I pulled my chair over to Emily’s side of the table as we showed each other cell-phone pictures of our kids.
After another round of Brooklyns, I told her about my meeting with the Son of Sam.
“Do you really believe he doesn’t know what’s going on?” Emily asked.
“If he’s a b
ullshit artist, he’s a good one.”
“Better than you,” Emily said, smiling over the rim of her beer bottle.
“Heck, probably even better than you,” I said, smiling back.
Our conversation went back and forth smoothly, almost too easily. Were there some sparks between us? I’d say so, considering I felt like I could have sat on that patio drinking beer and staring out at the bright city lights with Emily for about the rest of my life. I wanted to arrest the waiter when he came over with the check.
Reluctantly back in the elevator, we stopped at the seventh floor for her room.
“See you tomorrow, Mike,” she said after an awkward moment in which I probably should have said something like, “Hey, how about a nightcap in your room?”
“Tomorrow it is,” I said.
She tugged my tie before bailing out into the corridor.
Idiot, I screamed at myself in my mind.
“Em,” I said, painfully stopping the sliding elevator door with the back of my head.
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Oh, believe me,” I said. “You have.”
Chapter 55
I WASN’T SURE what time it was when I woke up, sweating in the pitch black of my beach house bedroom. It was early. Way too early, in fact.
After a few minutes, I knew there was no way I was getting back to sleep, so I decided to make use of my brain being on and sneak back into work while everyone was still asleep. Besides, it was Friday, and it would give me a chance to finish up early and beat the weekend traffic back. That was my story, anyway, and I was sticking to it.
The sun was just coming up behind me as I rolled into lower Manhattan. Beside a newsstand I saw that the cover of the Post showed the security video shot of our suspect under the headline “THE FACE OF EVIL.” For once, the press had gotten it right. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
It was so early, there was actually a complete lack of press corps outside HQ. The early bird outsmarts the worms, I thought, as the groggy security guard lifted the stick to the parking lot.
In the empty squad room, I found a stack of messages on my desk, left there by the night shift. I was hoping for a tip from posting the security footage and sketch on the news, but there were just fifteen crackpot confessions and two psychics offering their help.
I moved them to my circular spam file in the corner of my cubicle where they belonged, then made a few quick calls to the cops we’d posted at all the previous crime scenes.
There was no traction there, either. The killer hadn’t come back. When I clicked open my e-mail, I learned that forensics had been unable to pull any latents off the stroller poor little Angela was found in. Despite our progress, it seemed we were still far out in the weeds on this one.
As I looked around the empty office, I decided to do something smart. I sat and tried to think of what Emily Parker would do. I decided that she’d take a deep breath and look at the whole thing patiently, clinically, and without frustration. Though it seemed like a pretty impossible task, I decided to give it a shot. I put on a fresh pot of coffee and came back and cleared my desk.
The first thing I did was slip on my reading glasses and go through the files that Emily had compiled for me on copycat killers. One of them stood out prominently, a copycat serial killer in New York City during the early nineties.
His name was Heriberto Seda, and he was a deranged young man from East New York, Brooklyn, who had killed three and wounded four others with homemade zip guns. Notes to the police found near the victims claimed that he was the famous San Francisco Zodiac killer from the sixties transplanted to New York. When he was finally caught, he told police that he identified with the Zodiac because he’d terrorized a city and never been caught.
“I needed attention,” Seda said. “For once in my life, I felt important. I was lonely, in pain. I have no friends.”