Читать книгу When No One Is Watching - Natalie Charles - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Mia took the T to Kenmore Square and walked the rest of the way to the address Gray had texted. Peterborough Street was only a ten-minute walk from the train stop, but she regretted not calling a cab as soon as she neared the footbridge to cross the Fens. Down below her, in that night-blackened, marshy valley, was the perfect hiding place for criminals. Or corpses.

Mia clutched a small can of pepper spray under white knuckles. She’d lived in Boston for twelve years now. She knew how to maneuver a city, and until her attack, she’d felt safe in this one. It’s still safe. She passed the Fens and the rows of gardens planted by city residents, crossed the road and breathed easier. Here the walk was better lit, and she’d have more warning if someone approached her.

She was in the Fenway Park area now, but the Sox were in Baltimore, so the streets were less rowdy, and she missed the smells of hot-dog carts and roasting chestnuts. When she’d first arrived in Boston, this had been a neighborhood for young professionals and college students, but apartment buildings had since been leveled and luxury condos had been constructed in their place. A resident of the Back Bay for years, Mia had observed the gentrification with sadness. She’d always been charmed by the area, and part of that charm had come from the well-worn buildings. But tonight she didn’t lament the fact that so many neighborhood restaurants had given way to noisy bars. Bars meant people, and it was almost eleven o’clock at night.

She didn’t need to check the address again once she turned onto Peterborough. Three squad cars and a CSU van were parked outside a brick building with white marble steps flanked by matching lions. The missing woman’s name was Katherine Haley, but when Mia checked the list of names beside the buzzers, the name next to 3A, her apartment, was blank. She pressed it and waited. After a few moments, she heard a buzz and the click of the front door unlocking. Mia stepped inside to a modest lobby where white marble steps with gray veins were littered with discarded flyers for groceries, postcards for nightclubs and free weekly papers. To the right was a large wooden staircase in good repair, and to the left were a series of small brass combination mailboxes. “You’re five minutes early,” boomed a voice from a few floors above.

She tried to suppress a smile as she mounted the stairs and looked up to see Gray looking down the stairwell. The walk from Kenmore had left her more jittery than she’d anticipated, and it was nice to see a familiar face, even if that face was currently glowering at her. “Is that a problem?”

It was more like a challenge than a question, and predictably, Gray chose to ignore it. “You left your ball gown at home, I see.”

She’d changed into jeans and a plain black T-shirt that emphasized her coppery hair, which fell in tousled waves around her shoulders. She’d even washed off her makeup, leaving her olive skin looking softer, her features muted. Smoky eyes and blush seemed out of place at a crime scene. “Just following orders, Lieutenant,” she replied as she reached the third-story landing.

Was it her imagination, or had he looked her over? In either case, Gray was back to business quickly enough, pointing his index finger at her and observing, “You didn’t bring anything to write on.”

“I don’t take notes. Never have.” Mia was reluctant to reveal to most people that she had a photographic memory. It was an ability that had served her well in school, landing her at Harvard at the ripe age of sixteen, but a photographic memory served only to make her look freakish in social circles.

Like right now. Gray was arching his eyebrow suspiciously. “You don’t take notes? Then how the hell do you keep all the facts of these cases straight?”

The question he was really asking was, how did he know whether he could trust her memory? Mia released a small sigh. “You can quiz me if you want to. Or you could take my word for it. It’s not something I can explain.”

He was about to reply when a dark figure came ambling out of apartment 3A. He saw Mia and broke into a wide, bright smile. “Mia Perez. It’s good to see you.”

Mia smiled, too. Sergeant Joe D’Augostino’s smile was contagious. “Joe.” She stepped forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

“You look well, Mia.”

His kind dark brown eyes were warmly familiar, and Mia felt a clutch in her chest. She hadn’t seen Joe since Lena disappeared, when he’d so kindly offered to assist her with anything she needed to get through that time. The few times he’d checked on her, Mia had allowed his calls to go to voice mail and had never responded. She shifted a little at the memory, embarrassed at her own manners.

