The Final Deception

by Heather Graham

  But somehow, he’d vanished.

  She hesitated for a minute. But even as she turned back, she had the eerie feeling that someone was watching her.

  * * *

  “You do know Central Park is larger than Monaco?” Mike asked as they walked.

  “The dog is heading this way,” Craig said. “Yes, I know the size of it. And I also know at the end of the 1800s, police found a runaway—who had lived in a cave in the park for a month. And dozens of rapes and several murders have taken place there. And the police work damned hard these days, but you’ve got darkness and trees and stretches where—especially at night—no one can hear you scream.”

  “Oh, people might hear you scream and think it’s just kids playing or a loud TV. Or they just don’t want to get involved,” Mike said.

  Craig looked up at the sky. The afternoon was disappearing, and where just thirty minutes ago the sky had been powdery blue and benign, it was now darkening, as if with the foreboding of a storm.

  The park itself seemed to grow darker with shadows. They moved along a trail used by runners, who huffed past every now and then. Ruff didn’t seem to notice anyone who passed them. He was on a mission, sniffing the ground, walking ahead, as if he led Craig and not vice versa.

  “Since you’re just a kid,” Mike said, as they walked through the trails near the bridle path, “you won’t appreciate just how great the park is today. Before the seventies, it was falling into decay. I mean, think about it. Central Park was the first such major development in any city. It helped shape NYC. Olmstead and Vaux won a competition back in the 1850s and created an amazing piece of geographical art. So much here—a lifeline for urban dwellers. But it was in decline. Structures molding and chipping...decaying. Paths dark and scary with lots of bad things happening. Efforts in the 1970s changed all that—”

  “Mike, you have me by ten years,” Craig reminded him dryly. “You were a kid back then.”

  “Ah, but I remember. I remember how thrilled my mom was, saying it was so great we’d have a place to go and play that would be safe. It was always a brilliant ‘center’ piece for the city of New York. But they went to work and made it a much safer place. I mean, it’s a park—huge, and things can happen. But much better because people went to bat for change. I guess no place is really safe, though, huh?”

  “Look at the dog,” Craig said. He paused.

  Ruff was standing dead still.

  He began to whine.

  They had been on a trail; now, Ruff pulled Craig up a little incline and through the trees and before he knew it, he was on the street again.

  He had to pull Ruff back—the dog had been ready to rush out into traffic.

  “What the hell?” Mike muttered, following, shaking off a few leaves that had stuck in his collar.

  “Don’t know. Just following the dog,” Craig said. He hunkered down by Ruff. The dog barked excitedly, desperately wanting to cross the street.

  “Okay, okay,” Craig said. Watching the cars, he swept up the dog and streaked across the busy street. He received a half dozen angry honks for his efforts.

  Mike made it across seconds later, vociferously swearing.

  But when Craig reached the sidewalk, he saw the alley—Ruff’s determined destination. It was a fairly broad alley, allowing for delivery vehicles and garbage trucks to pass through, bringing supplies to businesses and taking away the refuse. Craig saw the storefronts offered a chic wine bar, an Italian restaurant, a doughnut and coffee shop.

  He set Ruff on the ground. The pup looked down the alley and barked.

  Mike came up behind Craig, panting. “Death by Audi!” he complained. “We’re going to have to teach this guy about crosswalks. With our luck, we might have been stopped by a beat cop for jaywalking, you know.”

  “Sorry. I, uh, should have gone to the crosswalk. It’s just...damn. The dog knows something, I think. Instincts.”

  “Yeah, he knows something. I think the mutt knows this is where you come for the tastiest garbage in town,” he said. “Instinctively.”

  Craig smiled grimly and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Mike was looking up; he did the same.

  “Look at the night, will ya?”

  The sun had all but fallen completely beneath the western horizon, but it wasn’t night yet. The sky with its promise of a storm was making it appear it was so. The air swirled with a chilling dampness, a promise of rain to come. Distant thunder came like a threatening growl from the sky.

  Ruff whined again; the little dog was shivering at Craig’s feet.

  “Well, hell, let’s move on this, huh?” Mike said, starting forward along the alley. “I wish I knew what we were looking for. An apartment, a restaurant...a hole in the ground.”

  Ruff barked. Craig let him lead.

  Behind the Italian restaurant, they saw a pretty, young, dark-haired waitress in an apron turning her face away and holding her nose with one hand while she used the other to maneuver the lid up and toss a garbage bag in a dumpster.

