William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

“Are you sure it’s a serial killer?”

Mike hesitated for a moment, then cocked an eyebrow. “Funny you should ask that. Just between you and me?”

“I’m not likely to report to The New York Times .”

Mike glanced at Blackwell, then continued. “I’m certain all the murders were committed by the same person. The MOs are too similar; even an eyewitness couldn’t duplicate the crime with such perfection. The phrase serial killer suggests a loony tune—a psychotic, or sociopath, or sexual deviant. Someone who kills with no motive other than what his twisted mind may invent. But there’s something eminently…logical about this killer.”

“You find something logical in the mutilation of four helpless prostitutes?”

“That’s just it. Why the mutilation? It doesn’t seem to reflect gender hatred, or cannibalistic tendencies, or sexual obsessions, or any of the other traits you’ll find in the FBI profiles. And why no threats? Why no sexual assaults? Why no taunting letters to the police? It’s as if the killer is duplicating the eccentricities of a serial, killer, but lacks the core madness of a true psychotic.”

“If that’s true, Mike, then we’re looking for someone with—God forbid—a logical reason for committing these murders.”

Mike pursed his lips. “I’m aware of that. What’s more, I think Tomlinson was convinced of it.”

“Well, pardon me if I’m not convinced. Anyone who would commit crimes like this is a nutcase in my book, per se . Surely you’ll catch him soon if you continue this all-force full-court press.”

“I’d like to tell you we’re getting closer, Ben, but I’d be lying. This case is the living embodiment of the third law of thermodynamics: all things tend toward chaos. The harder we look, the less we find. The longer it takes, the more it gets away from us.”

“Well, thanks for the info, Mike. Let me know if you learn anything about the people on the Kindergarten list. I’ll be sure to call tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother,” Blackwell said. “I’ll be back here the second your week is up. The press are hungry for a suspect. And I’m going to give them one.”

“One way or another, huh?”

Blackwell stepped forward and stood so close that Ben could feel his hot unpleasant breath on his face. “That’s exactly right, Kincaid. One way or another.”

38

A FEW MINUTES AFTER Mike and Chief Blackwell left, Christina breezed into Ben’s office and seized her favorite chair. “Janice said you were looking for me.”

Ben bit his knuckle pensively. “Christina, I need your help.”

“Okay. Don’t look so distressed. Have I ever denied you anything?”

“There’s always a first time. I want to mount an undercover operation. Just you and me. Tonight.”

“Tonight? That’s not much advance warning. What if I have plans? What if I have a big date?”

“Then you need to cancel it. This can’t wait.”

“Why not?”

Ben tugged at his collar. “I just had a visit from Chief Blackwell.”

“That blowhard? Let him arrest you. He’ll never make it stick.”

“Oh? The police are experts at making charges stick, especially when they’re desperate, as you of all people should know. Besides, the arrest alone would kill my professional reputation, and if I’m behind bars how am I ever going to find out who killed Howard Hamel?”

“Okay, okay. How much time do you have?”

“Less than twenty-four hours.”

She gulped. “Tonight it is. Give me the précis.”

Ben recounted the new information that Mike had provided about Sergeant Tomlinson’s private investigation. “The knowledge that the victims are all teen prostitutes is the wedge we need to crack this case wide open. We’ve been pumping away at our suspects here in the office and coming up empty. Now I think we need to come at it from the other end—from the victims’ side of the mystery. Maybe we’ll uncover something that will tie this whole mess together.”

“Well…it’s worth a try. Especially since you’re desperate. So what do you want me to do?”

Ben hemmed a bit and traced the pleat in his slacks. “Like I said before…I want you to go undercover.”

“Where?”

“Eleventh and Cincinnati. Walking the streets.”

Christina drew herself up in the chair. “Now wait a minute, Ben. There’s no chance in—”

“It’s the only way.”

“There must be an alternative.”

“There isn’t.”

“I absolutely, positively refuse.”

“Why? I’ve gone along with your schemes in the past.”

“Never anything like this. Forget it, Ben. This is not going to happen.”

“Please, Christina. It’s important.”

“Ben, you’ve been watching too many Charlie’s Angels reruns. I am not going to masquerade as a prostitute.”

Ben frowned. “A prostitute? No, you misunderstand. I don’t want you to masquerade as a prostitute. I want you to masquerade as a customer.”

Christina strolled leisurely down Eleventh Street, trying not to look back over her shoulder. Ben had promised to follow in his car at a discreet distance, but you could never be sure about Ben. Sometimes he got lost walking from his kitchen to the living room. Or he might step up on a curb and get vertigo.

She hated these heels that he had insisted she wear. She’d only bought them at the resale shop as a joke; they tilted her feet up at ninety degree angles. Ben had turned her clothes closet upside down looking for “suitably sleazy clothes,” and complained that there were too many possibilities to choose from. The billowy “bimbo top” he’d chosen, along with the hip-hugging miniskirt, certainly filled the bill. He’d even accessorized it for her: hoop chain belt, red glitter purse, and long dangling earrings.

Truth be told, the feather boa was her own idea, but she still wasn’t fond of the general premise. Why did they have to go the cheap and tawdry route? Why not a Utica Square society matron on the make—fur coats and long glittery evening gowns? Oh, well—she probably couldn’t afford the costuming.

She’d been on the street for over an hour, chatting up every streetwalker, male or female, she’d met. Ben had been right about one thing; they seemed more willing to talk since Christina looked like she belonged there. They seemed perfectly relaxed around someone who they perceived as an insider looking for some action. Talk they did, but they had precious little of value to say. No one admitted to knowing a girl named Trixie, and there were some who wouldn’t discuss the matter at all. She’d flashed some cash, hoping to attract some cooperation, but ended up only attracting an acne-pocked weasel who wanted to know if she “wanted some grass to go with her ass.”

A very deep debt was accumulating on Ben Kincaid’s ledger, and she planned to make damn sure she collected.

Three women were huddled around a lamppost on Detroit, displaying their wares. Christina knew that society was usually the ultimate cause of poverty, addiction, and prostitution. It was wrong to belittle women who were forced to make these difficult choices. Nonetheless, as she approached the street corner, it was difficult to keep the word floozies out of her mind.

Christina strode in for a closer look. All three appeared too old to be teenagers. Come to think of it, she had seen precious few teenagers all night. Maybe one happy result of this horrible tragedy would be that teenagers finally figured out that this was a dangerous profession.

A large black woman wearing an uncommon amount of lipstick addressed Christina in a tone far from friendly. “What d’you think you’re doin’, honey?”

“I’m looking for…someone.”