Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [111]
“Plus, we don’t know for sure if this is him,” Butts said. “Could be a copycat, a wannabe.”
“True,” Lee agreed, but in his heart he didn’t believe it.
“I’ll send the guys in Computer Crimes over later to check out your machine and see if they can trace the source of the messages,” Chuck said.
“Did you get the test results from the communion wine yet?” Lee asked.
“Yeah,” Chuck said. “The report came in this morning: zip, nada.”
“No blood?”
“Not even very much wine. It was a pretty watered-down Zinfandel, according to the lab. That’s it.”
Lee couldn’t decide if the Slasher was trying to throw them off, or if he was just becoming more disorganized, as the dismemberment of poor Sophia might suggest.
“What about your contact who put you in touch with that homeless guy? Anything from him lately?” Butts asked.
“No, he seems to have gone underground.” The truth was that Lee was worried about Eddie too. It was unusual for him to be out of touch for this long.
But when Lee returned to his apartment, there was a message on the machine from Eddie.
“Hey there, Boss Man. Good news! I may have a real break in the case. I’ll call back later. So long for now.” Lee wished Eddie would call his cell phone, but Eddie hated cell phones. He didn’t like answering machines either, and only grudgingly left messages on them.
Feeling relieved that Eddie was okay, Lee sat down at the piano and warmed up on a few jazz standards before tackling a new Haydn sonata. The left hand was a series of octave arpeggios, and soon the back of his hand ached from the prolonged stretching. After thirty minutes or so he took a break and poured himself a Rolling Rock. A favorite aunt of his had always kept a few cold ones for him at her house, and he bought them in memory of her.
Standing at the kitchen counter, he looked out the window, across the yard behind his apartment into the lighted windows of the neighboring building. A middle-aged couple was sitting at their kitchen table, having dinner. The man lowered his head and said something to the woman, who threw back her head and laughed, the overhead light shining on her upturned face.
Next time I’ll strike closer to home.
What the hell did that mean? Closer to home…whose home?
He took a drink and felt the cold liquid slide down his throat.
Closer to home…
Suddenly it hit him: Closer to home did mean Lee’s home, but not Manhattan—it was his family that was in danger! He felt like kicking himself for not realizing it sooner.
He picked up the telephone and dialed his mother’s number. She answered after three rings.
“Hello?” She sounded irritated and a little sleepy. She often fell asleep watching the local news, though she would never admit it.
“Hi, Mom—it’s me.”
“Oh, hello, dear. Isn’t it a bit late to be calling?”
Lee looked at the ceramic clock over the stove, a present from Fiona on one of her many trips to Mexico. The design was a sunburst in primary colors, with a Mayan-style face mask in the center. The time was twelve minutes after ten.
“It’s not that late, Mom. It’s a little after ten.”
“All right,” she said. “Is this something that can’t wait until tomorrow? I’ve been up since six.” That was so like her—since he had caught her asleep, it was important now for her to save face by telling him now how early she had risen.
“No, it can’t wait. Is Kylie at her dad’s house?”
“Of course. He picked her up when he went off shift at eight.”
“Why aren’t you there too? I thought I told you—”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Stan’s with me.”
“Did they get back safely?”
“What do you mean?”
George Callahan lived about fifteen minutes away from Fiona, in Lambertville, a nearby town along the Delaware River.
“I mean, did they get back to his house okay?”
“I don’t know—I suppose so. Why do you ask? What’s going on?”
Lee debated as to how much he should tell her.
“I just want to make sure Kylie is okay.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” He could hear suspicion creep into her voice.
“Mom, would you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Would you make sure your burglar