'When you were hoping for a fastball.'
Dr. Williams laughed, a low, bell-like sound that emanated from deep in her throat. Lee was reminded of a didgeridoo, the Australian musical instrument that produced amazing waves of overtones when played correctly.
'What does she look like?'
'She's, uh…kind of short, with curly dark hair.'
'Like your sister.'
'Oh, come on-does everything have to be about Laura?'
'No. I'm just pointing it out. It's interesting that you became so immediately defensive about it.'
'All right, all right!'
'You know, it isn't unusual for someone to try to construct a surrogate family when their family of origin is inadequate-or, in this case, torn away from you.'
'Okay, okay,' Lee said impatiently. 'And John Nelson is my substitute father figure, who doesn't abandon me, but chooses me from among all the others.'
'Why does that make you so angry?'
'That's what I'm here to find out, isn't it?'
'Okay.' Dr. Williams rarely took bait, even when it was dangled in front of her. It was one of the things Lee liked about her-she had that kind of confidence as a therapist.
There was a pause, and then Lee said, 'You know, my mother doesn't really approve of what I do for a living.'
'You think not?'
'It's too messy, too involved with things she'd rather not think about.'
'The dark side of human nature?'
'She was all right with my being a psychologist, but this 'profiling thing,' as she calls it, takes me to places she doesn't want to admit even exist.'
'So you think she finds it threatening?'
'I'm sure of it.'
'And you? Do you find it threatening?'
'Yes. Yes, I do.'
'This woman you've met-do you think she finds it threatening?'
'Well, that's the thing: she seems fascinated by it. I don't know how I feel about that. Part of me is glad, and part of me wonders…'
'What's wrong with her?'
He thought about it. 'Yeah, maybe.'
'So you think you should marry a girl just like dear old Mom?'
'Well, now, which is it, Dr. Williams-my mother or my sister? Make up your mind.'
They both laughed, but Lee had a sticky feeling of discomfort. It was one thing to read about these things in a textbook, or even to go through it with a patient, but it was another thing to experience it yourself.
Lee left Dr. Williams's office feeling a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It was such a relief to be able to say 'I'm afraid.' In his family, those were forbidden words. No one was ever afraid-not strong, worthy people, at any rate. Fear was for the rest of humanity, those inferior beings who had not the good fortune to be born Campbells. As Lee turned the corner onto University Place, past the University Coffee Shop, the smell of grilled beef assailed his nostrils, and he was suddenly ravenous.
His cell phone beeped inside his jacket, indicating that he had a message. He dug it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. NEW TEXT MESSAGE. He scrolled over to the message and read it. It was a single sentence. What about the red dress?
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, stunned. No one knew about the red dress, the one his sister was last seen wearing before she disappeared. That detail had never been released to the public-only the police knew about the red dress.
Except that now someone else knew too.
Chapter Twenty
Later that afternoon Lee sat in the overstuffed brown leather armchair by the window, his feet propped up on the windowsill, a cup of strong coffee on the round rosewood table by his side. He opened the yellow file folder on his lap. The red tab marking said simply Kelleher, Marie, followed by the case number. This young girl, who once had a life ahead of her, was now reduced to a manila folder, a few horrific photos, and a case number. A good girl, a practicing Catholic, pious and churchgoing, without an enemy in the world. His sister hadn't had an enemy either, and yet someday someone would be sitting with a file like this one on his lap, and the tab would read Campbell, Laura…if her body was ever found.
What about the red dress?
Lee rubbed his forehead. There was no way to trace who might have left the text message-you could buy a disposable cell phone at any bodega in New York, use it for one call, and throw it in the East River. Lee debated whether to call Chuck and tell him about the message.
He forced his mind back to the file in front of him and looked at the forensic data, or lack of it: no semen, no prints, and-other than the victim's-no blood. He studied the crime scene photographs, and was struck by the orderliness of the scene. Nothing out of place, the vase of flowers exactly where the priest said he had last seen them, the pulpit right where it belonged-very little had been touched, except for the awful presence of Marie's body on the altar. The lack of defensive wounds meant she was probably blindsided-a blitzkrieg attack. The killer didn't necessarily know her well, but she didn't feel threatened by him-until it was too late.
The phone rang, jarring him out of his reverie. He picked it up on the second ring.
'Hello?'
'Heya, Boss.'
'Hi, Eddie.'
'I think I got something for you.'
'Really? What?'
'I can't talk right now, but it might be good. Diesel and Rhino have been snooping around, you know.'
'Okay, listen-give me your number and I'll call you.'
'No can do, Boss. I'll have to call you back.'
'Okay.'
'When would be a good time?'
Just then Lee heard the beep of call waiting.
'Look, I have to go. Call me tomorrow, okay?'
'Right. Will do.'
Lee pressed the receiver and answered the other line.
'Hello?'
'Lee, it's Chuck.' Something in his voice made Lee's stomach clench. Before he spoke again, Lee already knew what was coming next. 'There's been another one-same MO. It's him, Lee.'
'Where?'
'Brooklyn. The victim's name is Annie O'Donnell. They found her in a church in the Heights.'
'Damn. Are you there now?'
'On my way. It's in Park Slope-Two-two-five Sixth Avenue.'
'Okay, I'm leaving now. I'll meet you there.'
Lee took a gulp from the cooling cup of coffee, threw on his coat, and grabbed his house keys, shoving them in his pocket.
He stepped out into the dimming February twilight and looked at the lights in the windows of the apartments lining Seventh Street. The apartment opposite his had cream-colored French lace curtains, and the soft yellow glow
