The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

“Maybe I can help,” I said tentatively, as I came to perch on the arm of his chair. “Sometimes a woman’s point of view can be useful.”


He shook his head firmly. “Molly, you know I can’t involve you in my cases. It wouldn’t be ethical and I wouldn’t want to put you in any sort of danger. Besides, there’s nothing you could do that hasn’t already been done. I have a team of highly trained officers working with me. They have been through the circumstances of every murder with a fine-tooth comb. After at least six deaths we are none the wiser. Not one step closer to a solution.” He put the cheese on the bread and took a big bite. Then after he had swallowed he looked up at me again. “For all we know they are all random killings, committed by someone who just likes feeling powerful.”

“I don’t think any killings are completely random,” I said. “A person must have a reason for that first killing. Nobody suddenly decides one day to go out and just kill somebody, anybody. Someone has upset him, or thwarted him, or he’s decided he hates all women, or black people, or Italians … but there has to be some kind of rationale behind the first murder.”

Daniel shook his head. “The first murder that we know about was a simpleminded old woman who lived in a small house in Brooklyn. Who would want her out of the way?”

“The other possibility, of course,” I said tentatively, “is that only one of the murders is important. The real murder is hidden behind the smoke screen of random killings.”

He frowned, considering this. “You think so? Yes, I suppose that is possible. All right. I’ll go through the list again, although I’ve been through it a hundred times already.”

“So who were the rest of the victims? Were they also in Brooklyn? Also feebleminded?”

Daniel smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Molly. I really don’t want to involve you in this. Besides, I’m too tired to talk.” He pushed his plate away. “I’m even too tired to eat. Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

I helped him up from the chair and he held my hand as we walked through to the bedroom.

*

I slept fitfully that night, unable to shake the worrying thought that out of all the policemen in New York, a violent and disturbed person had selected my husband as the recipient of his notes. As I lay awake, listening to Daniel’s rhythmic breathing, I longed to help—not just because of my incurable curiosity, but because I hated to see my husband so tired and worried. We had come a long way, Daniel and I. At the beginning of our relationship he had dismissed my detective skills as sheer female luck, but over the years he had come to admit, grudgingly, that I was actually a good detective. But that had never extended to asking for my help on a case. Pride, I suspected. Daniel Sullivan was a proud man.

But that didn’t stop me from toying with the information he had shared with me. Why send cryptic notes to a particular member of the police? I asked myself. Because our murderer wanted to feel clever. He enjoyed stumping the police and making them appear stupid. But why Daniel? Was it as simple as seeing Daniel’s picture in a newspaper, after he had solved a crime or arrested a criminal, and feeling animosity toward him? Or had this to do with some time he and Daniel had crossed paths—a criminal Daniel had put behind bars, maybe, now out of prison again and bearing a grudge?

I decided to mention this to Daniel in the morning, but I was still sleeping when I sensed he had gotten out of bed, and I came to consciousness fully only to hear the front door slam behind him. Liam awoke and demanded to be fed. We breakfasted. I bathed him and we were ready to visit Sid and Gus just after eight o’clock. But they lived a civilized and childless existence. They were not used to receiving visitors at such an ungodly hour. Still, I didn’t want to linger in that cramped and airless little apartment. I’d take the elevated railway down to Greenwich Village and if we arrived too early, I could amuse Liam by letting him watch the people and pigeons in Washington Square, or even buy some fresh fruit in the Jefferson Market.