Kiss Me, Kill Me

THIRTEEN

Suzanne risked Friday afternoon traffic and drove directly to Whitney Morrissey’s place from Hamden. The twenty-four-year-old lived in Brooklyn, in a warehouse that had been converted into artist studios, with two businesses on the ground floor: an insurance agency and a rental company.

She buzzed 3A, Whitney’s apartment, and waited. Then buzzed again. She had tried calling when she was driving, but there had been no answer. She hadn’t left a message.

“Yeah?” A scratchy voice came through the intercom.

“Whitney Morrissey?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Special Agent Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI and I have some questions regarding your cousin, Alanna Andrews.”

Dead silence. A good thirty seconds later, the door buzzed open and Suzanne entered. She walked up two flights of stairs to the third floor. Whitney stood in her doorway. She wore an oversized NYU T-shirt and had long bare legs. Thick blond hair fell halfway down her back in a tangle of wild curls.

“FBI?” Whitney asked.

Suzanne handed her a business card. “I have questions about the month your cousin lived here.”

“Here?” Whitney glanced behind her. Suzanne couldn’t see what or who she was looking at.

“Is that a problem?”

“I have a friend over.” She bit her lip.

“I also have questions about the party in October where Alanna was murdered.”

“Can we talk later?”

“No, we can’t.”

If the woman played hardball, Suzanne would have to get a warrant, and that took time and paperwork.

Suzanne despised paperwork.

Whitney sighed and shut her door, closing off her apartment. “You don’t mind talking out here?”

Suzanne shook her head. Whitney would be more forthcoming without an audience. “How many of the underground parties did you take Alanna to when she stayed with you that summer?”

“Two or three.”

“And did she meet anyone?”

Whitney looked at her as if she were an idiot. “They were big parties. I’m sure she met lots of people.”

Suzanne didn’t like this girl. “I should clarify. Did she meet anyone at any of the parties who she continued to see afterward?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me about anyone.”

“Were you at the October thirtieth party in Harlem? The Haunted House?”

She hesitated.

“I’d like to state that this is an active police investigation and if I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll keep digging until I hit the truth.”

Whitney curled her lip. “I showed up for a while, but left early.”

“How early?”

“Two.”

Two in the morning was early? “Did you see Alanna there?”

“Yeah. For just a minute. She was with a guy.”

“Anyone you know?”

She shook her head. “I’d seen him around, but I don’t know his name.”

“Were you at the Brooklyn party last weekend?”

“The one near the docks? I heard about it, but I didn’t go. I had an art show that weekend and needed to sleep.”

It had the ring of truth, but Suzanne made a note to follow up on it. “What kind of art?”

“Charcoal drawings, mostly. Some watercolors.”

“Would you mind showing me something?”

She looked skeptical. “Why?”

Suzanne shrugged. “Just curious.”

Whitney opened the door and walked away but didn’t let Suzanne in. Through the narrow opening she saw one large room with a wall of small-paned warehouse windows left over from the original building. The far wall had an intricate painting directly on the wall in black and greens that looked like a mosaic of the New York skyline. She couldn’t see anything on the right except for a closed door. The place smelled like paint cleaner with a faint undercurrent of marijuana. Now Suzanne understood why Whitney didn’t want her inside.

Whitney came back with a sketchbook and handed it to Suzanne, along with a postcard. “This was from my show. It was in Central Park.”

“I remember,” said Suzanne, surprised. “I was jogging through the park when they were setting up on Saturday morning.”

She glanced through the sketchbook, not really interested, just wanting something tangible to confirm that Whitney wasn’t making up the art show alibi. She couldn’t help but notice that Whitney had talent. Most of the drawings were faces, a few buildings, and New York landmarks.

“You’re really good.”

Whitney smiled sheepishly as she took the sketchbook back. “Thanks. But it’s hard to make money with these sketches. And the last thing I want to do is go into commercial art.”

“Sometimes you have to make a living doing what you don’t particularly like so you have the time and money to do what you love to do.”

“Exactly!” Whitney said. “Alanna and I weren’t really close, but I liked her and I feel bad about what happened. You don’t have any idea who killed her?”

Suzanne didn’t answer the question, but asked, “You’re an artist and have a good eye for detail. Would you mind looking at three pictures and telling me if you remember seeing any of these women?”

“You’re talking about the other victims.”

“Yes.”

Whitney nodded, but bit her lip.

“Did you see their photos in the paper?”

“Yeah—”

Suzanne took out the folder and showed her the pictures one by one. Whitney recognized them, Suzanne was certain of it, but she didn’t say anything right away.

“I may have seen them before, but I don’t know when or where. All three look kind of familiar, but I didn’t know them, like their names or anything. I’m sorry.”

“I have a favor to ask,” said Suzanne.

Whitney eyed her suspiciously.

“The guy you saw Alanna with the night she died, would you be able to draw him?”

“You think he killed her?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to talk to him.”

Whitney closed her eyes. A moment later she opened them and said, “Yeah, I think I can.”

“Call me when you’re done and I’ll pick it up. It’s important—the sooner you can do it, the better.”

Suzanne left Whitney’s apartment and called her office as she turned the car around. She verified that the autopsy report from Jessica Bell was on her desk, and that the blood and tissue samples had been sealed and sent via courier from the coroner to the FBI lab. If anything came from them, the chain of evidence had to be preserved or the court would throw all the material out. Everything was moving quickly on her end, but anytime they were dealing with lab work, speed wasn’t really an option, regardless of what the movies and television touted.

She was talking to her squad’s chief analyst when Vic Panetta called. “I’ll call you back,” she told Chris. She clicked over to Panetta. “Got a lead on a witness. A guy the first vic’s cousin saw with Andrews the night she was killed. We’re working on a sketch.”

“Good, but we have another problem. The security company overseeing the old printing warehouse in Brooklyn just called me about a prowler. Caucasian, six foot one to six foot two, dark hair, wearing jeans and a black jacket.”

“I’m still in Brooklyn; I’ll check it out.”

“The security guard, our ex-cop Rich Berenz, is on scene but he’s sitting back and watching. He’ll detain if the trespasser tries to leave.”

“Call him back and tell him my ETA is six minutes.”

She turned around again and headed straight for the warehouse.

Killers often returned to the scene of the crime to relive their sick thrills, and Suzanne hoped that was the case this time.