Kill Again Page 17

  “That’s what he’s saying,” confirmed Aitken. “But I’ve never seen anyone do this before,” he said.

  “Do what?” asked Claire, bending down to take a closer look at the plate.

  “Use Magic Markers the same color as the plates and screws to hide the marks he made taking them off the car and putting them back on,” answered Nick. “He even smeared dirt around in the same pattern to hide it.”

  “But he didn’t get it quite right, did he?” said Aiken, smiling.

  “We’ll find he did the same on the front,” Simms offered. “It would explain why the camera at the Verrazano toll booth picked up Welch’s plates.”

  Claire was astonished. She knew these were details she would have missed. She stood up and turned to Nick. “But that would mean—”

  “That’s right,” said Nick, also somewhat amazed. “This guy had a real hard-on for Jonah Welch. Wanted to frame him so badly that he went out and bought his own ninety-eight Crown Vic, same color as Welch’s, with the same make and model tires as Welch’s, and threw Welch’s plates on it to tighten the noose.”

  “And when he was done he put them back on,” added Simms. “Both times probably at night, with that bread truck giving him all the cover he needed. Nobody would’ve seen him.”

  Nick turned to Aitken. “Let’s flatbed this thing to your garage. Go over it, top to bottom. Maybe our smart guy left something.”

  “I doubt it,” said Claire.

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” said Nick. “Even him. It’s next to impossible not to transfer some piece of evidence by brushing against a seat or inadvertently coughing.”

  “Not this guy,” Claire said. “You won’t find anything more on this car, just like you won’t find the actual car the killer used to dump Rosa’s body. In fact, you won’t even find a trace of that car, or where he bought the tires.”

  “How can you know that?” Nick asked.

  “Because I’m starting to understand who we’re dealing with. He’s organized, meticulous to the point of obsession—because he thinks he can beat you. Beat us. He’s smarter than everyone. The question is, what stirred him up after so many years?”

  “I’ve got a different question,” Simms interjected. “Someone thinks they’re smarter than us cops, they usually wanna throw it in our faces, want us to know it’s them. So why’s this wacko trying to pin Rosa Sanchez on Welch?”

  “He wants to have his cake and eat it too,” said Nick, unconvinced by what he just said. “But there has to be some connection between Welch and the real killer. He didn’t just choose him at random. We have to check.”

  “You can, but I’m betting that’ll be a waste of time,” said Claire.

  “That’s police work,” said Nick, not understanding Claire’s negativity. “That’s what we do. We run down leads. We look at all the possibilities. It’s never a waste of time if the wrong road eventually leads to the right place.”

  “Yes, and whoever’s playing with us knows that, and wants to see us running in circles,” said Claire.

  Nick could tell he was making Claire uncomfortable by taking his frustration out on her, so he took a deep breath and calmed down.

  “Okay, then. What about a connection between Rosa and her killer?” he asked.

  Claire shook her head. “It doesn’t jibe with what I saw from my window. If there were a connection between Rosa and the man who took her, if he was her probation officer, I would’ve expected to see some familiarity. But from where I was standing, it looked like she’d never seen him before.”

  “We need to talk to Rosa’s mother again,” said Nick.

  “Why?” asked Claire.

  “Because we haven’t asked her if anyone came looking for Rosa around the day she disappeared.”

  Claire understood the need to do this. “Let me go ask her. Alone.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s fragile,” Claire answered, walking toward the unmarked car. “I don’t want to scare her, and we still need her to keep Rosa’s death under wraps.”

  “All the more reason we should both go,” said Nick, following her, getting testy again. “And just in case you forgot or didn’t notice, I know how to be gentle with the families of my victims.”

  Claire stopped. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said.

  “This is a police matter.”

  “Rosa was my patient.”

  “And now she’s my victim,” Nick exclaimed. “We go together or I go alone. Your choice.”

