“Ms. Clairborne, have you had cause to let anyone go recently?”
“No. I’ve never had the occasion to fire anyone.”
“Ms. Clairborne, are your records computerized?”
“Why, of course.”
“I’ll need a list of all your account holders, and especially a listing of everyone who rented or returned a video on the Friday in question.”
“I’m not sure if I can do that.”
“Ms. Clairborne, I wouldn’t ask you for anything that I absolutely didn’t require. It’s vital to the investigation.”
The woman pondered his request for a moment and then said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back. It’ll take a minute or two for the computer to print out the records.”
“Thank you, Ms. Clairborne.”
Driscoll pulled out his notepad and wrote: Have Thornwood interviewed at his home. The granddaughters, too. Check all the stores on the strip for the two OTs. See if they were picked up for shoplifting. Have Cedric run the account holders list for criminal records. Check with the local precinct to see if there were any radio runs to the area that night.
Ms. Clairborne appeared with the printouts. “Here you are, Lieutenant.”
Driscoll accepted them and thanked her again. “One more thing before I leave. Have you noticed any trouble on the strip lately? Any retailer complaining about strangers who don’t belong around here?”
“Oh, no. This has always been a safe neighborhood.”
I wonder if Mrs. McCabe felt that way, thought Driscoll.
He handed Ms. Clairborne his business card and told her to call him if she thought of anything else. Driscoll returned the woman’s smile and left the store. He glanced at the sheets of paper in his hand and wondered if the answer lay there.
Chapter 9
The rushing sound of the subway car was melodic. Colm waited on the platform for the A train to come to a stop, savoring its panting from fatigue and rust. His medical bag sat at his side. He was eager to meet his new date.
A girl was pacing the platform, forlorn, disheartened. Had she just broken it off with some lover? he wondered. He could comfort her were it not for his date. Maybe some other time.
The girl entered the subway car just before he did. The doors scraped closed. Colm positioned himself in front of the girl, watching as her fluted fingers entwined around the subway car’s stainless-steel pole. Under a fluorescent bulb he stared at her, this wingless cherub. Her face would have inspired Raphael. Her body was pure ether, tinged with sensuality. In the gash between two buttons of a linen vest he could detect the incline of a breast. The garment concealed her secret, the aroma of untouched flesh. Was she aware of her carnality?
The girl looked sixteen, perhaps a year or two older. The weight of a knapsack strapped to her shoulders caused her torso to arch and her breasts to jut forward. Her hair was brassy blond. Cut short. She wore no makeup, no jewelry. Her eyes were stratospheric blue.
He imagined her skeletal frame under her external beauty. She would rival any one of his treasures.
She got off the train at the Beach Seventy-fifth Street station. His urge was to follow, but his legs refused his mind’s order. There was another girl waiting for him. He stayed on board. He’d let this one go. In a matter of seconds the train arrived at his stop.
“Beach Sixty-seventh Street,” the loudspeaker crackled, and the doors opened.
He descended the stairs, palming the rickety railing. A gang of high-school teens stampeded up the staircase, nearly knocking him down. His fingers longed for a serrated blade.
The sun greeted him at street level. He smiled at the sight of so many abandoned bungalows and headed for the boardwalk, thrilled that his date had picked such a remote section of the city for their rendezvous.
He climbed sun-soaked wooden steps. The boardwalk was empty. He was sure she had said Beach Sixty-seventh Street. Had he been stood up? He scanned the beach. A handful of sun worshippers dotted the narrow strand. By the ocean’s edge, a young woman was dabbling her toes in the waning tide. Sunshine streamed through her gossamer dress. Could that be his date? It was hard to tell from a distance.
He removed his shoes and socks and strolled toward her. A thought lingered on the rim of his consciousness. All the ingredients were present for a truly romantic encounter. He thought of the girl on the train. Wouldn’t it have been satisfying if he could teach his heart to crave the tenderness of a woman? The notion disoriented him, but in a few seconds his resolve returned.
He caught up with the girl at the shoreline.
“Hello, Monique,” he said.
“Hello.”
“Or should I call you Ariel?”
“Ariel? Why would you call me Ariel?”
“Because you look just like the Little Mermaid,” he grinned.
Chapter 10
The sun had climbed above the horizon and was hidden behind lead-colored clouds. The turbulent tide, its waves brown with sludge and darkened seashells, crashed onto the shore, delivering polluted brine. Though morning had broken, there were no gulls on the beach.
In the company of her Labrador, a jogger ran the boardwalk, oblivious to the brooding ocean and its contaminated waves. Yet the absence of gulls unnerved her. They had also been her running companions, welcoming her morning endeavor. But not today.
Without warning, the Labrador broke from its leash and dashed toward the boardwalk’s staircase, then bolted down onto the beach and under the boards. The jogger brought two fingers to her mouth and let loose a high-pitched whistle. The dog did not respond. The jogger raced down the steps in pursuit of her dog. Just under the boards she found the gulls. They were screeching boldly, flying in her face, and splattering what appeared to be blood in every direction. The sound of the gull’s fluttering wings and frantic squawking was as deafening as it was terrifying. The jogger was paralyzed with fear. Again, she brought two fingers to her mouth but couldn’t manage a whistle.
“Brandy!” she hollered. “Brandy, please!” she cried.
The dog reappeared in the midst of the blood-soaked birds. The jogger fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around the Labrador. That’s when she spotted it. Clenched firmly in the dog’s white canines was a trove her pet had looted from the gulls.
“Drop it, girl. Drop it,” she commanded.
The obedient dog let go of the trophy. The jogger suddenly recognized what it was the dog was carrying. It was a freshly torn human breast, its nipple adorned with a tiny ring of glittering gold. The jogger screamed. Grabbing hold of the dog’s collar, she pulled her pet out from under the boards and let loose another scream. But both screams were lost to the clamor of the hysterical gulls.
Chapter 11
As he glanced at himself in the Impala’s rearview mirror, Driscoll realized he needed a shave. He unlatched the glove compartment, picked up the Braun cordless razor, and prayed the batteries weren’t dead. They were.
He tossed the razor back in the glove box and proceeded to the boardwalk at Beach Sixty-seventh Street in Rockaway where, he feared, victim number two had been found. As he crossed the Marine Parkway Bridge, thoughts tumbled inside his head. It was the same MO as the McCabe woman, and the victim’s head, hands, and feet were missing. That particular aspect of the first crime had been held back from the news media, so it ruled out a copycat killing. These two atrocities were the work of one man. New York had a serial killer on the loose. Driscoll was certain of it. And he knew it was his job to find him before he struck again.
Arriving at the boardwalk, he got out of the Chevy and walked briskly toward the wooden staircase that led to the beach. He made his way toward the area cordoned off by yellow-and-black crime-scene tape. A small crowd of onlookers had clustered around the site.