“Who was Rifkin again?” I said.
“A serial killer in the nineties from Long Island,” Emily said. “He was convicted of murdering nine prostitutes. He beat them with something heavy and then strangled them and mutilated their bodies. Some say it was closer to twenty victims. Apt is onto another New York killer.”
A shadow passed over us. I looked up. It was the Roosevelt Island tram. We both watched the red cable car as it sailed precariously though the air out over the darkening water.
“Maybe there
was some odd bond between Berger and Apt,” I said, thinking out loud. “Like a cult sort of thing. Apt seems programmed. Berger had him completely brainwashed.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Emily said as we started for the car. “Maybe when Apt finds out Berger’s dead, he’ll snap out of it. Come to his senses.”
“We can only hope,” I said, failing to shake Paulina’s face from my memory.
Chapter 83
LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON found me on the back deck of my not-so-palatial Breezy Point vacation house. Boogie boards and blown-up flotation devices of every description were scattered around me while from the sun-bleached railing flew about as many beach towels as there were flags at the UN.
I was back in my element, my green zone.
Home Chaotic Beach Home.
In my atrociously ugly neon green surfing shorts, I sent my bare feet upward toward the bright blue sky as I lay back in my zero-gravity beach chair. I even had a half-full can of Tecate securely holstered in the drink holder. The only downside, I guess, were the bright red crime scene photos that stared up at me from the open murder folder in my lap.
I stared back, forcing myself to examine again the remains of Paulina Dulcine. The Medical Examiner’s Office had said that the poor woman’s teeth had been pulled out with a pair of pliers. From Emily’s notes I knew Joel David Rifkin had committed the same savagery on his first victim in the early nineties. I tossed the file onto the picnic table beside me and let out a breath. Carl Apt was nothing if not a stickler for details.
As if I weren’t depressed enough, one of my Major Case Task Force buddies had just texted me the latest rumor that Chief McGinnis wanted a personal who-what-when-where-how-and-why session with me and Emily about the murder of Paulina Dulcine. Another carpet call. Sounded fun, not to mention productive. I couldn’t wait.
I’d just finished my beer and was having a staring contest with a shady-looking seagull perched on my rusty rain gutter when my phone rang.
I smiled as I looked at the number. It was from me, apparently. Someone inside the house behind me was playing a joke at my expense.
“Detective Bennett, NYPD. Who is this? Who’s wasting my time?” I barked in my best tough cop voice.
“Yes, uh, hello, Detective,” said Eddie in a low, badly disguised voice. “I’d like to report a crime.”
I’d specifically told them I had to work and to leave Daddy alone, but the natives were getting restless. And who could blame them? I hadn’t been around much for the past week.
I was about to hang up, when I spotted something on the picnic table beside me, and I suddenly had a better idea.
“Well, you’ve called the right place, sir,” I said as I quietly stood, lifting the Super Soaker water gun from the table before I trotted down the deck steps. “Name the felony, please.”
“Well, it’s a kidnapping,” Eddie said as I quickly came around the side of the house.
I stopped at the hose bib and loaded the gun with water before I hopped over the railing onto the front porch.
“Kidnapping? Well,” I said as I peeked through the screen door at the backs of Eddie and a cracking-up Trent at the phone in the kitchen. “That’s a serious crime. What’s the victim’s name?”
“Pants,” Eddie said, not missing a beat. “John Pants.”
Trent guffawed as he punched Eddie’s leg. I had to stifle my own laugh as well. Eddie was a funny kid. Maeve and I always said we should have made Eddie’s middle name Murphy. They definitely seemed to be in much higher spirits since that Flaherty kid had been put back on his leash.
“Mr. Pants. I see,” I said as I silently opened the front screen door. “Now, what relation is he to you?”
“Well, he’s my father, actually,” Eddie said. “We haven’t seen him in a few days. It’s really not like him. Well, actually it kind of is. We seriously think he might be a workaholic.”
“You’re in luck, sir. I think I know the location of Mr. Pants,” I whispered as I took aim from the kitchen doorway.
“Where’s that?” Eddie said.