Blackout, p.6
Blackout, page 6
“And serial killers?” Erin asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Professor Saunders said. “A small minority. But that is precisely why we need to study such individuals. We can learn to identify them and channel them into constructive pursuits. Ignorance only results in them needing to find their own way in the world, sometimes with tragic results. Detectives, what is this about?”
“We’re just trying to build a profile on Christopher Millhouse,” Erin said. “Right now we want to know as much as we can about his personality and behavior. How did he strike you when you met with him?”
“He was a very polite, well-mannered young man,” Professor Saunders said. “He dressed very neatly and was very controlled and deliberate in his speech.”
“Almost like he was playing a role?” Erin asked gently.
The professor looked Erin in the eye. “What did he do?” she asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Erin told her. She stood up. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”
She had her hand on the door before the thought struck her. “One more thing,” she said. “As a colleague and friend of Annmarie Hilton, you can request the NYPD perform a wellness check. Would you like us to do that?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Professor Saunders said. “It’s nice of you to offer.”
“Clever move,” Vic said once they were outside the professor’s office. “With the prof requesting a wellness check, we won’t need a warrant to go into Hilton’s place. So our boy’s a psychopath?”
“It sure sounds that way,” Erin said. “But you heard what she said. That doesn’t make him a killer.”
“No,” he agreed. “But don’t you think it’s a little too much of a coincidence that his prof went missing overnight?”
“Yeah,” Erin said. She already had her phone out and was dialing Professor Hilton’s number. It started to ring. After five rings, it rolled over to voicemail.
“Professor Hilton,” Erin said after the beep. “This is Detective O’Reilly with the NYPD. I need to talk to you as quickly as possible. It’s about one of your students. Please call me back at this number as soon as you get this.”
“You’re an optimist,” Vic said. “I don’t think anyone’s ever gonna listen to that message.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “But I have to try. Her apartment’s just down the street. Let’s go check it out.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe she’s just in bed with the flu.”
“Maybe,” Erin said without conviction.
“Or maybe Millhouse killed her and stashed the body in her own apartment,” he went on with ghastly relish. “Maybe he tucked her in bed, put some stuffed animals in there with her…”
“You’re a creep,” she said.
“I’m just saying, when we get there, we should have your mutt take a sniff under the door. He’s good at smelling out corpses, right?”
“Right. But then why would he send us on that wild goose chase to that construction site?”
“I don’t know. So we waste time there? Maybe he thinks if he gives us a fake murder story, we won’t think he really killed her some other way. I don’t know, Erin. I don’t think like psychos.”
“But we’re going to have to,” she said. “If we want to figure this out. Let’s go.”
Annmarie Hilton’s apartment was only a couple of blocks from the campus. The detectives got no answer when they buzzed her from the front door.
“I’m starting to think you’re right,” Vic said. “I think she’s dead.”
“If she’s not, we’re wasting time and taxpayer dollars,” Erin said.
“I hate wasting taxpayer dollars,” he said, hitting the button for the building superintendent. After a minute, the super peered through the glass doors. Erin held up her shield and tapped it against the glass. The man let them in, a surprised look on his face.
“This is a pretty quiet building,” he said. “No trouble with gangs, no drugs, no burglaries. What’s the problem, officers?”
“We’re making a wellness check on one of your residents,” Erin said. “Annmarie Hilton, up on Five.”
“She didn’t answer? Maybe she just stepped out.”
“That’s what we need to determine, sir. If you’d be so kind?”
The super nodded and, to Erin’s discomfort but not surprise, went to the elevator. They rode up to the fifth floor, Erin trying not to be twitchy as she watched the numbers light up. Nobody knew she was coming here, she told herself. Nobody was waiting with a gun. She had to do something about this paranoia. It was driving her nuts.
They reached the fifth floor and stepped into an empty hallway. Erin relaxed slightly. The super went to the door of 505 and knocked.
“Ms. Hilton?” he called.
“NYPD wellness check,” Erin said. “Are you in there, ma’am?”
There was no response.
They gave it a minute. Then Erin knocked and called again, louder. There was no sign of life.
She turned to the super. “Open the door, please,” she said.
He shrugged and got out his keys. Erin and Vic both rested their hands on their gun butts, just in case. They had no reason to believe trouble was waiting for them, but habits were hard to break, especially the ones that kept you alive.
The door opened onto a sparsely appointed apartment, obviously the sort of place that was rented out fully furnished. The furniture was generic and didn’t look too comfortable. Everything was neat and clean.
“Ms. Hilton?” Erin called. “This is the police. Is anyone here?”
She already knew she wouldn’t get an answer. Deserted rooms had a particular feel to them that a cop learned to sense. Nobody was here.
“Rolf, such,” she ordered.
Rolf nosed into the apartment, snuffling his way from one room to the next. Erin and her K-9 cleared the place quickly, finding nobody.
