Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [47]
“… your position on the police force gives you a unique point of view, and we thought you might be interested in giving your perspective on the attack on the World Trade Center. It would be part of a series of lectures given by other faculty members as well. With the anniversary coming up, we just thought—” Lee hit the STOP button on the machine.
He had read somewhere—R. D. Laing, perhaps—that the primary emotion experienced by people in the presence of evil was confusion. He felt that now—as he did with every case he worked on. It was a familiar feeling, and yet one he never seemed to get used to … underneath the cold, hard fact of three dead victims lurked a whirlpool of bewilderment. Spuyten Duyvil … Whirlpool of the Devil.
He wandered into the kitchen and made himself a martini, shaking it in the sterling-silver decanter that once belonged to his father. He poured it into a V-shaped glass, added an olive, and took a swallow. The taste of gin was reassuring—sharp, medicinal, like drinking pine sap. He drank some more and wandered into the living room.
The anniversary is coming up…. He had lived through more than enough anniversaries already—his father’s desertion, his sister’s disappearance—and now this. His profession was about solving things, the puzzles and mysteries behind crime, and yet he could not solve the mysteries in his own heart. The questions gnawed at him, and they all seemed connected. How could his father have left his family behind, just walking out the door one rainy night, never to return? And how could his sister have disappeared without a trace, as though she had never existed? And how could someone slip through the crowded streets of the city, carrying the knowledge that he was a murderer, yet not betray that dark fact to anyone he met—until it was too late?
Dusk settled uneasily over Manhattan as Lee stared out his front window, martini in hand. The rays of the setting sun fell on the Ukrainian church across the street, caught in the vast circular design of the stained-glass window that took up most of the church’s front façade. He imagined the light traveling forever in the circular whirl of saints and visions, caught in an endless trajectory of faith and belief. He was reminded that many of the stars whose distant light we see on clear nights are already dead, and that what we see is just the trail of ghosts, left behind long after their lives have ended.
Laura’s trail still blazed brightly in Lee’s mind, but he was afraid that her light was beginning to dim for others who knew her. His mother rarely mentioned her anymore, and Kylie had been too young when she disappeared to have any memories of her. He had taken up the torch to find her killer when he became a criminal profiler, but so far he had failed. His need to punish himself for this failure was intense, and it was only with an extreme effort that he could pull away from it.
The ringing of the phone snapped him out of his self-recriminations.
He grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?” “Lee?”
The voice was deep, resonant, and cultivated. He recognized it at once.
“Hello, Diesel. How are you?” “More to the point, how are you?” “I’m okay.” “You don’t sound it.”
Lee smiled, in spite of the feelings raised by Diesel’s voice. He had met the man through his late friend Eddie Pepitone. He missed Eddie, and he knew Diesel did, too.
“How’s Rhino?” he asked, trying to steady his voice.
“Oh, he’s very pleased with himself. He’s lost five pounds this month and is unbearable to live with.”
Diesel and Rhino (a.k.a. John Rhinehardt Jr.) were the most unlikely couple Lee had ever met. Diesel was a giant of a man, with shiny mahogany skin, whereas Rhino was tiny, muscular, and pale as a ghost. Lee was grateful for Diesel and Rhino’s continued presence in his life. They were good men and all he had left of Eddie.
“Are you both still working at Bellevue?” he asked.
“Actually, I’ve had a promotion. I’m now in charge of all the other orderlies.”
“Congratulations—that’s great.”
“Yes, it’s great if you don’t have to live with John K. Reinhardt