  Claire thought about going to see Maria behind Nick’s back. But that would only lead to more arguing between them—and she realized that arguing with Nick made her uncomfortable.

  What’s going on with me around him?

  “Fine. We’ll do it your way,” she said.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was past one in the afternoon when Maria Lopez opened the door to her apartment and, without a word, hugged Claire. “Hello, Detective,” she said to Nick over Claire’s shoulder, tears in her eyes.

  “Mrs. Lopez,” Nick said with warmth in his voice. She gestured them into the apartment and closed the door, leading them into the living room.

  “How are the kids, Maria?” Claire asked, not wanting to stress the grieving woman by asking how she felt. It was clear just looking at her. Simple housedress, dark circles under her watery eyes, looking like she hadn’t slept in a week. Clearly she was a wreck.

  “They are missing their mama,” Maria answered. “I am being very careful around them, but it’s getting harder. Every time they ask about Rosa I almost tell them the truth and then catch myself. One of these days it’s going to slip out.”

  But as much of a wreck as Maria was, Claire noticed the apartment was even neater than on her previous visit. The toys that had been lying around were now gone.

  She also noticed the coffee table, on which was a makeshift shrine: a framed photo of Rosa, smiling, flanked by two candles. Maria saw Claire staring at it.

  “I put it away when the children come home from school,” she said.

  “I’ll call the medical examiner when we’re done here, and try to find out when you can lay Rosa to rest,” Nick said.

  “Thank you, but the doctor called this morning to say he needed to keep Rosa for a while longer. So don’t waste your time.” Maria then stared straight at Nick. “Are you here with news for me?”

  “I wish we had some,” Claire said, walking to Maria’s side. “You know that when we do, you’ll be the first to hear.” Claire took Maria’s hand. “We came here today because we need your help.”

  “I told you I’d do anything you need,” Maria said, gesturing them to sit. “But we have to hurry. The children will be done with school soon. I can’t be late to pick them up.”

  “We want to ask you about the days and weeks before Rosa disappeared.”

  “Why is that important?” asked Maria.

  “Because we’re pretty sure whoever did this to Rosa either knew her, or was at least following her—maybe even stalking her,” Claire answered, letting go of Maria’s hand.

  “Dios mío,” muttered Maria. “You don’t think the children are in danger, do you?”

  Nick shook his head. “No, but if we ever do think that, your grandchildren will be escorted by police officers wherever they go, and you’ll have a radio car stationed outside to protect you. I promise, if we even suspect there’s a danger, that will happen instantly.”

  He turned toward Claire as if asking for her permission before he continued.

  “What I need from you, Maria—is it okay if I call you Maria?” he asked.

  “Of course, Detective,” she answered.

  “Maria,” Nick replied. “We’re going to spend many hours together, and I want you to be as comfortable with me as I am with you. So please call me Nick. Okay?”

  Claire could see Maria begin to let her guard down. She knew what Nick was doing, which came from years of dealing with victims. It was one thing when a patient came
to a psychiatrist like her seeking help. But it was quite another thing when a cop knocked on your door. Most people were afraid of the police, even victims.

  He needs Maria to trust him. Just like he needed me to trust him when I was the victim.

  “Yes . . . Nick,” Maria said.

  He took out his business card and a pen, and wrote. “I’m giving you my cell phone number,” he said. “If you ever have any questions, anything you don’t understand, anything you need me to help you with—and, of course, anything you think might help us find who took your daughter—you call me any time of the day or night. And I mean that. Even if it’s just because you need to talk. Okay, Maria?”

  A hint of a smile raised the corners of Maria’s mouth. “Yes,” she said, taking his hand as a gesture of thanks. “What is it you want to ask?”

  Nick placed his other hand on top of hers. “Is there anything you can remember, in the days before Rosa disappeared, that seemed strange, a little ‘off’ to you?”

  “Strange in what way?” asked Maria.

