Читать книгу Sacred Evil - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 8

She was losing credibility, Whitney thought, and doing so by proving a point.

But learning how to work with Jude Crosby wasn’t going to be easy.

He was a hard-boiled cop. And the perfect vision of one. So tall, so leanly, ruggedly muscled. He had dark hair, with no signs of gray yet, neatly clipped. She estimated that he was in his mid-thirties; a man with gray eyes that had seen too much; he was weary, and yet he still seemed to have the look of a man who wanted to change the world.

Whitney thought that he must have grown up reading every old detective novel that had ever been printed. He didn’t have to speak a word; she could tell by his body language that he wasn’t happy about her being on the case.

Maybe she shouldn’t have been so pleased that she’d been the first of her team to arrive on-site, or that she should be the one to dive headfirst into the macabre killing. Perhaps it would have been better if they would have started out with Jude Crosby meeting one of the guys; Jackson Crow, Jake Mallory or Will Chan might have made a better impression. She doubted that Jude Crosby had ever worked with a female partner. He kept looking at her as if she were a little mosquito that had gotten in his way. She wasn’t out to prove anything; she and the others were a team, and each member was always glad to make use of his or her gender, color or any perceived edge when it meant getting done what needed to get done.

“Let’s move through this autopsy before leaping to any conclusions, shall we?” Jude Crosby suggested. His voice was even; his tone was cool.

Doesn’t play well with others! she thought.

Too bad. Fullbright seemed fine; he accepted her simply as an FBI agent, and he was interested in the photo of Jack the Ripper’s first canonical victim. Full-bright was intrigued by the puzzle before him, and it seemed evident that he was an armchair detective himself, fascinated by the mystery of old. The medical examiner was convinced that the killer had, at the least, studied the modus operandi of the mysterious nineteenth-century killer.

Crosby wasn’t happy. Maybe he was always that way. Maybe he felt that the federal government was encroaching upon his right as state law enforcement.

Well, that was all right. They had worked with cops who were grateful to have them around—and cops who didn’t want them at all. They were learning as they went, and so far, their odd mix of a team had done very well.

She could step back.

“Definitely,” she replied, and did step back, clearly defining her role as observer.

Whitney had seen many horrible things, but nothing like what had been done to the young woman on the gurney. She didn’t want to blink or blanch as the doctor reported his findings in a dispassionate voice; she couldn’t appear too weak to stomach it. The only thing she could do was force herself to take a huge mental step back as well. In truth, that wasn’t so hard. It couldn’t be real flesh on the table; that was too terrible to accept.

But she had known what the findings would be. Not exact, perhaps. But close. There were two grievously deep slashes across the throat, cutting the windpipe and vital veins and arteries; the woman had nearly been decapitated. There was bruising on the throat. There was a ragged gash right beneath the ribs, and followed down on the right-hand side of the body to the pelvis, displaying the kidneys. There were two cuts to the genitals, deep, and violent.

It was all so frighteningly exact.

Down to the wounds, the direction of the wounds, everything.

She felt Jude Crosby’s eyes on her, over the body of the dead woman, and she met his gaze. Steady, but not challenging, she warned herself. They’d been asked in, through Adam Harrison’s nudging, but it was still best to keep things as copacetic as possible.

“Doc, you scraped beneath her nails?”

“Of course—but we’re not going to get anything. She didn’t have a chance to fight him. She doesn’t have a single defensive wound on her.”

“Fibers? Threads? Hairs?”

“She went fast—the lab has her clothing.”

Jude nodded. “All right. We’ll leave you to close her up. Call me if anything—”

“Yes, of course, Jude. If anything, whatsoever. I’m not expecting anything on the toxicology reports, but, I promise, I’ll let you know immediately.” He hesitated, looking at Jude. “I still have your Jane Does in here,” he said. “Are we getting anywhere with them?”

“We’ve sent out the picture of the girl who died on the way to the hospital—we’ve sent it everywhere in hell, and nothing,” Jude said. “The second girl … the one from the water. Well, you saw her face. Not even a mother’s love could help her recognize that child. I just asked my lieutenant yesterday about getting a graphic artist over. I’m not great on computers, but I know that a good graphic artist can do an amazing job with a likeness.”

“Well, I’ll get with you as soon as I have … anything,” Wally Fullbright assured him grimly. “Miss Tremont—a pleasure, even if we’re meeting under sad circumstances.”

“You, too, Dr. Fullbright,” Whitney said. “Thank you. Except … would it be possible for me to see the two girls who died last week?”