“Got an empty hanger here,” Vic reported from the front closet. “Between three other hanging jackets. Probably for the coat she was wearing last night. She’s got about a hundred pairs of shoes, so I can’t tell if any are missing. What is it with women and shoes? You’re a woman, Erin, sort of. Explain it to me.”
Erin came out of the bedroom. “It’s because we’re judged by how we look,” she said. “By women and men both. So we try to look as good as possible.”
“Hey, not complaining about that,” he said. “I like looking at women as much as the next guy.”
Erin considered the apartment and the super, who was still standing in the doorway. The wellness check was a good way to sidestep the requirement of obtaining a search warrant, but if they didn’t find evidence of a crime at the apartment, they couldn’t call in CSU and they couldn’t remove things from the premises. Their visit was supposed to be purely aimed at determining whether the resident was alive and in good health. All Erin could tell was that Annmarie Hilton wasn’t there. She saw no signs of forced entry, burglary, or any sort of struggle. It was like the woman had just walked out of her own life, intending to come back to it any minute.
“Do you have security cameras?” she asked the super.
“Sure,” he said. “One in the lobby.”
“Would you have footage from the last couple of days?”
“No problem. We keep a week’s worth, just in case.” He smiled. “Not that anyone’s ever needed to look at them while I’ve been here.”
“Mind if we take a peek?”
He locked up after them and escorted them to his office, where they found an ancient CRT monitor hooked up to a grainy black-and-white camera feed. Erin sat down and started skimming backward, watching the time stamp.
“This’d be easier if we knew what she looked like,” Vic commented, looking over her shoulder.
“I assume you’ve met Ms. Hilton?” Erin asked the super.
“Of course,” he said.
“What does she look like?”
“Tall lady, long hair, blonde. Good-looking. Nice eyes. Wears some makeup, but not a lot.”
“How does she dress?”
He shrugged. “Like a professional woman, I guess. Skirts that go about to the knee, suit coats, that sort of thing.”
“Any jewelry?”
“Necklace and earrings, last I saw.” The man smiled. “No wedding ring.”
Erin turned to Vic. “This may take a while. Want to step out to the car and run her through the system?”
“Might as well,” he said. “Five bucks says she’s not in the database.”
“You’re on,” she said, not because she didn’t believe him, but because he’d be sure to look that little extra bit harder if money was riding on it.
Vic left the room and Erin went back to looking at the security tape. She saw several women coming and going, but nobody matching the description of Professor Hilton. Suddenly, the screen went black.
“That’s the power outage,” the super explained.
After a couple of seconds, the tape resumed, the time stamp jumping three hours. Erin saw movement and stabbed the pause button. There, on screen, was a tall woman with long, light-colored hair.
“Is that Annmarie?” she asked.
The super squinted at the screen. “Yeah,” he said.
Erin noted the time as 9:58. The power had gone down at ten o’clock sharp. They’d been lucky to catch this glimpse of Annmarie. The woman was dressed for walking. She had on a warm coat. A scarf was wrapped around her neck.
“But you didn’t walk all the way down to Greenwich Street,” she muttered. “That’s half the island. What’s going on here?”
Vic returned with a smug smile on his face. “You owe me five bucks,” he said. “The NYPD never heard of Annmarie Hilton.”
“She’s from California,” Erin said. “No big surprise.”
“She’s from California?” the super repeated. “No wonder. She’s a babe.”
Erin and Vic both looked at him.
“What?” he said. “What’d I say? You guys are just checking in on her, right? I mean, it’s not like she did anything. Did she?”
The detectives turned back to the monitor and ignored the man.
“What was she doing so close to the Eightball?” Erin asked. “Assuming it’s her.”
“That’s assuming a lot,” Vic said.
Erin laid out the points on her fingers. “She’s not at home. She’s not answering her phone. Did you see a cell lying around up there?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Millhouse knew her,” she went on. “She left a couple minutes before the power went down. She didn’t come back yet.”
“Maybe she got lucky, got laid, and slept over,” he suggested.
“Maybe,” Erin sighed. “But we can’t get her phone records, or look through her correspondence, without a warrant. And we can’t get a warrant because we don’t have any proof she’s our victim.”
“That sneaky son of a bitch planned it this way,” Vic growled. “He gave us just enough to get us all hot and bothered, then he leaves us hanging. Goddamn tease is what he is. He oughta at least buy us dinner.”
“Feeling dirty and used?” she asked, fighting back a smile.
“A little, yeah.”
Erin’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out and saw the number of one of Carlyle’s burners. “Just a second,” she said, standing up. “I better take this.”
“Speaking of being dirty and used, it’s probably your boyfriend,” he said with a grin.
Erin stepped out of the office, not wanting to have this conversation in front of a civilian. She took a quick glance around to make sure nobody was in earshot, then answered the phone.
