Part 33 (1/2)

”Charcoal was in the lungs of the first victim. Charcoal and gum.” Lucy pulled out her phone and did a quick search. Suzanne rose from her chair and paced, her hands rubbing the back of her neck. ”Gum is a component of charcoal pencils used for drawings.”

”That's it,” Suzanne said. ”That's the personal connection. I didn't see it before, but it makes complete sense. The final piece of the puzzle.”

”What is?” Panetta asked.

”That drawing-the artist is Whitney Morrissey. She was at the Haunted House party in Harlem. She's Alanna Andrews's cousin.”

”Hold it,” Panetta said. ”Are you saying a woman killed these girls?”

Lucy nodded. ”It fits everything I said before.”

”But what you said also fits Dennis Barnett.”

”Yes, but he wasn't jealous of Wade's girlfriends. He cared about Alanna in particular, and he saved Kirsten. Go ask him about Whitney.”

Suzanne walked into holding and saw Dennis Barnett in the corner, terrified. She told the guard to get him out.

He leaned toward her and said, ”I don't like it here.”

”I have one more question. Do you know Whitney Morrissey?”

Dennis wrinkled his nose. ”Yes.”

”How?”

”She's one of Wade's girlfriends. She doesn't like me.”

”Is your brother still dating her?”

”No. Wade heard her say mean things about me. He broke up with her. Then he met Alanna and was happy.”

”Did Whitney do anything to Wade? Threaten him?”

Dennis shook his head. ”She told him she was going to kill herself. But she didn't. She called him all the time. He changed his number. Then she came to Charlie's apartment for Wade's birthday in September and made Charlie so mad that he took away the CJB grant he'd given her.”

”Grant?”

”For art. Charlie says 'cause we have a lot of money we need to give a lot of it away. I never knew our dad because I was a baby when he died, but he loved art so Charlie gives money to artists.”

Dennis glanced back at the holding cell. ”Please don't make me go back in there.”

”You don't have to. I'm going to have a police officer take you home. But Dennis, no matter what, don't leave your house until you hear from me, okay?”

He crossed his heart with his index finger. ”I promise.”

THIRTY.

”Tell your boyfriend to stay far away from me,” Suzanne said to Lucy as they pulled up in front of Whitney Morrissey's Brooklyn apartment.

Suzanne had wanted to throttle Sean for talking to Wade Barnett, but then she'd have to take on a battle with the Was.h.i.+ngton Field Office and her liaison with Rikers. That her suspect wasn't guilty meant squat-Sean had interfered with a federal murder investigation and was still in hot water with her.

”He's at the hospital with Kirsten and her mother,” Lucy said.

”Tell me you didn't know what he was up to,” Suzanne growled.

”I didn't.”

”I'll call you up when we secure the apartment.”

Suzanne met Panetta outside the building. He said, ”She's either not in the apartment or not answering the door. I have officers at each exit.”

”I'm ready.”

Two NYPD officers followed Suzanne and Panetta up the stairs to Whitney Morrissey's loft apartment. Suzanne knocked on the door. ”Whitney, it's Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI. Remember me? We need to talk.” She waited. ”Whitney, open the door.”

There were no sounds of movement, but they proceeded with caution. Panetta nodded to the officer to unlock the door with the master key they'd retrieved from the property manager. It worked one lock, but not the other.

”She has to make this difficult,” Panetta mumbled and called the locksmith waiting downstairs.

Five minutes later, they were inside Whitney's apartment.

The officers searched the two-room apartment and quickly ascertained that Whitney wasn't inside.

The living area was as Suzanne remembered it: bright, airy, with art everywhere. She put on gloves and walked through, not seeing anything that struck her as odd. Whitney's art was truly exceptional. She stopped in front of a large, incredibly detailed charcoal drawing of a street scene: a row of town houses on a tree-lined street, people walking, a hot-dog vendor on the corner.

What had been the tipping point in her obsession with Wade Barnett, turning her from stalker to killer? That he was sleeping with other women? That his brother had pulled her art grant? Or that Barnett was sleeping with her cousin, Alanna?

”Suzanne.” Panetta motioned for her to come into the bedroom.

She stopped in the doorway. She couldn't speak. She'd never seen anything like this-no level of obsession came even close.

One wall was covered with corkboard on which hundreds of drawings were pinned. But it was the subject matter that was so disturbing: image after image of Wade Barnett and Whitney Morrissey.

Most of the drawings were of Wade. Some were just his face; others looked almost like photographs, with Wade sitting in a coffee shop by the window, the perspective from across the street. Or Wade at Yankee Stadium cheering. Or Wade at a party. There were other people in the pictures as well, but they were indistinct compared to Wade, who seemed to have a light s.h.i.+ning on him.

Then there were the drawings of Wade and Whitney, most of them highly erotic. Suzanne would have admired the level of attention and detail if the whole scene weren't so deeply disturbing.

His face was everywhere, in all sizes. On every wall and surface. She looked around the room, and noticed something painted on the ceiling. She walked over to the bed and looked up. Whitney had painted a portrait of Wade Barnett over her bed.

Calling Whitney Morrissey sick seemed both obvious and a gross understatement.

”We need to call in my ERT unit,” Suzanne said. ”They're waiting outside.”

”And you should probably call in Ms. Kincaid,” Panetta said, looking at Whitney's slanted art desk. He'd turned on the small lamp that cast a bright light over the surface.

A sketchbook was open to the first page: a familiar image, not just because it was Wade, but because it was Wade and Alanna at the Yankees game, the same photo that had been published in the newspaper. Except for one stark difference.