Chapter Seven

Karen's nose itched like crazy. She tried to scratch it with her right hand but couldn't raise her arm. She tried her left hand. Same result. What the hell? Slowly, she became aware of a stabbing headache and a dull ache in her shoulders. Everything was . . . fuzzy. She shook her head to clear it. Bad idea. She opened her eyes. Nothing. Oh, god, was she blind? She looked around frantically, trying to see something, anything. After several long, agonizing minutes, she detected a few glimmers of light, high above her. As the mental fog slowly cleared, she took stock of her situation. She was sitting on a metal chair, her hands and legs bound. Her hands were behind her but didn't seem to be attached to the chair itself. Her legs were taped to the legs of the chair. She took a deep breath. Apparently her plan had worked – just not the way she'd intended.

Wishing she had Matt's hearing, Karen closed her eyes and listened intently for any clues about her location. Nothing but some faint street sounds. She could be anywhere. She'd read the reports on the prostitute killings. The killer didn't use the same place twice. Before she was abducted, she was following a couple of leads that might reveal where she was. Surely Foggy and Matt would figure out what she was doing. She could only hope she was on the right track, and they would figure things out in time. She didn't know how long she'd been out, or how much time she had left, but the prostitutes had been missing for at least a couple of days before their bodies were found. Karen figured the killer would enjoy taking his time with her, and having his "fun" – whatever his twisted idea of "fun" was – before killing her. And he would want to give her time to imagine what was going to happen to her, so she would be fully terrorized before he even started. He'd already accomplished that, she thought. She was terrified. But she'd be damned if she was going to let her fear rule her. No, worse than that, she'd be dead if she let her fear take over.

In the meantime, she wasn't going to wait around to be rescued. The first priority was to free herself from her bindings. She looked around her prison – a basement, apparently. It seemed less gloomy than when she first woke up. Either it was daytime or her eyes had fully adjusted. She spotted something that looked like a mattress next to one wall. She quickly looked away, not wanting to think about what she might have to do to survive. Along the opposite wall was something that looked like a workbench, with stuff on top of it – she couldn't see what. Maybe there was something there she could use to free herself – and defend herself. She tried "walking" and scooting the chair in that direction. It was slow going, but she was making progress until she twisted too vigorously and overbalanced. She and the chair toppled over, onto her side. She struggled to right herself, but it was no use. Her arm slowly went numb underneath her. She lay there, suppressing the urge to scream in frustration.

Sometime later, a door opened behind her. "Hello, Karen," a voice said. "Going somewhere?" Her captor walked across the room and set her and the chair upright. Karen noticed he wasn't wearing the ski mask – confirmation that he wasn't going to let her leave this place alive. But she already knew that. Trying not to be obvious about it, she committed his appearance to memory: dark brown hair, almost black, cut short except on top; dark eyes set a little too close together, below heavy eyebrows; aquiline nose; cleft chin; her height or taller; muscular build; no visible tattoos; not bad looking, if you liked the psycho asshole type. When Karen didn't respond to his question, he raised his voice. "I asked you a question, bitch!"

"Fuck you," Karen muttered.

"What did you say?"

"Fuck you," Karen repeated, more loudly. He struck her on the cheek with the back of his hand, snapping her head back. His heavy ring opened up a gash, which bled profusely. The pain took her breath away, and everything went dark.

When she came to, her captor was still there. He stood with his arms folded, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "What d'you see in the blind guy anyway? He sure as hell can't see anything in you." He chuckled at his own wit.

Karen set her jaw and said nothing. Her cheek felt tight where her blood had dried. She knew what his game was: to intimidate her into submission. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She'd rather die first.

"He any good in the sack?" her captor demanded.

"You have no idea," she thought, trying not to smile.

"Nothin' to say for yourself, huh? Maybe you'd like to find out what it's like to be with a real man."

"Go to hell," Karen snapped. "I know what a real man looks like, and I don't see one here."

"Haven't learned yet, have you?" His punch caught the left side of her jaw, leaving her woozy.

She heard the door close behind her, and when she looked up, her captor was gone. Her resistance had bought her some time, but she had to get back to work on freeing herself. When she and the chair fell over, she'd felt a sharp edge against her arm. If she could reach it, she might be able to cut the tape. She moved her bound arms to the left, where she'd felt it. There. She began moving the tape back and forth across the sharp edge. Her arms and shoulders ached from the unnatural position, but she persisted. When she felt the beginning of a cut in the tape, she tried pulling her arms apart, hoping the tape would tear the rest of the way. Not yet. She went back to the tedious work of extending the cut. Two attempts later, the tape finally parted. She leaned down and pulled the tape from her legs, and she was free.

