22

MEGAN STOOD in the drizzle at the base of the Obelisk and read the translation of the inscribed plaques.

Ramesses, Beloved-of-Amun, who came forth

from the womb in order to receive the crowns

of Ra, who created him to be sole lord the

Lord of the Two Lands…

Okay, she thought. So we’re looking for Ramesses, beloved of Amun. This’ll be a piece of cake.

The roof of the museum was visible beyond the trees. Megan’s dulled mind whirred. The rooftop garden. Mount an infrared camera. Bastard tries for number three, we nail him. She looked over at the sheet-covered body, and the bile rose in her throat. The canopy had been set up to protect the immediate crime scene from any additional rain intrusion. The scene’s likeness to a funeral was unavoidable. The body, the canopy, the world’s tallest gravestone. Megan’s new partner, Ryan Pope-a decent stand-in for the priest-was standing near the edge of the canopy, looking up at the tip of the Needle.

Megan wanted to crawl into a hole and gather the loose dirt in behind her.

A uniformed cop made his way to her. Raindrops beaded like balls of mercury on the protective plastic of his cap. “Found something you’ll want to see.”

“Show me.”

She followed the policeman down the slight slope north of the monument. A copse of cherry trees stood at the base of the slope, some twenty feet from the roadway. Another uniformed cop was crouched in an area where the branches of several trees created a low canopy.

“We found tracks,” the cop said.

“Tire tracks?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Megan gave the officer a sharp look. Old women were ma’ams. Old women and southerners. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Tell me about your tire tracks.”

He pointed toward the roadway. “They come in over the curb. Looks like they stop where my partner is.”

Megan nodded. “You mean where your partner is tromping all over the wet ground?”

“No, ma’am. John’s the one who spotted the tracks right where he’s squatting. He hasn’t moved.”

She looked at the cop again to make sure he wasn’t being a wise guy. “Tell your partner to stay where he is. I’ll send down the photographer. Make sure he gets everything.”

“If we’re lucky, we might get some footprints leading up to the body.”

“If we’re lucky, I’ll buy your partner a cigar.”

“John doesn’t smoke, ma’am.”

Megan started to respond, then changed her mind. She retraced her steps up the slope and directed the crime-scene photographer to go shoot the tracks. Pope asked her, “What’ve you got?”

“Possibility our package was delivered by car. There’s a clump of trees down there just off the road. At night you could pull in there, your car’d be fairly hidden.”

“No evidence last time of a car.”

“The last time he also didn’t have a hammer and nail ready, either. Not to mention the knife to cut open her throat.”

“He’s refining his method.”

Megan shrugged. “Using more hardware. That’s not necessarily refining.”

The ambulance had arrived to transport the body to the medical examiner’s office. Megan asked that the area beneath the canopy be cleared. At a signal from her, Ryan Pope pulled the sheet back from the victim’s face, paused, then removed it altogether. He stepped back as Megan came forward for a final look.

The body was splayed on the ground on her back. The woman was petite. Maybe five-one. Long blond hair, clumps of which were saturated with blood. Her slender neck was a mess, the blood in the wound more black than red. Like a mass of insects, Megan thought. The victim appeared to have suffered several blows to the left side of her head, just above her ear. Her right arm was stretched out above her head, a pair of handcuffs attached to the wrist. Her left hand was resting on her chest, held in place by what looked to be a nail, hammered dead center.

“Who’d you piss off, cutie?”

Megan’s words were so soft they were barely discernible to Pope. She squatted next to the victim’s head and forced herself to gaze at the face. Perfect skin. White as wax. The large brown eyes were open, staring up at the underside of the canopy. Mascara ran from them like dark, blurred tears. A dozen sentiments crowded onto Megan’s tongue, but she forced them all to retreat. The revolving light of the silent ambulance was playing off the victim’s face, lending the illusion that there was some slight movement there. Megan closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer. Not so Pope could see, her hand dropped and she let her fingers trail lightly along the victim’s wrist.

IT WAS LESS than an hour after getting back from the park that Megan overheard Brian McKinney starting in on Nicole Rossman. He was cracking a can of Pepsi at the door of the so-called lounge.

“I hear we’ve got someone slashing blow-up dolls out in the park.”

He was talking to Ryan Pope, but his comment was aimed for as large an audience as could hear him, Megan being the prime target. To say nothing in response was to hand him a simple victory. To bother responding was doing the same thing. Lose, lose. Story of her life these days.

Megan said, “Better go check your locker, Brian. See if your doll is missing.”

McKinney gave a deliberately slow reaction, a world-class lousy show of surprise. “Why, it is missing, Detective. But I thought you said you were going to return it last night after you were finished with it.”

Calm, Megan thought. Inhale, exhale. McKinney went on, “I hear you caught yourself a real silicone special over at the Needle. Jackson ’s promised to share some of the shots he took on the scene. Bodacious. He swears he saw a pair just like them at Hooters the other night.”

“Does your mother know you’re this cute?”

McKinney leveled a finger at her. “Hey now, Lamby. Don’t go bringing my dear mother into this.”

“The victim was somebody’s daughter, Brian. It might not hurt to keep that in mind.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Thank you for reminding me, sir.”

Pope shot Megan a sympathetic look. She nodded tersely at the both of them and headed down the corridor toward Gallo’s office. As she rounded the corner, she heard McKinney ’s deliberate stage whisper: “Shake it now, Lamby chops.”

Gallo was at his desk, reading the medical examiner’s preliminary report. He looked up as Megan entered his office. “I’m looking at a number here, Megan. You want to give me a name?”

Megan dropped into the chair in front of Gallo’s desk. “Nicole Vanessa Rossman. Friends called her Nikki. Twenty-four. Single. Employed at the Tigress fragrance counter at Bloomingdale’s. Lived in a rental in Tribeca.”

“Says here there’s evidence of recent sexual activity. Quote, not gentle, unquote. Do we think she was raped?”

“Nothing at the scene takes us in either direction. If it was rape, the panties went back on before the gentleman moved on to his next order of business.”

“Cynthia Blair wasn’t raped.”

“That’s correct. However, both women were left at the base of a fairly obvious phallic symbol.”

Gallo’s eyebrows raised. “I hadn’t thought of that. They didn’t have cigars in their hands, too, by any chance, did they?”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Sorry. It’s just not something I’d have thought of right away.”

“Blame it on my therapy.”

Gallo ran his hand lightly over his hair. “Okay. First thing’s obvious.”

“Who was she seeing?”

“Right. Boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Wanna-be boyfriend. Next-door neighbor with a peephole drilled into the wall.”

“It should be so easy.”

“And the other thing,” Gallo said. “Probably more important. The connection between Rossman and Blair. Were they friends? Did they frequent the same restaurants or bars or clubs? Maybe the same health club. What was it you said Nikki Rossman did? Sold perfume at Bloomingdale’s? See if Cynthia Blair had any of that perfume at her place. Somebody knew the two of them. That’s the triangulation we’ve got to make. We know we’re not talking about a copycat here. We haven’t released the information about Cynthia Blair’s hand being affixed to her chest.”