Killer Heat

FORTY-THREE

Within an hour, Edenton had assembled four of his deputies and the county coroner on Wilson Rasheed's property. By the time they got there, Mike had used the tip of the sword to hook and retrieve more than a dozen articles of clothing and a cache of sex toys wrapped inside them that we presumed belonged to Amber Bristol.

Then Edenton led us down the mountain, stopping at his office so that Mike could call Lieutenant Peterson before we got on the road. Commissioner Scully, Peterson told Mike, had gone public that evening with a statement about Troy Rasheed's being sought as a "person of interest" in the murders of three women. The morning papers would lead with that story, by which time Peterson expected the superintendent at Kearny would be forced to give out the most current photograph taken of the now-homeless prisoner before his release.

Edenton accepted Peterson's offer to send an NYPD crime scene team familiar with the evidence in the earlier murder cases to process the bizarre little home and its surroundings. Rasheed's body would be removed to the morgue that night, the cabin would be secured by the deputies, tarps would cover the holes Mike had discovered, and a complete search of the property by experienced investigators would begin at daybreak.

I made my calls from the backseat of the car as we headed to the highway, fueled with fresh cups of coffee from the sheriff's kitchenette. I left a message for Frank Shea, telling him it was urgent I meet with him on Tuesday about Kiernan Dylan. And I gave a complete update to Tim Spindlis

Spineless giving you a hard time?" Mike asked. "Sounded like a cross-examination."

"Tim's trying to get himself up to speed. Battaglia's going to make a decision about whether to cut his vacation short and come back from England on Wednesday. I'm to be in Tim's office at two for a conference call-with all the facts, if not the suspect in tow."

"I didn't think this was an election year. I guess headlines is headlines and if you're the DA you gotta get 'em when you can. It isn't every day a serial killer rips through town. The PC has his mug in front of every camera, so I guess Battaglia wants to stick his great big Roman nose in, too."

"What are you going to do about Frank Shea?" Mercer asked. "He's not going to want to come to the table, Alex. Saturday night's fiasco with Kiernan, the closing of the bar, Jimmy Dylan's affair with Amber Bristol-and now it's all over the news that the bouncer at Ruffles is a sexual predator?"

I rubbed my eyes. "I'll think more clearly tomorrow. I've got to be able to convince Shea that we need Troy Rasheed's employment application-what name he used, what address he gave."

"Coop, we don't even know what the relationship is between Kiernan and Troy. Kiernan admitted to us that he cleaned out Amber's apartment himself. And now we find some of her things at Rasheed's father's house," Mike said. "If the Dylans have been paying him off the books, chances are they never bothered with the State Liquor Authority and a proper record check. I bet they just hoped that strong, scarylooking creep would show up at the right time every night to keep the rowdy twerps in line."

I remembered the look of disgust on Kiernan's face when he claimed to us he had thrown out some of Amber's "weird, freaky stuff." He and Rasheed appeared to have nothing in common on the surface, but something had linked them both to the deaths of two young women who disappeared on a single weekend in August.

The late hour and steady downpour seemed to lighten the traffic, and it was close to midnight when I saw the first signs for the George Washington Bridge. Mike was cruising at eighty now, southbound on the Jersey Turnpike.

"Aren't you taking the bridge?" It would be a faster way to get to my apartment than either of the tunnels that crossed into Midtown and Lower Manhattan.

"No backseat driving, Coop. We've got one more stop. That last java wired me up."

"Have mercy, man. Vickee's going to board me in the hound hotel before this case is over." Mercer tried to straighten out his arms, stretching to wake himself up, but there wasn't enough room in the car. "Where to?"

"It's summertime, isn't it? And you guys have hardly been to the beach."

"Slow down and let me out," I said. "I'd rather walk. I want to go home. Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to enjoy this?"

"Anything I offer you is better than going home to an empty bed. There'll be no pleasant dreams with that image of Mr. Rasheed dancing in your brain."

"I take it you're planning to rap on Jimmy Dylan's door," Mercer said. "You've got the address?"

"It's the one Kiernan gave me when I booked him."

"Seriously, Mike. I'm out of this car the minute you slow down. He's got a lawyer, damn it," I said.

"He's also got a father and lots of little siblings."

We had left the turnpike and were on the Goethals Bridge, about to cut across Staten Island and over the massive Verrazano to loop onto the Belt Parkway.

"Mike's not wrong," Mercer said, turning his head to talk to me. "Jimmy Dylan's got more problems than he can handle. You think he lost control at the squad the other night. He opens his paper tomorrow and reads that his boy is linked to a convicted rapist? To the murders of three women?"

"A convicted rapist who happens to be a black man? He'll thank me for coming to tell him myself."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Breezy Point is not only private, it's also lily-white. I don't think social diversity is Jimmy Dylan's strong suit."

"I'll be waiting in the car with you, Alex," Mercer said. "I'd probably be about as welcome as one of Wilson Rasheed's black bears."

Thirty-five minutes later, we went through the toll plaza on the Marine Parkway Bridge, the gateway to Rockaway Beach.

