The Nanny Murders Read online

  “His wife already did that.” “Funny.”

  “Not funny. Look where she ended up.” Susan folded her arms. “It’s where you’re going to end up that concerns me.”

  I picked up Molly’s jacket, lifted a limp arm, and gently stuffed it into a sleeve. She stirred, eyes fluttering. I kissed her. “Hi, Molly.”

  Susan kept talking. “Zoe. Give yourself a chance, will you? You haven’t looked at a man since Michael left.” “I have, too.”

  “Like who? That amateur magician?”

  I winced, remembering. His best trick had been vanishing. “I’ve been out lots of times—Dom, that insurance underwriter. And what’s his name—the one with the airplanes—he wore all that jewelry?”

  “As I was saying ...You haven’t looked at a man since Michael left. Everyone you’ve gone out with has given you yet another excuse for staying in your safe, controlled little world, all on your own. Okay, you’ve proved that you can manage on your own. That you’re strong and don’t need a man to survive. You’re a great mom and a marvelous success at teaching schizophrenics how to do macrame. We get it: Zoe Hayes can do it alone. Now, move on before it’s too late. Unless, of course, you want to be alone forever. Do you?” As usual, Susan had hit a nerve. “Okay. I see your point.” “Good. So give him a chance.”

  “I don’t know that he wants a. chance. The man has other things on his mind than his love life. Like, for example, catching a psycho.”

  “But that’s just my point. Life is a dangerous and full of predators. No one knows what’s coming, one minute to the next. That’s exactly why we all need somebody we can trust, depend on, and cuddle up with at night. People aren’t meant to be all alone, Zoe.”

  What could I say? Susan cared. I was touched. Meantime, while we were talking, Stiles had probably frozen to death. “Thanks, Susan. I mean it. I hear you. But I gotta go.”

  Molly floated zombie-like and semiconscious down the hall. I guided her to the front door, where Susan waited, three spare socks hanging over her shoulder.

  “Call me,” she commanded.

  “Yes, Mom.” I brushed cheeks with her, smelled magnolia.

  Susan tousled Molly’s hair and gave her a hug. Molly returned the hug and mumbled, “Thank you for having me,” like a polite sleepwalker. Frigid winds burst through the open door. The night howled, holding a murderer.

  I lifted Molly and carried her to the car, waving good-bye as Susan closed her door. Molly snuggled, dazed, against me as Stiles, half-smiling at her, pulled away and headed into darkness.

  NINETEEN

  OF COURSE, I COULDN’T SLEEP. I LAY IN BED, TOSSING, FRAGmented thoughts popping in my mind. The missing nannies’ faces, old Charlie’s hacking cough, the serial killer’s patterns. Snippets of conversations replayed themselves. Nick, saying the killer was local. Charlie, saying evil was close by. Susan, saying people weren’t meant to be alone, that I should “nab” Stiles.

  My head was overloaded; images splashed around in a pool of whatever liquor Manhattans are made of. Bourbon? Sweet vermouth? I didn’t know, didn’t care. If the killer was local, did I know him? Did he know me? Who could he be? Faces paraded by, too many too fast, making me dizzy. Stop it, I told myself. Calm down. The scent of Nick’s aftershave drifted in, drenching the parade.

  I closed my eyes, trying to let go and sink into sleep. Sleep, I told myself. Think tomorrow. But as I lay back, the room began to swim again, and I sat up waiting for the night to fade.

  I thought about Nick. As he’d walked Molly and me to our door, he’d squeezed my hand good night. His touch had been warm, gentle. Warmer and gentler, I thought, than necessary. Certainly more than a compulsory thanks-for-agreeing-to-work-on-the-case squeeze.

  This was crazy. What was I thinking about? This was a murder investigation, not a courtship. I wasn’t even his type. Was I? What was his type? I imagined a deranged woman holding a gun. What had she looked like, his wife? I cleared my throat, thinking about a dead wife, a man’s scar. And jealousy.

  Not the dead wife’s. Mine. I was, I admit it, suddenly very jealous. It was irrational, but I was jealous anyway. A woman had loved Nick Stiles desperately enough to kill him, enough to die rather than lose him. I was jealous of that kind of all-consuming, desperate, soul-searing love.