Gray watched the two of them, clearly impatient at the reunion. “What’s the lovefest about? You two work a case together?”

“I live a few buildings down from her sister,” D’Augostino replied. “Lived.” He shot Mia a glance.

She gave Gray a quick smile. “They were friendly. Joe joined me and Lena a few times for drinks in her apartment.”

“I met Lena in a local place. We used to grab our coffee at the same time every morning.”

“Fascinating.” Gray turned back to the apartment. “Maybe we should work.” He tossed a pair of latex gloves and paper booties to Mia. “Don’t move another inch before you put those on.”

She did as she was instructed, but not before shooting him a look. “All right. I’m suited up.”

“Her name is Katherine Haley,” D’Augostino said. “Twenty-three-year-old grad student at Boston University.”

Mia’s stomach tightened as the familiar scenario unfolded. “Do we know her course of study?”

“English. She’s a doctoral candidate.”

They entered the threshold of a small apartment with wood floors and bare white walls. A few members of CSU were still gathering evidence. Mia walked with the two detectives toward a small living area with a sagging love seat with a white slipcover, a wide brown wooden coffee table and a scarred leather chair. Gray picked up one of the thick volumes stacked on the coffee table. “Looks like some medieval crap.”

Mia lifted the book from his hands. “No, that’s Renaissance crap,” she deadpanned. “These playwrights are from the Jacobean era.” She returned the book to the table. “You disappoint me, Lieutenant. Every good detective should read Shakespeare.”

“Oh, really? And what should every good psychologist read?”

“Shakespeare. He was a tremendous study of human nature.” She pointed to the table. “That’s a pretty high stack of books. Were they like that when you arrived?”

“Nothing’s been touched,” Gray said. “We received the call earlier tonight. The vic was supposed to meet a friend at a bar on Boylston and she never showed. Then her friend tried calling, and when she didn’t get an answer, she came to the apartment. She said the door was open, but just barely, and the vic was gone. Then she saw... Well, I’ll show you.” Gray began the trek around the apartment. “Nothing was off in the sitting area, as you noticed. This is obviously a student apartment. Books everywhere, cheap furniture, posters in plastic frames hanging on the walls. Lots of things that could be easily knocked down or damaged in a struggle.”

“Lots of boxes,” Mia mused, pointing to a stack against the far wall. “And her name wasn’t beside the buzzer downstairs. Did she just move here?”

“Less than a month ago,” said D’Augostino. “She’s lived in the city for about a year, but this is a new apartment.”

“So there was no struggle,” Mia continued, talking to herself.

“You haven’t seen the kitchen. Watch your step,” Gray warned, pointing to an area on the floor. “CSU found some broken glass and water there. I think they got all the glass, but just be careful.”

He led her farther into the apartment, where she could see a white galley kitchen. And, Mia observed with a sinking stomach, blood. Smears on the white cabinets, a well-defined handprint on the floor. Slick, shiny puddles. Members of CSU were photographing and swabbing the scene. “That looks like arterial spatter,” Mia said, nodding at the thick spots and smears across the white refrigerator, microwave and toaster oven. “Are we sure she’s alive?”

“No,” Gray replied. “But we haven’t found her body yet.” At least he was honest.

This explained all of the cops and crime scene investigators for a missing-persons case. Mia reached up to massage her right temple, where a tension headache had started to gather. “Valentine usually drugs his victims,” she said. “He’s never left so much blood at a scene.”

To her left D’Augostino cleared his throat. “Well. There was your sister’s case.”

He looked almost ashamed that he’d said it, glancing down when she looked at him. Mia turned back to Gray and was troubled to see concern in his eyes. Pull yourself together, or he’s going to send you home.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, working to keep her voice calm. “There was blood in my sister’s apartment, too. But nothing like this.”

Gray planted himself right at her side. “You think this is the work of the copycat?”

He was close. Close enough that she could look away and still know he was there, just from the heat rising from his body. “I couldn’t say. Not yet.”

