The Halo Effect

36

Going to the police station where Noah Jordain worked wasn’t how I wanted to spend the rest of my afternoon, but I’d made a commitment to meet him and look over what he and his team had collected.

I found Detective Jordain in a big room with a large cork wall covered with a collage of photographs of the victims and evidence. The table that dominated the center of the room held piles of papers, videotape cassettes and more photographs.

Noah was standing, rifling through a stack of computer printouts when I got there. Hearing my footsteps, he turned, and then made no effort to hide his smile.

“Well, it’s certainly nicer to see you than another detective with more bad news.”

“I could have bad news.”

“It wouldn’t be as bad coming from you.” He pulled out two chairs. “Sit down. Do you want some coffee? It’s fresh. Made it myself. Have to. Boy, do most cops make bad coffee.”

“Sure, I’d love some.”

He poured me a cup. I asked him about his investigation, and as I listened to him describe the small progress made so far, I sipped the strong, bitter but surprisingly delicious coffee.

He was wearing a blue-and-black-striped shirt that made his blue eyes even more striking. But there were deeper shadows under them than there had been on Sunday night.

None of us were sleeping well anymore. Not Gil, not Noah, not me.

That was something to remember. The man involved in these crimes was probably not sleeping well anymore, either. He would be on a high from his rampage. Peaceful rest probably eluded him. I told Noah that and he made a note of it.

“But I don’t think that he’s getting a thrill from the murders,” I said. “These are not glory killings. If they were, he’d be doing more to alert the press. He’d be playing some games, making sure the bodies were discovered sooner so he’d get the attention from the crimes. That’s not what is going on here. He’s got some real need to kill these women.”

“Can you elaborate on that? What could his need be about?”

“He’s taking prostitutes and dressing them as nuns. Killing women and turning them into saintly figures. There has to be some personal scenario he’s acting out.”

“You still don’t think he’s a priest?”

“No. But I think he’s religious.”

“We agree there,” Noah said. “He has all the right accoutrements and accessories. The communion wafers, the unguent, the wine. He not only knows about the sacraments, he knows how to deliver them and he knows where to get them. One thing that has checked out is that everything he uses is authentic.”

“You mean he’s not using Necco wafers?”

Noah shook his head and got up to get more coffee. “You want more?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He sat down and jostled a pile of papers, looking for something. A photograph slipped out. A morgue shot of a woman-a hundred tiny pinpricks all over her body. I was sorry I’d seen it. I knew it would haunt me.

“Do you think the women are being offered up as sacrifices?” he asked, seeing me looking, staring, at the picture.

“Do you mean is he killing the women as some kind of offering to God?”

He nodded.

“No. I don’t think so. Do you?”

“Well, there’s nothing in the Catholic doctrine that would fit that.”

“What he’s doing is more transformative. It’s as if he’s trying to turn them into holy women.”

“Some misguided effort to save them?” Noah asked.

I shrugged. “That almost sounds right. Have you found any evidence that he has had sex with them?”

“No. Not before he’s killed them or after.”

I nodded. “The case is getting to you, isn’t it?”

“They all do. But this one is one of the worst.”

“You’d have to be made of steel for it not to.”

“I thought I was. I thought I could handle it.”

I leaned closer. He looked up. Away from the photographs. For a second neither of us said anything. His eyes were on mine and I held them. In the middle of the sad, sick pictures and proof of a man gone wild was this other man, one who was sane and caring.

“You’re a good man,” I said softly.

“Is that going to help me here?”

It was another one of those ambiguous comments. I couldn’t be sure whether he was referring to the case or to the attraction that seemed to be growing between us. But until I was sure he was feeling it, too, I wouldn’t acknowledge it. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to. What would I say? Making the first move was my style professionally, but not when it came to a man. It had been more than fourteen years since I’d had any dating experience. It wasn’t even that I was out of practice; I was unknowing.

I broke the gaze, picked up my coffee and sipped. “You know you shouldn’t drink too much of this. It’s very strong. No wonder you are not sleeping.”

“How do you know I’m not sleeping? Is that part of your psychiatric training? What did I say that gave me away?”

“Nothing. And no, it’s not my training, either. It’s the circles under your eyes.”

“I lie down, but I’m bombarded with all the unanswered questions.”

“I’ve had patients that keep me up at night, too. You keep running the facts and the suppositions and the ideas over and over in your mind, hoping that if you just keep examining them you’ll see the pattern. And that’s all you need. The beginning of one solid idea of how it all comes together.”

“Morgan, what is going to get this lunatic to stop?”

“Either he is going to find the magic he is looking for-which is unlikely-or you are going to have to stop him.”

From the expression of Noah’s face, it looked as if he thought the magic was a more likely scenario.

“I have to ask you something,” he said.

I nodded.

“It’s about the Diablo Cigar Bar-”

“I am not going to talk about Cleo,” I interrupted.

“I am not going to ask you to. I want to know about you. I want to know why you’re going there. What are you doing, Morgan?”

How did he know? It took only me a second to realize. It was how he’d known exactly when I’d arrived home the other night. “Are you having me followed?”

“For your own protection.”

“This consultation is over, Detective.” I stood up, and without saying another word, walked toward the door.

“Don’t. Don’t misinterpret it. I’m worried about you. You could be in the middle of something much more dangerous than you know if these two cases are connected. I just have someone making sure you’re okay, that’s all.”

I turned and looked back at him. “No, it’s not all. You’re smarter than that. You think there is a connection, don’t you? But you’re not telling me about it. You’re treating me like a novice who needs special handling.”

“I am treating you like someone who might be in danger. I don’t want anything to happen to you. How could I live with that on top of everything else that’s going on?”

“Cleo is my patient. This all matters more to me than it does to anyone in the fucking NYPD. She isn’t just a statistic, not just another missing person. This is a woman I sat across a room from for hours and hours and listened while she talked-opened up to me-about her secrets and her dreams and her problems. I watched her cry, Noah. Saw her wring her hands. What I do about trying to help her boyfriend find her is not something I need to be lectured about.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

I didn’t say anything. The last thing I had expected from him was such a sincere apology. Hell, I hadn’t expected any apology at all. But as unexpected as it was, something about it didn’t surprise me all that much.

“Will you sit down, please?” he asked.

“Will you call off your watchdogs?”

“No. I’m protecting you, Morgan. Not spying on you.”

“Then don’t ask me about why I’ve gone to the club.”

“I won’t ask you. But you know you should tell me. I’m no shrink, but I have eyes, too. And you look as tired as I do. And just as worried. And you even look a little guilty. But we’ll put that aside for now, okay?”

I nodded, not wanting to think too much about what he’d just said, neither the insight it exhibited nor the way his concern made me feel. No, now was not a good time to think about either of those things.

“One thing you can do for me,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Cleo wore a tiny diamond cross on her neck. Normally it wouldn’t be the kind of thing that would be easy to track down. Except it was made of pink diamonds, which are extremely expensive. I’m not sure…maybe it’s a long shot…but it’s a cross, Noah. Maybe you can find out what stores sell pink-diamond crosses. Maybe you can find out who bought one. Maybe there is a connection.”

It seemed, at least for the moment, that I’d succeeded in taking his mind off me. And mine off him.