AWAKENING: CHAPTER TWO

Bobby knocks gently on the door to the quaint Brooklyn townhouse. It seems to him an unlikely home for a rapist, but he has learned by now that criminals come in all shapes and sizes. The door is painted a cheery red, the windows shaded by curtains sewn from brightly patterned fabrics. Neatly shaped bonsai trees decorate the small patch of grass that separates the house from the busy sidewalk.

He steals a sideways glance at his partner. Her face is drawn and gray and her hands clutch at the lapels of her black wool peacoat, as if trying to wrap it more tightly around herself. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?" he asks softly.

"Yes," she says. Her voice is steel and sharpened glass, her brown eyes an impenetrable brick wall. "I told you, I just shouldn't have taken Advil on an empty stomach."

The front door swings open and the conversation drops. "Can I help you?" the young, blond-haired, blue-eyed woman in the doorway asks. She is beautiful in an unusual way, although her face is covered in layers of Sephora products. She holds a child in her arms, a little boy with chubby cheeks and tousled brown hair.

Alex almost forgets her line. "I—I'm Detective Eames, NYPD," she finally manages. "This is my partner, Detective Goren. Can we come in?"

The woman frowns. "Um…sure." She steps back to open the door further. "Lucas, why don't you go play in your room for a little while and Mommy will bring you a snack in a few minutes?"

The child studies the two strangers in his house, his mouth set in a determined frown. At last, he nods and allows his mother to set him down. Alex watches as his chunky little legs propel him up the wooden staircase.

"Your husband is Jason Waters," Bobby asks without preamble, striding into the living room as the woman shuts the door behind them. His eyes scan the frames on the mantle, studying the photographs of a happy family life.

"Yes," Mrs. Waters says, crossing her slender arms over her chest. Her frown deepens. "Why?"

"When was the last time you saw him?" Bobby asks.

"Last night," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "He left here after dinner. He's an anesthesiologist at St. Vincent's; he was working the night shift."

Bobby looks to Alex. When she remains strangely quiet, he says, "His body was found this morning in Bryant Park. I'm so sorry Mrs. Waters."

She sinks onto the overstuff leather sofa. "What?"

Alex finally finds her voice again. "He was murdered." She studies the widow carefully, eyes taking in the emotions dancing across her face.

"Are you sure it was Jason?" Mrs. Waters asked. Her voice is weak and unsteady. She looks up at Alex, her eyes filled with desperation. "I mean, how can you be sure?"

Alex has to look away. "We're sure," she says. She is detached and professional, feet planted firmly on the brown-carpeted floor. "We identified him through DNA testing. It's him."

Bobby gives her a sideways glance, and she wonders if she is being too harsh. She bites her lip and studies the picture hanging from the wall above Mrs. Waters' perfectly-coiffed blonde head: the Waters family, picnicking in the park on a perfect summer day. Jason Waters is smiling, his arms around his wife and son. He doesn't look like the kind of man who would drag a woman into an alleyway and terrorize her, but then neither did…

Alex stops herself with an abrupt shake of her head. She cannot go there. Not now. "Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your husband?" she asks.

Mrs. Waters is crying now, tears streaming down her face in tiny rivers, trailing lines through her foundation. "No," she chokes, swiping a hand across her eyes, leaving a shadow of black mascara behind. "No, everyone loved Jason. He…he volunteered at the homeless shelter and he coached our nephew's soccer team and he…" She takes a gasping breath. "He had lots of friends. Nobody would hurt him."

"He was accused of rape three years ago," Alex says evenly.

"That was a lie!" Mrs. Waters shouts, and Alex nearly stumbles backwards from the force of her anger. "That—that witch just wanted money. Jason never hurt anybody!" Mrs. Waters suddenly springs to her feet. Alex stifles a gasp. "It must have been her!" she cries. "She—she wanted to hurt him. I don't know why, but she…she…" She collapses back onto the couch in a fit of grief.

Alex dimly hears Bobby's soothing voice discussing grief counseling and victims' services. She waits in the doorway for him to finish.

She can't be in this house any longer.

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"What's going on?" Bobby asks cautiously as they walk back to the car.

"Nothing," Alex says casually, pressing the "Unlock" button on her keyring with a little more emphasis than necessary. "I just still have a little bit of a headache."

He doesn't believe her for a second. "Alex, you can talk to me," he persists as she walks around the SUV to the driver's side. He opens his door and climbs into the passenger seat, never removing his eyes from her. "I want to help you," he adds, and she stiffens immediately.