  She managed to drop the bag as they arrived.

  “Uh, hey!” she said. Seeing them she seemed to freeze—maybe her instincts kicking in when she was alone in an alley with two large men walking toward her.

  Craig reached into his jacket and pulled out his credentials, and while he did so, Ruff began to howl.

  The pained sound was loud and eerie, as if they’d entered into a horror movie and Ruff was about to go from ugly-cute pup to vicious, slobbering werewolf.

  Nothing about the dog changed, but the sound he was making was high-pitched and horrible, blood-chilling in the darkening alley.

  He raced to the dumpster, now barking in a fury.

  The waitress screamed, thinking the little dog was after her. She leaped back—and Craig darted forward.

  He threw open the lid of the dumpster and the odor she’d been trying to avoid by pinching her nose came flying at them all like an invisible tidal wave.

  Decomposition.

  Death.

  Mike stepped back, swearing and already pulling out his phone.

  Craig passed Ruff’s leash to Mike’s free hand, then he caught hold of the edge of the dumpster and hiked himself up. Balancing his weight on one hand, he used the other to toss aside half a dozen large, black garbage bags.

  Spaghetti had oozed from one, decorated with marinara sauce, now appearing as if it might be a contingent of bloody worms.

  No worms.

  Just a dead man beneath.

  Covered in filth now.

  Eyes wide open, stunned and staring, even against the coming darkness of the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KIERAN WAS GLAD her absence hadn’t been noted. Running out on her own, for no apparent reason, had not been a bright choice of things to do, but she didn’t want anyone becoming unduly concerned about her.

  When she returned to the table, Declan was leaning back, arms crossed over his chest.

  Egan was on his phone, tensely listening.

  When he finished his call, he stood up, shaking his head. “Craig’s thoughts on the dog were right on. Ruff took them on a bit of a winding course, but he found his master for us.”

  “And?” Kieran asked.

  “Dead, I’m afraid. Craig says he believes Olav Blom took the dog out for his usual walk through the park. Then they came across the killer. The killer managed to get them out of the park and across the street, kept the dog, murdered Blom, stole his hoodie and got into the building to murder Mayhew.”

  “Mayhew was the target, but...how was Blom killed? Had he been strangled, mutilated and burned?”

  Egan shook his head. “Stabbed and dumped beneath a bunch of refuse from restaurants.” He hesitated. “I’m still not able to rule out Nicholson.”

  “No,” Kieran said softly, shaking her he
ad.

  “No? Kieran, he got out—impossibly. And this happened—impossibly, so one would think. But Mayhew died like Nicholson’s other victims.”

  “But you just told me Olav Blom didn’t.”

  “I have no idea how anyone could believe that anyone’s God condones murder, but if Nicholson is so fixated on what he believes he has to do, killing one man to get to another would be collateral damage, acceptable in Nicholson’s dark mind,” Egan said.

  “I’ll play devil’s advocate,” Declan said quietly. “Why not, Kieran?”

  She glanced at her brother; he was looking at her worriedly. He never liked it when she became too involved in dangerous cases, but then again, the pub itself had been involved before, her brothers had been involved before...

  Just not Declan, not so much, or to any extent, other than he’d been caught in the fray.

  “Kieran,” he prompted.

  “No one was killed during Nicholson’s escape,” she said.

  “No,” Egan admitted.

  “I just don’t believe Nicholson would kill one man to get to another. That would be wrong. Right now he’s a righteous angel, doing as commanded. To kill otherwise would be murder. I’m just telling you what I see, the way that his mind works.” She shrugged and let out a breath. “Nicholson does need to be apprehended, one way or another. He will kill again—if he hasn’t already.”

  Egan nodded. “We’ve had cops watching his wife and his sons. He hasn’t come near them. Not yet. Not that they’ve managed to see, at any rate. The city’s resources have been stretched pretty thin on this—marshals, cops, agents, you name it. They’re all on alert. Beat cops have seen his face plastered everywhere. His pictures have been on the news time and time again. Unless he’s living in a hole somewhere, they’ll get him soon.”

  “Even if he’s in a hole, he’ll have to come up for air,” Kieran said.

  “Or to murder,” Declan added.

  “Well, I’m on to the site myself,” Egan said quietly. “Guess that little dog is one smart little creature.” Then he looked at Kieran. “Not sure when you’ll see Craig, but—”

  “I’ll be here for a while, then I’ll head straight to our apartment,” Kieran assured him.

