Part 31 (1/2)

”So he has mommy issues,” Panetta said, obviously irritated.

”Everyone has mommy issues,” Lucy countered. ”I didn't say it was an excuse to kill.”

They left the small conference room and went next door. A one-way mirror showed Dennis Barnett with his attorney. Dennis was wide-eyed and curious. Maybe a bit scared, but more interested in the room. His attorney was older and dressed in a suit. He didn't look happy.

Lucy focused on Dennis. He was broad-shouldered and muscular. He had blue eyes and an inquisitive childlike gaze. He also fidgeted.

He turned around to look behind him, at the blank wall, and Lucy had a flash of recognition. She stopped Panetta from opening the door.

The detective looked at her, irritated. He hadn't liked her a.s.sessment, he was old-school-the ”psychobabble” wouldn't appeal to his investigative approach.

”Suzanne, where's the witness drawing?” Without waiting for her response, Lucy riffled through her file folders until she found a copy.

”It's him. His profile.”

Suzanne looked at the drawing, then at Dennis Barnett. ”I didn't see it at first, but I think you're right.”

Panetta walked over and frowned. ”I didn't see it either, but it's the profile. But everything is a bit exaggerated in the picture.”

Lucy agreed. ”He looks mean in the drawing, but not sitting in the room. He appears harmless now.”

”It was done from an older memory,” Suzanne said. ”Unless the witness views a lineup and identifies him, I don't think we'll be able to use it.”

Until now, Lucy hadn't believed that Dennis Barnett was guilty. She was certain that the killer was obsessed with Wade Barnett, either an ex-girlfriend or someone who knew him well, such as a secretary.

She was wrong. How many other things had she been wrong about? Why was she even here in the first place?

She sent Sean a message.

I was wrong. The man the witness drew with Alanna Andrews the night she was killed is Dennis Barnett.

Sean considered breaking into Charles Barnett's Brooklyn Heights penthouse apartment a challenge. It was a secure building with state-of-the-art locks, a doorman, and a security camera. But it was still just a place, and Sean had never yet been defeated by a building, or a computer system.

It took less than ten minutes to a.s.sess the best approach to breaching the twelve-story building, then one minute to bypa.s.s the electronic lock that led to the parking garage under the building.

He smiled as he drove his GT into the structure and parked in 12A, Charles Barnett's empty slot. He was in Europe, Wade Barnett was still at Rikers, and by now, the FBI would be interviewing Dennis Barnett. The apartment should be empty.

Once he was upstairs, Sean picked the lock of Barnett's apartment and slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. He had left his gun in his trunk-on the off chance that someone was living in Barnett's apartment, Sean might be able to talk himself out of an arrest for breaking and entering, but not if he was armed. Still, if his hunch was right, no one would be there.

He listened for any hint that someone was in the apartment, but it was dead silent. The place was tidy but not immaculate. There were a few gla.s.ses on the counter in the kitchen, the kitchen chairs weren't pushed in, and the cus.h.i.+ons on the couch weren't aligned. It didn't necessarily mean anything.

But even through the steady drizzle, Sean could see the Brooklyn Bridge outside the picture windows.

There were three bedrooms. One was small and appeared unused. The second had a hastily made bed, the dresser littered with coins and crumpled dollars. Sean went through the items and found a receipt from Abercrombie & Fitch for $310.07. The credit card was in the name of Dennis Barnett.

He'd brought the tag from Kirsten's s.h.i.+rt with him. It, too, was from Abercrombie & Fitch, and he compared the item number to the receipt.

Match.

Dennis had bought her two pairs of sweatpants, a sweater, two s.h.i.+rts, and four pairs of underwear. Sean searched the bedroom and found no other clothing from the receipt.

He then went to the master bedroom and knew this was where Kirsten had stayed for five days.

The bed had been stripped and made, but the dirty bloodstained sheets were in the hamper. b.l.o.o.d.y bandages were in the bathroom garbage, and supplies from a local pharmacy were spread out on the nightstand: gauze, bandage tape, topical antibiotics, pain relievers.

Sean went to the den and booted up the computer. He looked through the browser history and saw that Kirsten had definitely sent the message from this computer on Thursday morning.

He stared out the window as he put together the final pieces of the puzzle. Dennis Barnett had been caring for Kirsten here in this apartment. Why had he not taken her to the hospital when it was clear that she was very sick? Had she convinced him that someone was trying to kill her? Or had she gradually gotten worse, leaving him with no choice?

Did Wade Barnett know? And if he did, why hadn't he gone to the police or the hospital? What was he trying to hide?

Sean didn't have all the answers, but if Dennis Barnett had gone out of his way to bring Kirsten home from the party, nurse her, then leave her at the church when he couldn't care for her any longer, he didn't see how he could coldly kill five other young women.

He sent Lucy a message detailing what he'd found, letting her reach her own conclusions.

He saw her message about the man in the drawing being Dennis Barnett. What had the artist said? That she'd seen someone with Alanna the night she died. Dennis Barnett already admitted to being a driver to the parties that his brother attended; it didn't mean he'd killed Alanna.

Sean sat back down at Charles Barnett's computer and logged on to the secure RCK East server to access the Party Girl website that Patrick rebuilt. But Patrick had taken it one step further: He'd created an index of all content, including all registered users.

He scanned the list of registered users for any name that might be Wade Barnett. Most people used something familiar to them, something that was part of their personal ident.i.ty. He clicked through a couple of promising names; neither of them was Wade Barnett.

Then he found what he was looking for near the end of the alphabetical list.

YankeeFan00 He clicked through and smiled. While it didn't have Wade Barnett's photograph, it had two important pointers: He'd posted that he was a twenty-six-year-old preservationist from New York.

And among his friends were Erica Ripley, Heather Garcia, Jessica Bell, and Kirsten Benton, all under false names, but all with their real images.

He sent the data to Lucy and Suzanne, logged off the RCK site, and wiped memory of the visit from the computer while leaving all else intact, then left.

In his car, he called FBI agent Noah Armstrong. He and Noah didn't see eye to eye on everything, but Noah had vouched for him with Suzanne Madeaux.

He needed someone with the clout to get him into Rikers Island.

TWENTY-NINE.

After fifteen minutes of relatively softball questions, Dennis Barnett was becoming confused and agitated. Lucy didn't think it was because of guilt. Dennis had been eager to help at the beginning, but he didn't understand why the questions were about him.

Suzanne asked for the third time, ”And how did that make you feel when Wade's girlfriend called you a dumba.s.s?”

Dennis frowned. ”I'm slow, not stupid. You asked me that.”

”I'm trying to understand your feelings.”

”No you're not. You're trying to make me feel bad.”

Panetta said, ”Why would we want to make you feel bad? Unless you have something to feel bad about?”