Mike drove slowly, pausing at each corner in the quiet community, looking for street names. There were small groups of teenagers walking along the roadway, talking and laughing, oblivious to the rain, and several locals out with their dogs. It was shortly after midnight and lights were still on in many of the homes.

We turned off at Beach 221st Street, near the Surf Club, and Mike looked for numbers on the houses.

"That's it," he said. "That big old rambling job, right on the water."

Three houses stood side by side, facing the ocean. Two of them were well lighted, upstairs and down, including the one in the middle of the cluster, to which Mike was pointing.

He got out of the car and walked down a path bordered by huge hydrangeas. I couldn't see or hear anything, but Mercer and I figured that when Mike didn't return he'd been admitted to the house.

"The water looks mighty rough," Mercer said, turning on the radio to check the track of the rainstorm that had been predicted for the next day. "Hope that damn thing blows out to sea instead of hitting us."

"They downgraded it from a hurricane, didn't they?"

"That's the last I heard."

We were talking through the case with each other when a screen door slammed on the back porch. Two girls who appeared to be teenagers came out together, and a man's voice called after them.

"Shauna? Damn it, girl, get back in here."

"I'm just walking Erin home, Dad. I'll be right back."

Mercer and I watched as they passed in front of our parked car. The one called Erin removed a joint from her pants pocket, lighted it, and then passed it to Shauna, who took a few drags before they resumed their walk.

They continued on their way until they were out of sight, but the distinctive sweet smell of the marijuana wafted through the car window in the heavy night air.

A few minutes later, Shauna came back down the street by herself, the hood of her rain jacket drawn tightly around her face. She stopped in the driveway behind her house for a few more tokes before going back in.

"Take a shot at her, Alex. You've got nothing to lose."

I hesitated for several seconds, then opened the car door. When I shut it behind me, the girl turned her head to check me out and threw her cigarette to the ground.

"Shauna Dylan?"

She didn't move, but she didn't answer either.

"Are you Shauna Dylan?"

"Yeah. And you're the police, aren't you?" She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and I could see that she had been crying.

"I'm not a cop. I'm with the DA's office. And yes, I'm here with Detective Chapman."

"Well, Kiernan's not home, if that's what you've come for."

"I'm glad to hear that, actually."

"Right," she said. She was steadying herself with the handrail on the steps, twisting her body to look at me, as though she was stoned or had been drinking too much. "You're totally full of shit. You've wrecked Kiernan's life, you know. You've wrecked his life over what? My father's mad as all hell at him, he won't let my mother come back from Ireland till all this stuff in the newspapers calms down, and everything they've both put into Ruffles will be gone. Completely gone."

She was crying now, reaching down with one hand to lower herself onto the top step of the porch, beneath the roof that shielded her from the rain. I took a couple of steps in her direction.

"Stay away from me, okay? I don't even have a family anymore. The detective thinks Kiernan's a murderer and now my mother's threatening to leave my father because she's so mortified about that-that whore. We're all sick over this, and Frank Shea won't even tell my dad where Kiernan's gone. Now I'm glad. I don't want him to come back here so you can try to make a fool out of him again."

Shauna pulled herself up to walk to the back door of the house.

"You reek of marijuana, Shauna. Unless your father doesn't mind that."

She stopped in place, swaying a bit from side to side. She sniffed a few times, first the air and then her hands. "You gonna lock me up, too? You gonna lock me up 'cause I'm wasted-'cause my whole family is falling apart?"

"I didn't want my friend to arrest your brother on Saturday. We had a big fight about it, too."

She eyed me warily now.

"We really didn't come here to talk to Kiernan tonight. Mike Chapman wanted to tell your father some things we found out today. About somebody else. About a man Kiernan knows who may have killed the three women who've disappeared."

Shauna smiled despite herself. "Like he wants to apologize, this detective?"

There was no need to tell her that Mike didn't view it quite that way.

"He wants to explain what's going on to your father," I said. "Would you mind sitting with me on the steps for a couple of minutes, till they're done? Let me get out of the rain?"

She sniffed her fingers again and then sat down beside me.

"How old are you, Shauna?"

"Nineteen. What's the difference?"

"What do you do?"

"I'm gonna be a sophomore at college. Going back next week, after Labor Day, if my father lets me with all this going on."

"Have you spent much time at Ruffles?" I asked.

"My father won't hear of it. I'd catch hell for it, 'cause of my age. The boys do it all right, but somehow it's different with my sisters and me."

I got it. Let everybody else's kids get loaded. Take their money and send them out into the night with any guy who'll pay the tab. But keep your own child out of harm's way.

"Are you and Kiernan close?"

"Sure we are. We're all close."

"I want you to tell him something, Shauna. I want you to-"

"I don't know where he is. None of us do."

"He's got a cell phone, hasn't he? Or you can tell Frank Shea to get a message to him."

She stared straight ahead, listening to me but not making any promises.

"He didn't kill those girls, Shauna. I know that and Detective Chapman knows that. We weren't sure about it on Saturday night, but we're certain now," I said. "You've got to tell him that before he does something foolish."