“O’Reilly,” she said. It was Carlyle’s phone, but she wasn’t assuming it was him until she heard his voice.
“Hello, darling,” he said in his unmistakable Belfast brogue. “I hope all’s well with you.”
“Same old, same old,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Just about to board the plane at O’Hare. I’ll be home this evening.”
“Good.” Erin’s hand shook as she held the phone to her ear and she didn’t know why. She was fighting off tears. She didn’t understand it and didn’t like it.
“What would be your plans for tonight?” he asked.
“I’m planning on seeing you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. What in God’s name was the matter with her?
“I’m hosting a wee get-together at the Corner,” he said. “On short notice, I fear. You’re invited, of course. Just an evening of cards with some of the lads. We’ve not had one in a while.”
She closed her eyes and clenched her hand around the phone, feeling the edges of the plastic frame dig into her fingers. The very last thing she wanted to do was welcome her boyfriend home in the company of Evan O’Malley and the rest of his gang. They hadn’t had one of their periodic poker games since Mickey had been shot. She could only imagine what the rest of the guests were thinking of her.
“Are you there, darling? Your voice sounded a mite odd. I don’t know how this connection is.”
“I’m here,” she said dully. “Yeah, of course I’ll be there.”
“We’re landing a bit after eight,” he said. “Finnegan and I will be coming straight there. We’ll meet the rest of you with a view to be starting at nine. Can you play hostess until I arrive?”
“Copy that,” she said.
“Are you all right, darling? Truly?”
“I’ll be fine as soon as you get here,” she said. “See you in a few hours.”
“Ta, darling.” He hung up.
Erin stared at the phone. She’d just figured out why she’d gotten so drunk the night before. It had slipped out in the last thing she’d said to Carlyle. She wasn’t fine. And it wasn’t because she couldn’t live without her boyfriend or any bullshit like that. It was because he’d gone off with Kyle Finnegan, the O’Malley family’s resident lunatic, a man who’d beaten three union reps to death with a tire iron outside Detroit, according to underworld gossip. Some part of her had been darkly sure she’d never see him again. The alcohol had been her way of dealing with the stress and uncertainty.
That was silly, of course. If the O’Malleys wanted Carlyle dead, they wouldn’t bother flying him all the way to Chicago. Not when they had so many excellent hitmen right here in New York. But fear was rarely rational.
Erin put the phone back in her pocket and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes to take care of any residual moisture. She could handle this. She’d dealt with plenty worse in her career.
But maybe it would be a good idea not to hit the booze when Carlyle was out of town in the future. At least, not unless she wanted another unplanned tattoo.
Chapter 8
Back in the Charger, Erin took out her phone to call Webb. Vic, in the passenger seat, trimmed a fingernail with his tactical knife. Rolf curled up in his compartment and tucked his snout under his tail.
“You got a body for us?” Webb asked by way of greeting.
“Not yet, sir,” she said. “But we’ve got a missing person.”
“Who’s the lucky one?”
“Annmarie Hilton. She’s Millhouse’s psych professor.”
There was a brief pause. “You think he whacked his teacher?” Webb asked, raising an eyebrow.
“We’ve got video of her leaving her apartment at the start of the murder window,” she said. “She’s not answering her phone, she’s not home, and she didn’t show up for her classes today. That, combined with Millhouse’s connection to her, is pretty suspicious.”
“I agree,” Webb said. “But we can’t do much with it. Not without a body, or at least some physical evidence. Where’s the apartment?”
“By Columbia.”
“That’s miles from Greenwich Street,” he said. “It’d take her half an hour to get down there.”
“She left just before ten,” Erin said. “Millhouse claims he killed his target at ten-thirty.”
“And we won’t have traffic cameras, security cams, or any other electronic surveillance to place either of them there,” he said heavily. “Do you know why she’d be that far south?”
“No idea, sir. But I’d like to put out a BOLO for her.”
“You think she’s dead.”
“But I might be wrong, and if she’s still alive, I’d like to talk to her about Millhouse.”
“Are you sure she’s not home? Sick or sleeping, maybe?”
“Vic and I checked the apartment.”
“Without a warrant?” Webb asked sharply.
“The department chair requested a wellness check,” she said. “At my prompting.”
Webb chuckled dryly. “Well played,” he said. “Did you happen to notice a daily planner while you were there? Any notebooks? A computer?”
“Without a warrant, we couldn’t go through her stuff,” Erin said. “You know that, sir.”
“Right.” Webb sighed. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. Where are you now?”
“Near the campus.”
“Any other leads on our self-confessed killer?”
“Afraid not, sir.”
“Then come on back to the Eightball. We’re still working through our pitiful little domestic terrorist cell. We’re done with Turner, but we’re still screening his housemates.”
“You think they had anything to do with it?”
“I don’t know, O’Reilly. That’s why we’re talking to them.” Webb said it slowly, as though spelling it out to a particularly slow student.
