The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [72]
“I am sure you, Ben, join all of us in offering the family our heartfelt prayers for Mrs. Craven’s speedy recovery. Thank you.”
The remote reporter, tweaking his earphone, nodded at the anchorwoman on the screen. “Well, Joan, as you’ve just seen … this is fairly astonishing news. Not just that there is a female serial killer loose on the streets of Manhattan, but that the killer is using a popular online shopping site to get into women’s homes.”
“It certainly is, Richard. Let’s hope this reminds viewers to take extra special precautions when shopping or selling on the Internet. Just a quick question for you, Richard.”
“Sure, Joan. Go ahead.”
“Have you heard any talk down there about the housekeeper who called in with information after the killing of Amy Webb?”
“No, Joan. There was nothing said here. Maybe the police are waiting to locate the suspect before releasing her information. I’ll try and follow up on that and get back to you.”
“Thanks, Richard,” said Joan, shifting to her left and addressing the camera. “And now we’re switching to our health correspondent for some alarming news about the silent symptoms of female heart attacks.”
Charlotte pushed the Off button on her remote control. Her cell phone was vibrating. Reading the caller ID, she recognized Vicky and Phil’s home number. “No way!” she whispered as she stood up and walked towards her bedroom. “Shit!” she shouted. Hopping around on the balls of her feet, she looked down at the trickle of blood. There was a shard of Herend porcelain embedded in her right heel. Plucking it out from her flesh, she wiped away her tears as blood gushed all over the freshly washed floor.
Twenty minutes later, her foot swathed in a homemade sock bandage, the phone vibrated again. It was her car service. Charlotte limped out of the apartment.
44
As the Town Car sped up the West Side Highway towards the hospital, she struggled to control her heart palpitations. She was having trouble breathing. Charlotte was used to instilling fear in others. This fear was different. It sat on her like a swelteringly hot and humid summer day, soaking into her pores and hanging heavy on her skin. It clutched her in the belly. The close call with Gina, the press conference, the news about her mother … It all seemed irrelevant, somehow. God! Where was Anna when she needed her?
If her clients suddenly tightened their belts, Charlotte would be out of business. Between the anorexic five grand left in the Caymans account that Abe had opened for her and an exhausted credit line, she’d be bankrupt. Then what the hell would she do? Work as a cashier at D’Agostino? A sales clerk at Barnes & Noble? It was surreal, she thought, gazing out at the river traffic on the Hudson where nothing appeared to have changed.
Unlike the day when the towers fell, this crash was invisible. You couldn’t see it. Or feel it or smell it. For a moment that felt as brief as a blink, she remembered those weeks after 9/11. The layers of soot and ash that lay like snow on the streets, that cushioned every footstep and created a world of startling soundlessness. There had been no traffic downtown. The normal noises of the city simply ceased to exist. No sirens or shouts, no trucks making deliveries or cabs, no horns. It was like some eerie homage to the dead, that stillness, the silence. As the car pulled up on the corner of West 180th and Broadway, Charlotte took a calming breath. It was sinister, this medieval, fortress-like building. Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn around? Breathe, Charlotte. Inhale, she murmured to herself. Standing still, she waited quietly until her heart slowed. Pulling her phone out from the pocket of her Burberry jacket, she speed-dialed Dr. Greene. Expecting a machine, his voice surprised her and she hung up. As the revolving doors whisked her into the lobby, she headed towards an empty elevator.
After a talk with the nurses in the corridor, Charlotte stepped towards the door of her mother’s private room. The nurses had informed her that the strokes had started months