'But you stopped him?'
'Yeah-until he bit my hand.'
'That must have hurt.'
'Uh-huh…Grandmom is putting a Band-Aid on it.'
Kylie's relationship with Groucho was one of hunter and hunted-and, when she managed to corner him, it was torturer and victim. Her favorite game was dress up, and she clothed the cat in a dazzling array of humiliating outfits. The aging and dyspeptic tabby was far from child friendly, but Fiona Campbell had had him for years and wasn't about to give him up now.
'My Band-Aid has Winnie the Pooh on it,' Kylie said.
'Oh, that's nice. Did your grandmom buy them for you?'
'Uh-huh. I picked it out, though.'
Lee heard the whistle of the teakettle and went into the kitchen. 'That's good. I'll bet it feels better already.'
'Yes.' There was a pause. Talking to a young child on the phone was a job. You had to constantly initiate topics, keep the conversation moving. As Lee poured hot water over the coffee grounds, he was aware of something in the back of his mind trying to press its way to the front, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was-a thought, an idea, an image of some kind.
'Are you having fun in school?' he said into the phone.
'Um, yes.'
'What do you like best?'
'Art class. I drew pictures of Mommy today.'
'You did?'
'Yeah. We were apposed to bring a picture in and draw from that, so I brought one of Mommy from the scrapbook.' Kylie had trouble with 'sp' sounds, and pronounced 'supposed' as 'apposed.' She also said 'Francanscisco' for 'San Francisco' and 'pissghetti' for 'spaghetti.' Lee found all of these childhood speech patterns charming, and was sorry the day would come-as he knew it would-when his niece would outgrow them.
A silence hung in the air, and Lee couldn't think of anything to say. He knew his mother kept a scrapbook filled with pictures of Laura, but he didn't know Kylie had seen it.
'And then when she comes back I can show it to her.'
Lee bit his lip. It was bad enough that his mother had never accepted Laura's death, but it made him furious that she insisted on sharing her unreasonable hopes with her granddaughter.
'Okay, well, I'll see you tomorrow. Can I talk to your grandmom now?'
'Okay. Grandmom!'
His mother came and took the phone.
'Yes, dear?'
Lee wanted to tear into her for what he considered her irresponsible behavior, but he didn't have the energy. All he wanted to do was lie down, pull the blankets over his head and shut out everything.
'Was there something you wanted to tell me?'
'No-I just wanted to say good-bye.'
'Fine. Take care of yourself-and remember to eat!' His mother often ended conversations that way. He had lost so much weight during his depression that she became worried.
'Okay, I will. 'Bye.'
Lee hung up and lifted the filter from his coffee mug. The liquid inside was hot and strong and black-opaque and impenetrable, like his mother. Again the thought in the back of his mind struggled to make its way forward. He added a drop of milk to his coffee and took it over to the window seat. It was something about Marie, and yet not about her. Something related to her death…but what? He stared out at the gray February morning. A thin rain was falling, and he noticed the lights were on in the Ukrainian church across the street. In a flash, he remembered what had been bothering him all morning.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Bronx Major Case Unit.
Chapter Four
The campus is quiet, still as a tomb. The thought came to Samuel as he tiptoed across the quad, toward the dormitory building with the one light burning in the first-floor corner room. The light cast a blurry yellow halo around the window, a protective aura surrounding the room's inhabitants. He shivered as he drew closer. He could hear music playing-something classical, with flutes and violins. A couple of other rooms on the third floor had their lights blazing-late-night studying, he supposed.
He stood beneath the windows and looked up at the occupants of the rooms. Three coeds, as far as he could make out, sat around a low table, talking and laughing. He watched the girls moving through the windows, the outline of their bodies blurred through the white lace curtains, their faces muted and indistinct, as if in a dream. Why didn't they want him? Why couldn't they see his specialness? He could hardly dare to desire them, but as he sat gazing at their soft forms, lit from behind by yellow lamplight, translucent and misty mermaids, the gentle glow of the room, the light breath of breeze on his cheeks induced a trancelike state in which he floated, caught in a sweet web of longing.
Then one of the girls threw back her head, laughing at something (he couldn't make out the words), exposing her throat. He watched as the light fell upon the sudden curve of her neck, so open, so vulnerable. He imagined his hands wrapped around that white neck, pressing, squeezing, tighter and tighter, until the life within seeped into his fingers. He imagined his hands growing stronger as the life force drained away from the girl's body and into his own.
It was a thrilling thought-and it seized him with a force that shook him to his bones. He trembled, he sweated, he burned with a fierce flame from deep within him, from a place he had not known existed until now, a place his mother could not see, could not even imagine. This was his secret, his delicious fantasy. He trembled at the idea of keeping something from his mother-it made him swell with a sense of his own manhood. He turned and walked away from the window, putting his hand on the key ring that hung from his belt to stop the keys from jangling.
For the first time in his life that he could remember, he felt powerful.
Chapter Five
Captain Chuck Morton leaned back in his chair and studied the man sitting on the other side of his desk. He looked thin, even leaner than when Chuck had last seen him two months ago, and definitely thinner than he had been when the two of them shared a suite of rooms at Princeton all those years ago. His friend's angular, handsome face was pale and drawn, and his long body was slumped forward, his elbows braced on the chair's armrests. Chuck knew Lee had been up since well before dawn. Morton leaned forward in his chair and fingered the glass paperweight next to his phone. It was a butterfly spread out beneath a glistening prism, and it gave him the creeps, but it was a gift from his son, so he kept it on his desk. The butterfly's multicolored wings gleamed like tiny rainbows under the fluorescent light.
He sighed and looked at Lee Campbell. Even sitting there studying crime photos, his friend gave the impression of restlessness. It had been a long time since their carefree days at Nassau Hall, days when all that seemed to matter were rugby, girls, and grades-in that order. Now Lee looked anything but carefree-Chuck could see his long fingers twitching as they gripped the photos. Chuck felt sorry for his old friend; this was not the Lee Campbell he had known at Princeton.
Mental. That's what some of the beat cops called him behind his back, but Chuck felt a fierce loyalty to this intense, earnest man with the haunted eyes and nervous hands, a loyalty that extended beyond their days together romping the ivy-drenched quadrangles of Princeton. On the rugby field, Lee was the team captain, with quick hands