  By comparison, when my own marriage had fallen apart, I hadn’t felt anything. I hadn’t wanted to kill Michael. I’d simply wanted him to go away. Now, of course, when he’d told me he was remarrying, I’d been stunned. But that was because some woman would put up with him, not because I was jealous.

  But Nick Stiles’s wife had loved him enough to kill him and herself. She’d failed, but she’d marked him for life. He’d think of her every time he looked in the mirror. Every time someone noticed his scar. He’d never be free of her or her love. Not ever.

  And I’d managed to raise the topic of that love in our very first conversation. I’d asked him about his scar and brought his wife to mind. Hell, I’d invited her to our table.

  Hold it, I told myself—the shooting was eight years ago. He must have learned to live with it by now. Must have dated women. Might even have a girlfriend. I wondered what type she was. Great, I sounded like Tim. Which was worse, judging men by their cars or their women? My mind teased me, showing me Nick with various women, searching. And there she was: a self-possessed, leggy brunette, about thirty-five years old, intense, focused. Draped on Nick’s arm, as if she belonged there, balancing his rugged, damaged features with her confident charisma. Yup, she was his type. And she did not in the slightest resemble me. Actually, she was a dead ringer for Beverly Gardener.

  Ridiculous, I told myself. I was letting Susan’s comments get to me. Not all men would swoon over Beverly Gardener. Some would regard her merely as a single-minded, ambitious professional. A profiler. Certainly Nick would.

  Okay, then. I could forget about Beverly Gardener. The real question wasn’t about her; it was about me. Was I Nick’s type? I got up and, for the second time that day, stood at the mirror analyzing my features. How would I look paired with Stiles? My hair was dark, striped with gray strands. My face was almost, but not quite, exotic. The cheekbones were prominent, the nose definite. The eyes more almond-shaped than round. Looking closer, around the eyes, I saw the unmistakable engravings of time. Not just of time. Of experience. Of humor. Of wisdom. Clearly, this woman had more to offer than some ambitious, brainy brunette. Any man worth being with could see that.

  But if I had so much wisdom, why was I standing by the mirror examining myself? Nick Stiles and I had had one pleasant, personable, and mostly professional evening. That was all. True, there was good chemistry, but we were a long way from “nabbing” each other. We were still virtual strangers. More important, there was a killer to catch. Someone local. Someone I might know. Who might know me.

  I plopped back on my bed and pulled up the covers. When I closed my eyes, the leggy, confident brunette leaned against Nick Stiles and twined her arms around his neck. My face itched. I scratched my cheeks and tossed but finally gave up and went downstairs, wishing I had someone to talk to. Susan was right about one point: People weren’t meant to be alone, especially at night. I flipped on the television. A car blew up in some old detective show. I changed the channel. A televangelist made an appeal for money. I changed again. A woman ran out of a house, chased by a man with a gun. I clicked the set off, and the house was silent. The StairMaster, ever persevering, offered its companionship.

  “Forget it,” I said out loud. Great. I was talking to a machine. I sat down, glaring at it. It glared back, daring me to climb on, silently listing all the reasons I should, including Beverly Gardener’s legs. That did it. I flung an afghan over it and went into the kitchen.

  Dawn was still far off. Molly wouldn’t be up for hours. I yearned for morning. The newspaper, coffee, my daily routine. Traffic on the street. Grinding decaf, I gazed out the window. Victor’s house was completely dark, a shadow in the night. Construction vehic
les partly blocked my view, but there was a light in Charlie’s basement. I could see his shadow moving around down there, tinkering. Awake, like me.

  Phillip Woods’s Santa blinked on and off, beating at the darkness. I turned on the coffeemaker and waited, sniffing the rich aroma. It was strong and familiar, reassuring. I poured a mug and felt its steam on my face. Then, letting my mind wander toward exhaustion, I stared out the window at the frigid night. Crystalline ice still coated the trees, and the glazed streets were bleak and deserted. In the black intervals between flashes of the Santa, I watched the glow of Charlie’s window and sipped warm liquid through aching lips, until finally, sometime after three, I was able to drift off. I lingered, though, wavering between wakefulness and sleep, bothered by images of seduction and murder, while faces of missing women peppered my dreams.

