In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,81

manner he did because he enjoyed the brutal attack or the display of blood. He simply needed the murder scene to fit the Fromley prototype.” I paused to look at Alistair. “The positive side of this, I suppose, is that we have less cause to worry the real murderer will kill again.”

“It’s true that he has killed for a different reason,” Alistair said, thinking aloud, “but what troubles me is that he has involved himself so closely in our investigation. He monitors us—and that implies he has concerns that are unsettled. Killing Sarah may not have resolved his problems in the way that he hoped.”

“Or possibly our investigation is creating new ones,” I said, adding, “I’m sure he counted on our not discovering Fromley’s body for some time.”

“The real killer is unlikely to know we found Fromley’s body,” Alistair said thoughtfully. “That may give us some time. I am concerned he may react poorly when he discovers his best laid plans to frame Fromley have not worked.”

Alistair and Isabella both looked uneasy. “React poorly, how?” I asked. I felt as though they had noticed something I had not.

“You’re going to say this is like the Sid Jones case, aren’t you, Alistair?” Isabella looked worried.

“Well, similar,” he acknowledged. “Especially in this one last point.” Alistair’s voice was suddenly cautious. “A person for whom this degree of control is paramount sometimes also manifests that control by keeping close tabs on the investigation. That was the case in the Jones matter Isabella just mentioned. Jones had murdered someone, and he posed as a news photographer covering the case—simply so he could stay abreast of the investigation. And the closer the authorities came to discovering him, the more he panicked, and the more violent he became. So we must be alert to anyone who takes . . . well, what we might characterize as an undue interest in our work.”

Now I was confused. “But we’ve had no real news coverage of the case until yesterday. You suspect one of the reporters who approached you?”

“No,” Alistair said, and his disappointed frown made it clear I had missed his point. “I mentioned the Sid Jones case only as an example. Control and interest can take many forms. In one case, the killer pretended to be a police officer—and proceeded to interview every witness in the case. But in our case, the killer’s interest is evidenced in the attack he orchestrated against you as well as the package he sent to Isabella. The real killer meant not only to mislead us, but also to taunt us and revel in his ability to frustrate us.”

Alistair paused, and something about the way he was obviously holding something back caused a chill to run down my spine and I involuntarily shuddered. “So how does your point about the killer’s possible interest in our investigation help us to find him?”

Alistair’s answer did not reassure me. “You are too pragmatic, Ziele,” he said. He smiled at first, but then his tone became ominously sober. “I mention this last point not because I believe it may further our investigation. I mention it to warn you, both of you”—here he looked sternly at Isabella—“to be extremely careful. It is likely—in fact, it is almost certain—that our actions are being monitored. And it may be by someone closer to our investigation than we might imagine.”

CHAPTER 22

“You’re a tough man to track down these days.” My old partner Mulvaney had managed to locate me at Alistair’s apartment late Saturday morning, after telephoning several other places without success. “Joe says this investigation practically has you living in the city again.”

It was true. All leads pointed here, and Joe was managing everything in Dobson from his sickbed. Not that there was much to manage in Dobson. No substantive leads had materialized there, and both the mayor and the public were less worried by the murder. The victim, after all, had been a visitor—not quite one of their own.

This morning, Mulvaney had run across two additional leads to pass along. First, Otto Schmidt, the vagrant who had robbed Sarah Wingate, had been found begging for change outside an East Side saloon, too drunk to be coherent. The police would hold him until he sobered up and could be questioned. Mulvaney’s other news held even more promise: some items, potentially linked to the Wingate murder, had been found overnight in the trash at Grand Central Station. A janitor there had discovered a carpetbag containing a bloodstained lead pipe bundled with