She sprinted to the door, but it was locked. The windows were high up and out of reach. She remembered the workbench and ran to it. Surely there would be something there she could use to open the door or, failing that, as a weapon. She frantically rummaged through the items on the workbench, sending several of them clattering to the floor. She found a battered chisel and a screwdriver and went to work on the door. No luck. She heard footsteps approaching and flattened herself against the wall.

Foggy and Matt finally got back to the office. Mahoney had peppered them with questions for what seemed like hours. They didn't have answers for most of them. They made their escape only after promising to go to the precinct and give formal statements later. By the time they arrived at the office, Matt had reached his limit. He slammed a fist on the reception desk and exploded. "God, I am such an idiot!" He started pacing back and forth. "I couldn't go up with her, no, I had to work on the damn Estrada hearing. It's not like the judge understood a word I was saying anyway . . . ."

"Matt, Matt – " Foggy spoke across his rant.

"No, Fog, we're both idiots. We should've seen what she was doing. I read the damn article." Matt stopped his pacing and pointed at Foggy. "So did you." He resumed his pacing. "God, I should've been there. This wouldn't have happened if I was with her . . . ."

"Matt. Stop," Foggy ordered. "This isn't helping. You need to stop beating yourself up over this and get off the 'I'm-an-idiot' train. And, yes, we're both idiots for not seeing what Karen was doing. But what she did is on her."

Matt stopped and turned to face Foggy. "The hell it is. This is not her fault."

"It's not about blame. All I'm saying is, it was her decision. Not yours. Not mine. She must've thought she had a plan."

"Getting herself kidnapped by a serial killer is a plan?" Matt shook his head. "Jesus."

"OK, that probably wasn't the plan. But you know Karen, she can handle herself."

"Maybe. But this guy's smart, and he's a killer." Matt started pacing again. "I should've been there."

"Damn it,Matt, it's not about you," Foggy insisted, sounding exasperated. "Just stop and think for a damn minute. She clearly thought she was on to something. We have to retrace her steps and pick up where she left off. We may not have much time. We need to get to work now." He took Karen's laptop and the papers he found in her apartment out of his briefcase. He flipped through the papers. "Whoa," he said.

"What is it?"

"The reports on the other murders. I think she was looking for patterns, something that might ID the killer. Her notes are here, too."

Matt held out his hand. "I'll take those. You go through her laptop." He scanned the documents into his computer and set the screen reader to its maximum speed. He listened intently, resting his chin on his folded hands, while Foggy sat across from him, searching Karen's laptop.

Both men worked in silence until Matt paused his screen reader. "Son of a bitch," he breathed.

"What?"

"She was tracking the locations where the victims were found – "

"Yeah," Foggy interrupted, "she plotted them on a map on her laptop."

Matt shook his head. "No, it's not the locations. It's who owns them. The first two victims were found near buildings owned by Rosalie Carbone."

"The crime boss from uptown?"

"Yeah." Matt nodded, then said softly, as if to himself. "It fits."

Foggy heard him. "What fits?"

"I, uh, went out last night, looking for information."

"And – ?"

"Maleek told me the gun was planted on him. I was tryin' to find out where it came from. So I had a little chat with one of my sources – "

" – or your fists did," Foggy muttered under his breath.

Matt ignored him. " – who sold untraceable Tec-9s to Rosalie Carbone."

"Karen, you're a genius," Foggy declared. "Let's see who owns the other locations." He logged on to the public records database the firm subscribed to and started searching. When his searches were completed, he leaned back in his chair. "Bingo. All of them are adjacent to buildings owned by Carbone. Karen was on the right track. But the killer doesn't use the same place twice. So how does this help us find her?"

"We keep looking, Fog – for other properties she owns in Hell's Kitchen."

A half hour later, Foggy had a list of five vacant buildings owned by Carbone. Matt stood up and grabbed his jacket. "Text the information to my phone. I'm outta here."

Foggy started to object, then stopped himself. They had to do this Matt's way. "Find her!" he called to his friend as he strode out of the office.