  TWENTY

  THE NOISE WAS LOUD AND JANGLING, AND IT TOOK A WHILE for me to realize it was the phone.

  “Okay, I’ve relapsed. I’m crazy again. Make me a reservation at the Happy Home.” Susan sounded frantic.

  Damn, I thought. Here she goes again. Maybe I should refer her to someone, get her some medication.

  “Zoe, you won’t believe what happened—”

  Molly ran in and jumped onto my bed, giggling. “Mommy, are you ever going to get up?”

  “What?” I pulled Molly onto my bed and rolled her over for ahug.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Yes, I did. I can hear it in your voice. Get the hell up—it’s almost ten o’clock. I’ve already purchased a gun for Bonita, worked, come back, and had a nervous breakdown.”

  “I’m up. You got the gun?”

  “Not yet. It takes a few days. This isn’t about the gun.”

  “So what happened?” Molly lay on her stomach beside me, watching me talk.

  “I was in the Roundhouse this morning about that Drews case—you know, that robbery-homicide—and who do I bump into? My buddies Pete and Ed. And some new guy named Stiles.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. For real. I met him.” “Did he know who you were?”

  “He said sort of cryptically that he’d heard of me, so I guess he made the connection.” “And?”

  “And he’s very . . . intriguing. Too bad about that scar. Imagine what he looked like before he got shot.”

  I couldn’t. Didn’t want to. “So what happened? Please tell me you didn’t—”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything that would embarrass you.” “You swear?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t even directly mention you, except—” “Except?”

  “Except I asked if there was any news about your finger—” “Oh, great. Now he’ll think—”

  “Wait a second—hear me out. Stiles looks me over like I’m nuts and says, ‘You must mean the finger found in Washington Square.’ I said no, I meant the first finger. The one Zoe Hayes found. And he said he knew nothing about anyone finding another finger.”

  “Wait—he said what?”

  She repeated herself, doing a not bad impression of Nick. “Believe me, I was tempted to show him another finger—”

  “But why would he say that? He knows you know about it.”

  “Dunno. Maybe he didn’t want to discuss it. He doesn’t really know me, after all.”

  “But he knows who you are—he sat in front of your house last night. And what about Ed and Pete—they know you—”

  Molly whispered, “Get off the phone, Mommy. Please? I’m bored.” She played with her loose tooth.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. I’m one of the guys down there. Cops don’t like my clients, but they like me. And they need me. I’m part of the network—it’s give and take in that asylum. But the message Stiles gave me is that your finger is not public knowledge, not to be discussed with ‘civilians,’ even me. It’s a full-blown, official nonevent.”

  “Come on, Mommy,” Molly whined. “You’ve been in bed all day.”

  I squeezed her and whispered, “In a minute.”

  “So I backed off. Not five minutes later, guess what? I overheard Stiles and a couple of the guys talking, so I pretended to be on the phone, but really it was a busy signal—”

  Molly sat up and pouted.

  “And,” Susan’s voice descended an octave, almost to a whisper, “I heard him talking about trying to contain the press, not to release everything.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “The cops? Mostly to sort out false confessions—” “You mean someone’s confessed?”

  “Not just someone. Probably a busload of people have confessed already. Crimes like this generally bring out wackos who want to be in the spotlight. So the cops usually hold back some of the evidence, to see who knows about it. That’s standard procedure. But listen to what they’re holding back. A body. An actual body.”

  “What? They found someone?”

  “I heard Stiles say they think they’ve found one. Right near you, on Lombard.”

  I sat up. “Wait. ‘Think’ they’ve found? What does that mean? That she’s dead but not identified?”

  “Who’s dead, Mommy?”

  “Shh, Molly. I’m on the phone.”

  “Who’s dead?” she repeated. “Is it Tamara?”

  “Don’t worry—I don’t know who it is,” I whispered. Molly sighed.

