LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 9

      I grabbed a pastrami sandwich upon our return from Newark and brought it back to Waltz’s office. I ate as Shelly nursed a can of something fished from his mini-fridge.

      “Ms Anderson had a short tenure at Child Welfare,” he said. “Ridgecliff’s family never lived in Jersey, you’re sure about that?”

       We never lived any further north than a brief stint in Knoxville when I was five. All I recall is my father ranting about mountains. He hated mountains, he hated plains, he hated whatever was in between.

      “It’s in the records sent by the Alabama police, Shelly. The family never resided or even visited above the Mason-Dixon line.”

      “Anderson worked with dysfunctional families. The Ridgecliffs were dysfunctional enough to register on the Richter scale. It’s an interesting coincidence. I wish I could dig up the other kid. Charles Ridgecliff. Maybe he could make some sense of this.”

      I faked a yawn. “I doubt it, Shelly. He’s long gone.”

      Waltz frowned. “You think Anderson was purely an opportunistic kill, right? Nothing in her background to tie her to Ridgecliff?”

      “It’s possible she’d been nice to him at some point in the last few days. It’s one of his triggers.”

      Shelly shot me the sad eyes. “I forgot there’s a switch in Ridgecliff’s head that only flicks when a woman reminds him of his mother.”

       My mother. My pathetic, terrified, mousy mother who scampered off to her goddamn sewing room every time my father’s voice rose …

      I said, “It’s key to Ridgecliff’s delusion that his mother allowed the father’s abuse to continue. That she was complicit in the horror.”

      “I saw in the records the mother’s deceased.”

      I nodded. “Cancer took her.”

      Took her with pain so hot it melted her hands into permanent fists. With screams that burned away her voice box until all she could do was rasp. She never took any medication or allowed me to do anything for her. She thought dying in hell might somehow help her gain entrance to heaven.

      Waltz said, “Sorry. Off the track. You were talking about his target process?”

      “Ms Anderson was medium build and blonde. At thirty-six she was squarely in an age range from early thirties to early forties. That describes every woman Ridgecliff has targeted because it basically describes his mother. He’d never kill a black or Oriental woman. Or an obese or very thin woman. They’re outside his mother image.”

      “Dr Prowse didn’t fit the image.”

      “He killed her to gain his freedom, Shelly. It also would have been personal.”

      Waltz closed his eyes. He made a curious squeak and turned away. Coughed. Pounded his chest so hard I winced.

      “You OK, Shelly?”

      “Dry throat.” He took a pull from the can, followed it with a deep breath, regained his train of thought. “So Ridgecliff sees Anderson, his mind lights up with the word Mommy, and his juices start flowing. That how you think it went down?”

      “Maybe they were on the street. He drops something, she picks it up. The action and her looks flick his switch. He can’t help following her. She walks to the realtor’s office. He manages to find out her name. From there it’s a simple deception to lure her to the property. He was probably laughing while he waited.”

      “Folger’s got dicks and uniforms working for five blocks around, plus checking out Ms Anderson’s and her office on 26th, and her neighborhood in Brooklyn. They’re bracing people in the neighborhood, showing Ridgecliff’s pic.”

      I thought for a moment. “Folger can pull the team from Brooklyn, Shelly. Ridgecliff’s in Manhattan.”

      Waltz stared. “How the hell do you know that?”

      “Uh, it’s more a hunch than anything.”

      “I doubt Folger’s gonna pull a team on your hunch.” Waltz shook the can and glared like it was a personal irritant. I smelled chocolate and noticed a dark smudge over Waltz’s upper lip, like he’d borrowed Little Richard’s mustache.

      “Are you drinking chocolate syrup?” I asked, happy to change the subject.

      He held up the can. I saw the words Slim-EEZ Chocolate Fudge.

      “It’s a diet drink,” he said, patting his gut. “The endless damn fight.”

      “Chocolate fudge is diet?”

      He sighed. “It’s one of those meal-in-a-can things. I remember when drinking your lunch meant three scotches. That was a lot more entertaining.”

      “How’s the stuff taste?” I asked.

      “Like pureed compost.”

      He lobbed the can into the wastebasket. The intercom on Waltz’s phone buzzed, the desk sergeant. “Got a walk-in at the desk, Shelly. Guy wants to see the Southerner, Ryder.”

      Waltz shot me puzzlement. Maybe two dozen people knew I was here, all officials of some stripe.

      “A walk-in for Ryder? Who is it, Moose?”

      “Ray Charles died, right? We’re sure about that?” The desk man chuckled and hung up. We hustled down the hall to the entrance. An older black guy sat on one of the benches, lanky as a pole vaulter, with ebony skin, tight pewter hair, wraparound shades. I put him in his mid-seventies, but he could have been a decade older. He wore a bright yellow blazer over a cream polo shirt. His pants were as white as the cane across his knees.

      The desk sergeant saw us, grinned. “This is Mr Zebulon Parks. He wants to tell Ryder something.”

      “Mr Ryder?” the blind man called out. “Mr Carson Ryder?”

      “Right here, sir.”

      The dark glasses turned to me. “You got a place we can sit? By ourselves?”

      “You can talk here, Mr Parks. It’s fine.”

      “I’m s’posed to tell you what I got in private.”

      “There’s a room we can use.” I moved to him, held up my arm. “Would you care to hold on to my –”

      “Just lead on,” he said. “Walk.”

      I headed for

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