Gray was dressed in plain clothes, jeans and a dark blue polo that suggested the chiseled body below, but the suggestion was enough. He might consider himself the “all work, no play” type, but he’d clearly been logging hours in the weight room. Mia’s heart scampered at the memory of their dance earlier that night. Now all she could think about was how strong his hand had felt in hers, and her mind wandered to thoughts of what it might feel like to touch other parts of him. His biceps. His shoulders.

She’d lived alone ever since she’d started graduate school, and she’d never considered herself in need of a man to protect her. She didn’t need a man now, either, but the thought of sleeping beside someone strong was a seductive one. Maybe she’d rest easy for a change and not wake at every creak and thud in the building.

“That reporter called him Valentine for a reason,” she said, partly to fill the silence in the room and partly to clear her mind of ridiculous thoughts. “It seems his victims invite him into their homes. There’s never an open window or a sign of forced entry, and when there’s blood, it’s usually minimal. Valentine doesn’t like a challenge.”

D’Augostino folded his arms across his chest. “How do you think he gets in? What would make a young woman invite a serial killer into her home?”

“That’s the question.” She continued to walk around the apartment, looking for subtle clues as to what had transpired hours before: dents in the wall, chips in the woodwork or maybe an overturned cup of pens. “We don’t have much to go on. All of the victims were young women, and all of them were graduate students at an area college or university.”

“Smart women,” Gray said. Mia felt his gaze following her around the unit. “But they still let him in. Must be a good-looking guy.”

Mia might have believed the same thing, but her sister had been engaged to a handsome, rich and well-connected man, and she knew Lena wasn’t the straying type. Neither would she have opened her door to any strange man, charming and attractive or otherwise. “Maybe, maybe not.”

They entered a dining area with a small wooden table and four matching chairs. “My theory is that he’s a person who seems innocuous. Someone who comes across as trustworthy, maybe because of his manner or maybe because of his job or position. The victims let him in not because he’s good-looking but because he’s harmless.” Aside from the blood in the kitchen, everything in that apartment was maddeningly neat.

“Position?” Gray was immediately behind her, keeping a close watch. “What are we talking about? A professor?”

“I doubt it. The victims were from different schools. It’s only a theory, but it’s possible Valentine works in a job that permits him access to homes. A plumber or electrician.” Mia saw nothing unusual in the dining room and proceeded to the bedroom.

“D’Augostino,” Gray said, “make a note to ask around and see if the vic had any problems with her apartment. Water leaks, electrical problems, mice, things like that.”

“Will do.”

“We shouldn’t overlook the obvious, either,” she said to Gray.

“Which is?”

“Maybe he delivers flowers.”

The bedroom was decorated sparsely, with a dresser, two nightstands and a queen bed occupying most of the small space. “That’s odd. The bed is bare.” She froze when she saw the arrangement on the dresser: long stems of blue-and-white hydrangeas in a drinking glass.

“The flowers.” Mia held her breath as she approached the arrangement. A white translucent ribbon was secured around the glass in a complicated bow. “Hydrangeas symbolize vanity.” She reached for a small framed picture of a woman with blond hair and blue eyes standing next to a tall, attractive man. “Is this her?” she asked Gray.

“The vic? Yes.”

“She’s very beautiful,” she murmured. “And this must be her boyfriend?”

“We think so.”

“Have you spoken with him yet?”

“We haven’t been able to speak with the boyfriend. They don’t live together.”

Mia set the picture back on the dresser. “This is how it usually looks. Valentine leaves the flowers beside a picture of the victim.” The gesture reminded her of a wake, where funeral wreaths were set beside pictures of the deceased. She gently turned the makeshift vase. “Some of these stems are broken.” Really, it was a sad-looking arrangement, and that wasn’t Valentine’s style. Some of the blooms were missing, giving the flowery globes a shabby, moth-eaten look. “Is it possible these flowers are from the boyfriend? Can we rule that out?”

“There’s this.”

Gray reached forward to remove a small white envelope hidden between the hydrangeas. He opened the flap and pulled out a card decorated with a cupid poised to shoot an arrow from a bow. Mia felt the blood rush to her feet. “What’s this, some kind of joke?”