  “In any way,” answered Nick, leaning back. “Maybe you noticed someone suspicious outside the building, someone who didn’t belong there, watching you or Rosa or the kids a little too closely. Or phone calls from wrong numbers, someone who called and hung up. Someone pressing the buzzer downstairs and then not answering when you asked who was there. A piece of mail that came to you from someone you don’t know. Anything at all.”

  Maria didn’t hesitate. “I’ve been thinking about this since the day Rosa left,” she said. “Besides the phone call from the man who said Rosa went to Connecticut, there’s nothing I can remember that seemed strange.”

  “Good,” said Nick, staying positive even though he wished she had something to offer. “Now, how about Rosa? Did she mention anything to you about weird things happening in the days before she disappeared?”

  “No, nothing,” said Maria. “In fact, she was happy. Happier than I’ve seen her in a long time.” She turned to Claire. “She said you helped her. She talked about you all the time, how much you meant to her.”

  Maria’s chin quivered, and it took everything Claire had to stop hers from doing the same. She wanted to tell Maria how special Rosa was to her, everything she could without violating doctor-patient privilege. But all she did was nod.

  Nick knew what he needed to ask next, but before he could get it out, Claire regained her voice and beat him to the punch.

  “Maria,” she said, “if it’s okay with you, Nick and I would like to go through Rosa’s belongings.”

  “Of course it’s all right,” Maria said. “But what are you looking for? I already went through her bedroom. I thought maybe there was a piece of paper, something to tell me where she might have gone. But I found nothing.”

  “That was good thinking, Maria,” Nick said. “This is going to be hard to hear, but I’ll always be honest with you. We have to consider the possibility that Rosa knew the man who took her. Something she had that means nothing to you may have some significance to us.”

  Something she had . . . Nick’s words reminded Claire of the odd receipt they found with Rosa’s bones.

  “Maria,” Claire said, “do the words emigrant hasta mean anything to you?”

  “No,” Maria answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because we found those words written on a receipt from the deli where Rosa worked,” Claire said. “The receipt was found along with her remains.”

  Maria’s eyes widened. “Is her murderer sending us a message?”

  “We don’t know,” Claire said as she stood, Nick following suit. “But if you think of any connection between those words and Rosa, please tell us.”

  Maria directed them down a short hallway to Rosa’s bedroom. “Do whatever you have to do,” she said. “Look anywhere in the apartment. Come back as many times as you need to. Just bring me justice for my little girl.”

  He picked up a black Magic Marker and faced his crossword puzzle.

  Who’s next? he wondered, a smile spreading across his lips.

  He admired his work. The letters R-O-S-A-S-A-N-C-H-E-Z fit neatly into each square. He had rid the world of another parasite and it gave him a thrilling sense of complete control. He was the master of his universe and no one would be smart or clever enough to stop him from filling the grid with more names.

  Nick and Claire entered Rosa’s bedroom, which appeared to have changed little since she was a girl. Frilly pink curtains covered a pair of windows. A white, twin, four-poster bed faced a matching dresser. The furniture, though cheaply made, was in nearly perfect condition, her bookshelf filled with a neatly organized family of stuffed animals. She’d taken great care with all of her belongings.

  “It’s a beautiful apartment, Maria,” Nick said.

  “I’ve lived here a long time,” Maria replied, “and I’m lucky I still can. Rent control.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I live in the same rent-controlled apartment I grew up in.”

  “Rosa kept her room clean,” Claire observed.

  “As an adult, yes,” Maria replied, standing in the doorway. “I kept it like this after she got married and moved in with Franco.” A hint of a smile crossed her face. “It wasn’t like this while she was growing up, believe me. But when she and the niños moved in here, she wanted to set a good example. That’s why she put her animales—” She fought back tears. “I should leave you alone to do this.”

  “We won’t take long,” Nick promised.

