She may be the face I can’t forget …
Her thoughts flashed images as the music played. Her father’s tie. The knot still tight around his neck. The glint of white bone in her father’s chest. And all those pretty sparkles of light on the blade as she tore it free from his chest, raised it and plunged it into his stomach, his neck, his face, his eyes, again and again and again …
She …
It had been planned. Of course, she had fantasized about it for many years. How good it would feel not just killing him, but ripping him to pieces. Destroying his body. Decimating it. And the thought occurred to her that all those other kills had merely been a rehearsal for the main event.
Practice.
At first, watching the light die in a victim’s eyes was exhilarating. Like watching a kind of transformation. Life to death. All of it at her hand. There was no remorse. No feeling of guilt.
Her mother had beaten that out of her, and her sister, at a young age. Mother had been a brilliant chess player and wanted her daughters to be better. In her younger years, Mother had watched the Folgar sisters take the game by storm, and wanted the same for her own daughters and began their chess education early. From the age of four, she had been made to sit in a room with the board in front of her, moving pieces while Mother looked on and taught her the classic techniques. How to watch the line formations, middle game strategies that quickly moved to mates. They would practice for hours. Every day. Separate from her sister. Mother never allowed them to play against one another, not even to practice. Practice was with Mother. And Mother never let her eat before afternoon practice. No lunch; the bowl of cereal or fruit for breakfast a far-off memory. She spent many hours in a little room, with Mother – confused, frightened, and hungry.
If Mother saw a mistake in strategy, or she took too long holding a piece, feeling the grooves in the polished wood, or trying to catch its scent, Mother would snatch the chubby, offending hand that had played the move, hold it aloft, and bite one of the fingers. She could still see it now. Her mother grabbing her by the wrist. It felt like her arm had been trapped in some terrible piece of machinery that would then slowly draw her hand into a buzz saw. Only this wasn’t a blade, but instead she saw her mother draw back her bright red lips to reveal two rows of perfect white teeth. Her fingers would tremble, and then – snap.
The bite hurt. It was punishment, not intended to draw blood. But to shock. To make sure that mistake never happened again. She wondered if all mothers were like this. Cold, unfeeling women with sharp teeth.
She always felt hungry playing chess. Mother said hunger helped the brain stay creative, alive. Every time she saw those teeth coming for her little finger, she felt sick, and hungry, and anticipated the pain, which was always worse than the bite itself.
She had learned from her mistakes.
She recalled the look on her dear sister’s face that day when Mother fell down the stairs. Her sister cried and cried until, finally, Father came home. Sister never got over it. It made her think that even with Mother biting and hitting both of them, and forcing them to play and read about chess for hours every day, there was still some part of Mother that her sister would miss. Some connection that had been forever broken.
Even now, years later, she could still hear her sister’s cries when she saw Mother’s body. Sister stood at the bottom of the stairs, that stupid toy rabbit in her hand, her knees locked together and a dark stain growing on her burgundy tights, spreading from her crotch, down both legs. Sister’s sobbing became so bad that it robbed her of her breath, that panicked, gasping, staccato crying.
Now, the bites and the beatings and the tears were all a memory. A part of her, something that had helped to shape her into the perfect creature she was today.
Tonight had been perfect. It looked messy, frenzied, and the body of dear Daddy had been left where it fell. A maniac kill.
That’s what it looked like. That’s what she had wanted it to look like. In truth, she had enjoyed it. Her kills were always controlled, and there was satisfaction in the execution, though nothing had compared to that first time. Not until tonight. She had really let go. Those impulses, which she held in check with willpower and meds – all of it had been unleashed on Daddy dearest. It felt like loosening a pressurized valve in her head – the relief was wonderful.
She had never before been connected to any of her crimes by law enforcement. Now she sat in a police precinct, facing a charge for a murder she had committed.
She was exactly where she wanted to be.
Where she had planned to be.
FOUR
EDDIE
Bukowski led me down a corridor with more of the same nicotine-covered tile. Behind us I heard a cop calling for the next legal team to go audition for their client. I slowed down because I wanted to see who was coming.
Theodore Levy and a young fair-haired kid followed a tall cop along the corridor. I’d come across Levy in the hallways of Center Street, but we’d never tried a case together. We were both defense lawyers, and Levy was at the high end. He worked for white-collar criminals who would pay a fortune for his services. Levy knew this case would catch the headlines, and he needed cases like this every once in a while to raise his profile. Getting your face on the front page for six months usually meant more work and you could add twenty percent to your hourly rate for the following year.
I kept walking, but let Levy catch up. At the end of the corridor Bukowski took a right and we went up two flights of stairs. Until a few years ago, there used to be four holding cells on this floor. The NYPD had dug out the old individual cells to make way for offices. The six-hundred-and-forty-pound iron doors that secured each cell had been ripped out. And they had gone missing. Cops or contractors. Who knew? But somebody made money in scrap metal and it sure as hell wasn’t the city. Now, as well as additional office space for the detective squad, there was a bank of five new interview rooms.
Only two were occupied. You could tell by the whiteboard in the middle of the doors, just below the single viewing panes. I resisted the urge to glance in at my client and waited for Levy.
‘Eddie Flynn, isn’t it? I’m Theodore Levy,’ he said, extending a hand.
We shook hands. Levy tucked his thumbs into his waistband and pulled his pants over his stomach. He had close-cut black hair, wore thick black-framed glasses behind which two large eager eyes moved over my body, head to toe, like he was an undertaker sizing me up for a coffin.
‘Good to meet you,’ I said.
‘Is it dress-down Friday?’ he said.
‘I’ll change before the arraignment. My clients don’t hire me for my wardrobe.’
‘Just as well. Say, you got the sister?’ he said. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘Do I need luck? You sound like you know something I don’t. I was wondering why half of Manhattan’s criminal bar was auditioning for your lady. Want to enlighten me why most of them want one sister over the other?’
‘Look, Sofia has had her problems. Anyone who knows Frank Avellino will tell you that. It’s common knowledge. Alexandra was his golden girl. She’s a face in Manhattan, and she’s a sure bet in this. Sofia is the crazy black sheep. This is only going to go one way. I think it would be a good idea for you to talk to Sofia about a plea bargain. Save us all a lot of time.’