Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“Oh, a single parent?”

“Well, yes.”

“That makes two of us. C’mon, let’s not snub fate.”

“This is starting to feel like a date.”

“No, just gratitude.”

“Well, I suppose it’d be all right. I’ll only have time for a cocktail, though. And I’ll have to drop Robbie off first.”

“OK. Let’s say we meet in an hour.”

“That’s sounds about right. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be the man with a red amaryllis next to his drink at the bar.”

Apprehension and a strange sense of curiosity flooded her. She hadn’t asked to meet this man, and yet they had a date. She turned to look at her son. The child was asleep. She breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t heard the longing in his mother’s voice.

The drive to Sheepshead Bay was a sluggish one. There was construction on the Belt Parkway at Ocean Avenue. Workers in overalls and hard hats were plugging potholes that the snows of last winter had carved into the asphalt.

She veered the Maxima off at Knapp Street and, turning right, headed for Emmons Avenue. Pulling up in front of a parking meter, she turned off the engine. She could feel the hammering of her heart. Flipping down the visor, she checked her eye makeup and took a deep breath.

When she entered The Lobster Trap, she was struck by the din of a hundred conversations in progress. She was momentarily disoriented but recovered as her eyes searched the bar for the telltale flower. There was no amaryllis on the bar. Was she too early? The grandfather clock at the end of the bar said otherwise. Maybe she should go back to the car, wait fifteen or twenty minutes, and return to the bar appropriately late, or perhaps she should make herself comfortable and order a glass of Chablis. Could he have been detained? she wondered. Maybe that glass of wine would settle her nerves, after all. She stepped up to the bar and ordered her drink.

The bartender smiled as he poured the wine into a stemmed crystal glass. She felt as if her femininity were exposed to the world. She hadn’t been out to meet a man in eight years.

She glanced at her watch. What was keeping him? As she watched the second hand sweep past the twelve on the face of her Timex, a thought occurred. How much time was left on that meter? She believed there was a two-hour limit. Or was it one?

With purse in hand, she headed for the revolving door. As soon as she stepped out onto the street, she spotted him. He was standing there, facing the restaurant, a strikingly dressed man holding an amaryllis.

“Hello,” she said as her heart raced.

She stared at him, shock and bewilderment still ablaze in her eyes. The rope singed swollen flesh at her wrists and ankles, worsened by her futile attempts to loosen the restraints that held fast to the wooden chair.

Colm heard her mutter something through the plumbing tape. It was unintelligible, but her eyes flashed a threat. How audacious some of them remained, even at the end, he thought.

“You would have been a gracious dinner guest,” he said. “Unfortunately, given the circumstances, I thought it best to wait outside. It wouldn’t have been wise to have us seen together, now, would it?”

Vengeful eyes stared back at him.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before you’d come out. Thank goodness you were alone. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if you had brought company.” He pulled up a chair and took a seat across from her. “I hadn’t planned this ending, you know. I kept thinking it might be OK to simply recover the beeper and be done with it. I even considered the thought of actually keeping my promise and sharing a meal with you. But my resolve dissipated and a more familiar yearning kicked in…pure rapture. You’re sure to rival some of my most cherished trophies.”

Realization settled, in her dilated pupils as she watched him nonchalantly reach for the blade.

“OK, here’s what we’ve got,” said Margaret, her voice strong, her eyes focused on Driscoll’s, giving the Lieutenant the sense that she was OK with how things were. “Deirdre McCabe was hooked up at America Online. We got zip on Monique Beauford, our drifter. And the tea heiress, well, we’re not sure what she used, although the whiz kid claims she had an account with Juno. The folks over at Juno list an A. Stockard on their books. But, their Internet service is free, so-”

“So they have nothing more than an A. Stockard. No billing address. No phone number.”

“You got it.”

“Juno. Netscape. I tell you, it’s all Greek to me. Moira even thinks in another language.”

“You’ve gotta realize that these kids are miles ahead on the information superhighway.”

What was Margaret up to? Driscoll wondered. She sounded like she had become a fan of the technogeek. She’s just being contrary, he surmised.

“The Internet is the tool of tomorrow,” Margaret continued.

“And possibly a killing field today.”

“I’ve been doing a little research. Thought I’d sharpen my skills.”

“And what did you discover?”

“Did you know that the Internet got its start as a project of the Defense Department? They had urged certain universities to link their computers in the name of scientific exploration. The idea caught on, and before anyone realized it, everybody, scholar, peddler and soothsayer alike, was linked. They’re predicting 400 million cybersites by the next millennium.”

“And to think I thought George Orwell was a dreamer. Four hundred million sites?” Driscoll wondered. Then after a pause, he asked, “Could Moira be right about the killer luring his victims through the Internet?”

“She thinks she is.”

“OK, I promised her I’d look into her theory, so let’s pull the computers available to the McCabe and Stockard women and have the guys over at the Computer Investigation amp; Tech Unit see if they can match up any common Web sites, e-mail messages, or instant messages. If they can establish any sort of common link or IP address, then we may have something to run with.”

“I’ll call Lieutenant White over there. He has a thing for me. He’ll see to it they get on it right away.”

The desk phone purred. The Lieutenant grabbed it. “Driscoll, here…Uh-huh…We’ll be right there.”

Margaret stared at him, her face a question mark.

“Victim number four’s a floater. She just washed ashore under the Brooklyn Bridge. Let’s go.”

From the right lane of the bridge, Driscoll could make out a cluster of emergency vehicles on the span’s Brooklyn side.

He exited at Court Street and circled around to the waterfront. A yellow police ribbon marked the zone closed to the public. Brooklynites watched uniformed police officers and plainclothes detectives explore the area. Driscoll and Margaret flashed their shields and stepped under the ribbon, and onto the sandy shore.

The bridge, colossal in its architecture and straddling the river in its massive concrete and brick pontoons, cast an ominous shadow over the crime scene.

“What a dreary place to die,” Margaret muttered.

“Awesome, is more like it,” Driscoll said, assessing the bridge’s huge expansion cables.

“I think they’re waiting for us.” Margaret gestured to the Forensics Team, the local precinct’s squad detectives, and the members of the Harbor Patrol that were gathered around the victim’s boneless remains. The headless corpse lay three feet from the shoreline. The hands and feet were missing as well.

An older detective walked over to where they were standing. Driscoll recognized him, but couldn’t remember his name.

“Chief of Ds called. Says we should turn this one over to you, Lieutenant.”