Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [14]
Caleb stood and watched as she floated away, looking so peaceful, her limbs spreading out from her still form, her white-blond hair blooming like water lilies around her head. His father would be so pleased. He could still hear his father’s voice in his head, as if it were only yesterday.
“Your mother was born bad—wicked and evil and bad. So this is what you do to bad women. Watch, boy—no, don’t turn away! And don’t cry. Only sissy boys cry. No son of mine will turn out to be a sissy boy, not if I can help it. That’s better—be a man, and take it like a man. Only women cry—don’t you ever forget that. And women are bad—nasty, evil creatures. They have this thing between their legs that makes them bad—this bleeding, gaping thing that will eat you up or bite off your manhood if you ‘re not careful.”
This one had nice hair—so pale and thick, like a white halo around her head. Just like Ophelia, floating down the stream.
Oh, yes, Ophelia killed herself out of love, my dear, didn’t she? Well, that was a bit of inspiration on my part, I must admit. A nice touch—I hope they like it when they find you. Of course, you won’t look so pretty when they find you, will you? Not pretty at all—you’ll be bloated like a watermelon, I should think, all white and ghastly and gruesome. Maybe some young policeman will even throw up when he sees you—some of them do, you know. I’ve seen them. That would be too bad, but you only have yourself to blame. I could have taught you some manners, but it’s too late now, I’m afraid. Well, it’s getting colder out, so I’m going to have to leave you. Bon voyage—sweet dreams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lee arrived at Chuck’s office in the Bronx Major Case Unit a little before nine on Monday morning, feeling tired and worried. Tired because Kathy had spent the weekend—they were still in the early stages of their romance, and didn’t want to waste time sleeping when they could be doing something together. For their first months together, that most often meant sex—Kathy had an unexpectedly voracious libido.
And he was worried because he had tried all weekend to reach Ana on her cell phone, with no luck. He even called the Swan in Lambertville to see if she had shown up for work, but was told she had requested that weekend off. That made him feel a little better—maybe she and her boyfriend had gone on vacation and she had turned off her phone. But she hadn’t mentioned that when she came to see him, and under the circumstances, it seemed an odd omission.
He walked through the station house, which was unusually quiet for a Monday morning. The young desk sergeant tried vainly to stifle a yawn as he waved Lee through to Chuck’s office, and the weary-looking policewoman talking to a thin young Latino man in purple rayon pants looked like she could use another night’s sleep. Lee knocked on the door to his friend’s office, and to his surprise, a woman’s voice answered. “Come in.”
He paused a moment to register what he had just heard, then swung the door open cautiously. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but he certainly didn’t expect what he saw. Instead of Chuck was a woman, perched next to his desk, one hip resting on the windowsill behind his scarred old captain’s chair.
There are some women who, for whatever reason, make men feel inadequate. There are other women who, for perhaps more obvious reasons, make men want them. And then there are those rare women who do both.
Elena Krieger was one of those women.
She was extremely tall—Lee estimated at least six feet—with absurdly long legs, as though the painter’s brush had slipped when creating her, but he decided to keep going anyway. Her silky hair was a strawberry-blond color he associated with Swedish stewardesses and Hollywood starlets. Her body was pure Vegas: beside the long legs, she had the trim waist and solid round breasts of a showgirl. He didn’t see how they could be real: they looked too sculpted, too firm—and the lemon-yellow silk blouse she wore didn’t leave anything to