  Maria went down the hallway, back to the living room. Claire couldn’t help but think how difficult it must be for her to live with the constant reminder of the child she lost. Claire knew the feeling well. She became anxious every time she visited her parents at her childhood home in Rochester, New York, every time she turned into the driveway from which her best friend, Amy, was kidnapped more than two decades ago. Claire could still see Amy’s face through the rear window of her abductor’s car, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  A thump brought her back to the present. She looked up to see Nick lifting Rosa’s mattress.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He heaved the mattress on its side against the wall, exposing the box spring.

  “Looking for Rosa’s diary,” he answered, surprised at the question. “If she had one. Little trick some shrink taught me last year.”

  Claire smiled, remembering the first case they worked on together. If only she did have a diary, Claire thought. She’d once asked Rosa to write down her thoughts and feelings. Rosa told her she didn’t like to write, that she’d rather talk about her feelings with Claire.

  “Wishful thinking,” Nick said, letting the mattress fall back into place.

  Claire was silent. Something was bothering her. She scanned the room: the stuffed animals, the frilly curtains, the childlike appearance of a home occupied by an adult. She realized it looked a lot like her own room as a child.

  I grew up privileged, Rosa close to poverty. We’re so different and yet so much alike.

  She zeroed in on a framed photo on top of the bookshelf. Looking more closely, Claire could see it was Rosa and her son and daughter. She felt the room close in on her, spinning. Her heart was racing and she couldn’t catch her breath. The children’s smiling faces seemed to move out toward her, becoming the faces of eight-year-old Claire and Amy.

  “Are you all right?” Nick asked. Claire realized his arm was around her shoulder, holding her because he thought she might faint.

  “I need some air.”

  “Come on,” Nick said, guiding her out of the room and down the hallway.

  “Maria,” he shouted, “we have to go. But we’ll be back.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m in el baño,” came Maria’s voice from behind a door.

  “It’s okay,” Nick returned. “We can let ourselves out.”

  Claire was relieved that Maria didn’t see her like this.

  He led her down the stairs and out the door to the buildi
ng, where a wall of humidity hit them.

  “I don’t know how you’re going to breathe out here,” Nick said. He waved to Simms, who saw Nick holding Claire up.

  “What happened?” Simms shouted, jumping out of his car.

  “I don’t know,” said Claire, “but it’s better out here. I can breathe.”

  Nick was still worried. “Bronx-Lebanon’s the closest hospital,” he said. It was more than a suggestion.

  “I don’t need a hospital. I work at one, remember?” Claire replied. “I can go later if there’s a problem. I’m okay now.”

  But she knew she wasn’t okay.

  Claire walked down the hallway of MSU with a determination that surprised even her. Nick and Simms had just dropped her off, and during the mostly silent ride back to Manhattan State, she felt noticeably better. She breathed consciously and tried to work out in her head exactly what she was going to do.

  Now, as she walked into Doctor Fairborn’s outer office, Claire hoped to find her mentor and get her help.

  “Claire,” said Fairborn’s assistant, Sara, a friendly African-American woman in her fifties who always wore bright reds and yellows that cheered Claire up. “Doctor Fairborn’s been looking for you.”

  “I need to see her,” Claire said, with more urgency than she wanted. “If she’s available,” she continued, pulling back her tone.

  Sara wasn’t used to seeing Claire in a state; she was always so calm and composed. She already had the phone in her hand and a concerned look on her face. “Doctor Waters is here,” she said. The door to Fairborn’s inner office opened and she appeared, wearing a dark blue suit that was as conservative as Claire had ever seen her dress.

  “Come in, dear,” said Fairborn.

  “Thanks,” said Claire, rushing inside and sitting in her favorite spot, a corner of the comfortable sofa. She was barely down when Fairborn closed the door and became uncharacteristically stern with her.

  “You’ve been gone for days, cancelled patients, had your colleagues cover you on rounds,” she said as she crossed the room and sat opposite Claire. “It’s not at all like you. I need you to tell me what’s going on.”