Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [107]
Lee’s cell phone rang.
“Excuse me,” he said, rising from the table. He hated talking on his cell phone in public, especially restaurants. He saw the call was from Chuck and ducked outside to answer it.
He stood against the wall of the café, underneath the black and yellow awning. Across the street in Tompkins Square Park, some kids were playing basketball, shouting and grunting as they lunged for the ball. A couple of young mothers were pushing strollers up Avenue B, laughing as they exchanged stories. A rumpled elderly man was walking an equally disheveled looking terrier. It all looked so normal.
He flipped open his phone. “Hello?”
“It’s me. I got some bad news,” Morton said.
“What?”
“It’s Krieger. I think he’s got her.” He ceased to hear the sounds of the basketball game across the street, to feel the breeze on his face or smell the exhaust fumes from the M8 bus as it rumbled past. His entire world narrowed to the cell phone in his hand and the voice at the other end.
“What?”
“She sent an e-mail last night that we only just saw a few minutes ago. It seems she went out without any backup—to the seediest damn tranny bar in the Village. They found her purse this morning.”
“Christ. Where was it?”
“On Sixth Avenue, Midtown.” “And no one saw him?”
“We can’t find anyone who did so far. Or if they did, they’re not talking.” “Jesus, Chuck—”
“I know!” Chuck said. He sounded exhausted and exasperated—and dangerously close to exploding. Chuck could be pushed beyond most people’s limits—but when he did finally blow, Lee knew from experience, you had better watch out.
He felt a tug on his sleeve and turned around to see Kathy standing there.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he said to Chuck. “I’ll call you back in two minutes.”
He turned back to face her.
“What is it?” she said when she saw his expression.
“Krieger’s missing.”
Over on the basketball court, a young man missed a jump shot and cursed. “Son of a bitch!”
The words floated across the street, and Lee registered them as appropriate to his situation.
Son of a bitch, he thought. Son of a bitch.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Depressed as Lee Campbell had been in recent years, Chuck Morton looked even worse. His normally ruddy face was pale as a bedsheet. Lines Lee had never noticed before crisscrossed his forehead like errant railroad tracks, and his blue eyes were rimmed with red.
If Elena Krieger had fallen victim to the killer, it would be worse than a tragedy—it was nothing less than a disaster. The death of a cop in the line of duty—any cop—always received lavish amounts of media attention in New York, which could be as claustrophobic as a fishbowl when it came to the relationship between the press and the police. But Krieger—that was as bad as it got. A woman, a foreigner, and an undercover agent—and a glamorous, beautiful woman to boot—working on a high-profile case of a serial offender. It was sure to set off a media frenzy. In a city weary with the aftermath of the greatest tragedy in its long history, a story like this would serve as a welcome distraction.
All of this had occurred to Lee on his way up on the subway, and he knew that Chuck Morton realized it, too. And it was Morton who would have to answer for it all—to the media, to the police brass, and most painfully, to every cop underneath him.
The door swung open, and Butts strode into the room, banging it closed behind him. He alone seemed energized by what had happened—not glad, by any means, but at least he didn’t look depressed and defeated. In fact, he looked angry.
“Okay,” he said, without bothering to say hello, “what happened?”
Chuck gave them the short version, at least as much as he knew. Krieger had gone to the infamous Jack Hammer on Friday night, and had disappeared sometime between 2 and a.m.
“The Jack Hammer?” Butts exploded. “She went to the goddamn Jack Hammer?”
“You didn’t have any luck there,” Chuck pointed out. “She evidently thought she could do better.”
Butts snorted. “For Christ’s sake! It’s a rough place, even