When Lee arrived home, there was a message on his answering machine, and it wasn't entirely welcome. It was from Kay Shackleton, the head of the Psychology Department at John Jay College, asking him if he was interested in being a guest lecturer at the college. He sank down in the red leather armchair by the window and listened to the message a second time.
"We've been working on the list of visiting professors, and Tom thought of asking you," she said. Tom Mariella was a senior professor on the faculty and an excellent teacher-Lee had taken several of his courses.
"… your position on the police force gives you a unique point of view, and we thought you might be interested in giving your perspective on the attack on the World Trade Center. It would be part of a series of lectures given by other faculty members as well. With the anniversary coming up, we just thought-" Lee hit the STOP button on the machine.
He had read somewhere-R. D. Laing, perhaps-that the primary emotion experienced by people in the presence of evil was confusion. He felt that now-as he did with every case he worked on. It was a familiar feeling, and yet one he never seemed to get used to… underneath the cold, hard fact of three dead victims lurked a whirlpool of bewilderment. Spuyten Duyvil… Whirlpool of the Devil.
He wandered into the kitchen and made himself a martini, shaking it in the sterling-silver decanter that once belonged to his father. He poured it into a V-shaped glass, added an olive, and took a swallow. The taste of gin was reassuring-sharp, medicinal, like drinking pine sap. He drank some more and wandered into the living room.
The anniversary is coming up… He had lived through more than enough anniversaries already-his father's desertion, his sister's disappearance-and now this. His profession was about solving things, the puzzles and mysteries behind crime, and yet he could not solve the mysteries in his own heart. The questions gnawed at him, and they all seemed connected. How could his father have left his family behind, just walking out the door one rainy night, never to return? And how could his sister have disappeared without a trace, as though she had never existed? And how could someone slip through the crowded streets of the city, carrying the knowledge that he was a murderer, yet not betray that dark fact to anyone he met-until it was too late?
Dusk settled uneasily over Manhattan as Lee stared out his front window, martini in hand. The rays of the setting sun fell on the Ukrainian church across the street, caught in the vast circular design of the stained-glass window that took up most of the church's front facade. He imagined the light traveling forever in the circular whirl of saints and visions, caught in an endless trajectory of faith and belief. He was reminded that many of the stars whose distant light we see on clear nights are already dead, and that what we see is just the trail of ghosts, left behind long after their lives have ended.
Laura's trail still blazed brightly in Lee's mind, but he was afraid that her light was beginning to dim for others who knew her. His mother rarely mentioned her anymore, and Kylie had been too young when she disappeared to have any memories of her. He had taken up the torch to find her killer when he became a criminal profiler, but so far he had failed. His need to punish himself for this failure was intense, and it was only with an extreme effort that he could pull away from it.
The ringing of the phone snapped him out of his self-recriminations.
He grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?" "Lee?"
The voice was deep, resonant, and cultivated. He recognized it at once.
"Hello, Diesel. How are you?" "More to the point, how are you?" "I'm okay." "You don't sound it."
Lee smiled, in spite of the feelings raised by Diesel's voice. He had met the man through his late friend Eddie Pepitone. He missed Eddie, and he knew Diesel did, too.
"How's Rhino?" he asked, trying to steady his voice.
"Oh, he's very pleased with himself. He's lost five pounds this month and is unbearable to live with."
Diesel and Rhino (a.k.a. John Rhinehardt Jr.) were the most unlikely couple Lee had ever met. Diesel was a giant of a man, with shiny mahogany skin, whereas Rhino was tiny, muscular, and pale as a ghost. Lee was grateful for Diesel and Rhino's continued presence in his life. They were good men and all he had left of Eddie.
"Are you both still working at Bellevue?" he asked.
"Actually, I've had a promotion. I'm now in charge of all the other orderlies."
"Congratulations-that's great."
"Yes, it's great if you don't have to live with John K. Reinhardt Jr., I suppose. He's never forgiven me for it."
"You mean because now you're his boss?"
"Something like that," Diesel answered. "He said to say hi, by the way. But I actually called to see if you were investigating these bizarre killings."
Lee wasn't sure how to respond. His assignment to the case wasn't exactly a secret, but it wasn't something the NYPD would broadcast to the public. Luckily, Diesel saved him from having to answer.
"I can see by your hesitation that you are," Diesel continued smoothly. "I just called to offer our services. If there's anything we can do-anything at all-don't hesitate to ask. I think Eddie would have wanted…" Diesel began, but his voice trailed off, the silence on the line between them like a physical presence. "I'm sorry-I don't know what Eddie would have wanted. Maybe I'd just like to think I know."
"Yeah," Lee agreed. "I know."
"I think he would want us to keep in touch, anyway."
"I agree," Lee said. "I'm glad to hear from you. But this killer is dangerous, and I don't think-"
"Hey, look," said Diesel, "Rhino and I can take care of ourselves. I'm just saying that if you can use us as a resource, we're here for you."
"I appreciate that."
"There are some things Eddie didn't tell you about us. We have certain… skills, let's say, that might be of use to you at some point."
That was all very mysterious, and Lee was intrigued, but he heard the click of call waiting on the other line.
"Thanks," he said. "I'm sorry, but I have an incoming call."
"No problem. You know where to find us."
"Yes-give my best to Rhino," Lee said. "I'll talk to you soon." He clicked the receiver and picked up the other call.
The voice he heard had the same reptilian coldness as before.
"I know about the red dress."
Ripples of terror slithered across the surface of Lee's skin. He clutched the edge of the piano to steady himself. "Who are you?" "Does it matter?"
"If you know something," Lee said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "why don't you go to the police?"
The caller chuckled-a low, unpleasant sound, like two rocks knocking together.
"What would be the fun in that?"
"Look," Lee said, but the line went dead. He immediately dialed*69, but a recording told him that the caller had blocked his number when he called.
He stood there for a moment, then picked up his martini glass and gulped down its contents. As he did, he made a grim vow. If this caller really did know something about his sister's murder, Lee swore to himself that he would hunt him down, no matter the cost.