She thought that Jake would step in and proprietarily inform her that they had nothing to do with this case, and that he had it covered.

Fullbright did look to Jake.

Jake nodded.

“My assistant will escort you,” Fullbright said.

“Thank you,” she told him.

They followed a fellow in scrubs out and down the hall. In another room, there were rows and rows of steel drawers. Apparently, despite the number of deaths that came through the morgue, the murders of the two unknown girls were remembered. The assistant knew right where he was going. He glanced at Jake apologetically. “We’re calling them Jane Doe wet and Jane Doe dry. The more recent body was pulled from the river,” he explained to Whitney, something she already knew. Jackson Crow was thorough when he briefed his team.

He pulled out the drawer and pulled back the shroudlike sheet covering the corpse. Whitney locked her jaw.

The flesh on the girl’s face had met with the elements and any number of hungry river carnivores. The skull peeked through in many places. The skin that remained was a mottled gray-blue color, where it wasn’t pulpy-red.

She glanced at Jake. “I’d like to take some photos. One of my teammates is a true whiz on a computer. He can work any graphics program invented, and I think he can get us a likeness of this girl’s face by tonight. He’s flying in tomorrow, but if he can get something right away, you can have the image by morning.”

He was still wearing a mask over his mouth; maybe that made his eyes seem all the more intense.

He nodded.

She looked at the M.E.’s assistant. “I need a tape measure or a ruler,” she told him.

“We have excellent photos at the station,” Crosby told her.

“I can email these straight from my phone,” she told him.

He obliged her with a nod, and she drew out her little high-megapixel phone/camera, and began shooting from every conceivable angle. Both men waited for her, and she worked quickly. On the one hand, she felt as if, in this steel and sterile environment, nothing was real. On the other hand, the girl in the drawer was far too real. Eventually, the police would find out who she was, because although Whitney hadn’t known Jude long at all, she was certain that he would never give up. She had to keep snapping pictures; the police could find out who she was. Her work was to find out who had done this to her and why.

And hopefully before more died.

When Whitney was done, she nodded grimly. The assistant gently covered the dead girl’s face again, and closed the drawer while Whitney prayed that she had a signal, so she could email the photos to Jake Mallory efficiently—and quickly.

Jude thanked the attendant and started walking on. Still hitting the send key, Whitney followed in his wake.

All the drawers were numbered. That seemed incredibly sad to Whitney. They were people in the drawers, not numbers.

In contrast, the second victim looked serene, as if she were sleeping. She might have been, if it weren’t for the deep gashes on her body, visible when the sheet was pulled back.

“We’ve had her picture out everywhere,” Jude said quietly. “And no one has claimed her body yet. She’ll stay here a few more days, and then they’ll house her in the morgue in the basement—and then she’ll go to a potter’s grave at City Cemetery,” he told her.

Whitney took just one picture. The assistant covered the body and shut the drawer.

As it closed, Whitney felt as if she was surrounded by steel, the scent of formaldehyde and other chemicals, and realized just how cold she was.

“Well, I have a witness to find, Miss Tremont,” Jude told her.

“Of course. I’m here to follow in your footsteps,” she said.

He paused. She knew he really just wanted to tell her to go away. He didn’t. He shrugged. She’d been assigned to him; he’d been told to accept the team’s help.

“All right, fine.”

He turned and walked quickly. She hurried to keep up with him. He was tall. She was—not.

Outside, horns were blaring, pedestrians moved about the street and it seemed that everything in the world was small and slow next to the size and speed of the city. Jude Crosby, however, knew his city well. He maneuvered the sidewalk in a long stride; he’d parked his car on the street. That in itself was quite a feat—she was a good driver, but she’d never figure out how he parked his car in the tiny space where it was wedged. He started to walk around to the driver’s side, but then remembered her. He turned and opened the passenger side door.

She slid in quickly. She had the feeling that if she didn’t move fast enough, she was going to be left behind.

“Who are we looking for?” she asked him.

“Captain Tyler,” he said briefly.

“A cop—a sea captain?”

“Old veteran. Vietnam,” he said. “He wanders that area at night. The woman who found the body thought that he was sleeping nearby when she came out of the subway. He might have seen something.”

“Have you spoken with the last people to see Virginia Rockford yet?” Whitney asked.

“We’ll be going through the cast and crew from the movie next, and those who were working at the on-site location,” he said. He glanced at her. “Obviously, a sensationalist murder like this, I’m not the only cop on the case.”

“But the two earlier victims—you were assigned to them?”

