Bleeders

by Anthony Bruno

Overview

An FBI profiler plays a dangerous game with her mother's murderer in this chilling thriller by the author of Seven.
 
FBI profiler Trisha McCleery has been on a twenty-year personal search for the person who brutally murdered her mother. At the same time, serial killer Gene Lassiter has been on an obsessive twenty-year search for the daughter of his first kill.
 
If she finds him, justice can at last be served. If he finds her, one man's reign of terror can continue unabated—in this dark and suspenseful novel from an Edgar and Anthony Award–nominated author.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781626812352
Publisher:	Diversion Publishing
Publication date:	02/06/2019
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	288
File size:	2 MB

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Gene Lassiter, now 39, lifted his sunglasses and checked his watch. I wonder what's keeping her, he thought. Such a busy woman you are, Ms. Laura Thayer. Always late. You'll be late for your own funeral.

He stood near the corner of Park and Seventy-First on Manhattan's Upper East Side in the shade of one of the grand apartment buildings that loomed over the double-wide avenue. He stared at the entrance to 708 Park on the next block, the one with the dark green awning, Ms. Thayer's building. He'd been waiting for some time, strolling around the neighborhood so as not to look obvious. To his left in the distance he could see the Met Life Building standing over Grand Central Station. He glanced straight ahead down Seventy-First toward Central Park and took in the rows of stately town homes. Some of those structures wouldn't have looked out of place in Mozart's Vienna. Or Jack the Ripper's London.

The air was crisp, the sky clear blue. A long straight multi-colored carpet of tulips in full bloom filled the meridian on Park and stretched as far as he could see in both directions. Yellow cabs raced by, even though it was a quiet Sunday. Cabbies used Park like a freeway, competing with one another, jostling for position, and showing no courtesy whatsoever to the private cars.

Lassiter heard the clop-clop-clop of rubber flipflops coming up behind him. Out the corner of his eye, he saw a twenty-something woman — pink sweat pants, gray hoodie, exposed midriff — shuffling by with a black French bulldog on a red leather leash. From the tangled condition of her long blond hair, he guessed that she'd just gotten up even though it was almost noon.

Poor dog, Lassiter thought. Did she make you wait this long for a walk?

The blonde passed by and gave him the briefest of glances. Like most attractive Upper East Side trust-fund babies, she didn't want any man to think she could possibly be interested in him. Lassiter had dealt with enough rich people to know their ways, and he knew he was hardly a toad. Slender and fit with good posture, clean-shaven, glossy dark brown hair just slightly on the longish side. A men's wear designer, a client of his, had recently asked him to pose for a fashion shoot, but he'd politely declined, of course. Women often told him he had earnest brown eyes — eyes they could trust — but that's not what he saw in the mirror. Perceptive brown eyes — that's what he saw. He looked younger than his age, and in dim light, wearing the right clothing, he could pass for a college kid, and on occasion he had.

As the blonde hurried away, Lassiter couldn't help but notice the jiggle of her behind and her tramp stamp, the tattoo across her bare lower back — climbing roses on a vine with exaggerated thorns, like glinting daggers. A slight smile came to his lips. Yes, that's one big difference between the old rich and the young rich. The young were infatuated with ghetto culture. They'd pay anything to look like they'd bought their clothes and jewelry in Harlem ... as long as the designer logo was showing.

The little dog lagged behind and stared back at Lassiter.

"Come!" The girl yanked on the leash. She had an annoying nasal voice.

The dog yipped and trotted to catch up with his mistress.

Watching them go, he felt sorry for the little pooch and imagined his heart as being just like that animal. It wanted to go one way, but a leash pulled it in a different direction. It had no choice.

He peered over his glasses and saw a black Mercedes S600 pull up in front of Ms. Thayer's building. His pulse quickened. Was it her? A wave of fear passed through his gut. He felt the slight sting of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He didn't really want to do this, not again, not anymore, but the leash kept tugging him. The sun glinted off the shiny surface of the Mercedes, and a yearning zinged through his groin. It could be Ms. Thayer. But he had to act quickly or he'd miss his chance. Now or never. He didn't want to, but deep inside he did want to. In truth he was the one pulling the leash.

Lassiter smoothed the lapels of his navy blazer and made sure his tie was centered as he started walking toward her building, stepping off the curb and crossing Seventy-First Street. He focused on his steps. If it wasn't her, he'd pass right by and forget the whole thing. Or turn down Seventy-First, go around the corner, and set up watch on the corner of Seventieth. It all depended on if it was Ms. Thayer in that car, and if it was, when she got out of it. He had to time it just right.

He slowed down as he got to the opposite curb, ready to change his route the moment anything felt wrong. The chauffeur got out, a lumbering middle-aged Hispanic man in a black suit and cap. He had a fleshy face and big bags under his eyes. Duke Ellington bags. He went around to the rear door by the curb and opened it.

Lassiter moved faster. He took off his sunglasses and put them in his breast pocket. The car windows were darkly tinted, and he couldn't see who the passenger was. If it was Ms. Thayer, she was taking her sweet time getting out. Lassiter put his glasses back on. He was committed to walking past the building so the chauffer was probably going to see his face. And there had to be a doorman in that building who might also see him. Where was he?

