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 of lamplight inside was inviting. But behind even the most inviting glow of lamplight there could live a killer, plotting his next act of rage against society. Lee jogged a half block to the west to look for a cab at the intersection where the Bowery bifurcated into Third Avenue to the east and Fourth Avenue to the west.
As he stepped out from the curb to hail a cab, he heard the sound of a car backfiring. It wasn't an unusual sound to hear on Third Avenue, but an instant later something whizzed by his head, embedding itself with a tinny thud in the lamppost behind him. He turned to look at the lamppost, but just then a cab pulled up in front of him. He looked around Third Avenue, but there was no sign of the shooter. No one on the street seemed to notice that anything unusual had happened. He searched the crowd, but no one was running away-even the sound of the gun firing had been swallowed up by the blare of car horns and traffic noise.
He glanced at the lamppost. Whatever the object was, it had cut deeply into the metal. He took a step toward it, but the cabbie honked his horn impatiently.
"Hey mister-do you wanna go somewhere or not?"
Lee looked down Third Avenue. A light rain had begun to fall, and this was the only free cab in sight.
"Yeah, thanks," he said, climbing in and closing the door.
There was no doubt in his mind that the dent in the lamppost was made by a bullet. What he wasn't sure of was whether or not he was the intended victim.
The pursuer becomes the pursued, he thought grimly as the cab rattled up Third Avenue.