The Blue Journal Read online

  As he listened, Walker moved back to the side of the bed, looking down again at the inert figure of Elizabeth Knoebel. He shoved his hands in his pockets and wordlessly surveyed the bloody death scene. “Go on.”

  “You want some general observations?”

  “Sure.”

  Jake used his middle finger to push his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Her body is in a strange position. She looks incredibly relaxed for someone about to have her brains blown out. The force of the gunshot snapped her head to the side, but otherwise she looks like she just laid down for a nap.”

  “You think someone rearranged the body after she was shot?”

  “If they did, it was only a minor adjustment. The blood pattern is consistent with her having been shot right here.”

  Walker nodded. “What else?”

  “Why does she get undressed and go to bed in the middle of the afternoon?”

  “You want me to take a guess?”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that. It just struck me as peculiar, is all.”

  “Any evidence of drugs or alcohol?”

  “The autopsy will tell us. I don’t see anything to indicate drug use, but I assume you noticed the champagne.”

  “Uh huh,” Walker said. He had another look at the bucket on the night table.

  “Expensive bottle of bubbly,” Jake said. “Unopened.”

  “Right,” Walker said with a sigh. Jake, master of the obvious. “Get me what you can on sexual activity before death. Or after, for that matter. I don’t see any signs of a struggle, although I noticed there are scratch marks on her neck.”

  “Old news,” the coroner replied. “Those marks are partially healed, had to be made at least twenty-four hours before death, probably more.”

  “All right, do your thing. I’ll speak with you this afternoon.”

  “We won’t have all the autopsy results done by then.”

  “That’s fine, Jake, just call me with whatever you’ve got. I love the sound of your voice.”

  Kovacevic returned and reported that Mrs. Sisson was downstairs in the kitchen with Kevin Chambers.

  “Anything on the burglary angle?”

  Kovacevic shook his head. “She says there doesn’t seem to be anything missing. Silver in the dining room is intact, jewelry boxes upstairs don’t look like they were touched.”

  Walker nodded, then scanned the room again. The headboard was mahogany, but the dresser and armoire were made of some wood he did not recognize. He noticed that the deep burgundy bedding coordinated with the rich patterns of the drapery. Obviously pricey stuff, but awfully dark.

  “Kind of a masculine room, don’t you think?”

  Kovacevic had a look around, as if seeing the room for the first time. “I guess so.”

  “Looks like a man’s room.”

  “Maybe,” Kovacevic said with a shrug.

  “In my experience the bedroom is usually decorated by the woman.”

  Kovacevic nodded. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  Walker smiled. “The housekeeper tell you anything else about the Knoebels’ relationship I might be interested to know?”

  “Not anything specific, although I get the impression from Mrs. Sisson that they didn’t have the greatest marriage in town. I’ve got notes,” he added and began to thumb through his pad.

  “All right Kovie, we’ll go over that later. Meanwhile, speak with the neighbors. I don’t suppose anyone phoned in a report of a gunshot?”

  “No such luck, sir. But this is a big piece of property. Wooded. Houses are shut up tight with their central climate control systems. I had a look at the windows. Solid double-insulation jobs. Even if someone heard something, it wouldn’t have been real loud. They could’ve figured it for a car backfiring.”

  Walker held up his hand. “Easy,” he said with a grin, “I was only kidding.”

  “Right.”

  “But it is possible someone might have seen or heard something.”

  “Jake says it was a late-afternoon shooting. Wouldn’t most of the neighbors be at work?” He hesitated. “Assuming the people around here go to work.”

  “Don’t assume anything, just spend some time with the local gentry.”

  “Yes sir.”

  A uniformed officer came into the room looking for Walker. “Lieutenant, there’s something I think you should see.”

  “What have you got?” Walker asked.

  “It’ll be better if I show you.”

  Walker and Kovacevic followed the officer along the corridor, down the stairs, and into the small den on the ground floor. The officer led them toward the laptop on the desk.

  “I was poking around, you know, looking for anything that might help, and I saw the computer was on. I just touched the mouse here.” The young officer used his latex-gloved hand to move the mouse again. The monitor revealed the passage Elizabeth Knoebel had been working on less than an hour before she died.

  Walker and Kovacevic leaned forward to read. When they were done Walker looked up. “Go to the next page.”

  The officer scrolled down, but they were at the end.

  “Anything before it?”

  The office hit the Pg Up button, and the screen displayed the start of the file. They began reading again:

  SEXUAL RITES

  By Elizabeth Knoebel

  NOTES FOR CHAPTER 5

  The Power Seduction

  Confident men are often attractive men, a combination that makes them the easiest to seduce. A man with a superior ego has the feeling he deserves to be flattered and desired.

  Insecure men tend to be suspicious. They have reasons to doubt your interest, to look behind your subtlest advances for other motives. The egotist has no cause to question your attraction to him. He will not worry that you might be after his money or his position or any of his other assets. He is therefore easy game.

  One of the more interesting aspects of seducing a powerful man is the control you can exert over him once the seduction is complete. His opinion of himself is so high he could never doubt your desire for him. You can therefore control him by playing to that vanity. He will be trapped by a fatal combination of two forces.

