Page. I know what the note means. I know about the black rose. I — also know who took your missing women.'
Alan needed a moment to think.
'Please sit down and I'll get your coffee,' he told Gordon.
The apartment was small. The living room and kitchen were one space divided by a counter. Gordon chose an armchair near the television and waited patiently while Alan mixed water from a tea kettle with Folger's instant. He handed the cup to the detective, turned off the set, then sat opposite her on the couch. Gordon was tall with an athlete's body.
Alan guessed she was in her midthirties. Her blond hair was cut short.
She was attractive without working at it. The most striking thing about the detective was her utter seriousness. Her dress was severe, her eyes were cold, her mouth was sealed in a straight line and her body was rigid, like an animal prepared to defend itself. Gordon leaned forward slightly. 'Think of the most repulsive criminals, Mr. Page. Think of Bundy, Manson, Dahmer. The man leaving these notes is smarter and far more dangerous than any of them, because they're all dead or in prison.
The man you're after is the man-who got away.'
'You know who he is?' Alan asked.
Gordon nodded. 'I've been waiting for him to surface for ten years.'
Gordon paused. She looked into the steam rising from her cup. Then she looked back at Alan.
'This man is cunning, Mr. Page, and he's different.
He's not human, the way we think of human. I knew he wouldn't be able to control himself forever and I was right. Now he's surfaced and I can catch him, but I need your help.'
'If you can clear this up, you've got all the help you want. But I'm still confused about who you are and what you're talking about.'
'Of course. I'm sorry. I've been involved with this case so long, I forget other people don't know what happened. And you'll need to know it all or you won't understand. Do you have the time, Mr. Page? Can I tell you now? I don't think we can wait, even until morning. Not while he's still out there, free.'
'If you're not too tired.'
Gordon stared into Alan's eyes with an intensity that forced him to look away.
'I'm always tired, Mr. Page. There was a time when I couldn't sleep without pills. I'm over that, but the nightmares haven't stopped and I still don't sleep well. I won't until he's caught.'
Alan did not know what to say. Gordon looked down.
She drank more coffee. Then she told Alan Page about Hunter's Point.
Part Two
Chapter Five
The sprawling, two-story colonial was in the middle of a cul-de-sac, set well back from the street. A large, welltended lawn created a wide buffer zone between the house and those on either side. A red Ferrari was parked in the driveway in front of a three-car garage.
Nancy Gordon knew it was going to be bad as soon as she saw the Stunned expressions on the faces of the neighbors, who huddled just outside the police barriers.
They were shocked by the presence of police cars and a morgue wagon in the quiet confines of The Meadows, where the houses started at half a million and crime was simply not permitted. She knew it was going to be really bad when she saw the grim faces of the two homicide detectives who were talking in low tones on the lawn near the front door.
Nancy parked her Ford behind a marked car and squeezed through the sawhorses. Frank Grimsbo and Wayne Turner stopped their conversation when they saw her. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The call had come while she was sprawled in front of the TV in a ratty nightgown, sipping a cheap white wine and watching the Mets smoke the Dodgers. The clothes were the first thing she could find and the last thing she thought about.
'Newman said there's a body this time,' she said excitedly.
'IT we.'
'How can we be sure it's him?' Nancy asked.
'The note and the rose were on the floor near the woman,' Grimsbo answered. He was a big man with a beer gut and thinning black hair who wore cheap plaid jackets and polyester slacks.
'It's him 'all right,' said Turner, a skinny black man with close-cropped hair and a permanent scowl who was in his second year in night law school. 'The first cop on the scene was smart enough to figure out what was going on. He called me right away. Michaels did the note and the crime scene before anyone else was let in.'
That was a break. Who's the second victim?'
'Melody Lake,' Grimsbo answered. 'She's six years old, Nancy.'
'Oh, fuck.' The excitement she felt at finally getting a body disappeared instantly. 'Did he… Was there anything done to her?'
Turner shook his head. 'She wasn't molested.'
'And the woman?'
'Sandra Lake. The mother. Death by strangulation.
She was beaten pretty badly, too, but there's no evidence of sexual activity. Course, she hasn't been autopsied.'
'Do we have a witness?'
'I don't know,' Grimsbo answered. 'We have uniforms talking to the neighbors, but nothing yet. Husband found the bodies and called it in to 911 about eight-fifteen. He says he didn't see anyone, so the killer must have left way before the husband got home. We got a cul de-sac here and it leads into Sparrow Lane, the only road out of the development.
The husband would have seen someone coming in or out.'
'Who's talked to him?'
'I did, for a few minutes,' Turner answered. 'And the first cops on the scene, of course. He was too bent out of shape to make any sense. You know him, Nancy.'
'I do?'
'It's Peter Lake.'
'The attorney?'
Grimsbo nodded. 'He defended Daley.'
Nancy frowned and tried to remember what she could about Peter Lake. She had not done much in the Daley investigation. All she recalled about the defense attorney were his good looks and efficient manner. She was on the stand less than a half hour.
'I better go in,' Nancy said.
The entryway was huge. A small chandelier hung overhead. A sunken living room was directly in front of her. The room was spotless. She could see a small manmade lake out back through a large picture window.
Strategically placed around the room, most probably by an interior decorator, were bleached oak tables with granite tops, chairs and a sofa in pastel shades and macrame wall hangings. It looked more like a showroom than a place where people lived.
A wide staircase was off to the left. A polished wood banister followed the curve of the stairs to the second floor. The posts supporting the banister were closely spaced. Through the spaces, halfway up the stairs, Nancy could see a small lump covered by a blanket. She turned away.
Lab technicians were dusting for prints, taking photographs and collecting evidence. Bruce Styles, the deputy
