Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(69)

“The works. And coffee.”

“You got it.” She walks away.

“How’s the coffee?” Rock asks Vic, who just took a sip.

“How do you think it is?” Vic shakes his head. “She tells you not to order the meatloaf, so you order the chili?”

“What’s wrong with that? She didn’t tell me not to order that.”

“Forget it. Tell me what you’re working on. Unless you can’t.”

“The hell with can’t. I’m old school. I need all the help I can get right now,” Rocky tells him. “My partner, Murph—his brother’s missing. He’s down on the pile. I’m working the case with a female detective I’m not crazy about.”

“Why not?”

“She smokes.”

“A lot of cops do.”

“Yeah. I hate it. So does Murph. Anyway, she’s just not seasoned enough. Kinda like these French fries.” He dumps more salt on them.

“Tell me about the case, Rocky.”

“Down at the station house, they’ve got a name for this bastard. The Nightwatcher. Bona fide serial killer.”

Vic looks up from a forkful of pie. “How many murders?”

“Only two so far.” Curtailing what Vic was about to say, Rocky quickly adds, “I know, I know, you need three, right? Technically? For it to be a serial killer? Never mind—don’t answer that. I know you guys got a lot of rules. But from where I sit, this is a serial killer.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

Vic listens with interest as Rocky describes the case between sips of black coffee, cold French fries, and spoonfuls of chili that actually looks—and smells—pretty good. A lot better, at least, than the wedge of cardboard and blue goo pie Vic opts not to finish.

“So the long hair that was in the second victim’s fist—that’s got me confused,” Rocky tells him. “Because it was looking like we had a male perp on our hands. But now . . .”

“Men do have long hair.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Have you seen my son Donny lately?” Rocky shakes his head. “But Vic, listen, there was nothing sexual involved here. With cases like this, when the killer is a man, you’ve almost always got rape involved, you know?”

“Almost always,” Vic echoes. “There are other motives—the thrill of the kill, or some mission to rid the world of a certain kind of person . . .”

“What’s your take on this one?”

“What’s the victimology?”

“Both single women. Both live alone in buildings owned by the same guy, with the same handyman—my prime suspect, if I could track him down.”

“You can’t?”

“No one I talked to even knows the guy’s last name.”

“What’s his deal?”

“Sounds like he was infatuated with the first victim. The second one, I’m not sure. She just moved in yesterday, and she was a lesbian, so . . .”

“He might not have known that.”

“Maybe not. Her family sure as hell didn’t . . . but they do now. She had her girlfriend listed as the emergency contact in her Filofax and there was a picture of the two of them on the bedside table—crazy thing is, the twin towers were in the background. But I don’t even think her brother noticed that. He was as upset when he figured out his sister was gay as he was that she was dead.” Rocky shakes his head sadly.

“What about the other victim? Any chance she was a lesbian, too?” Vic asks, considering the mission killer theory.

“No. At least, doesn’t look that way.”

“The missing middle finger makes me think your unsub made a move on these women and they literally or even figuratively flipped him off.”

“Yeah, I know, I thought of that. And remember—this guy might be a woman.”

“Female serial killers are rare,” Vic points out.

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“They usually kill people who are close to them—or at least, people with whom they have a relationship. And they do it a lot less violently, less sadistically, than your Nightwatcher does. Their motives tend to be financial gain, or if not, then they’re sometimes part of a killing team.”

Vic notices that Rocky has set down his spoon and is absorbing everything he’s saying, wearing a thoughtful expression.

Before he can ask Rocky what he’s thinking, Vic’s phone rings.

It’s the New York field office, calling with a lead on one of the hijackers.

On his feet immediately, he throws a couple of bills on the table. “I’ve gotta go. Sorry. Story of my life.”

“Mine, too,” Rocky tells him wearily, and offers a grim, silent farewell toast with a cup of bad coffee.

Well, this really hasn’t been a good day for Jamie.

Not unless you count what happened in the wee hours of the morning, in Marianne’s apartment down on Greenwich Street.

That was good. That was great. That was sheer bliss.

But it’s all been downhill from there.

When Jamie first left Allison at her office building this morning—alive and well, regrettably—there was considerable comfort in the prospect of seeing her again.

Not just seeing her.