heart began beating faster as she laid the photo down in front of him. He had to make an effort to look at it.
It was a photograph of Marlee Clark’s body as it had been discovered in her condo, laid out as if asleep. The eyes were closed and the young, pretty face looked peaceful. The long red hair that had been the tennis star’s trademark was fanned out carefully as if to frame her face. Only the bloodstains on the fabric, crimson in the police photographer’s flash, showed she was dead.
Deni was talking. “The prosecutor said the way she was laid out was additional proof she’d been killed by her lover, who was sorry for what she’d done. I expect the NYPD is saying the same kind of thing about your daughter.”
Coop didn’t reply. He was jolted by the photo but he resisted the implication. “Bette was strangled. If I remember correctly, Marlee Clark was hacked at the base of the neck.”
Deni shook her head as if firmly denying the sophistry of a recalcitrant student. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that no wound shows when they’re laid out. The killer had closed your daughter’s eyes, right?”
“Yes.” As well as her mouth with its swollen tongue. He fought back the image forming in his mind.
“He doesn’t want anything to spoil the peaceful effect.”
“He’s a psycho, a serial killer,” Coop said. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
Deni nodded.
So this was what Deni was after, he thought. Another blood-soaked madman who would be her own personal discovery. With luck he’d make her rich and famous. As far as she was concerned, Bette was only a number. Victim number two.
If she was number two. “Have there been other, similar murders?”
Deni sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, Coop. You’re making me show everything and we haven’t even struck a deal yet.”
Coop waited.
After a moment she shrugged and opened her briefcase again. “Oakland, California. Thirteen months ago. Her name was Ofelia Valdez.”
The photo showed a woman lying on her bed. In the background was a nightstand covered with small framed photographs of smiling people. The victim was young, pretty, not particularly Latin-looking in spite of the name. The hair spread on the pillow was light brown. The eyes were closed. She was wearing a long frilly nightgown. It was impossible to tell how she had been killed.
“Her neck was broken,” Deni said. “One sharp twist from behind. Our killer’s strong.”
A different method again, Coop noted. But that was only his professional mind talking, while he stared helplessly at the photo of the woman who had been posed much as he’d found his daughter. Deni held out another photo. She was quickening the pace now, sensing that she was winning him over. “This one’s from five years ago on Long Island. Ellen Banta.”
This woman was lying on a sofa. Its tan suede looked expensive, as did her gray silk blouse. The hair spread around the head was black tinged with gray, this time. Ellen Banta had been about forty, he judged, and she hadn’t worried about dying her hair. It was a strong-featured, vital face that seemed to retain life. She looked as if she were going to wake from her nap any minute and exercise or go sailing.
“The method?” he asked.
“Knife. The wound’s at the back, of course.”
Coop stacked the pictures and pushed them away. He’d seen enough. “So why isn’t the FBI looking for this guy?”
“Because in each case the local cops made the same mistake the NYPD is making in Bette’s case,” Deni replied. Knowing she’d hooked him, she was paying attention to her food for the first time. She used the flat of her knife to mash and spread the cream cheese on her bagel. “The Oakland cops arrested Ofelia Valdez’s ex-husband. They had to let him go because they didn’t have enough evidence. But they were sure he did it. When he died in a car accident three months later, they closed the case.”
“And Ellen Banta?”
“She
It was a photograph of Marlee Clark’s body as it had been discovered in her condo, laid out as if asleep. The eyes were closed and the young, pretty face looked peaceful. The long red hair that had been the tennis star’s trademark was fanned out carefully as if to frame her face. Only the bloodstains on the fabric, crimson in the police photographer’s flash, showed she was dead.
Deni was talking. “The prosecutor said the way she was laid out was additional proof she’d been killed by her lover, who was sorry for what she’d done. I expect the NYPD is saying the same kind of thing about your daughter.”
Coop didn’t reply. He was jolted by the photo but he resisted the implication. “Bette was strangled. If I remember correctly, Marlee Clark was hacked at the base of the neck.”
Deni shook her head as if firmly denying the sophistry of a recalcitrant student. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that no wound shows when they’re laid out. The killer had closed your daughter’s eyes, right?”
“Yes.” As well as her mouth with its swollen tongue. He fought back the image forming in his mind.
“He doesn’t want anything to spoil the peaceful effect.”
“He’s a psycho, a serial killer,” Coop said. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
Deni nodded.
So this was what Deni was after, he thought. Another blood-soaked madman who would be her own personal discovery. With luck he’d make her rich and famous. As far as she was concerned, Bette was only a number. Victim number two.
If she was number two. “Have there been other, similar murders?”
Deni sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, Coop. You’re making me show everything and we haven’t even struck a deal yet.”
Coop waited.
After a moment she shrugged and opened her briefcase again. “Oakland, California. Thirteen months ago. Her name was Ofelia Valdez.”
The photo showed a woman lying on her bed. In the background was a nightstand covered with small framed photographs of smiling people. The victim was young, pretty, not particularly Latin-looking in spite of the name. The hair spread on the pillow was light brown. The eyes were closed. She was wearing a long frilly nightgown. It was impossible to tell how she had been killed.
“Her neck was broken,” Deni said. “One sharp twist from behind. Our killer’s strong.”
A different method again, Coop noted. But that was only his professional mind talking, while he stared helplessly at the photo of the woman who had been posed much as he’d found his daughter. Deni held out another photo. She was quickening the pace now, sensing that she was winning him over. “This one’s from five years ago on Long Island. Ellen Banta.”
This woman was lying on a sofa. Its tan suede looked expensive, as did her gray silk blouse. The hair spread around the head was black tinged with gray, this time. Ellen Banta had been about forty, he judged, and she hadn’t worried about dying her hair. It was a strong-featured, vital face that seemed to retain life. She looked as if she were going to wake from her nap any minute and exercise or go sailing.
“The method?” he asked.
“Knife. The wound’s at the back, of course.”
Coop stacked the pictures and pushed them away. He’d seen enough. “So why isn’t the FBI looking for this guy?”
“Because in each case the local cops made the same mistake the NYPD is making in Bette’s case,” Deni replied. Knowing she’d hooked him, she was paying attention to her food for the first time. She used the flat of her knife to mash and spread the cream cheese on her bagel. “The Oakland cops arrested Ofelia Valdez’s ex-husband. They had to let him go because they didn’t have enough evidence. But they were sure he did it. When he died in a car accident three months later, they closed the case.”
“And Ellen Banta?”
“She
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