THE WIND HAD DIED DOWN, BUT THE WALK TO THE RESTAURANT was lined with ice and shadows. Why was I walking alone at night? Why hadn’t I accepted the offer of a ride in a nice heated police car? I told myself that I was fine, that this was my turf, that I would not allow somebody to terrorize me so much that I wouldn’t walk a few short blocks. But the night seemed darker than usual. And Charlie had alarmed me. I stepped over glassy patches of ice, telling myself to stay calm. Between streetlights, I anticipated cold hands grabbing my shoulders and shadowy figures lurking just outside my gaze. I looked behind me, listened for the crunch of footsteps other than my own. By the time the lights of the restaurant came into view, despite the slippery sidewalk, I’d almost broken into a run.
A steep flight of stairs separated the street entrance from the dimly lit cavern that was Ristorante La Buca. I stood at the bottom of the steps, looking through the doorway to the restaurant, exhaling, collecting myself. Detective Stiles sat alone at the bar, sipping a drink. He was tall and lean, striking in a dark suit. A man waiting for someone.
Christmas lights blinked soft reds and greens along holly-draped walls; tiers of bottles glowed amber and silver, and pyramids of glasses stood like an altar to an alcoholic god.
Something—the chilled air? my gaze?—drew his attention. He swiveled toward me on his stool, rose, and stepped forward to greet me; one arm took my hand, the other circled around to my coat collar. He smiled a lopsided greeting, emanating warmth and a musky scent. Aftershave, or maybe tired cologne. A man at the end of a day.
“Have you been waiting long?” My question hung awkwardly unanswered as he guided me inside and handed my coat to the hostess.
“Not long,” he finally said, “But I was worried about you. In fact, I called to see if you’d changed your mind about a ride, but you’d already left. I guess you made it here okay.”
“It wasn’t easy. Walking took longer than I expected, with all the ice.”
He turned to assess me, still wearing his half smile. Oh dear. Maybe I should have worn the gray sweater instead. Or the cowlneck. Maybe the black was too dramatic, especially with the thigh-high slit in my skirt. The bones in my cheeks itched. “You look lovely, Ms. Hayes.”
I looked lovely? “Thank you,” I blushed. My face felt as red as the Christmas lights. The maitre d’ appeared with Stiles’s half-finished Manhattan. “Your table is ready, sir.”
He led the way. As we walked through the restaurant, Detective Stiles held my arm. My elbow tingled. I told it to settle down. This was a police detective, not a prom date. We were here to work. The maitre d’ seated me and handed us menus.
“One of these for the lady, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked up, surprised. What made him think that I’d have a cocktail? Let alone what he was drinking, whatever it was. A Manhattan? But he greeted my eyes with a sheepish half smile.
“Is a Manhattan all right? If you don’t want it, I’ll have it. Order what you want.”
I shrugged. Red wine was what I would have chosen, but I didn’t want to make an issue out of it.
“A Manhattan’s fine.” I’d never had one, didn’t even know what was in it.
He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. I was still on edge from my walk, still getting oriented. Relax, I told myself. Make small talk and get acquainted. “Do you always wear black?” he asked.
“What?” I thought I’d heard him wrong. He couldn’t be talking about my clothes.
“Both times I’ve seen you, you’ve been in black.”
I bit my lip. He remembered what I’d worn? Even I didn’t remember what I’d worn. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised; he was a cop. An observer of details. “It’s comfortable. Hides the flaws.”
“Come on, Ms. Hayes. You don’t have to worry about flaws. You’re a stunning woman.”
Stunning again? Twice in one day? First Susan, now Stiles. But wait; I shouldn’t be so easily flattered. Maybe this was a test. Cops did that, tested people, said stuff to see how you’d react. Was he watching? Assessing my character? I hid behind the menu, avoiding his eyes. The waiter’s hands appeared, placing a Manhattan in front of me. I cleared my throat and waited for the hands to leave, ready to steer the conversation to more comfortable ground.
“Detective Stiles—”
“Call me Nick.”
Nick?
“Then call me Zoe.”
It’s okay, I told myself. There’s nothing wrong with first names between consenting adults.
Half his mouth grinned, pleased. My eyes darted away.
“Look, it was nice of you to ask me to dinner—”
“I’m glad you were able to join me. I usually grab a burger or a slice of pizza on the run. Alone. I’m still new around here, and my place is all the way out in Chester County. It’s beautiful, but isolated. So I don’t have much social life. Or much time for one, the way we’re working.”
He did look tired. Maybe even lonely. “Well, I appreciate your invitation. I don’t go out to dinner much, either.” I hadn’t planned to say that. “I mean, because of my little girl.” Or that.