  Susan was still talking. “. . . means that the police weren’t sure yet exactly what they’d found. The press hasn’t even been told yet—it’s hush-hush. But they can’t keep it quiet for long. It’s bound to hit the news any minute—”

  “Wait, what?” I wasn’t following, must have missed part of what she’d said.

  Molly tugged at the comforter. “What are we going to do today, Mommy? Can we go somewhere fun?”

  Again, her voice drowned out the beginning of Susan’s, but I heard, “. . . by a garbage man on Lombard Street. The bag stank. It was full of body parts. Small pieces. They have to assemble them.”

  “Get off, Mommy. Puh-leeeeze.”

  I heard the thud of flesh landing in a plastic bag. Susan was still talking, her words blending into a buzz as I envisioned Tamara, her bloodless face and matted hair, her eyes disappointed in death. I closed my eyes. It made no sense. A finger in the park. Body parts in a trash bag. Why? And why nannies? Why babysitters?

  Chilled, I glanced out the bedroom window. Charlie was nowhere in sight. But he’d been right. Evil was prowling the city, wearing a disguise. Mailman, fireman, taxi driver, cop. The killer could be anyone, anywhere. He had been here, leaving a memento on our walk.

  “Ow, Mommy—let go!” Molly squirmed, detaching my hand from her arm. Until then, I hadn’t realized that I’d been squeezing it. The phone call left me jangled. I didn’t want to be jangled. Didn’t want to think about dismembered bodies or secret fingers or missing nannies or men who lied. I wanted peace. I wanted calm. I wanted explanations from Nick.

  Who was Nick, anyway? Could I trust him? I could understand him not telling me about his wife; he hardly knew me, and those memories were painful and private. But what about the finger? Why, especially when she knew about it already, had he pretended to Susan that no finger had been found at my door? Even if he didn’t want the press to jump on the story, why hadn’t he told me—someone supposedly helping him—the truth about something so significant as finding a body? Deliberate omission was the same as lying, wasn’t it?

  I told myself not to jump to conclusions. I’d ask him about the finger and the body; I’d hear him out before reacting. He’d have perfectly reasonable explanations. Probably.

  Meantime, I wouldn’t dwell on it. I’d go about my business. Molly and I made a pot of chicken soup. Well, we didn’t actually make it. We started with canned broth and added carrots, celery, noodles, onion, and chunks of cooked chicken. When it tasted like soup, we poured it into containers and delivered it across the street in time for lunch. First, we left one at Victor’s, rin
ging the bell to make sure he’d find it. Then we took one to Charlie’s. He opened his door, exhausted and bleary-eyed.

  “I sweated all night, miss,” he said. “I saw a demon come through the wall, heard hell banging and buzzing, but I finally got the spell out of me. It was a spell, too, inside my head—”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Charlie. Careful, the container’s real full.”

  “Thank you, miss. I appreciate this.” He took hold of the jar. “Remember what I said, though. Evil’s all around—you be careful. I know what I’m saying—I’ve seen things—”

  “Don’t worry, Charlie. Get some rest and feel better.” I took Molly by the hand and escaped before he could launch a diatribe.

  “What was Charlie talking about?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I told her. “Sometimes high fever makes people imagine things. It’s like having a bad dream that seems real.”

  She nodded knowingly. “I’ve had those.”

  I squeezed her hand. So had I.

  Saturday passed without news of further disappearances, but the nannies were still on everyone’s minds. For the first time in days, I watched the early news on television. While the anchorwoman talked about the nanny case, a tips hotline phone number rolled along the bottom of the screen. The anchor said that so far over two hundred people had called in with tips and that the police were sorting through them, one by one. The screen showed a crisis center on South Street that had been opened to help locals deal with the stress caused by the case. Then the anchor discussed the ongoing investigation, mentioning the profile by an expert forensic psychologist. In the next shot, Beverly Gardener was standing close beside Nick Stiles, surrounded by a ring of handheld microphones.

  “Dr. Gardener’s profile has been invaluable. It’s catapulted our investigation forward,” Nick said.

  Someone asked, “Detective Stiles, is it true that several people have confessed to being the Nannynapper?”