A foot emerged under the edge of the open car door. A woman's foot in a two-tone navy and buff patent-leather pump, followed by a set of paws. A small short-haired dog scampered onto the curb and stopped when the thin leash grew taut.

Just like my poor little heart, he thought. The shivering dog was a miniature Italian greyhound with a soft gray coat and a white chest. Sophia, Ms. Thayer's dog.

The lady herself stepped onto the curb, and the sunlight illuminated her lush black hair, a retro shoulder-length flip, and Lassiter's hesitation evaporated. No second thoughts, no regrets. He was on autopilot. Laura Thayer didn't look exactly like his dear Natalie, but that was okay. He had a secret home movie that played only in his mind, and it starred his very special fragile flower whom he killed over and over again, improving on his clumsy performance when he was younger. It played in his head, and it played when he was with his Natalie substitutes, his bleeders.

Lassiter slowed his pace. The chauffeur stood on the sidewalk.

"I won't be needing you till later, Eduardo," she said to the man. "Come back at six forty-five."

"Yes, Ms. Thayer." The chauffeur walked around the car to the driver's seat.

Slow down, slow down, Lassiter told himself, waiting for Eduardo to get behind the wheel. Once the chauffeur's head disappeared under the roof of the car, Lassiter took off his sunglasses.

"Ms. Thayer!" he said, feigning surprise.

She turned toward him, about to be annoyed, but then she recognized him.

"Oh, Gene. You startled me." But she didn't sound startled at all, her voice a firm, mature alto.

Laura Thayer was in her late forties, but she had a slender figure and a face that appeared just a touch over thirty. Youthful beauty but with a knowing expression that comes only with experience. Her skin was flawless, but only to be expected from the founder and CEO of Juno Cosmetics, a company whose gross revenues would most likely top $1 billion this year. Juno dominated a lucrative market niche based on its lines of concealers, powders, and foundations for older women.

"So good to run into you," he said, flashing his good-day-sunshine smile.

"You, too," she said.

He soaked her in — the shiny dark hair, the dark lipstick, the sparkling blue eyes (possibly the result of colored contacts but so what). No, not exactly like Natalie but close enough to excite him.

A warm smile softened her crisp demeanor. His women clients all liked him — some even loved him. But what wasn't to love? He was their private wealth manager and brought them consistent returns, usually between seven and twelve percent and never less than six, no matter what the market was doing.

"So what are you doing up here?" she asked.

He nodded over his shoulder. "Just coming from church."

"Oh." She seemed surprised that he'd be a church goer. It wasn't that going to church was unacceptable for her type. Except for old money, religion just wasn't something that factored into their wealth and so it wasn't discussed. Still, he had picked out a nearby parish, Holy Redeemer, and found out the name of the pastor in case she asked. Thank God for websites.

There was an awkward silence as she looked at him, considered him. He deliberately said nothing. She had to be wondering whether she should invite him up. At least that was his hope. Well, why not? she was probably thinking. He's my money guy. He's done right by me. I owe him. Besides, he's a pleasant fellow, intelligent, unattached — shouldn't I get to know the man who handles my money?

"Would you care to come up for coffee?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't want to intrude."

"Don't be silly. I wouldn't have asked."

"Well ... okay, I'd love to."

"Good. Come in."

She led the way with nervous little Sophia trotting behind her. The doorman, an older gentleman with a thick white mustache, wearing a dark green blazer that matched the awning, opened the brass-framed door. As Lassiter approached, he looked down, frowned deeply, and puffed out his cheeks to distort his face, and not just for the doorman. No doubt there were security cameras in the lobby and elevators.

He followed Ms. Thayer and Sophia into a walnut-paneled elevator. She inserted a key into the control panel and pressed PH, penthouse. He immediately bent down and fussed over the little dog. The doorman would get a good look at only the top of his head, and the camera would see his back.

"So how are you today, Sophia?" he asked the dog.

"You remember her name." Ms. Thayer seemed surprised.

He continued to scratch the dog's head. "I love dogs. I remember her from the cocktail party you had here last year."

"Oh, yes, of course. Do you have a dog?"

The elevator doors closed, and Lassiter stood up, careful to keep his back to the camera on the ceiling. "Oh, yes." He nodded and smiled fondly as if he were picturing his beloved pet. "A French bulldog. He's all black."

"What's his name?"

He remembered the trust-fund baby's tattoo. "Thorn," he said.

"Really? Is he prickly?"

"Oh, no, he's creampuff. It's kind of a joke. I thought about naming him Spike, but that seemed like a cliché. Thorn sounded a little classier. And a little Goth."

"You seem like the last person on earth who'd be into Goth. Is that your after- hours personality?"

"Oh, no, not at all. But when I got Thorn, I was dating someone who had been a Goth in high school. Even had a few tattoos. She was the one who came up with the name."

"But you're not with her anymore?"

Lassiter shook his head. "Just wasn't meant to be, I guess."

