She didn’t have to tell me. I was as conflicted as she was. “Tell me.”
“It’s not just about the society. I tell the police, I will most likely get fired from the Times.”
“Why?”
“If it were revealed that I knew about the society-was involved in the society-and that I kept that information from both the authorities and the paper…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
I waited, and when she clearly wasn’t going to resume speaking, I asked her what she had stopped herself from saying.
“I’d have to recuse myself from writing the rest of the stories and I can’t do that. Not yet. It would be professional suicide.”
“You have a stellar career, don’t you? You’ve won Pulitzer Prizes. Would this cancel all that out?”
“You don’t understand. It’s not about avoiding getting into trouble. I’ve waited twenty years to get this kind of front-page space day after day. I can’t possibly walk away from it now.”
“It sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”
“I’ve never equivocated on my decision.”
“So why are you here?”
I could tell from the expression on her face that she hadn’t expected that question. But blunt questions work in my favor. Not because I always expect to get truthful answers-patients lie to themselves and to me all too often. No, it was that unless you are a trained actor you don’t know what your face is showing. Only the most devious and accomplished liars are practiced enough to control all of their facial expressions.
I can see pupils dilate or shrink. Can see lips tremble or sweat pop out on the forehead. Can hear an involuntary intake of breath. Or notice the pulse quicken by focusing on a prominent vein on the neck. Swallowing, gulping, blinking, squinting-all proclaim the lie.
Betsy wasn’t a trained actress and she was acting guilty. Depending on the question, she couldn’t meet my glance. Despite the cool fall air blowing through the window, wisps of hair were stuck to her damp forehead. She picked at a hangnail, kept crossing and uncrossing her feet at the ankles. Her mouth was dry-I could hear that.
Was she letting me witness her guilt on purpose? Was her confession about the smaller crime offered to distract me from thinking she was capable of the larger one? Was I supposed to believe that anyone struggling with her conscience this way over the infraction of not admitting to knowing these men could not be the killer? If I were convinced she was distraught about the minor role she had played in this drama, then I might not wonder if she’d had an even bigger role.
But I did wonder.
I was all too aware that the woman sitting in my office on that Saturday afternoon might have been responsible for the carnage she was reporting.
She had motives.
One she had discussed in group: she was getting older and the men in the club were no longer excited when she chose them. She saw it in their faces and the way they avoided her eyes-the way she avoided mine that afternoon. Betsy was a strong woman and she was angry.