Split (Chapter-13)

Ian left as the forensic team began to process the crime scene--his third in less than a week--and drove up to the Coven Café to get some food. Sergeant Niklaus agreed to take down Barry Gottlieb’s statement. Ian would be able to read it later, along with the forensic report, but if he pushed himself much further without food, his would be the next corpse the cops found.

Angelica had finished with her last client and was reading a hand-written list of specials when he came through the doorway. A heady mixture of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves perfumed the air. He began to salivate even before he took a seat.

“What looks good tonight?” he asked, pulling out a chair at her fortunetelling table.

“I think I’m going to try the lamb tagine. It’s a Moroccan stew.” She smiled up at him.

“Is that what I’m smelling?” He took another deep whiff.

She laughed and pointed at him. “You look just like Hawk.” Angelica’s German shepherd had a nose that couldn’t be beat. He had sniffed out more than one bad guy, and saved Angelica's life on numerous occasions.

When Vivian came around to take their order, Ian opted for the lamb tagine, too, along with a basket of Middle Eastern flatbread. Angelica ordered some hummus so they’d have something to dip the bread in while they waited for their entrées. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company twice in one day?” she asked.

“You may not believe this, but after I left here this afternoon, I discovered another body.” He took a sip of his water.

“Holy shit." She paused, her water glass hovering halfway to her mouth. "What’s the latest body count?”

“For the week, the tally is now up to three.” He didn't think she wanted the total for the year, which was definitely the highest crime rate the tiny town of Nyack had ever seen.

Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead. “Do you have anything tying them together?”

“The first one, Gail Hunter, was hit by a car in the alley next to Pickwick on Sunday night. Beth Strauss, the lawyer, was poisoned by some herbal tea on Monday night. And we just found Ann Gottlieb at the bottom of her staircase. At first glance, all three of these deaths look like they could be accidental. But my gut tells me they’re connected.”

“Okay, all three are women. That’s a link. Were they the same age?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, pretty close. All in their fifties. And two of them were in the Sunday night yoga class at Healing Light.”

Angelica frowned. “So those two may have been friends. But no link with the third woman?”

“Beth Strauss had a sweater that looked very similar to the one Gail Hunter was wearing when she died.” Ian shrugged and reached for the breadbasket Vivian deposited on their table. “Pretty weak link.”

“Is it possible someone meant to kill Beth Strauss that night, but hit Gail Hunter instead because she was wearing that sweater?” Angelica wondered aloud.

“Like a case of mistaken identity?” Ian doubted it. The body types of the two women were too different, for starters. “Gail Hunter had a neon orange windbreaker over the sweater, so I don’t think so.”

“A serial killer targeting middle-aged women?” Angelica swiped a triangle of pita bread through the hummus.

“I guess it's possible. But let me ask you, do you think someone could accidentally mix yew leaves into an herbal tea blend, along with rosemary?”

Angelica shook her head. “I can’t see how. Yew doesn’t resemble an herb. Someone would have to be very stupid to harvest its needles without checking to make sure they were safe.”

Vivian delivered two large, steaming bowls to their table, refilled their water glasses, and bustled off without a word.

“What’s really weird is that I was on the phone with Ann Gottlieb this morning. She called me to tell me something. The doorbell rang, so she said she’d call me back, but she never did. I think she might have let her killer in.” Ian scooped up a chunk of succulent lamb.

“Did it sound like she knew the person at the door?” Angelica asked, her mouth already full.

“I couldn’t really tell. I just assumed it was a delivery or something like that. But here’s another thought I had: the first two killings were somewhat remote. It’s even possible the poisoning was supposed to be the first death, because the lawyer might have had that poisoned tea for a while before brewing a cup. And hitting someone with a car is pretty grim, but a lot less intimate than stabbing, for example.”

“But you think this woman today was pushed down the stairs. So the killer might be getting more courageous?”

Ian thought about the scene at Ann Gottlieb’s house as he shoveled up heaping forkfuls of the tagine. “Ann, the one who fell down the stairs, was a large woman. Easily about five nine. And I think she was hit in the head.”

“So we’re not talking about a small killer. Just an inexperienced one. Somebody new to the sport, just learning the ropes.”

Ian grinned at her. “This stuff comes naturally to you. You ever think about quitting your day job and joining the force?”

She laughed. “Believe it or not, I’m better at reading cards.”

Ian wiped his mouth. “I know you are. And I’m really grateful for your help today.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “I’ve made a mess of things between us lately.”

“You’ve got a lot to process.” She said, kindly, and reached for his hand. “You’re lucky I’m a patient woman.”

“More like a mental patient woman,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

Instead of taking his hand, she smacked it.

Vivian chose this moment to interrupt them with an offer of dessert.

Ian stood, peeled a few bills from his wallet, and slid them under his empty plate. “Not for me. I’ve gotta run. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

As he left, he heard Angelica ordering the sour cream apple pie and felt a brief tug of regret.

Back at the station, Ian skimmed through the latest paperwork to appear on his desk. The sergeant had left a copy of Barry Gottlieb’s statement.

Nothing jumped out at him as a motive for murder. The couple had been married just under four years, a second marriage for both of them, no children on either side, no financial worries. Barry worked in the city as an engineer and had been in meetings for the morning hours. Ian didn’t peg him for a killer.

If these three deaths were in fact murders, he’d have a hell of a time manufacturing a motive that might fit for all three. Everyone agreed that Gail Hunter had been a know-it-all, but the only person he figured would benefit from her death was her daughter, Cheryl. Beth Strauss was also divorced, but had no children and lived with her mother. He couldn’t see any motive there. Ann had no children, just a very broken up husband. It didn’t appear that the motive for either Beth’s or Ann’s death could be monetary gain.

Was it possible these three women were involved in something else? Something clandestine? Drugs? Prostitution? Harvesting organs? The white slave trade?

Absolutely no evidence of anything illegal had been found anywhere in their homes or offices. No drugs, no weapons, no wads of cash, no underage girls, no coolers filled with fresh human hearts.

He was grasping at straws. Because he had nothing.

The means to commit these crimes were easy to come by: almost everyone on his list of suspects had a car that could have rammed Gail Hunter. Anyone could have rented a sedan to do the deed. Yew leaves were apparently prevalent, though he had yet to discover a garden that contained even one bush. And he couldn’t for the life of him remember where he had seen a brass bowl like the one on Ann Gottlieb’s floor. But even if he had seen a bowl like it before, so what? Maybe they were in fashion at the moment.

Opportunity also led him nowhere. Anyone could have been waiting in the dark parking lot for Gail Hunter to finish her yoga class. Anyone could have given Beth Strauss a deadly gift of yew tea and waited hours, days, weeks, or even months for her to brew a cup and keel over. Maybe if he had rushed right over to Ann’s home, the second he heard that doorbell buzz, he could have caught her killer in the act.

But he hadn’t.

The clues were leading him nowhere. He had no idea what he was doing. And women were dropping like flies.

His wife, meanwhile, was enjoying the company of strange men in a rehab facility while claiming to receive the blessing of the Lord. He wasn’t sure which of the twelve steps involved bedding the bearded guy in group therapy.

Bleary-eyed, Ian closed the file. He had made absolutely no progress, but he was done for the day.