Garbage in, garbage out, Lee thought. We all follow patterns we're familiar with, he wanted to say, and your daughter is no exception. But he said nothing, and arranged his face in a mask of sympathy and concern.
"So you think she came here with him?" Chuck asked.
"I dunno," Stavros replied. "He wasn't from around here-and he turned up back in town a couple of weeks ago, saying he had nothing to do with her disappearance."
"Did you believe him?" said Chuck.
Ted Stavros looked away, a slight smile prying the corners of his mouth upward. Lee could picture the scene: Stavros threatening the young man, or worse.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. "I gave him every chance to change his story." Lee silently translated his comment. He had given the boyfriend a severe beating, and when the terrified kid stuck to his story, even under torture, Stavros believed him. However bad the boyfriend was, Lee thought, he wasn't as bad as the father. Stavros seemed pleased with himself.
He looked at Mrs. Stavros. What he had taken before as behavior caused by severe grief he now saw as telltale signs of a battered spouse. Her shoulders rolled inward, as if she was afraid of taking up too much space. She looked at her husband constantly, checking with him before she said or did anything, as if she feared incurring his displeasure. Classic submissive behavior, Lee thought, and he felt sorry for this once-pretty woman who was shackled to this oafish bully, bonded by their shared history-and now, their shared grief.
"One other question," he said. "Was your daughter religious?"
Ted Stavros frowned. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"No, not especially," his wife answered. "We're Greek Orthodox, but she wasn't exactly fervent or anything."
"Did she wear a cross around her neck?"
Mrs. Stavros seemed surprised by the question. "Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. Remember?" she said to her husband, who was still frowning. "The jade one Nana gave her for Christmas one year?"
"Oh, yeah," he said. "Right. She liked it a lot-always wore it." His face softened as if he was about to cry.
"Jade?" Lee said. "So it was green?"
"Yes. I don't suppose we could have it back?" Mrs. Stavros asked timidly. "It was a gift from her grandmother."
Lee exchanged a glance with Chuck and then looked at the woman sympathetically. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Stavros. We'd be glad to return it to you, but we don't have it."
Her eyes widened. "You don't? Then who…?" She left the question dangling.
"I hope someday we can give you the answer to that question," Lee said as Chuck escorted them out into a leaden February twilight.
Lee's real question had been answered, however: Pamela Stavros was, without doubt, the first known victim of the killer everyone now knew as the Slasher.
As they stood at the curb waiting for a cab, Mrs. Stavros stared down at the tips of her sensible brown Hush Puppies. There was nothing flamboyant or vivid about her, as if anything colorful about her had been extinguished long ago.
"So, um, did she suffer much?" she asked quietly.
"No," Lee replied gently. "The attack would have been sudden-it all happened before she realized what was going on."
"So she didn't fight back, get in a few swings at the bastard?" Mr. Stavros hissed, his bulldog face reddening.
"There wasn't time for that," Lee answered. What he didn't add was that there was time for her to realize she was being strangled, to look up into the last face she would ever see-the face of her killer.
Mrs. Stavros let out a sigh-a thin, hopeless sound, like air escaping from a balloon. Lee felt sorry for this quiet woman whose one source of comfort had been snatched from her.
"So if she didn't fight back, that means the killer's got no marks on him either," Ted Stavros remarked, displaying more intelligence than Lee would have credited him with.
"Right," said Chuck.
Had she fought back-scratching, biting, maybe-there might be DNA samples of his skin under her fingernails. But they had no such forensic evidence. In fact, they had zip-nothing at all. They might as well be chasing a ghost.
Chapter Thirty-eight
"So you're determined to play this out and not go to a doctor?" Chuck demanded as the two of them walked south on First Avenue. They had put the Stavroses in a cab, then headed downtown toward the Ninth Precinct. The sky was a dull gray-a typical February day in Manhattan. Even the trees looked cold, their bare black branches thrust upward in supplication to the unforgiving heavens.
"Look," Lee replied. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll go. But I don't think anything's broken."
"You don't think anything's broken," Chuck said with disgust. "Jesus Christ. What is it with you, Campbell? This isn't a goddamn rugby game!"
"Let's just say I've had enough of doctors and hospitals for a while."
That shut Chuck up. Neither of them really wanted to talk about Lee's nervous breakdown right now.
"Have you heard anything from the guys at the Chinatown precinct?" Chuck asked as they passed a row of food vendors lining the eastern side of First Avenue in front of Bellevue Hospital. People were lined up outside the carts, smoking cigarettes, talking, counting their money as they waited for their souvlakis, hot dogs, and shish kebabs.
"I don't think they really have much evidence to go on," Lee answered. "I'll go down and make a full report later today."
"Yeah," Chuck said, stepping aside as a small boy escaped from his mother's grasp and lurched toward him, arms outstretched. She ran after him, her pretty face lined with stress. She smiled at them apologetically as she scooped up her son.
Both Lee and Chuck knew nothing would come of the report, but they had to go through the motions anyway. "It does sound like they were professionals," Chuck said. "I wonder how long they were following you."
"I don't know. They chose a good time to attack: it was a Sunday night, and the platform was deserted."
"Yeah," Chuck agreed. "Look, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to take some time off-you know, maybe get some rest."
"Are you taking me off the case?"
Chuck paused as an ambulance rattled past them up First Avenue, lights flashing, siren screaming. "No," he said. "I just think that-"
"Good," Lee interrupted. "Then let's talk about the case, okay?"
"I'm just worried about you. Whoever did this to you-"
"Whoever did this to me does not fit the profile of the Slasher."
Chuck frowned. "So you don't think there's a connection?"
"I don't know," he answered as they continued walking.
"I was trying to think why he would target you in particular. I guess because you saw his face."
"Could be. Or maybe there's no connection." Secretly Lee believed there was a connection, but he wasn't about to say that.
"So you don't like the boyfriend for Pamela's death?"
"Nope."
The two of them walked along for a while, passing Twenty-third Street, where a long line of people were waiting for the crosstown bus. They all had the look of middle-of-the-week workday weariness, with tired eyes and sore feet.
"Could it be a copycat, maybe?" Chuck suggested.
"No," said Lee. "I'm more convinced now than before that this is our guy's work. If the missing necklace weren't enough-"
"Granted, that's a bit of a coincidence," Chuck agreed, "but she could've lost it anywhere. She could have sold it, had it stolen."
"Come on," Lee said, sidestepping a dog walker with eight or ten different breeds in tow. "We never released that information to the press. Don't you think that's too much coincidence?"
The dog walker paused to let a black Labrador retriever relieve himself on a hydrant. The other dogs followed suit, eager to deposit their calling cards, in the mysterious language of dog communication.