“My partner and I were assigned as the lead detectives on both cases. We’ve had a decent record, even when we’ve come up against unknowns. How anyone can live in this day and age and not be missed by someone, I don’t know.”

“Well, they must be missed by people who can’t imagine they’d be in New York,” Whitney said.

He stared straight ahead; she didn’t blame him. In school, she hadn’t kept a car in the city. She wondered if she’d actually be capable of driving when everyone seemed to think that they belonged in every lane, when the streets stopped up and people were everywhere.

“I suppose someone, somewhere, misses them. But you’d be amazed by the amount of people who really don’t seem to belong anywhere,” he said.

“I understand your partner is in the hospital,” Whitney said softly, realizing she was probably treading on dangerous ground.

“He was shot. Mainly because people who don’t know what they’re doing need to stay out of police business.”

“But he’s going to make it,” Whitney said.

He gazed at her then. His eyes could be as cold as jagged gray ice. “Yeah, he’s going to live. Whether he’ll ever walk again or not, I don’t know.”

“Medicine has come far. I’m sure he has the best doctors in the world.”

He didn’t reply. They drove in silence, except when he cursed beneath his breath at the other drivers on the road.

He glanced over at her as they moved south. “Have you been to New York before?” he asked, as if remembering that he had another person in his car.

“Film school,” she said.

That drew a frown. “You are here now, with me, but you went to film school?”

“Yes.”

“But now you’re an agent.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you usually work with film, then? Surveillance systems, that kind of work?”

“Sometimes. In many ways, I still work with film. We’re a specialized unit, working with bizarre situations. But you know that. You’ve had someone look up information about the team.”

He ignored that. “This is homicide. And, sadly, homicide is horrible, but not—ghostly.”

“And you don’t think it was a bizarre homicide?”

She had him there, and he knew it. He didn’t reply. She knew he wasn’t happy that his partner was in the hospital, and he was working with a girl who looked as if she might have only just gotten her degree—in film. He wasn’t pleased.

Crosby seemed to have a talent for parking in New York City—of course, he drove an unmarked car and didn’t have to worry much about parking tickets. Still, he seemed to be able to find the only street parking on Broadway, and they were quickly walking down the major street, weaving their way through the mass of humanity.

Crime tape was gone; a woman had been murdered, and speculation was on everyone’s lips—but Broadway could only be stopped so long.

Jude knew where he was going; they walked to the subway.

His pace decelerated as they reached the entrance. “Captain Tyler!” he said politely.

Whitney looked around Jude’s imposing form and saw that there was a man sitting by the entrance. He was wearing a worn peacoat, denim jeans and a cap. He had nice gray eyes—that appeared as if they had known much better days.

“Yes?” the man said. He heaved a sigh and stood up. It seemed that he did so because he had been addressed by name, and standing was the proper thing to do. “Do I know you?” he asked Jude. “Can I help you in some way?”

“Sir, you can help me, yes. I’d like very much to bother you for some of your time. I’m a detective with the police, and—”

“The murder,” Captain Tyler said. He nodded. It appeared that his thinking was clear; he didn’t seem to have been drinking, nor did he have bloodshot or dilated eyes that would indicate he was taking drugs.

“Yes,” Jude said.

“I saw her,” Captain Tyler said, staring at Jude, then noting Whitney and looking at her, his smile becoming a gentle one. “Ma’am,” he said, touching his cap. “Yes, I saw the young woman last night. She was not very nice.”

Whitney frowned; she desperately didn’t want this man to be the murderer. She didn’t know him, of course. He smelled like the street, but that didn’t matter. But there was something about his gray eyes and grizzled face that seemed to speak of dignity beyond misfortune.

“Captain Tyler? You’re certain you saw the woman who was killed?” Jude asked.

“Oh, yes, her picture has been all over the news.” Captain Tyler smiled, seeing Jude Crosby’s frown. “Pete’s Appliances, up on Reade Street. He keeps the news on all the time in his shop-front window,” Tyler explained. “They’ve been blasting that girl’s face over the airwaves all day.”

“Can you tell us, please, about when you saw her last night?” Jude asked.

Captain Tyler nodded gravely. “She was walking up Broadway. I asked her for change, or for a dollar. She was rude. I think she said that I was an old junkie. I have never sold drugs. I took some drugs. I was in the jungle. It was the only way to stay in the jungle.” He shook his head. “They say she was ripped up bad. I’ve seen men living and breathing and running into battle, and then their young bodies literally blown to bits, their limbs here and there. But they are saying that the girl was gutted. She wasn’t nice, but I hope she went quickly.”

