Hunter's Point was a commuter suburb with a population of 110,000, a small downtown riddled with trendy boutiques and upscale restaurants, the branch of the State University, and a lot of' shopping centers.
There were no slums in Hunter's Point, there were clusters of Cape Cods and garden apartments on the fringe of the downtown area that housed students and families unable to afford the high-priced developments like The Meadows, where the commuting lawyers, doctors and businessmen lived.
Police headquarters was a dull, square building on the outskirts of town. It sat in the middle of a flat, blacktopped parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence. The lot was filled with police cars, unmarked vehicles and tow trucks.
The rose killer task force was housed in an old storage area in the back of the building. There were no windows, and the fluorescent lights were annoyingly bright.
A watercooler was squeezed between two chest-high filing cabinets. A low wood table stood on rickety legs against a cream-colored wall. On the table sat a coffee maker, four coffee mugs, a sugar bowl and a brown plastic cup filled with several packets of artificial creamer.
Four gunmetal-gray, government-issue desks were grouped in the center of the room. Bulletin boards with pictures of the victims and information about the crimes covered two walls.
Nancy Gordon hunched over her reports on the Lake murders. The flickering fluorescents were starting to give her a headache. She closed her eyes, leaned back and pinched her lids. When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the photographs of Samantha Reardon and Patricia Cross that Turner had tacked to the wall. The photos had been supplied by their husbands. Samantha on the deck of a sailboat. A tall woman, the wind blowing her flowing brown hair behind her, a smile of genuine happiness brightening her face. Pat in shorts and a halter top on a beach in Hawaii, very slender, too thin, actually.
Her friends said she was overly conscious of her figure.
Except for Reardon, who had been a nurse, none of the women had ever held a meaningful job, and Reardon stopped working soon after her marriage. They were happy housewives living in luxury, spending their time at golf and bridge. Their idea of contributing to the community was raising money for charity at country club functions. Where were these women now? Were they dead?
Had they died quickly, or slowly, in agony? How had they held up? How much of their dignity were they able to retain?
The phone rang. "Gordon," she answered.
"There's a Mr. Lake at the front desk," the receptionist said. Nancy straightened up. Less than seventy-two hours had passed since her visit to the crime scene.
"I'll be right out," Gordon said, dropping her pen on a stack of police reports.
Inside the front door of the police station was a small lobby furnished with cheap chairs upholstered in imitation leather and outfitted with chrome armrests. The lobby was separated from the rest of the building by a counter with a sliding glass window and a door with an electronic lock. Lake was seated in one of the chairs. He was dressed in a dark suit and solid maroon tie. His hair was carefully combed. The only evidence of his personal tragedy was red-rimmed eyes that suggested a lack of sleep and a lot of mourning. Nancy hit the button next to the receptionist's desk and opened the door.
"I wasn't certain you'd be here," Lake said. "I hope you don't mind my showing up without calling."
"No. Come on in. I'll find us a place to talk."
Lake followed Nancy down a hall that reminded him of a school corridor.
They walked on worn green linoleum that buckled in places, past unpainted brown wood doors. Chipped flakes of green paint fell from spots on the walls. Nancy opened the door to one of the interrogation rooms. aside for Lake. The room was functional and with white, soundproof tiles.
"Have a seat," Nancy said, motioning toward one of the plastic chairs that stood on either side of a long wooden table. "I'll grab us some coffee. How do you take yours?"
"Black," Lake answered.
When Nancy returned with two Styrofoam cups, Lake was sitting at the table with his hands in his lap.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"I'm very tired, and depressed. I tried going to work today, but I couldn't concentrate. I keep thinking about Melody."
Lake stopped. He took a deep breath. "Look, I'll get to the point. I can't work, and I have a feeling I'm not going to be able to work for quite a while. I sat down with the papers on a real estate closing this morning and it seemed so… it just didn't mean anything to me.
"I have two associates who can keep my practice going until I'm able to cope, if that ever happens. But now all I want to do is find out who killed Sandy and Melody. it's all I can think about."
"Mr. Lake, it's — all I can think about too. And I'm not alone. I'm going to tell you some things. This is highly confidential. I'll need your promise to keep it confidential."
Lake nodded.
"There were four disappearances before your wife and daughter were killed. None of those women has been found. It took us a while to catch on, because there were no bodies. At first, we treated them like missing persons.
But a note with "Gone, But Not Forgotten' and a black rose was left at each crime scene, so after the second one we knew what we were dealing with. The chief has put together a task force to work on the cases.
"I'm sure you're working very hard," Lake interrupted. "I didn't mean to be critical. What I want to do is help. I want to volunteer to be part of the task force."
That's out of the question, Mr. Lake. You aren't a police officer. It also wouldn't be advisable. You're too emotionally involved to be objective."
"Lawyers are trained to be objective. And I can add something to the investigation-the unique insight into the criminal mind that I developed as a defense attorney. Defense attorneys learn things about the way criminals think that the police never know, because we have the criminal's confidence. My clients know they can tell me anything, no matter how horrible, and I will respect their privacy. You see criminals when their false face is on. I see them the way they really are."
"Mr. Lake, police officers get a real good look at the criminal mind-too good. We see these guys on the street, in their homes. You see them cleaned up, in your office, a long way from their victims and after they've had time to rationalize what they've done and cook up a sob story or a defense. But none of that matters, because you simply cannot work on this case. As much as I appreciate the offer, my superiors wouldn't allow it."
"I know it sounds strange, but I really do think I could contribute. I'm very smart."
Nancy shook her head. "There's another good reason you shouldn't get involved in this investigation-it would mean reliving the death of your wife and daughter every day, instead of getting on with your life. We have their autopsy photos lying around, their pictures posted on the wall. Do you want that?"
"I have their pictures all over my house and office, Detective Gordon.
And there isn't a minute I don't think about them."
Nancy sighed. "I know," she said, "but you have to stop thinking about them that way or it will kill you."
Lake paused. "Tell me about your fiance," he said quietly. "How… how did you stop thinking about him?"
"I never did. I think about Ed all the time. Especially at night, when I'm alone. I don't want to forget him and you won't want to forget Sandy and Melody.
"Ed was a cop. A drunk shot him. He was trying to put down a domestic dispute. It was two weeks before our wedding date. At first I felt just like you do. I couldn't work. I could barely make it out of bed. I…
I was racked with guilt, which is ridiculous. I kept on thinking there was something I could have done, insisted he stay home that day, I don't know. I wasn't really making much sense.