Casey quit work early, donned raingear and took a walk on the seawall, his mind clenched on the three murders.
A light oyster-gray rain laid a mist over the beach and the ocean. The freighters anchored offshore looked like ghost ships, their riding lights flickering in the gloom.
Casey thought about dates.
Murder dates.
Julia Dagg was butchered on Monday, November 6. Corinne Wakabayashi thirteen days later, on Sunday, November 19. Roseanne Agostino thirteen days later, on Saturday, December 2.
If the killer kept to his thirteen-day timetable, then the next murder, if there was one, would be on Friday, December 15.
One week from now.
He told Jack Wexler.
Jack called his buddy Detective Sergeant Fraser in homicide.
Emma Shaughnessy asked Casey if he would walk her home from the gym when they were through. “It’s this damned killer,” she said. “I’m only five blocks away, but I’d feel safer with an Irishman.”
“I’d be happy to see you home.”
She felt safe with this quiet man. There was something about his blue eyes, lazy smile and rumpled appearance that invited confidence and trust. She was sure that Casey would understand her need for what it was: safety and protection. Simple friendship. He would expect no favors and imagine no subtext, of that she felt certain.
It was raining, as usual.
Emma said, “This rain would wash the ears off a donkey, aren’t I right?”
“A cup of coffee might warm you.”
“I don’t drink coffee at night. But Devlin’s tea would be good.”
“Devlin’s it is then.”
They found a table. Casey brought coffee for himself and tea for Emma. Emma had to listen carefully over the loud buzz of conversation, for Casey spoke quietly, never raising his voice.
“How are your colleagues at school taking these murders?” he asked.
“Just as you’d expect,” she said. “The women leave the school as soon as the three o’clock bell rings. Home before dark. What do you know about this latest murder?”
“Nothing really, except she was killed on the thirteenth day, just like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was playing with the numbers and noticed that each of the three murders is thirteen days apart.”
“There’s a murder every thirteen days?”
“Looks like it so far.”
“Do the police know this?”
“I told Wexler, who told his police friend.”
“So now they know. Did they know before Wexler told them?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Do you know why it’s always the thirteenth day?”
Casey shook his head. “No idea.”
He walked her home through the wind and the rain to her apartment at Killarney Place.
“Thanks, Casey,” she said with a grateful smile. She didn’t ask him in.
The Quiet Man, she thought as she watched him walk off in the rain.
It was almost as though the killer had been reading Casey’s mind. An open letter to the police appeared in Friday’s morning’s Province: Maggoty: A word from the Angel of Death I am chosen to destroy, to kill and to cause to perish upon the thirteenth day all women which are harlots. Esther 3:12.