“How old is she?”
“Almost six.”
“Six. First grade?”
“Kindergarten.”
He nodded. “You must be a great mom.”
Lord, I hated small talk. “She makes it easy; she’s a great kid.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully, pausing. Thank God, he was changing the subject. “So,” he began, “have you thought about what we discussed?”
I hesitated; he continued before I could answer.
“I understand if you’re worried about repercussions. Hey, I work in a bureaucracy, too; I know all about in-house politics. But don’t worry about that. Beverly and I have discussed your involvement.”
Dr. Gardener was “Beverly” now?
“She admires you quite a bit.”
“Really?” I hadn’t been aware that Beverly Gardener even knew who I was.
“Oh yes. She praised your work, said you were bright and talented. She went on about you at some length.”
I was uncomfortable, didn’t know what to say. I’d never exchanged as much as “Good morning” with the woman. When we’d passed at the Institute, she’d been intent on her own thoughts, never even made eye contact. How was it that she’d been able to go on about me at length?
“Beverly agrees that your input might prove valuable. So don’t worry about bureaucracy. You won’t be overstepping.” Overstepping? What was he talking about? Politics? Professional protocol? Would it be a problem for an Institute art therapist to help police unofficially on a case in which a hotshot Institute psychiatrist/profiler was officially consulting? Actually, I’d never considered the repercussions of that. I wasn’t sure I’d care about them, even if I had.
I swallowed some Manhattan. It wasn’t a bad drink, once you got past the initial sweetness. The cherry in my glass peered back at me like a bloodshot eyeball. Detective Stiles sat silently in the maddening manner of a detective waiting for a suspect to spill his guts. Finally, I began.
“Actually, Detective—”
“Nick,” he corrected.
“Nick. I’m not concerned about what Dr. Gardener or anyone at the Institute thinks about what I do. I make my own choices.”
“Good. Still, it’s better not to step on bureaucratic toes. Trust me.”
Trust him? Was he crazy? With those eyes? They looked at me but took in everything, the whole room, even the part behind his back. How could anyone trust a man with eyes like that? Or that crooked half smirk that somehow made him look both tough and vulnerable at the same time? I sipped my drink, unable to recall what I’d started to say—what was it again?
Nick continued. “Look, all I ask is that you review the profile Beverly’s created. She’s very insightful; I think you’ll be impressed. And her thoughts might stimulate yours. Just see what it brings to mind.”
I nodded. My lips had begun to ache, an effect of the cocktail. It was stronger than I’d expected. I shouldn’t be drinking while working, even unofficially. I bit on them to stop the throbbing.
“Are you nervous?”
“No. Why?”
“So?”
“So, it’s normal to be nervous. Getting involved in something like this can be tough. Even scary.”
I looked up. Was I ‘getting involved’? Had he intended a double meaning? Or was he still testing my reactions? Or was I drinking too much? “I’m not nervous. Actually, I can’t wait to read the profile.”
His half smile appeared again.
“So, when can you talk to Beverly?” He watched me, waiting for my response.
Talk to Beverly? “I didn’t realize I had to—”
“Well, it would be best if she went over it with you personally. Filled you in. And you should dialogue. You’re colleagues, after all.”
Beverly Gardener was hardly a colleague. She was a phenomenon. A presence, a supposed genius endowed with perfect legs and startling green eyes. “Any time. First thing Monday morning?”
And with that, we were done with business. Not even past cocktails, and done. I searched for casual conversation unrelated to the missing women, but the cocktail was having an effect. My mind drifted, distracted by Stiles’s shoulders, his thick neck. I began comparing his Adam’s apple to the cherry in my drink, which was magically full again. I frowned, searching for a topic.
“Well,” I began. Good start. Keep going. “How do you like living in Philadel—” “You look upset.” “I do?”
“What’s on your mind?”
His bare chest, to be honest. Stop it, I scolded myself. There’s more at stake here than your starving libido. I thought of Tamara and felt ashamed of myself. “What’s on anyone’s mind, these days? The nannies. Everyone’s upset.”
He uncrossed his legs and straightened his back. “Of course.”
“One of the missing girls,” I went on. “I know her.”
He sighed. “A disappearance can be tougher to deal with than a death.”
I pictured Tamara’s shining eyes, recalled her musical laughter. I took another sip, felt the liquor slide, sear my throat.
“But—damn, there’s no easy way to say this. Zoe, you need to be prepared for the worst, here. Chances are slim to nothing that your missing friend—or any of those women—is still alive.”
Tamara’s eyes lost their shine; her laughter choked to a stop. I felt the stab of my teeth jabbing my lip.