“Captain Tyler, would you come with me to the station?” Jude asked him. “I’d like to get your statement down on paper.”

“Statement?” Captain Tyler said, confused.

“Yes, everything you have to say can help us,” Jude told him.

Whitney looked at Jude, frowning. He couldn’t believe that this dignified old man, down and out as he was, had hurt anyone.

“But—”

He glared at her fiercely. So much for cooperation; this was his case.

Captain Tyler nodded, looking at Whitney with a smile. “Free hot coffee, even if it’s bad,” he said.

“I’ll get you good coffee,” she promised him. “And, are you hungry?”

Captain Tyler was hungry. Jude seemed impatient, but when she started into the nearest coffee shop, he muttered and eased past her, buying Captain Tyler a large coffee and an Italian sub, and paying for it himself.

At the station, Jude moved through the offices, pausing only briefly to rattle off a few names in introductions she couldn’t possibly remember. He directed her to one door while he directed Captain Tyler in through another door. She found herself in a small room behind one-way glass. She saw Jude sit Tyler down, and he asked the man his first name. It was Michael. As Jude politely laid out the lunch and waited for Michael Tyler to eat, an older man joined her in the room, offering his hand. “I’m Deputy Chief Green. I know that they call me D-Chiefy behind my back, and I answer quickly to Green,” he told her, his tone pleasant and easy as he studied her. “And you’re the first of the feds?” he asked.

She smiled, offered her hand in return and told him, “Yes, I’m the first of the feds. I’m Whitney Tremont.”

“Well, glad to have you. I spoke briefly to Agent Crow. He said not to be fooled by your size, that you’re as strong as a diamond. Is that true?”

She arched a brow. “Well, I’m not sure about that. I’m fascinated enough by what I do to walk boldly into the fray.”

He nodded with a small smile. “Jude met you at Blair House?”

“Indeed.”

“You and your team will be all right there?”

“It’s beautiful. We’re grateful for the lodging,” she said.

“Well, we’re glad to have any and all help on this one. We have to nip this thing right in the bud,” he said, turning to watch through the glass. She thought that he might be one man who had been raised to the right position; he had an easy manner about him, but he watched the proceedings with sharp eyes, and she didn’t think that he missed much. He’d done an assessment of her, she was sure, and he’d probably come to his own conclusions, with or without comment from Jackson Crow. But then Jackson and Angela Hawkins did have an edge over the rest of the team. Jackson had been an agent for years before becoming head of their team; Angela had been a cop in Virginia. She, on the other hand, had been sought out because she’d refused to doctor film that she’d taken of an actual ghost—because it hadn’t been doctored to begin with! And Adam Harrison, who had put them all together, had been fascinated with her abilities with film and video, and her background, perhaps. However, after they had proved themselves with the Holloway case, they’d all received training, and she was confident in the training she’d received.

However, a man like Jude Crosby would consider her too inexperienced and too young and maybe even, eventually, too emotional; maybe she was, in a way. A way that she hoped stood her well. Emotions came along with instinct and intuition, and she and the team relied heavily on intuition. When she watched Captain Tyler, she was still somehow convinced of his innocence. The man’s hands shook, perhaps due to Parkinson’s or something, but she was certain that he wasn’t on drugs. She wasn’t sure what she expected; she had never conducted an in-office police interview. The only interviews like this that she’d ever seen had been on television. But Jude was never rude to the man. There were none of the softly spoken questions followed by yelled accusations or hands beating on the table that she had seen on television shows. He just asked Captain Michael Tyler to remember everything about the night and his meeting with Virginia Rockford.

He grew very serious, though, leaning forward as he asked, “Captain Tyler, after Miss Rockford passed by you, what did you do? What did you see? She must have been murdered right after she passed you. If you saw or heard anything else, we need to know.”

Whitney was surprised when Tyler paused like a man who did have something to contribute. He shivered—or trembled—and then shook his head.

“I’m not always … right. You know, I mean … in the head. I hear explosions when they’re not happening. I see … I see enemy faces in a crowd. I’m not always—right.”

“That’s okay. I understand. But anything you saw or heard or thought that you saw or heard will help me. Anything.”

“A man,” Captain Tyler said.

“What did this man look like? Did you see him with Miss Rockford?” Jude asked.

Tyler shook his head and closed his eyes. He seemed to be in pain. “I’m not sure he was real. He seemed tall in the night, but it might have been his hat. He wore a tall hat. And—and a cloak. And he was carrying something. A bag. Like …”

“Like a backpack?” Jude pressed.

