Nine
Rychman suggested an Italian restaurant named Donatel-lo's Greatest Achievements, in the heart of Manhattan. Along the way, she filled him in on what the FBI had been trying to accomplish with Gerald Ray Sims before his suicide, and what they were trying to do with Matisak. Rychman agreed that her bosses were pandering to Matisak, to the point that any information gained from him was suspect. He was sympathetic and very understanding about her earlier outburst. He seemed genuinely concerned about her well-being, she felt. She sensed a gentleness that perhaps only a few were privy to.
“ So what credence do you give to Matisak's theory, if it can be called that? I mean maybe it's not a demonic possession but what about a pair of madmen?”
“ I'm sorry, it's just too early to tell,” she replied, saying nothing of her own suspicions along these lines. “Have you any reason to believe it could be two men instead of one?”
“ No, not really,” he readily admitted.
After arriving at the restaurant and being seated, they ordered a carafe of Chablis and she was soon asking him about his home life. “Any children?”
“ A pair of 'em. Sweet, gentle kids. Raised far from their father's profession, thanks to their mother.”
“ You get to see them on weekends?”
“ When the job doesn't interfere, which isn't often, lately. My ex jokes that I'm a merchant marine and I come around when my ship's in.”
She dipped her head and bit her lip. “It doesn't sound like the perfect amicable divorce, but it takes a special person to understand how important the job is to a dedicated cop, or agent, as in my case.”
“ It's been difficult, to say the least, not seeing the kids when I come home at night, and as for a woman's company… well, let's just say, I miss that, too.”
“ Guess we've got some things in common, Captain.”
“ I think it'd be okay if you called me Alan under the circumstances.”
“ Maybe not. Wouldn't want to slip around your men.”
“ We're not around my men. Go ahead. Try it. A-L-A-N, Alan.”
“ Alan,” she said.
“ You've got it, and you make it sound better than 'Captain.' “
“ I'm starved,” she replied. “Where's that waiter?” In a moment someone was there taking their orders. He opted for a small New York strip steak, she for the red snapper.
She caught him staring at her before he realized what he was doing. To cover, he said abruptly, “I'm given to understand that you're extremely good at reading people, at psychologically dissecting killers; that you have an instinct for it.”
“ I have some talent in that direction, yes.”
“ Then you've already made some judgments about our friend or friends, the Claw?” He seemed to be drawing inward again. Maybe he wanted their relationship to remain on a firm professional footing, too. Perhaps talking about the case would accomplish this.
Or was he slicker than she'd given him credit for? Was this Alan Rychman's way of maneuvering her into talking more openly about her initial impressions and findings than she had intended?
“ I know that the Claw's appetite grows,” she said.
“ Grows? You mean the stepped-up calendar of his kills?”
“ I mean that with each victim, apparently, he has either eaten more or walked off with more of the organs. He's working his way up to feeding jackal fashion on the brains of his future victims.” Rychman stared across at her. “You can tell that from what you've seen in the lab?” The same notion had crossed his mind at the Hamner murder scene.
“ First victim was only lightly hit over the head. Now he's murderously battering the cranial matter, splitting open the skull. He'll take the brains of his next victim, because he has been working his way through the organs, tasting each in turn. He gorges himself on the entrails, disinterested in the intestines themselves, but fascinated with the organ tissues. He's fed on heart, lung, liver and kidney tissues, as well as the eyes of his victims. He's bored now with this and he'll go on to their brains next.”
The waiter gulped back bile as he stood listening to her. She'd been unaware of his presence. Rychman looked up at the man and said, “We're testing dog food materials at the plant. Don't mind us.”
The waiter quickly deposited their meals and backed off, hurriedly asking if they needed anything else, quite anxious to make his exit. Rychman waved the poor man off.
They dug in, both hungry, the aroma of the hot meals and juices swirling about them. Rychman poured them both more wine until she placed a hand up to him.
Jessica's cane slid softly away from the unoccupied chair she'd propped it on, slapping the floor. She reddened and began to reach for it, but Alan was faster, lifting it and laying it gingerly across the arms of the chair.
“ That'll do better there.” He stared at the Irish shillelagh. Its clublike pearl handle had a brass band around it, like the markings on the neck of a wild goose, the rest of the cane a simple black.
“ Nice cane, a real beauty.”
“ A gift,” she said.
“ Oh? From a friend?” He was fishing.
“ From several friends at headquarters.”
“ I'm sorry I'm so nosy.”
She waved it off. “Not necessary, really. As for any more details on the predilections of the Claw, it's going to take a little more time. You'll have to remain patient.”
“ Tell that to everybody that's after my… neck.”
She took a deep breath. “Is this why you asked me to dinner? To interrogate me? To draw at straws?”
“ No, no,” he replied. “I just don't know what else to talk to you about.”
“ Tell me about yourself.”
“ Me? I'd have thought you'd learned all you wanted to know from Lou by now.”
“ I did, but there are a few holes. What do you do to relax?”
“ Firing range helps me, sometimes.”
She nodded. “Me, too.”
“ You a good shot?”
Grinning, she replied, “The best.”
“ You're on, anytime.”
“ How about after dinner?”
“ All right… you're on!”
She could feel his tension easing.
“ What do you do for fun?” he asked.
“ Recently learned to scuba dive.”
“ Really? That's a kick, isn't it?”
“ You dive?”
“ Since I was seventeen, sure.”
“ I love the feeling of freedom it offers.”
He nodded knowingly and their eyes met. “We do have something in common, after all.”
“ I'm not what you're used to, I know. Not your typical M.E.”
He thought of Perkins and some others he'd worked cases with and this made him laugh. “No, you sure aren't.”
“ Lot of men have a hard time dealing with a woman who isn't easily intimidated,” she said.
“ A lot of women are easily intimidated,” he countered.
“ By you, I'm sure.”
“ But not you.”
“ No, not me.”
“ Good.”
The food beckoned, and they drifted into other areas of discussion as they ate. She talked passionately about hunting deer and bear in Minnesota, Canada and Alaska. He had hunted deer in northern New York but hadn't gone after larger game. She talked about her father and how he had brought her up to be proud and independent and a capable gunwoman. The evening seemed to evaporate around them, and when she looked at her watch, it was nine forty-five.
“ I guess the range is out, huh?” she asked.
“ Closes at ten, but I've got a little pull. Come on.”
He took her to his former precinct headquarters where they rode an elevator down to the sub-subbasement to find an enormous indoor shooting range unnaturally silent and unlit. He shouted an order to the cop on duty to bring up the lights.
“ Captain!” came the quick reply. “Been a while. Hope you're not turning into a full-time desk jock. Just lock up when you go,” said the sergeant as he tacked a pair of targets to the electronic runners and sent them on their way.
“ How many yards?”
“ Make it fifty,” he said.