“He signed the back ‘V.’” Gray flipped the card.

“Damn.” She took the card from him and delicately turned it over in her hand. “Valentine is making himself known.”

* * *

Mia pouted her lower lip when she was deep in thought. She probably didn’t even realize that, but Gray sure noticed it, just as he’d taken notice of everything else about her. Back at the hotel, he’d thought she was a beautiful woman, with her hair pulled back and that sexy slit up her dress. Now, with her hair in waves and her makeup washed off, he realized she was stunning. He told himself that her appearance wasn’t the reason he’d allowed her to come here, but now as she looked at him with those dark, almond-shaped eyes, he wondered if he wasn’t fooling himself.

“So what do we have, Dr. Perez? A copycat or Valentine?”

She did that thing with her lip again as she considered the card in her fingers. Damn, she was cute. “Serial killers evolve. It’s not like they commit the same cookie-cutter crime over and over. They’re human. What I saw at the Charles last week looked like a copycat killing, but this?” She handed the card back to him. “The blood in the kitchen bothers me. Valentine doesn’t kill his victims right away. He cages and tortures them first. Has anyone called the boyfriend?”

“The friend tried earlier,” Gray said. “Then she gave us his contact information—cell, work and home phones. Email. Nothing.”

Mia’s face darkened. “I wonder if that blood in the kitchen is his.”

She turned and walked out of the bedroom, passing Gray and D’Augostino. The two men followed her into the living area, where she was standing by the door. “I suspect Valentine isn’t a very imposing man, physically. All of his victims are diminutive in stature. All of them were women five feet one inch or shorter, and all of them were thin. Drag marks have been found at the dump sites, indicating he’s not physically strong enough to carry even these petite women.”

Lena’s the exception, thought Gray. He’d just read her stats earlier that week and had noted that she was about the same size as Mia: approximately five eight, with a similar athletic build. “Valentine has a type?”

“It may be that the victims fit a certain physical profile for Valentine,” she continued, “but victim selection is usually about opportunity.”

“He looks for women who are small enough for him to overpower,” said D’Augostino.

“That’s my theory, anyway.” Mia rested her hands on her hips. “So Valentine comes to the door under some pretense. He knocks.” She knocked in the air with one hand, talking more to herself than to the officers in the room. “He’s tracked Katherine, singled her out, and he expects her to answer the door, but someone else answers. Let’s say it’s the missing boyfriend.”

Gray watched her intently as she worked through the crime scene. “What’s his pretense for being here? Why didn’t he just abandon it and leave when the boyfriend answered the door?”

“That’s a fair point. Valentine has a fantasy of being in control, but that fantasy has never involved overpowering a man—at least not to our knowledge. If he’d known the boyfriend was home, he probably would have run.” She paused and tapped one index finger against her hip as she thought. “Maybe Katherine answered the door. She let him in. Perhaps he had flowers for her, and he offered to set them down. He attacked. Then he was interrupted.”

“The boyfriend came over.”

“Yes.” Mia gazed at the floor as she imagined the scenario. “Valentine is drugging Katherine. The medical examiner has found injection sites on the victims, none of whom were recreational drug users. We think he injected them with Rohypnol to keep them sedated. Again, this would play into his fantasy of being powerful, to have total control of his victims with minimal effort. He is drugging Katherine, and the boyfriend comes home and sees them.” She scratched her head. “But then the boyfriend would have fought him and probably overpowered him. There’s no sign of struggle here.” She looked up. “Maybe Valentine was in the kitchen.”

She headed toward the kitchen with such purpose that Gray came up behind her to restrain her from walking on the bloody floor, but she stopped on her own just short of the tile. “Valentine is in the kitchen,” she repeated to herself. “But what is he doing?”

Her brow furrowed as she thought. D’Augostino pointed to a wooden block of knives on the counter. “The carving knife is missing,” he said. “Maybe he was getting a weapon?”

Gray thought about this. “His victim is already sedated. Why would he be getting a knife?”

“Maybe when the boyfriend came home, he ran into the kitchen to get a weapon,” D’Augostino offered.

