C. Lawrence - Silent victim

"They said that?"

"More or less. They made it clear they didn't want to be bothered."

"So you came to me."

"I didn't know what else to do," she moaned, the old petulance creeping into her voice. "Raymond-that's my boyfriend-he's really nice, but he's just a restaurant manager. He didn't know what to do either."

At the mention of her boyfriend, Lee breathed a bit more freely.

"I mean, you work with the police, right?" she said, her blue eyes imploring.

"Well, yes, but we don't have jurisdiction in New Jersey."

"But can't you-I mean, couldn't you investigate this on your own or something, without telling them?"

"Well, I'm not a detective-"

"But you're a criminal profiler, right?"

"I'm a forensic psychologist."

"Right-but you profile criminals, don't you?"

"Among other things. What do you expect me to do?"

"Find out who's stalking me. Do a profile on him-or whatever it is you do."

"Do you have any idea who it might be?"

She bit her lip and shook her head. "I've been trying to think of someone. My boyfriend before Raymond broke up with me, so I don't think it's him. And he was really sweet and everything, anyway."

"Does Raymond know you came to see me?"

She looked at him and frowned. "Am I terrible to not tell him? It's just that I didn't want him to worry."

Or get jealous in case you decide to try to seduce me again, Lee thought, but he said, "You shouldn't be keeping secrets from him right now-not when your life could be in danger."

"So-so you think it is?" she said, her voice wavering between fear and hope.

"I think it's possible, and it's best not to take any chances. Anyone else it could be?"

"Well, I'm working as a waitress at the Swan Hotel in Lambertville, and I see a lot of people every day, but mostly it's wealthy, middle-aged people, and they're usually pretty nice." She fished around in her leather knapsack. "Look, money isn't a problem. I'll be glad to pay you whatever you-"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't even know what to charge you anyway."

"So can you-help me?" she said, her voice thick.

Lee was touched, in spite of their history together-or maybe because of it. She seemed so vulnerable-perhaps fear had humbled her. Without her usual arrogance, she was actually rather appealing.

"I don't see what I can possibly do," he said.

He glanced at his watch. It was after seven, and he was already late for his dinner meeting.

"I'm really sorry," he said, rising from the couch, "but I arranged to meet someone for dinner, and I'm late."

She jumped up from the chair as though she were on springs. "Oh, sorry-I didn't mean to take up so much of your time!"

"Please don't apologize. I'm just sorry I can't help," he said, fetching her coat from the rack and holding it open for her.

She slipped her arms into the sleeves and hugged the coat around her body, shivering, even though the room was quite warm.

"I-I wish you'd change your mind," she said, looking up at him with an expression that was part lost child, part seductress. That was her specialty, the woman/child in distress, guaranteed to reel in a certain percentage of the male population. His friend Chuck Morton would be helpless to resist her, he thought-if he weren't already tied up with his own personal Circe.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just-"

"I've missed you, you know," she said, holding his gaze longer than necessary. He was afraid she was going to try to kiss him. But she just took his hand and pressed it between her own. Her hands were cold and smooth and dry, her grip surprisingly strong.

He disentangled his hands from hers and opened the door for her.

"I am sorry," he said. "I think you should take the note you showed me to the police in Flemington."

She gave a quick shrug and looked away.

"Well, I tried. If something happens to me-"

"Take the note to the police," he repeated, more firmly this time.

She gave a little laugh, like the tinkling of bells. "Yeah-right."

And then she slipped out the door, leaving behind a trail of lilac perfume. He looked down at his hand and realized she had pressed a piece of paper into it containing her cell phone number. Hearing her quick, light step as she hurried down the stairs, he remembered from their days together in therapy that she always seemed to be in a hurry. He had a sharp, unexpected impulse to call after her-not because he was attracted to her, but because he was suddenly reluctant to let her venture out so unprotected into a wild and dangerous world.

Later, he would regret not heeding that impulse.

At first glance there seemed to be no connection between them.

A man in his twenties found floating in the Bronx River, cause of death: drowning. He was assumed initially to be a suicide.

Until the farewell note in his pocket was found to have been written by someone else.

A man in his forties found dead in his bathtub-a careless accident, perhaps. His hair dryer had fallen into the water, electrocuting him.

Except that he was bald.

It didn't add up, and whoever staged the bathtub "accident" had to know it didn't add up. Therefore, the clumsiness of the crime had to be taken as purposeful, and the manner of it as a challenge-no, a taunt-to the police. As for the floater-well, he wasn't necessarily linked to the baldy in the bathtub, but there was that suicide note scribbled on the mirror in lipstick-lipstick?-that made the whole thing as fishy as the corpse the boys had pulled out of the river only two days before they found Baldy.

Chuck Morton had already come to these conclusions by the time he reached his office in the Bronx Major Case Unit on a warm morning in late August. He walked through the newly renovated lobby, across the polished marble floor to his cramped office in the back of the first floor. He plugged in his new automatic coffeemaker and added water and precisely six tablespoons of coffee, listening to the hum of the heating coil as it began to whir into life.

Charles Chesterfield Morton was a precise man. He liked his rituals at a certain time: black Kenyan coffee from Fairway first thing in the morning, with exactly one teaspoon of sugar and a dollop of cream.

His phone rang and he grabbed it.

"Morton here."

"Ah, yes, Chuck… how are you?"

Morton scowled. He recognized the voice at once-it was Deputy Chief Police Commissioner Steven Connelly, a man he despised. A call from him first thing on a Monday morning couldn't be anything good. And when Connelly called him by his first name, it was an especially bad sign.

Morton sank down in his chair.

"Fine, sir," he said, "and you?"

"Great, just great."

Morton ran a hand through his short blond hair. Get to the point, for Christ's sake. He knew from experience that the more Connelly stalled, the worse the news he could expect.

"And your lovely wife-how is she?"

Morton suppressed a groan.

"She's very well, sir-thank you for asking."

The deputy chief cleared his throat.

"Have you picked your team yet for this drowning business on Arthur Avenue?"

"Well, sir, I-"

"I'm sending someone your way, Chuck, and I want you to take her under your wing, so to speak."

"Yes, sir. Who is it?'

But before he asked the question, he already knew the answer.

"Elena Krieger. She just finished working undercover on the Strickley Affair, so I'm assigning her to you. She's a specialist in linguistic forensics-one of the best in the department. You need someone who can decipher those fake suicide notes, right?"

Chuck had never met Elena Krieger, but had heard enough to convince him they weren't going to get along.

But all he said was, "Yes, sir."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if the deputy chief was waiting for him to raise an objection.