Stiles leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper. “If it’s any consolation, I think we’ll solve this one. Soon.”
“Why do you say that?”
His eyes darkened. “Because he wants us to solve it.” He took a drink. “Sonofabitch might not know it, but he wants us to.” “He wants to be caught?”
“I think so. At least, part of him does. He’s getting bolder. More brazen. Leaving evidence. Daring us to find him.” He paused. “Do you think that finger was left on your walk by accident?”
“What?” I gripped my glass, needing something to hold on to. What was he saying? That the finger had been dropped in front of my house on purpose? “You mean it wasn’t?”
“Let me ask you.” He leaned forward so his face was close, his voice low. “You’re a therapist. You know Freud’s theory that there is no such thing as an accident.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Okay. Let’s back up. The abductions began several weeks ago. Since then, they’ve occurred more frequently, in increasingly open and more public settings. And the kidnapper’s leaving evidence now, whereas he didn’t at first. Consciously? Maybe, maybe not. At some level, he may be sabotaging himself because he wants to stop but can’t. Or he might just be carried away by his sense of invincibility. Either way, he’s accelerating, losing control. Getting sloppy. Making mistakes.”
“But to make more mistakes, won’t he have to take more women?”
Half his mouth twisted fleetingly. “He’ll definitely try. We’ve got a serial killer here, and as you know, those guys are pretty consistent.”
As I knew? What did I know? I’d taken a college course years ago on criminal psychology and read the textbook chapter about serials, but mostly what I knew about serial killers I’d learned from television. Detective shows. I knew, for example, that serial killers followed patterns in their crimes. I knew that some thought they were obeying a higher power who ordered them to kill; others believed their murders were altruistic, that they were eliminating “sinners” to cleanse the world. A third group simply got off on power. They got high, often sexually aroused, by having the power of life or death over their victims, terrorizing them, taking their lives.
“So what do you know about this one?”
He winked. Winked. “Read the report.”
I stared at the red orb in my glass. Now it resembled a blood clot.
“Look, for now, let’s just say he wants to be somebody. Someone famous. In the headlines. His ego’s been fed by the news coverage. He’s begun to think he can get away with anything. He’s getting arrogant. Soon, he’ll go too far and give himself away. Question is, how many more women will he kill first?”
It was a somber thought. “And the finger? You said it might not have been left accidentally.”
“Accidentally or deliberately—either way, where it was found still means something. At the very least, it means the guy was in the area. He didn’t just find his victim there; he also left a piece of her there after he killed her. Which indicates he’s got a place there. Locally.”
He paused, letting that thought sink in.
A guy in the area. Who had a place there. Did he know me? Had he chosen to leave the finger at my front curb instead of, say, the one next door? Why? And the other finger—the one found on Washington Square—had he left that deliberately, too? According to Stiles, he might have. But who could it be? Neighborhood faces raced through my mind. Victor, Charlie. The new neighbor, Phillip Woods. There were a lot more I didn’t know by name, people I passed every day. People who came and went at different hours than I did. Night people. And what about Coach Gene? Or the mailman? Or the guys in Jake’s construction crews—hadn’t Angela said one of them had been bothering her?
“Look, can we talk about something else for a while? Behave like normal people?” He half-smiled. “I’ve been living with this case 24/7. I need to take a break. To pretend to be a civilian. How about we enjoy the ambience? Try to have a civilized meal. Is that okay? I think it’ll be good for both of us.”
“Of course. I understand.” But I didn’t, not entirely. Were we supposed to suddenly pretend that we were just two people out to dinner, that local women weren’t being killed? That I might even know the guy killing them? Besides, what were we supposed to talk about? I clutched my drink, eyeing a nearby painting of a gondolier steering his boat along a Venice canal.
“Tell me about yourself. Who is Zoe Hayes?”
I blinked. Zoe Hayes? It was simple dinner conversation, but it seemed that I, not the murderer, was now the person to be profiled. My lips felt thick and boozy, too heavy to form answers, reluctant to give away information. I stalled, sipping my Manhattan, wanting to jump into the gondola and be rowed away.
“Tell me. Where did Zoe grow up? Where did she go to school? Why did she become an art therapist?”
Loosen up, I told myself. Relax. Give the guy a break. “Baltimore, Cornell, because she doesn’t paint well enough to survive as an artist.”
Half his face laughed.
“And you? Who’s Detective Nick Stiles?” Tit for tat. “He’s this.” He shrugged, pointing to himself. “Just what you see.”
“Not fair. I answered you.”
“Okay. Fair enough. Be more specific. What do you want to know?”
I should have thought before I spoke, but I didn’t. I just blurted out a question, without gentleness or tact. “What happened to your face?”