  The first is his own desire. Fueled by your sensuality, he will believe not only that he deserves your favor, but that you are fortunate to be his lover. A married man in this category—and most of them are married—will also be certain he can manage the risks. Like most men, he will have that incredible capacity to ignore the obvious consequences of his actions in order to justify a present need. (How else could we explain every husband who cheated on his wife and was then surprised at getting caught? Every one of them thought they could “handle the situation”).

  The second factor, somewhat paradoxically, will quite literally bring him to his knees. It will come from your ability to convince him that he is correct, that his attention, his passion, his very being are the things that you lust after, the things you cannot live without.

  Remember, you must proceed with caution, for it might cause him to turn away. If overstated, your infatuation will be seen as a sign of instability or desperation. Even a man filled with sexual desire cannot ignore those dangers.

  Be prepared for his lies—to you, to himself, to the other people in his life. Still, in the end, the balance of power will have shifted in your favor, as long as you stay focused on the fulfillment of desire.

  Our first encounter involved cocktails, suggestive conversation, a chaste kiss, and a subsequent date for lunch in New York. He chose a fashionable bistro on upper Madison Avenue. It was a lovely meal, fueled with wine, and we talked about everything but the truth.

  Afterward, we left the café and took a short walk up the avenue. The sky was clear and the autumn air felt crisp and cool as the breeze whipped around us. He had a friend who loaned him the use of his apartment, a small one-bedroom just off Fifth Avenue near the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  We spoke less and less as we made our way to his fri
end’s building. He unlocked the front door to the small brownstone, then led me upstairs.

  The apartment was dark, the sunlight shut out by heavy curtains drawn tight across the windows. He switched on the music system in the living room and it began to play a Mozart piano concerto. He poured drinks and placed them on a small round marble table in the corner of the bedroom. It was obvious he knew his way around the place.

  He led me to the bed where we sat side by side. He took my hands in his and told me how happy he was to finally be alone with me.

  I turned to him but said nothing. I just stared into his eyes. Then he gently kissed me on the lips, letting go of my hands and tenderly holding my face. I responded, his tongue sweet with the taste of whisky as he explored my mouth. I pulled him close, kissing him with a growing passion as I pressed my breasts against his chest.

  His hands slowly traced the curves of my sides, my hips, and my ass. I pushed away, giving myself enough room to stand and pull off my silk burgundy dress. Then I sat again, my face warm with modesty and desire.

  He laid me back across the width of the bed and slipped off my lace panties. My pussy was already becoming moist from my natural flow. He lifted my legs high in the air and then, bending over me and supporting the underside of my thighs with his hands, he began to lick me. As he probed the lips and depth of me with his wet, hot tongue, I moaned. After enjoying several minutes of this intense pleasure I moved away and turned on my side, encouraging him to lie alongside me so I could take him in my mouth as he continued to explore my tender regions.

  He became even more passionate now, with a faster motion, then moved slowly again, and I writhed with the increased rhythm and intensity of his effort.

  He reached up to massage my breasts and play with my nipples, all the while licking and sucking me, joining the wetness of his mouth with that of my own engorged flesh. He pushed the heel of his hand against my mons veneris, released, then pressed down again, creating a sublime pressure that made me shudder.

  He was large and stiff and I begged him to get inside me. He obliged, turning around and entering me as I lay on my side. After I came—loudly and with obvious delight—he changed positions, moving me onto my knees and taking me from behind. I came again and then he turned me onto my back, got astride me, and we rocked together in a furious motion until we climaxed together.

  He was clearly pleased with his performance, and I made sure he felt even more than that. I told him that I had never had multiple orgasms before and, with tears in my eyes, said I was completely overcome by the experience.

  He was both gracious and confident in his response, but I could see the truth in his eyes.

  I could see, from that moment on, that I owned him.

  Walker looked up at the other two men. “Nice lady. See what else she’s got in here.”

  When the officer closed the file and attempted to enter the directory, the screen became blank, displaying only a box in the center of the monitor requiring the reentry of the password.

  “Damn, must have been on some sort of default screensaver.”

  Walker nodded. “All right. Kovie, have the computer dusted for prints, then take it with you and get started on a warrant to have it impounded. Grab the maid again and find out if she knows which of the Knoebels used this computer. Find Teddy Blasko, tell him we need to get access to whatever’s in there. Anything recent, especially e-mails. And you guys, you keep this to yourselves, you hear me?”

  The two younger officers nodded.

  “Meantime, make sure the forensic boys do a good job sweeping this room. And for God’s sake,” Walker said, “tell them to finish with the photographs upstairs so they can cover that woman with a sheet.”

  CHAPTER 6

  That evening, Randi Conway stood in her dining room, the telephone clutched tightly in her hand. Phyllis Wentworth, a diffident woman who was one of the members in Elizabeth Knoebel’s therapy group, called to deliver the news.

  Randi sank slowly into her chair.

  “It’s been on the radio. I didn’t know if you’d heard.”

  “No, I hadn’t,” Randi said.

  “It was on the radio,” Phyllis repeated.