“No. Like an old doctor’s bag,” Tyler said.

Jude sat back a moment, and then asked, “Did you see the man with Ginger Rockford?”

Tyler said, “No. I saw him under the street lamp. I saw him from a distance—he was down Broadway when the young woman was telling me I was a junkie. I’ve never been a junkie. I didn’t see his face, but I did see that he looked strange—as if he didn’t belong there. As if he had … stepped out of the mist from some other time.” He winced again, and gripped his trembling hands together. “I told you—I go to the hospital now and then, but … when I’m on the street, I see things.”

Jude nodded. “Thank you. Captain Tyler, can you still write?”

“Yes.”

Jude passed him a legal pad. “Please, write down everything that you thought you saw. We deeply appreciate your help.”

Tyler looked at the pad and held the pencil awkwardly for a moment, and then started writing. Jude waited patiently with him, and then excused himself while Tyler set about finishing his task.

Jude entered the small chamber where Whitney stood with Green.

“He’s not our killer,” Jude said.

“No,” Green agreed. “From my experience, this man wouldn’t be capable.”

“You’ve introduced yourselves, I presume?” Jude asked. “Deputy Chief Nathaniel Green, Whitney Tremont.”

“We’ve met, thank you,” the deputy chief said. “What do you think about the man he saw? Sounds like the image of the Ripper. Do you think that the media is going to cause everyone out there to start seeing men in stovepipe hats and cloaks, carrying medical bags, around the city?”

“Probably,” Jude said wearily. “But I still wanted to talk to Captain Tyler myself. We believed that he was in the area, and so it was important to know what he had to say. He’s not the killer. From what he’s said, it’s looking more possible that we do have a psycho out there who wants to be the new Jack the Ripper.”

“Ellis Sayer called in right before I joined Miss Tremont. He’s talked to Angus Avery, the director on the film Miss Rockford was working on at the site. He’s arranged to meet you at the old diner up in Soho … He should be here in the next half hour.”

The deputy chief nodded. “Sayer also told me that you’ve set up a meeting with the task force in the morning—let’s hope it’s a quiet night.”

“Let’s hope. We have anything from Forensics?”

“We will soon.”

Jude started out of the room, and then paused. “Sir, do you think we could get someone to—”

“I’ll get an officer to see if we can get Captain Tyler into a shelter for the night. He may refuse our help, but I’ll offer what we can,” Green said.

Jude nodded. He sighed, as if he’d forgotten to pick up a brick he had to carry around his neck.

“Agent Tremont?”

“Sir,” Whitney said to Green. It was nice to meet you or it was a pleasure just seemed wrong under the circumstances.

“Good to have you here, Agent Tremont,” Green told her, and she thanked him.

Once again, she had to hurry to catch up with Jude. He was already moving through the building.

She realized quickly that he didn’t intend to ditch her—brick around his neck or no, he’d been given his orders regarding her federal involvement along with the rest of the team, and as long as she didn’t get in his way, she’d be fine. He simply assumed that she’d follow at his speed.

And so she kept up. She was at the passenger’s side of his car again before he could open the driver’s side.

She buckled in silently. As they pulled out into traffic again, she realized that he glanced at her.

“You heard him, of course.”

“Captain Tyler?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. I hear very well, Detective. Young ears, you know.”

She thought that he almost grinned. “I’m not sure exactly what insights the specialty of your team might provide, but I don’t believe that the ghost of Jack the Ripper has come to murder people in New York City.”

“I don’t believe that, either,” she assured him.

“But you do believe in ghosts,” he said. Lord! She’d heard that tone often enough.

“I believe that, frequently, by looking at the past, we can understand what’s happening in the present,” she said evenly.

He made some kind of snorting sound that was almost beneath his breath.

Whitney held her silence.

“Ghosts,” he muttered after a minute.

She turned to stare at him. “Do you have any religious beliefs, Detective? Are you an atheist?”

She thought his jaw hardened, but it was difficult to tell with him. He hid his emotion well—unless he meant for it to show.

“Do I believe in God? Yes, I suppose I believe in a higher power.”

“Hmm.” She allowed herself a small sniff.

“And what does that mean?”

“Crosby—Irish. I’ll bet you grew up Catholic,” she said.

“Tremont—French? Hmm. New Orleans. Catholic—Baptist, voodooist, vampire Buddhist … Wiccan?”

