Jessica sat silent, unable to respond, her thoughts racing. She flashed on all the extremely happy moments she'd spent in James's presence, all the trips they'd shared, all the passion, and all the heartache.
“You okay, Jess?” Kim had reached out a hand to lay over her friend's. She had not missed Jessica's narrowing eyes and gritted teeth on seeing Parry.
“It's been a hell of a ride getting here,” Jessica replied, “but it's going to be even more hell seeing this through, I fear.”
Kim said into Jessica's ear, “But nothing you can't handle.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'm not so sure.”
“You've faced far worse foes. This will be a Cakewalk for Jessica Coran.”
“I'm not at all sure.”
“Hang tough, girl.”
“You sound like my father.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“Absolutely.”
The helicopter touched down and the blades began to slow. To Jessica, the big Soviet chopper's last groan felt like her insides, and it sounded like the final breath of a dinosaur. She steeled herself to get up, step out, and meet anew her former lover, James Parry, special agent in charge of the Poet Killer case. “God, I feel like I'm going to stumble or say something stupid,” she confided in Kim.
“If you stumble, just be sure not to fall into his arms.”
“You'll catch me, then?”
“Count on it.”
“Thanks, Kim.” Jessica clamped onto her friends hand and squeezed.
“Don't mention it. What're friends for?”
When she looked directly into James Parry's eyes, Jessica felt her knees weaken with the memories-vivid, precise, and unbidden-that flooded her mind, memories of the most intimate, most delightful moments on holidays they had spent traveling around the globe. James's sandy-brown hair now had a liberal dusting of gray, making it appear lighter, but otherwise he looked the same. A tall, handsome man with broad shoulders and a winning smile, he stood as straight as an oak. She wondered how she would ever completely free herself of him, but then she wondered if it was worth the energy even to try. The sadness and pain of her memory of James would be a part of her forever. After all this time, after all she and Richard Sharpe now meant to each other, one part of her mind fought to hold on to her and Jim's love, or at least to the spirit of that love. At the same time, another part of her fought to pry it from memory. She felt like a wounded wolf wanting to chew its paw off to free itself from a trap.
Focus, she heard her father's admonition from the grave, focus on the job at hand, Jess.
During introductions, there was just enough awkwardness between Jessica and Parry to alert even the dullest mind in the group. Afterward, something inside Jessica told her to relax. She owed the investigation her full attention and support, and she owed Parry nothing other than her thanks for a long and wonderful relationship, and her thanks, after all, for his having once saved her life. Instead of focusing on James-who failed the “cool” test, first by stammering that he'd already had the pleasure, then by offering his hand to shake only to retract it immediately- Jessica turned her attention to the other man, a solidly built fullback type with a limp, who appeared to rock his way along rather than walk.
The police chief introduced himself as Aaron Roth and added, “I am putting all my faith in this team, ladies and gentlemen, and I fully expect to see results soon. Is that clear, everyone?”
He then introduced the tall, stick-thin woman beside him as Lieutenant Leanne Sturtevante, whose firm handshake, take-charge air, and strong voice made it clear that, as she said, “I am heading up and coordinating the Philadelphia Police Department's task force on the Poet Predator, as the press has dubbed the murderer.” Jessica recognized Sturtevante's need to take immediate control of the situation-not unlike herself-and she knew they would have difficulty working together unless they tried extra hard to be sensitive to each other's rough edges.
Sturtevante next said, “If you'll follow me, I'll show you our ready room and introduce you to Dr. Shockley, who has had the bodies protocoled.” The detective started away as she talked, setting a brisk pace for Jessica, Kim, and the men.
“How much does the press know about his MO?” Jessica asked.
“They know the killer's leaving poems for us to ponder, but they don't know he's cutting the poems into his victims' backs,” replied Sturtevante. “They know his weapon of choice is poison, but they don't know the poison is in the ink. Still… it's only a matter of time before it all comes out.”
“We're trying to keep a lid on the details for as long as possible,” added Parry, “but the newshounds smell something, and it's impossible to get them off the scent. Everyone in Philadelphia knows we're withholding information at this point.”
They entered the building's rooftop service elevator. As the door closed, Roth pushed one button, Sturtevante another. “We'll want to see more than the protocols from Dr. Shockley,” Jessica said. “We'll want to see the bodies.”
“Both of you?” asked Sturtevante.
“Both of us,” replied Kim.
“That can be arranged, right, Leanne?” said Roth.
“Absolutely.”
Chief Aaron Roth sucked in his gut and nodded to them with a perfunctory smile. “I'm afraid I must rush away to a charity fund-raiser.” Gritting his teeth, he added, “Commissioner expects me to play a part. Keep me apprised every step of the way, Leanne.”
Jessica saw beads of perspiration forming on Chief Roth's forehead even in the relative cool of the elevator. His breathing sounded like the thrum of a poorly working refrigerator. She also smelled the acrid odor of tobacco that clung to every pore and hair of his body. A heart attack waiting to happen, she thought when the elevator doors opened on Roth's floor. He stepped off and waved an automatic good-bye.
“It was nice to've met you, Doctors. Happy hunting, as they say.” He then coughed and turned away, puffing down the corridor, dabbing at perspiration on his brow with a soggy handkerchief.
The others remained in the elevator car and descended deeper into the building as Sturtevante began her briefing.
“We don't have much of a ready-room display, just some photographs and the poems, of course, which you're all familiar with; nothing unusual or out of place at any of the scenes. Fact is, the crime scenes this guy leaves behind are remarkably”-she searched for an appropriate word-”tidy. Tidy as your grandma's parlor.”
Parry added, “Not so much as a candy wrapper on the floor. Wine bottles, flowers, candy boxes may have been handled by the killer. We've dusted for prints, but we've come up with zip.”
“The guy is thorough about cleaning up after himself, and you know how useless a smudged print can be.” Sturtevante raised a hand to her neck and rubbed furiously, apparently at some pain there.
Parry stared across at Jessica. “Whoever this guy is, he's at the opposite spectrum from Lopaka Kowona.”
Jessica recalled how horrid the Kowona crime scenes had been, victims hacked to pieces and brutally mutilated. “The guy kept parts of his victims in his refrigerator,” she told Kim.
Sturtevante turned to Parry. “I'd love to hear about your infamous Hawaiian case at some future time, Jim.”
“I mean, unlike Kowona, our poet uses no knives, doesn't have a love affair with blood, and he's thorough about tidying up; like you say, Leanne, tidy as Grandma's parlor.” James looked directly at Jessica as he spoke, as if they were the only two in the elevator.
The bell rang and the door opened on the lower-level floor where a sign pointed the direction to the morgue. They all stepped out into a bare, stark hallway painted an institutional green.
“Do you have anything on the killer's choice of weapon?” Jessica asked Sturtevante as they made their way toward a sign over a door that read ppd medical examiner's office. “What've you so far on the poison he's using?” She wondered if Sturtevante sensed her need to ignore James's eyes for the moment.
“It hasn't yet been fully identified, and as for the killer, we know about as much as the proverbial schoolroom dunce.”