  “What else did they say?”

  Phyllis paused, then provided the few details that had been broadcast. A local woman, wife of a prominent New York surgeon, was found dead in her home, victim of a gunshot wound. They gave her name and said an investigation into the death was underway.

  Randi did not respond.

  “Doctor Conway? Are you there?”

  “Yes, Phyllis.” Randi drew a deep breath, then asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Phyllis said.

  “I do appreciate you letting me know.”

  “It’s awful, Doctor Conway. Isn’t it awful?”

  “Yes. It is awful.” When there was no response, Randi said, “Please call me if you want to talk.”

  “Thank you,” Phyllis said, but she did not say good-bye.

  “Did you want to say something else?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I just want to say that I can’t believe it.”

  “I understand,” Randi said. “Neither can I.”

  Phyllis paused again, then said, “Good night, Doctor Conway,” and hung up.

  Randi put the phone down and turned to her computer, bringing up the link to the local news station. The evening’s top headline was the death of local resident Elizabeth Knoebel. The few details given were those Phyllis had shared. Elizabeth died some time the previous day. Her body was discovered this morning by the housekeeper. More to follow.

  Randi sat back, remembering a group session she had conducted just two days before.

  They met at Randi Conway’s office each Monday afternoon, the gathering of her so-called Wives Group. This past Monday all five women were present.

  One of them, a dark-eyed brunette named Fran Colello, was holding court on her favorite subject. “We have their children and make their homes. We cook for them, clean for them and lay on our backs for them. All for what? We’re treated like indentured servants, and in the end we get dumped on the garbage heap of life. We can’t even be recycled.”

  A couple of the women managed sympathetic laughs, but Fran responded with a dismissive wave of her hand. She was on her usual roll and didn’t see any humor in it.

  “I’m forty-five years old and my husband treats me like a piece of furniture. I might as well be in one of those cabinets that hold the junk we’ve collected over the years, souvenirs that no one even looks at anymore. It might not be so bad if someone took the trouble to dust me off and play with me once in a while, but no one does. My kids are old enough where they don’t need a thing from me. I haven’t had a job for more than twenty years, unless you count live-in slave as a profession. I’m about as useless as a fondue set.” She was staring at Dr. Conway now, as if, somehow, some part of this was her fault.

  Randi leaned forward in her seat. “You said ‘useless,’ Fran. Is that what you meant?”

  “What?”

  “You described yourself as useless. Is that accurate?”

  Fran pushed back her straight brunette hair, revealing a plain face that would be far more appealing if she could lose the fifteen or so pounds she had picked up during those years she now regretted. Her eyes were dark and troubled, her mouth framed in lines etched by anger. “I suppose ‘useless’ is the right word,” she answered defiantly. “I said it, right?”

  They were seated in the windowless room Randi used for her groups, chrome and cane armchairs forming a circle, cool fluorescent lighting, and bare, eggshell colored walls creating an antiseptic space designed to generate the fewest possible distractions.

  “Do any of you have a response for Fran?” Randi asked.

  None of the women answered the challenge until Elizabeth Knoebel spoke up.

  As was her custom, Elizabeth came to the session intending to show off her sultry beauty to its maximum and most irritating e
ffect. Her dark green dress featured a low, revealing neckline and the slinky fabric clung to her trim waist. Her makeup was applied with care, her auburn hair brushed perfectly in place. When she turned to Fran a thin smile crossed her lips, but her voice was as cold as the overhead lighting. “If you feel useless then you are useless.”

  Fran sat up a little straighter in her seat and said, “That’s just great, coming from you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you haven’t spent a single day of your life as a real wife or mother. You don’t raise your own daughter, you send her off to school so you won’t have to be bothered with her. And you probably couldn’t find the kitchen in your own house with a map. Who the hell are you to be making judgments about my life?”

  “I didn’t. You made the judgment, Fran. I simply agreed.” Elizabeth’s tone was positively frigid now. “And I must say, I’m sick and tired of you taking out your pitiful frustrations on me. The fact that you got fat and out of shape is a choice you made. The fact that you don’t have a job is a choice you made. The way you’ve lived your life for the past twenty years is a choice you made. If you don’t want to hear my thoughts, don’t ask.”

  “I didn’t,” Fran said angrily. “She did.”

  All five women looked to Randi Conway as if she were a referee in a wrestling match.

  When Randi offered no response, Fran turned back to her antagonist. “You’re a bitch, Elizabeth, a conceited, self-centered, bitch. You come here dressed like a hooker with your red lipstick and your big tits hanging out and you think you can tell the rest of us how to live. You’re not even a real part of this group. You’ve never shared a single genuine emotion with us. What the hell are you doing here if you’re so damned smart and so damned perfect?”

  “I never said I was perfect.” Elizabeth spoke slowly now, her lovely face set in a hard stare, her jaw clenched, her dark eyes aflame. “If you see me that way, it’s your problem Fran, not mine. I’m not going to sit here and make apologies for the way I live my life. You claim I should reveal more of myself? What a laugh. Why would I want to share anything with a bitter, jealous, used-up old housefrau like you?”