Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“Why would he want to say no? Not because you’re a woman?”

“Please. The woman thing was the least of it. You know perfectly well why.”

“Madden.”

She nodded. “Cops get spooked about cops who lose their partners. It was easier for Joe to assign me a greenie.”

She was referring to Detective Christopher Madden, Megan’s partner the night she unloaded her entire service weapon into Albert Stenborg, the Swede. Having just nailed the identity of the monster who had been brutalizing young women in the city for over two months, Megan had radioed Madden from Chinatown that she was headed to Stenborg’s houseboat in Sheepshead Bay and to meet her there. She’d arrived to find her closest friend mutilated and dead at Stenborg’s feet, and after taking the monster out, she’d also discovered Chris Madden’s body on the galley floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. His heart had been carved out of his chest and stuffed into his mouth.

“Let’s go someplace,” Megan said. “I’m not built for this cold.”

We found a Joe Jr. on Third Avenue and took a booth by the window. Megan pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. “Who am I looking for? At this Quaker place.”

I was shrugging out of my coat. “You’re not going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Edward Anger.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me then spoke into the phone. “Ry? Megan. See if someone named Edward Anger is still there. If you find him, call me.” She disconnected the call.

The waitress came by, and we ordered a pair of coffees. Megan asked, “What gives? Did you speak with this Anger guy?”

“No, but you’ll want to. He’s big cheese at the meetinghouse. They call them elders. It seems he was checking on Robin’s mental health from time to time.”

“Interesting. In person?”

“I believe so. I got this from a friend of Robin’s. Michelle Poole.” Megan was jotting the names down in her notebook. “Edward Anger gave a nice speech about how Robin’s spirit was still with us.”

“Lovely. It’s what happened to her body that’s my concern.”

“I assume you saw it,” I said. “I mean the body.”

“Oh, I saw it all right. What kind of sick bastard does that thing with the mirror glass? Do you know about that? He shoved a piece of her bathroom mirror right here.” She placed her fingers on the upper part of her throat. “Like he wanted her to watch herself die. Real cute.”

“I saw the photos.”

“Try it in living color.”

“No, thanks.”

She flipped her notebook closed. “All I keep thinking about is her up on the stand testifying. You could see she knew she’d made a mistake, ever mixing herself up with Fox. She regretted the whole thing. Do you remember what she said? When she broke down on the stand?”

“I missed that part.”

“‘I just want my life back.’ That’s what she said. ‘I just want my life back.’ I don’t know where you happen to stand on the great hereafter, but if there is one out there, what do you think that poor girl is cooing now? Same thing. ‘I just want my fucking life back.’”

Our coffees arrived. Megan ignored hers. Her gaze went out the window to where a snowball battle was taking place on the sidewalk. One of the snowballs hit the glass just below Megan’s face. She showed no reaction.

She turned from the window. “Joe says you knew her? Robin Burrell.”

“Not really. I talked with her a few times.”

“A few times. I guess she made an impression. I’ve got to figure there are better places you could spend your Sunday mornings than a Quaker meeting.”

I felt as if I was slipping into a version of the conversation I’d had with Margo. The difference was, Megan Lamb sounded genuinely interested. She placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “What gives?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes things get under your skin. You must know about that. Robin Burrell was ninety-nine percent a total stranger to me. A few short meetings, nothing more. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t like that someone thinks they can burst in on someone else’s life and take it away like that. It pisses me off.”

“You take it personally.”

“I don’t take it personally. Don’t try to put that on me. It’s one of the things I do. I root out the creeps who do this kind of thing to people. I get a better night’s sleep when I can drag them through your door and hand them over to you. If I’d been the priest my mother wanted me to be, I’d have a different take on it.”

“Good night’s sleep. I think I read about that once.” Megan released her chin and poured some milk in her coffee, stirring it slowly with her spoon, in miniature figure eights. “I’ve got a brother. Josh. A couple of years younger than me. Do you know what he makes me do? My little brother? Whenever I catch a body, Josh makes me describe the victims to him. He sits me down and draws out the details.”

“Is our Josh a moribund little fellow?”

Something flashed in her eyes. Just as quickly, it vanished. It looked like anger. She set down the spoon. “Not at all. Just the opposite, in fact. I’d be dead without Josh.”

“What’s with the curiosity?”

“It’s not curiosity. It’s for my own good. He doesn’t want it festering inside me. I’m sure it sounds silly, but Josh is a very intuitive person. It’s ugly. A murdered person is ugly. You’ve seen it, you know what I’m talking about. It’s ugly. I’m trained to overlook the ugliness and get on with my job. Josh thinks what I do is poison. His making me describe it to him in detail is sort of a detox, for lack of a better word. He thinks it helps me to get it out of my system.”

“Does it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you feel better after you’ve done it?”

“Better?” She weighed the empty space above her hands. “It’s nice that there’s someone who cares. I’d feel a lot worse without that.”

She looked out the window again. It wasn’t difficult to see that something troubling was rolling around in her head. When she turned back to me, her energy had shifted.

“You’re a cowboy on this case, Fritz. You’re just galloping in for reasons of your own. Whatever they are, that’s your business. I don’t really care. What I want is to catch the person who killed Robin and Zachary Riddick. And it’s not a pride thing with me. I don’t give a damn how I catch him. I’m not going to waste my breath telling you to steer clear. You know the drill. We’ve had this conversation before. You know the difference between inquiries and interference. Don’t interfere. That’s the message. The end. Pope and I are the leads on these killings, and don’t think Joe Gallo’s not right on my back. We can’t let this get out of hand. The city doesn’t need a mad slasher running around, turning our beautiful new snow red. Thank you for Mr. Anger. I’ll follow up. I’ll talk to the Poole woman, too. If it hadn’t been for my damn flat tire, I’d be reading you the riot act for interfering, but like I said, all I want is to nail this bastard. Whatever it takes. I really don’t like sitting in a chair describing dead people to my baby brother. It makes me feel like a cripple.”

“A cripple.”

“Yeah. I don’t like it.”

“Have you described Robin to him yet?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“So then the ugliness is still in your system.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.

I GRABBED A CAB uptown. My phone had vibrated while I was talking to Megan, but I hadn’t answered it. It was Margo. She’d left a message.

“Do you remember that time you came with me when I was meeting a bunch of other writers for drinks? We talked shop and about pitching ideas for articles and who’s the biggest ass on the ass -ignment desks? Do you remember what you said to me later? How you couldn’t find a way in? That it just wasn’t a language you spoke? Maybe…maybe you want to think about that when it comes to us sometimes. I’m sorry, Fritz. We’ve gone over this before. I don’t know these murdered people of yours, and I don’t want to. They’re dead. But you go and slip into their lives and get this whole thing going that I just can’t relate to. And I don’t want to relate to. It’s not a language I speak, you know? I…I don’t know exactly what I’m saying. Nothing. I’m saying nothing. Forget it. I hate leaving messages. Look…I’m having dinner with some friends tonight in the Village. How about you stay at your place tonight? Make it easier. I know you’ll be bereft without me, but you can handle it, tough guy like you. We can talk about all this when…God. Never mind. This is nuts. Margo Motormouth, signing off.”