"Like what?"

Desperate people, Mike liked to remind me, did desperate things. "Like go to Ireland, where you've got family, instead of resolving these things with the police. Like hurt himself, even accidentally."

Shauna closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"When I asked you if you've spent any time at Ruffles, you told me your father doesn't let you go there. That's not exactly an answer to my question, is it?" I asked. "You've been there, haven't you?"

She looked away from me. "Do you know the guys who work there?"

She wouldn't even meet me halfway. "Charlie. You know Charlie, don't you?"

"Yeah." There was a slight inflection in her voice, as though she was surprised I knew the bartender's name.

"How about Troy?"

No answer.

"Have you met a guy named Troy, Shauna? He's one of the bouncers."

"That's how much you know. You cops think you know everything about Kiernan 'cause you went to Ruffles once. It's such a joke. There's nobody called Troy, okay?"

"He'd be new. Started this summer, maybe the end of July or the beginning of this month."

"You can tell my father I've been to Ruffles, okay? I don't care what he does to me. It can't get any worse than this. But I'm telling you I was at the bar last week, with my brother Danny and my friend Erin," Shauna said, pointing down the street. "There isn't any Troy. I'd know if there was."

"Did you see the picture of Kiernan in the paper this morning?" I said reluctantly, knowing the perp walk image would revive her hostility.

"Did I see it? Hello? I mean everyone we know saw it."

"There's a man standing behind Kiernan, over the shoulder of one of the detectives. He was working the door on Saturday night," I said. "He's in his forties, a tall black man with a thick scar on the side of his neck, and tattoos-tattoos with initials all up and down his arms."

Shauna was dripping with sarcasm now, pleased to show that she knew more than Mike and I did. "Why? The detective wants to apologize to him, too? For thinking he's Troy somebody or other? Well, he's not Troy. There is no Troy at Ruffles. His name is Wilson."

"Wilson." I thought of the body we had discovered tonight. Wilson Rasheed. "You've met him?"

"That's who my friends had to ask for to get in. I mean, I've seen him there the last couple of weeks. It's not like he's my buddy. Wilson and Hank. They're the guys on the door. You ask for them, you show them one of Kiernan's cards, and you get in."

"Wilson-that's his first name or last?"

"Now why would I know that? Just Wilson is all anybody called him."

A perfect alias to adopt, whether Troy's father was dead or alive when he first borrowed the name. Wilson was unlikely to come down from his cabin any time soon, had no way to be contacted by authorities while he was holed up, and had no criminal record if anyone were to do a name check.

"Tomorrow morning, Shauna, there'll be pictures of Wilson in the newspaper. Only his real name is Troy Rasheed, and he's the guy we're looking for. We just came from the place his father lives-his name was Wilson-and he's been killed, too."

The girl was listening now, looking at my face.

"You can wait till the morning and read it in the newspapers or check it out online, or you can believe what I'm telling you and try to call Frank Shea-or Kiernan-right now. We need Kiernan's help. We need any little bit of information he has about Troy-the complete name he was using, where he said he was living, whether he had access to a car of any kind, all-"

"What's in it for my brother?"

"I'm handling one of the murder cases. I can work a deal on the problems he's facing about Ruffles. I can probably-"

"Probably? Well, that really sucks. You expect Kiernan to help you and maybe you're going to do something for him? Maybe?"

"It's not entirely up to me, Shauna. There's a judge, of course," I said, and there was also the fact that I couldn't get a handle on why Kiernan Dylan had admitted cleaning out Amber Bristol's apartment. There'd be no guarantees until he explained that fact to us.

We both started at the sound of a door slamming. Mike was walking along the hydrangea-lined path toward the car, and from within the house I could hear Jimmy Dylan shouting. "Shauna? You upstairs already?"

"In a minute, Dad."

She got to her feet and I did, too. I took a card from the pocket of my pants and handed it to her. "Don't wait until morning, I'm begging you. Kiernan's best chance to help himself is in the next few hours, before everybody sees Troy's picture."

Shauna took the card with my cell number as well as my office phone and read my name aloud. "Alexandra Cooper."

"There's no reason for Kiernan to be protecting this guy. Troy's killed at least four people these last few weeks, including his own father. He's in too much of a frenzy to stop himself. It's likely to be someone just like you he'll hurt-a young woman with her whole life ahead of her."

"Now you're blaming Kiernan for protecting a man he hardly knows?" she said, stuck on my first sentence, turning toward the back door of the house. "That's so stupid."

"Kiernan told us about my victim, Shauna. Connected himself to her after she disappeared. If he's been covering something up for Troy Rasheed, it'll go better for him if he explains that to us sooner rather than later."

"You don't get it, Alexandra, do you?" Shauna Dylan said, pulling at the handle on the screen door as she burst into tears again. "You don't get why my whole family is broken up."

"I understand how painful it must be, how-"

"You understand nothing," Shauna said, letting the door close behind her and turning out the overhead light on the porch. "Kiernan thinks it's my father who killed that whore. Accused him of it when he came home from court yesterday. It's our own father he's been trying to protect.