"I don't need help," she bites. "And we're working, Goren. We'll talk later. Now, what's our next move?"

His hands are shaking slightly as he removes Jason Waters' file from his black leather binder. She stares straight out the windshield, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are turning white. "Um…I…" His mind seems to have abandoned him. He struggles for control of his thoughts. "I guess we interview the accuser," he suggests. "Right now she's the only one with a motive to hurt him."

Alex swallows hard. She bites her tongue to avoid screaming, or worse, crying. The wind howls outside, rattling the car windows, and she can't suppress a slight shiver. She wills her hand to turn the key and start the car. "Where to?"

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Bobby presses the buzzer for Apartment 2C of a small five-floor walk-up on the Lower East Side. Alex leans against the railing behind him, watching the people walk along Orchard Street. There are mothers pushing babies in elaborate strollers and hunched-over old men leaning on canes. School children wearing preppy uniforms and cartoon-character backpacks run along the sidewalk; their laughter rings out like music through the thick, wintry air. Alex takes comfort in the normalcy.

"Hello?" a cheery female voice sings over the intercom.

"This is the NYPD," Bobby responds. "We have a couple of questions for you. May we come up?"

The door buzzes open.

A slightly heavyset, ginger-haired woman is waiting in the doorway of Apartment 2C when they reach the top of the first flight of stairs. She is dressed in a neat business suit; her hands clutch a smart black leather briefcase. "Hi," she greets them, her brow knit in confusion. "Um…can I help you with something?"

"Are you Natalie Leder?" Bobby asks.

"No, I'm Corinne Graham," the woman replies.

Alex frowns. "Do we have the wrong apartment?"

"No, we both live here," Corinne clarifies. "I'm Natalie's roommate. She's not here right now, is there something I can help you with?"

Bobby glances at Alex. "We really need to talk with her, actually," he says. "When will she be home?"

"She's visiting family in San Diego," she explains. "She'll be back tomorrow night."

"When did she leave?" Alex asks.

"Last Saturday," Corinne offers. "She was going for a cousin's Bat Mitzvah or something."

Bobby and Alex exchange glances, and Alex releases the breath she feels as if she's been holding all morning. Natalie can't be the perp. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" Corinne asks. "I just came home for lunch and I really need to get back to work. I can have Natalie give you a call if you want to give me your card."

"Yes," Alex says, her voice shaking with relief. "Yes, have her do that." She tries to control the tremors in her hands as she fishes a business card out of the pocket of her coat. "Thank you."

They walk down the stairs and out of the building. "Well, there goes our only suspect," Bobby sighs. "We don't really need to interview her now, you know."

"I know," Alex says, stepping sideways to avoid a heavily bundled jogger. "I just thought she might like to know."

"Know what?"

"That the man who raped her is dead," she clarifies softly.

Bobby purses his lips in thought and nods. "Do you want to get lunch?" he asks unexpectedly. "We're not really going to get anywhere without the ME report, and we're not far from Katz's Delicatessen."

Alex smiles, and suddenly the weight on her shoulders feels a little lighter. "I'll call Deakins and let him know we'll be back later," she says.

Bobby reaches for her hand and squeezes it. Together they round the corner and head for Houston Street.

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Deakins is on the phone in his office when they return, but he knocks on the window, motioning them in before they can sit down at their desks. Alex feels the contented fullness of pastrami on rye and sour pickles fade into a nervous queasiness as they step inside, closing the door behind them.

"I'm going to send them over in a minute," Deakins is saying into the phone. Bobby lowers his lanky frame into a chair, but Alex stands rigidly behind him. "I will…yes. Thanks." He hangs up the phone and sighs, sinking into his own chair.

"Okay," he says to them, sighing deeply. "That was the ME. She'd like you to stop by when you get a chance."

"She find anything interesting?" Bobby asks, leaning his head back wearily.

Deakins shrugs. "She didn't mention anything specific. But I found something." Both detectives stare at him. "I ran the MO through the database. Specifically, I searched for accused rapists slashed to death in the five boroughs." He glances from Alex, whose face is white as a ghost, to Bobby, whose forehead is furrowed in concentration. He hands Bobby a small stack of manila files. "There've been four other murders with the exact same MO, all committed within the last year. Looks like you've got a serial on your hands."

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…to be continued

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