Viper

11

Greenwich Village, New York City 'No more Dr Seuss, not tonight,' insisted Nancy King, doing her best to look serious as Zack begged for another bedtime story.

She kissed him on the tip of his nose, then swung her legs off his bed in the spare room at his grandparents' home.

'Sleep well, baby, and I'll read you some more tomorrow.'

'Night, Mommy! I love you.'

'Love you too, honey.' Nancy blew a kiss from her hand as she reached the doorway but didn't turn out the light. Zack would no longer sleep in the dark. Not since his nightmares about Daddy's work and the Black River Killer.

Downstairs, her father Harry sliced a slab of beef while her mom added roast potatoes and vegetables to willow-patterned plates that Nancy had been eating off since she was Zack's age.

'You have any mustard?' Jack was rummaging among the dishes, glasses and bottles that filled their old mahogany dining table.

'French and English. Behind the gravy,' said his mother-in-law.

Nancy joined them. 'That little guy doesn't look too sleepy. We might have a visit in a few minutes.'

As they finally tucked into the food, Nancy and her folks spoon-fed nostalgia to each other and Jack's thoughts slipped to Luciano Creed.

Was Creed a bungling amateur profiler who'd wrongly mistaken runaway women for murder victims? Was he the jilted lover – or, more probably, the unwanted admirer – of Francesca Di Lauro – and was he obsessed with finding her? Or was he something even worse – was he right? Were there a number of unsolved disappearances that the police in Naples for some reason – scarce resources, lack of interest – hadn't properly investigated?

'Could you pass me the wine, honey?' Nancy pointed to a bottle of Brunello that had come from a vineyard less than ten kilometres from their home in Tuscany.

A further thought distracted Jack. He remembered working a case in Queens – a hospital porter had called in at a precinct house with a tip-off on where to find a murdered youth. Said he'd overheard two out-of-state youths talking about a murder while they ate in a burger bar. Cops had followed up and dug a thirty-year-old black man from beneath steel in an old warehouse. Eventually, the white porter turned out to be the killer. And the dead guy hadn't been his first black victim. He'd contacted the cops with the bogus story of the youths because he'd killed three times before and 'wasn't getting the recognition he'd deserved '. The world was full of weirdoes, and those who killed for fame sometimes went as far as injecting themselves into the heart of the inquiry.

Nancy tried again. This time waggling a wine glass in her fingers. 'Could you please pass me the wine, honey?'

'What? Yeah, sure.' Jack grabbed the bottle and poured its rich red liquid into the sparkling glass. 'Sorry.'

His wife smiled, but he was already far away again. Tomorrow morning he'd go and see Creed. There were questions he just couldn't leave unanswered.