She shook her head, offering him a smile with just a slight edge. He wasn’t happy that he was saddled with a small woman. She was also a woman of mixed heritage who came from a city known for its alternative beliefs—voodoo, mumbo jumbo, as some thought. “Obviously, my background is mixed,” she told him. “But, you see, my point here is that anyone who grew up Catholic, or in many of the Christian religions, already acknowledges a ‘holy’ ghost in the Nicene Creed. Most of us worship a higher, unseen power. Most people worldwide have some kind of faith in an afterlife, and if we can believe this without seeing what lies beyond, why does it seem so ridiculous that the energy that was life can stay behind?”

His eyes were on the road ahead of him. She saw the muscles in his face twitch. He didn’t believe that energy stayed behind.

“Hell,” he said, glancing her way, “if you can solve this case with ghosts, just go right on and be my guest.”

Whitney smiled, not responding. There was something she liked about him, despite his curt manner with her. He had a good strong jawline and steady eyes. She thought he probably hit a gym now and then and she wondered if he spent time with a punching bag—he had callused knuckles.

“Angus Avery … I know the name. He’s not as big as a Spielberg, but he’s not an unknown,” Whitney said.

“That’s right—your expertise is film.”

“Yeah, I’m good with it—you wait and see,” she told him. “I worked with some excellent people—filmmakers from several of the major educational channels. I’d intended to make documentaries. Eventually, I would have found my own projects.”

“But you woke up one morning and decided you wanted to be an FBI agent?” he asked.

She looked over at him. He glanced her way, but his attention was for driving.

“I like where my life has gone,” she said. “And even you will like Jackson Crow and some of the others.”

He laughed. “Even me?”

“You’re not pleased to have me hanging around.”

To her surprise, he was quiet for a minute. “Sorry. It’s just that Monty—my partner—was like another half of me. We had a situation under control, and some idiot vigilante walked in and one man wound up dead and my partner may never walk again. You’re fine. In fact,” he said, and he grinned broadly, glancing her way again, “I think I’m happier to have you than whoever they might have assigned me. You’re a guest of the city police. You won’t be trying to second-guess me.”

“I may be.”

“Still, you’ll have to bow to my decisions—I’m lead.”

“I’m sure the task force will all bow to you,” Whitney said.

He swerved slightly, avoiding a taxi that didn’t seem to realize that there were lanes on Broadway. A few minutes later, in Soho, he pulled into a spot that had looked too small for the car.

“Diner is up there, on the corner,” he said. He took her elbow, directing her toward the end of the street. Keeping up with him meant long strides, and she took them.

They entered the touristy diner, which was decorated in red plastic and chrome with old movie posters on the walls. Looking around, Jude pointed down a row of glitter-red plastic booths.

“Is that him?” he asked Whitney.

She looked. A lone man was sitting in one of the middle booths. He was on his phone, and he’d doodled all over the napkin at his place setting. He had dark hair that was swept over his forehead in a strange way—hair transplant, gotta keep young, Whitney thought—and gold-rimmed glasses and he seemed to be thirty-five or so.

“I think so,” she said. “Directors don’t have their pictures out there all that often, and I don’t think he’s been nominated for an Academy Award yet.”

Jude edged her ahead of him and she walked toward the booth. “Mr. Avery?” she asked.

He looked up and waved a finger at her, pointing at his phone. She held still politely.

Jude did not.

He flipped out his badge, and reached for Angus Avery’s phone, snapping it shut and returning it.

“Sorry, Mr. Avery. I know that time is money in your line of work, but time could mean someone’s life in mine. I’m Detective Crosby, and this is Agent Tremont.”

Avery took the closure of his phone with little more than a frown, but he seemed perplexed by Whitney’s appearance. “Agent?”

“Agent Tremont is with a special unit of the FBI, Mr. Angus,” Jude explained, urging Whitney into the booth and taking the seat beside her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” he said.

Angus Avery nodded, and then shook his head sadly. “Hey. This is horrible. But, I have to tell you, I think it’s almost my fault.”

“You killed Miss Rockford?” Jude asked.

“No! No, of course not!” Avery protested. “No, no—I should have stayed away from that location. I should have shot anywhere else in Manhattan—or Brooklyn, the Bronx, New Jersey or Hollywood, for that matter. It’s that damn location. It’s haunted—and it’s cursed. And God knows—the creature haunting the place might just be Jack the Ripper—the real Jack the Ripper!”

He leaned forward. “Don’t you understand? Jack the Ripper left London and came to the United States. And when he did, that’s where he lived!”