“Maybe,” Mia began, stretching the word slowly. “But if he was in the living area, would he have time to run into the kitchen and locate a sharp knife before the boyfriend began to pummel him?” She paused. “Those hydrangeas had broken stems. They also looked like they’d been stepped on. What if...?”

She stepped toward the kitchen, and Gray immediately grabbed her shoulder. “Hold on. We’re still processing this scene.” The last thing he needed was for her to go and muck up the blood evidence on the floor.

“Fine.” Mia stepped back grudgingly. “But one of you should go look around the sink.”

“What’s in the sink?”

“Maybe nothing, but someone should look.”

Gray and D’Augostino exchanged a glance, and then Gray stepped forward toward the sink, careful to walk on the white parts of the floor. The sink was stainless steel and spattered with blood. He glanced inside. “There are some dirty dishes. What else am I looking for here? Wait a sec.” He reached for a wet blob tucked behind a mug half-filled with coffee. He pulled it out with gloved fingers. “Looks like wilted lettuce.”

“Look carefully,” Mia said, leaning forward. “That’s not lettuce.”

He held it in one palm and pried the blob open gently with the index finger of his other hand. She was right—it wasn’t lettuce. He pressed the object open and it slowly took shape, revealing one sphere, then another. Gray shook his head. “I’ll be damned. It’s from a hydrangea.” He looked up to see Mia smiling with satisfaction. “CSU almost missed it. So what’s this mean?”

“I noticed the hydrangea stems were broken, and some of the blooms had gaps in them. Then there’s the fact that they’re in one of Katherine’s drinking glasses, but Valentine always supplies his own vases. And the broken glass CSU found between the kitchen and the living area—” She gestured with one finger. “That could be from a broken vase.”

“Put it all together, Mia,” said D’Augostino.

“Valentine brought the flowers. Maybe they’re part of his pretense in entering the apartment, or maybe he has them on hand as his calling card. Regardless, my theory is that he was in the kitchen putting water in the vase when the boyfriend walked in. He panicked, threw the vase at him, breaking the glass. Then he reached for a knife.” She gestured with her hands as she spoke. “If it’s Valentine, he killed him in a panic. He didn’t plan it.” She pointed to the blood. “I’ll bet you have two blood types here.”

“The boyfriend’s and Valentine’s,” Gray finished.

“Right. You’ll want to talk to area hospitals in case he’s sought treatment. And look.” Mia pointed to streaks of droplets on the cabinets. “That looks like cast off from the knife. CSU may be able to get an idea of the suspect’s height based on the location of those droplets.”

“And if the boyfriend’s dead,” said Gray, “what did Valentine do with the body?”

“He let him bleed out for a while, based on that puddle. There are drag marks on the tile, right there. But then they stop.” Her forehead tensed. “The bed was empty. It didn’t even have sheets on it.”

Without explanation, she again left and headed toward the bedroom. Gray heard her talking to herself as he followed. “Valentine may have wrapped the body in the sheets and comforter to move it. You know, to make it easier to slide him across the floor.”

Gray stood by the bedroom door. Mia was opening the only window in the bedroom and looking out. “Here’s a fire escape, and there’s a Dumpster below.” She turned around. “Did CSU check the Dumpster?”

Gray nodded gravely. “Sure did. That’s exactly where we found him.”

“You—what?” She spun around, her eyes wide with confusion. “You found him already?”

“One Gregory Stoddard,” said D’Augostino, reading from a small notepad. “Wrapped in a bloody blanket and sheets. He was still wearing the suit and tie he wore to work.” He folded the notebook and placed it in his pocket. “Apparently he’d been pulling a long day.”

“Wait a minute.” The confusion in Mia’s eyes slowly turned to anger. “You let me go through this entire exercise when you already knew what had happened? Why?”

Gray shrugged. “I wanted to see how you work and how you’d respond to a Valentine scene.” After the incident at the hotel, when he’d thought she’d been about to fall apart, he’d had to make sure Mia was up to the task. He gave her a reassuring pat on the back. “You had some good ideas. You passed, Mia. You’re on the team.”

