“We need one fucking break,” Perez said as he popped the top on a can of soda. His back was killing him. They’d all been working sixteen- and eighteen-hour shifts for days, and he was overtired.
“We have to make the break ourselves. We can’t wait anymore,” Jordain said.
“What can we do that we haven’t done?”
“Find the fucking connection.” It was not like Jordain to raise his voice, but neither was it like him to be involved in a case as cold as this one. In his fifteen-year career with the police, he had never had a murder investigation with less to go on. “For Christ’s sake, we don’t even have the bodies. Why? What possible reason is there for the killer to be hiding these bodies from us and yet giving us the proof of his crimes?”
Perez had nothing to say.
“That’s a really good question, Noah,” Butler said.
“It’s only a good question if it gives up a good answer. Right now it’s just more bullshit.” He slammed his fist down on his desk.
Butler jumped.
“Listen, this is not doing any of us any good,” Perez said.
“What isn’t?” Jordain asked.
“Losing our tempers. Not sleeping. Looking at these damn pictures hour after hour when there is just nothing here.”
“Do we have anything new on Young?” Jordain asked as he broke stride in order to pour himself yet another cup of coffee.
“No. Nothing. We’ve had this tail on Young 24/7 since day one. And the only thing the woman has done is go to work, go to the gym, go visit some friend over on East End Avenue a few times, and go to Dr. Snow’s office with a wig on. Three Monday nights in a row. And one Saturday afternoon. If anyone knows anything, it’s your friend.”
Jordain glared at his partner. “We can’t get the reporter to reveal her sources. We can’t get the doctor to violate privilege. There’s nothing illegal about her going undercover to get a story or wearing a wig to protect her privacy at the clinic.”
“Then we aren’t going to get a break. It’s that simple. Something has got to give. One of these women has got to decide that she wants to help us more than she wants her own professional-”
Jordain held up his hand. “You’re right. We’re tired. Let’s not push it. Neither of these women is breaking any law. We have to assume that neither of them knows who the killer is, because if she did, and she is any kind of human being, she’d tell us. Even a seasoned reporter jonesing for a big story can’t just sit back and let more and more and more men be murdered. And that goes for Morgan, too. Privilege be damned.”
Noah was holding back a dozen emotions. He was furious with his partner for even suggesting Morgan might be withholding information, and he was guilty for wanting to protect her if she was involved. He was frustrated that he didn’t know how to reach her emotionally and that he still cared about her. He was angry that the case was getting in the way of him having any kind of time with her, if she would even agree to see him again.
He was forty-one years old. He’d been trying to give up on the idea of finding his ideal for too long. He’d pretty much assumed the best he could hope for was that one day he’d get tired of looking. Then he knew he’d finally have a shot at a decent relationship. He’d almost gotten to that point when he’d met Morgan.
Morgan.
He knew better than to think he could ever fix what was wrong with anyone, but he was certain that he was what she needed. And he was even more certain that if Morgan had what she needed in a man, she could finally heal herself.
His cell phone rang. He pulled it off his belt, opened it, barked a hello and listened.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said as he shut the phone and headed to the door. “We might finally fucking have something. Fast.”
Perez wasn’t sure, but he thought his partner sounded frightened. He’d only heard his voice like that once before. The night that Morgan Snow got herself trapped in a madman’s apartment.
Fifty-Three
Had minutes passed? Or hours? My glance never left Paul Lessor’s face. I didn’t shift my head or avert my eyes from him, but in my peripheral vision I glimpsed shadows pass by in the hallway outside my door. I would know when Jordain came. If he came.
Now there was only silence out there and the distant ringing of a phone. Then more shadows.
And finally ten movements in one.
The door was thrown all the way open as a blur of figures rushed in, and before I could focus, the action stopped and everything stilled.
Jordain held Paul’s arms behind his back. Perez had a gun pulled on him. Three other uniformed cops took position around the room.
In normal time, the scene came back to life as Butler slapped a pair of stainless-steel bracelets on Paul’s wrists.
“Paul Lessor, you are under arrest,” Perez said, and proceeded to read him his rights.
Paul stared at me as he spit out one word over and over. “Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.”
Butler and a cop I didn’t recognize took him away.
Jordain walked over to me.
“Are you all right?”
I nodded, not yet trusting myself to speak. Once it was over, the terror had overwhelmed me. I had not allowed myself to think that the killer had been sitting in my office for the past thirty minutes, idly playing with a razor blade.
“We need to know what he told you,” Jordain said. “You think you can come down to the precinct?”
I tried to find the words. To calm myself. To let it sink in that there was no threat of danger anymore.
Jordain kneeled down next to me. He put his hands on my knees. The warmth of his flesh coming through my pants seared into my skin. It was the only thing I was aware of. The heat of his hands. I focused on my desk, on the silver-framed photograph of my daughter. Dulcie’s face swam in front of my eyes. What would have happened if Paul Lessor had hurt me? Worse. Killed me. Dulcie without me? She’d be all right. She had her father. But she’d be one of the lost girls. Motherless daughters who never quite understand why they never feel whole.
“Morgan?” Jordain’s voice pulled me back to the present.
“He is on Thorazine,” I blurted out.
“How do you know? He told you?” He was excited. “It’s important. It is one of the few pieces of information we had about the murdered men. At least one of them had been drugged with Thorazine.”
“He started to lactate. It’s one of the side effects of being on Thorazine for an extended period of time. He put his hand under his jacket and kept it there. When his jacket fell open and I saw the wet spot, I knew. I remembered. You’d said Thorazine was on that hair sample. And he kept talking about the men. The other men. That they deserved this. And that I would be in danger if I interfered.” I was talking too fast. It didn’t matter, Jordain was following. His eyes were keeping me centered. I felt safe.
Even there, in that chaotic moment, I hated that false sense of security. It reminded me of his power over me. How he could make me talk about things I didn’t tell other people. How he made it seem as if he could keep the harm away.
“He’s got a driver’s license, address. Lives in the city.” Perez had come back into my office and was filling Jordain in. “I’m sending Reston and Douglas over there now.”
“Morgan, can you come downtown with us?” Jordain asked.
“I made a tape,” I suddenly remembered.
“You did? Why?”
I couldn’t remember for a second. Then my head cleared. “We always tape consultations. The potential patients are informed. It’s not unusual.”
When I stood up my legs were wobbly. The betrayal surprised me. Jordain put his arm out and it amazed me how easy it was to lean on him. I got my equilibrium back, let go of him and, straightening, walked across the room steadily on my own steam. The tape recorder was small but in full view on the lower shelf of the coffee table by the couch.