stroked it, the way you would caress a lover's hand.
When he said he thought they worked well together, it was definitely a proposition.
Nancy finished her curls. She lowered the weights to the floor and took a few deep breaths. It was almost six.
She had been up since four-thirty, because a nightmare woke her and she couldn't get back to sleep.
Frank had considered Lake a suspect and she had disagreed. Now she was beginning to wonder. She remembered what Dr. Klien said. Lake was bright and personable. It would have been easy for him to gain the confidence of the victims. They were the type of women he met every day at his clubs, and he was the type of man the victims encountered at theirs.
The organized nonsocial was a psychopath who could not feel pity or care for others. The type of person who would have to fake emotions. Had Lake been caught off guard in the coffee shop between remembering his first meeting with Sandra Lake and making the appropriate reaction to that memory? There had been a brief moment when Lake's features had been devoid of emotion.
Klien also said that these killers were interested in police work. Lake, an experienced criminal defense attorney, would know all about police procedure. Nancy dropped to the floor and did fifty push-ups. What was normally an easy set was difficult. She couldn't focus. Her head filled with a vision of Lake, alone in the shadows of the parking lot, waiting.
How did he know about Bundy's fake cast? Dr. Klien had not mentioned it.
After the weights, she and Ed would run a six-mile loop through the neighborhood. Ed was stronger than Nancy, but she was the faster runner.
On Sundays, they raced the loop. The loser cooked breakfast. The winner decided when and bow they made love. Nancy could not touch the weights or run the loop for two months after the shooting.
One hundred crunches. Up, down, up, down. Her stomach tight as a drumhead. Her thoughts in the dark, in the parking lot with Lake. Should she tell Frank and Wayne? Was she just imagining it? Would her suspicions sidetrack the investigation and let the real killer escape?
It was six-fifteen. The weights were in a small room next to the bedroom. The sun was starting its ascent over the wealthy suburbs to the east. Nancy stripped off her panties and top and dropped them in the hamper. She had put on weight — after Ed died. Except for a month when she was recovering from a hamstring pull in her sophomore year, it was the first time since junior high that she had not worked out regularly.
The weight was off now and she could see the ridged muscles of her stomach and the cords that twisted along her legs. Hot water loosened her up. She shampooed her hair. All the time, she was thinking about Peter Lake.
Why were there no bodies found before? Why were the Lake murders different from the others? Sandra Lake had apparently been killed quickly, suddenly. Why? And why would Peter have killed her? Had she discovered something that would link him to the other murders and confronted him with the evidence? And that still left the hardest question of all, was Lake such a monster that he would kill his own daughter to cover his crimes?
As she dressed, Nancy tried to find one concrete fact that she could present to the other detectives. One piece of evidence that linked Peter to the crimes. She came up dry. For the moment, she'd have to keep her feelings to herself. Frank Grimsbo ran a forearm across his forehead, staining the sleeve of his madras jacket with sweat. He was wearing a short-sleeve, white shirt and brown polyester pants, and had jerked his paisley print tie to half mast after unbuttoning his top button. The heat was killing him, and all he could think about was cold beer.
Herbert Solomon answered the door on the third ring. Wearily, Grimsbo held up his shield and identified himself 'This is about the Lakes, right?' asked Solomon, a stocky man of medium height who sported a well groomed beard and was dressed in loose green-and-red checked Bermuda shorts and a yellow T-shirt.
'That's right, Mr. Solomon. My partner and I are canvassing the neighborhood.'
'I already spoke to a policeman on the evening it happened.'
'I know, sir. I'm a detective on the special task force that's investigating all of the killings, and I wanted to go into a little more detail with you.'
'Have there been other murders? I thought these women just disappeared.'
'That's right, but we're assuming the worst.'
'Come on in out of the heat. Can I get you a beer, or can't you drink on duty?'
Grimsbo grinned. 'A beer would be great.'
'Wait in there and I'll grab one for you,' Solomon said, pointing to a small front room. Grimsbo pulled his shirt away from his body as he walked toward the den.
Thank God they were canvassing in The Meadows, where everyone had air-conditioning.
'I hope this is cold enough for you,' Solomon said, handing Grimsbo a chilled Budweiser. Grimsbo placed the cold bottle against his forehead and closed his eyes.
Then he took a sip.
'Boy, that hits the spot. I wish they could think up a way to air-condition the outside.'
Solomon laughed.
'You an accountant?'
'A c.p.a.'
'I figured,' Grimsbo said, pointing his beer at two large bookcases filled with books about tax and accounting. A desk stood in front of the only window in the room.
A computer and printer sat in the center of the desk next to a phone.
The window looked out at Sparrow Lane across a wide front lawn.
'Well,' Grimsbo said, after taking another swig from the bottle, 'let me ask you a few questions and get out of your hair. Were you around the night Mrs. Lake and her daughter were murdered?'
Solomon stopped smiling and nodded. 'Poor bastard.'
'You know Peter Lake?'
'Sure. Neighbors and — all. We have a home-owners committee in The Meadows. Pete and I were on it. We played doubles together in the tennis tournament. Marge that's my wife-she and Sandy were good friends.'
'Is your wife home?'
'She's at the club, playing golf I didn't feel like it in this heat.'
Grimsbo put down the beer and took a pad and pen out of his inside jacket pocket.
'About what time did you get home on the night it happened?'
'it had to be about six.'
'Did you see anything unusual that night?'
'Not a thing. I was in the dining room until we finished dinner. The dining room looks out into the back yard. Then I was in the living room for a few minutes. It's in the back of the house too. After that I was in here working on the computer with the blinds drawn.'
'Oh.', Grimsbo said, reluctantly ready to wrap up the interview and trudge back out into the heat.
'One thing I forgot about when the officer talked to me the night of the murder. There was so much excitement and Marge was hysterical. I did see Pete come home.'
'Oh, yeah? When was that?'
'I can get pretty close there. The Yankees played a day game and I caught the score on headline Sports.' CNN runs the sports scores twenty after and ten to the hour. I went into the den right — after the score, so figure seven twenty-two or so. I saw Pete's Ferrari when I closed the blinds.'
'He was heading home?'
'Right.'
'And you're certain about the time.'
'Twenty — after the hour, every hour. So it had to be about then, give or take a minute.'
'Did you notice a florist's truck at any time that night, near The Meadows or in it?'
Solomon thought for a second. 'There was a TV repairman at the Osgoods'.
That's the only unusual vehicle I saw.'
Grimsbo levered himself out of his seat and extended his hand. 'Thanks for the beer.'
Wayne Turner was leaning against the car, looking so cool in his tan suit that it pissed Grimsbo off.
'Any luck?' Turner asked, as he pushed off the car.
'Nada. Oh, Solomon, the last guy I talked to, saw Lake driving home past his house about seven-twenty.