“I don’t believe this.” She yanked her shoulder out of his reach. “You lied to me. You asked me for my professional assistance, and then you lied to me.”

“Now, wait a minute. I never lied to you. I just didn’t tell you everything we’d found.”

Gray suspected it didn’t matter what he said just then. Her cheeks were heated, her eyes hot with rage. She’d clenched her fists, and he wondered how difficult it was for her to fight the urge to strike him. “You’re the one who wanted to work this case, remember?” He tried to keep his voice from rising, but he didn’t like the way she was looking at him. “Now, I think you’re good. I like the way you worked the scene. But this is how I work, and if you don’t like that, then I’ll show you the door. It’s nothing personal, Mia.”

She glared at him, frozen in her anger and no doubt struggling to keep her control. “You withheld information from me. I can’t work with someone like that.”

“Me, neither,” Gray said, “which is why I had to make sure you weren’t deceiving me when you said you were comfortable working a Valentine scene. It’s simple. If you don’t want to work with me—”

“No.” Her voice was calmer, despite her still-flashing eyes. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He looked her up and down. She had every right to feel enraged, but she’d maintained her self-control. He admired that. “Good,” he said, and meant it.

* * *

When Gray had offered her a ride home, Mia had refused, but she’d accepted one from D’Augostino. Gray had shrugged. What did he care if she was mad at him? As long as she helped him to find the missing girl.

He entered his apartment at almost two in the morning, but he couldn’t sleep. His bed felt uncomfortable, his apartment too warm. He took a cold shower, then sat on his couch wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and read through some of the Valentine files he’d taken home. Sleep wasn’t a priority. Somewhere, some sick freak was torturing a young grad student. Her time was running out, and Gray had to find her.

His brain felt unusually cluttered, and he had difficulty focusing. Maybe it was because he was looking at the Lena Perez file, but thoughts of Mia kept disrupting his work. He did things his way and never felt a twinge of guilt. It was just part of his job.

Yet he couldn’t get that look on her face out of his mind—the one she’d shot him when he’d told her he’d been testing her. She was just another professional consultant, so why should he care what she thought of him? But he’d hated seeing that look in her eyes. The look of disappointment. He gritted his teeth. Maybe he’d try to smooth things over with her, but an apology was out of the question. He’d done nothing wrong.

He pored over the documents for hours, watching the time pass on the clock on his wall. Three in the morning, then four, then five. Gray was never far from a clock. Lives depended on his willingness to work, no matter the hour. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because when the phone rang, he opened his eyes, disoriented and with a stack of papers on the floor beside him.

“Bartlett,” he growled into the phone.

“Lieutenant. It’s Mindy, from CSU. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Gray glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. He bolted upright and rubbed his eyes. “No, I was just heading out the door. What’ve you got?”

“We have an ID on that body you found by the Charles last week. The vic’s name is Samantha Watkinson. Sound familiar?”

His mind was a fog. “Not really.”

“She’s a reporter for the Globe. That’s the second Globe reporter who’s been killed in the past year. You remember that Jake Smith turned up dead not too long ago?”

“Any connection?”

“I had Ballistics check the bullets. Same gun, Lieutenant.”

Gray gave a low whistle as the news settled, unsure of what the implications were. Mindy took a breath. “There’s something else. I understand Mia Perez is working with you.”

Word sure traveled quickly. “Yes, she is.”

She hesitated. “She was at the scene last week, right? Were you watching her the entire time?”

He sat up straighter. “What are you asking, Mindy?”

“This sounds crazy. I mean, I’ve worked with Dr. Perez, and she’s always been so professional, but...was she wearing gloves? Did she happen to touch anything at the scene?”

Gray thought back. Of course he’d made Mia put on gloves. He made everyone at the scene wear gloves...right? His gut worked into a knot. “Mindy, just get to the point.”

He heard her take another breath. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble, but you might want to ask Dr. Perez a few questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, why are her fingerprints all over the gun that was used to shoot Samantha Watkinson and Jake Smith?”