"I wouldn't think you'd have any problem meeting women. Didn't some magazine put you on their list of most eligible New York bachelors?"

He rolled his eyes. "And you can imagine the kind of women who sought me out after that."

She laughed, a surprisingly girlish laugh for a hard-nosed executive. He found it titillating. He wondered what Natalie's laugh had been like. He'd never gotten the chance to hear it.

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened on an expansive living room with cognac-colored hardwood parquet floors and gold-and-ivory wallpaper in a fleur-de-lis pattern. The furniture was a tasteful mix of contemporary and antique — modern sofas and armchairs in colors that complemented the wallpaper and a grand fruitwood dining room table with matching arrow-back chairs. Large sliding glass doors led to a spacious roof deck with a magnificent view of the city to the east. The room was so sunny it almost seemed as if they were outside. He imagined that a grand salle in a European summer palace would be something like this.

The security alarm beeped insistently as soon as the elevator doors had opened. Ms. Thayer went to a keypad on the wall, punched in a code, and the beeping stopped. Lassiter took note of the keypad's location. These systems could be triggered to sound an emergency alarm. Couldn't have that.

She unhooked the leash from Sophia's collar and the dog trotted off to another room, her toenails clicking on the hardwood.

Goodbye, Sophia, he thought.

"It's my girl's day off," Ms. Thayer said, setting down her purse on a spalted maple hunter's table and tossing her keys into a deep blue Murano glass bowl.

Good of you to put the keys where I can find them, he thought.

"You'll have to have my coffee," she said. "I make very good coffee, but if you want espresso or cappuccino, I'm clueless when it comes to using that machine. I hope you don't mind."

"No, plain coffee is fine."

"Good. This way." She walked across the living room, her heels not nearly as noisy as her dog's toenails.

The décor in the kitchen surprised him. Very white — blindingly white — with blue veined marble counter tops. He was sure it was all top quality, but the overall effect was a little too modern for his taste. Why pay top dollar for something that looks like it came from Ikea?

She put a kettle on to boil and pulled down a French press coffee maker from the cabinet. "So I hear you're going to be speaking at the Orchid Club tomorrow."

Lassiter took a seat on a high stool. "Yes, I am."

"I just might go to this one. Generally I avoid those meetings."

"Really? Why?"

"Well, they usually degenerate into bitch sessions. Women with tons of money and no idea what to do with it. 'My yacht is too small. I need a new one.' 'I gave Harvard ten million for a new building, and they still put my son on the waiting list.' And the classic: 'I don't have any real friends. With all my money, people just don't understand me.' God, I can't stand all that whining." She spooned coffee beans into an electric grinder.

"But I thought the Orchid Club was a support group for wealthy women, a place where you could freely discuss the kind of problems most people don't understand."

The grinder started with a sharp crackle. "I'm not putting the club down," she said, raising her voice over the whirring of the grinder. "There are some legitimate problems that only we seem to have, and it's good to have a network of similar people to pool information and so forth. It's just that some of those women can be so annoying."

Lassiter deliberately said nothing. A large part of his professional appeal was his discretion. He couldn't afford to have his clients thinking he's a gossip.

Ms. Thayer looked at him over her shoulder as the grinder kept whirring. Did she expect him to voice an opinion? Perhaps she was testing him.

She titled her head as she scrutinized him, and the light caught her eyes. They sparkled. Like Natalie's. His yearning grew stronger.

The grinder stopped and the room fell silent. She started to spoon fresh coffee grounds into the press.Wisps of steam snaked from the kettle, and he could hear the water starting to boil. She turned off the burner and started pouring into the coffee maker. The pungent aroma of dark roast filled the kitchen.

"It was a good idea inviting you to speak," she said. "Less time for bitching. So who invited you?"

He slipped a hand into his blazer pocket while she concentrated on the coffee. "Cindy McCleery," he said.

"Oh, of course. She's very active in the group. She's one of your clients, too, isn't she?"

"Yes." He pulled out a vermilion silk scarf. He had six of them, all different colors and patterns, three in each pocket, folded flat for compactness. One for the mouth, one for each wrist, one for each ankle, one spare just in case.

"Have you met Cindy's father?" she said, still occupied with pouring. "I hear he's quite a character."

"He's a client, too." Lassiter slipped off the stool, wrapping the ends of the long scarf tightly around his hands.

"I'd love to meet him some day. He's quite eccentric from what I hear."

Shut up, Lassiter said in his head. I don't want to hear your voice. I want your hair and your eyes and your nice smooth skin, but I don't want your voice. I want Natalie's voice.

"It's wonderful what he does with all his money. It makes me feel a little guilty."

Shut up.

"He does so much good in the world." She set down the kettle and laid her hand on the plunger,applying gradual pressure. "Of course, I don't have nearly the portfolio he does."

Shut up!

Lassiter stepped closer.

Click-click-click-click.

Lassiter whipped his head around. Was someone here? Then he saw that it was just the little greyhound coming into the kitchen. Sophia stopped and shuddered, looking up at her mistress with pathetic eyes.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Bleeders"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Anthony Bruno.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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