  “I’ll have an agent watching your building,” Egan said.

  She thought she should argue. Everyone available should be looking for Nicholson.

  And as for this copycat killer, she was growing more and more convinced Mayhew had not been murdered by Raoul Nicholson.

  Nor had Olav Blom.

  She smiled. “Okay.”

  Egan nodded, well aware she’d been about to argue.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll be watching the street, as well. Who knows? Maybe Nicholson will try to get in contact with you. He liked you—so you say.”

  “I said he didn’t think I was a witch.”

  “Yes, but he told his wife you were good. So, we’ll keep a watch over you—just in case.”

  Egan waved at them both and headed out.

  “Let it go, Kieran. It’s not a bad thing,” Declan told her.

  “No, not a bad thing at all. Okay, well, you don’t need me here. I’m going to get some dinner to go for Craig and head home.”

  “I can always find something for you to do,” Declan said. “Danny will probably be in after his last tour, and Kevin may pop in between shows and—”

  “You just heard Egan. There will be an agent watching my house.”

  “I’ll get you home then.”

  “Declan, you don’t have to leave the pub on a Saturday evening.”

  “Sure. My employees will all thank you. I won’t be looking over anyone’s shoulder.”

  “Fine. Walk me home.”

  At least she would be in her own space. And she’d be there when Craig got home.

  * * *

  Craig was glad to see that Dr. Layton had been called to the scene of this crime, as well. Layton had only been with the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York for about eighteen months, but he was proving his mettle. Neither cops nor agents were supposed to touch the body until the medical examiner had arrived, and so, other than somewhat disturbing the body when he’d pulled the trash off it, Craig had gone no further.

  Layton had no problem crawling into the horrible brew in the dumpster. Craig noted he had stopped to slide some peppermint oil under his nose and that he covered his mouth with a mask before climbing in.

  “Dead at least twenty-four hours. If it weren’t for the fact this is a dumpster, I believe someone would have noted there was a body here sooner,” Layton told them. “I believe the cause of death was exsanguination. Method, a very sharp knife.” He looked over the edge of the dumpster. “He was killed here or near here. Hard to tell, again, because this is a dumpster with a great deal of spaghetti sauce in it, as well.”

  “You can’t mean the killer lured the man into a dumpster?” Mike asked, doubting the possibility.

  “No, he might have gotten him just there, where you are standing. But there’s no blood spray. So, he probably drew the blade slowly and precisely, causing the blood to drip down this man’s throat and chest, rather than spurt.”

  “Like so?” Craig asked, sliding behind Mike and locking him into a hold before showing how a blade could then be drawn against his partner’s neck.

  Layton nodded. “Like so.”

  Mike drew away from Craig. “Next time, you’re the victim. That felt damned creepy.”

  “After all these years,” Craig muttered.

  “Creepy never stops,” Mike said softly, and Craig nodded. Mike was right. You could go out case after case and never stop being amazed by the cruelty man could inflict upon his fellow man.

  Craig realized Layton was watching them.

  “Hey, bodies are my business. Never stops bothering me, either. I do like to think I perform a justice for them, though. Well, sometimes, my bodies are okay. Ninety-year-olds who have had full lives, experiences, and leave behind families who are sad, but accepting we all come with a time stamp. Anyway,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “If the photographer is done... I’m ready for them to remove the body. I can tell you more after autopsy, but not much more.”

  Craig reached up with gloved hands to help the man crawl back out of the dumpster.

  The ME smelled to high hell.

  Craig figured he did, too.

  Crime scene technicians would go through everything in the alley and the dumpster, but he and Mike had already given it a once-over.

  Nothing—nothing that seemed to be anything at any rate.

  They had dozens of cigarette butts, but every smoking waiter, waitress, dishwasher, and patron of the surrounding places could have slipped out back for a cigarette.

  There were disposable cups, plates, napkins, boxes, and more.

  There was marinara sauce.

  There was blood.

  He wondered if the killer’s blood might be in the mix, too. But an answer to that would take time and the lab.

  He looked down the alley to see that Richard Egan had come to the scene, fully aware he’d be having to give another press conference the next day. Egan believed the public deserved to know what was going on.

  But he believed in hiding details from the public because in any city were people who would confess to crimes they didn’t commit or insist they knew something, simply for attention. In New York, those numbers were multiplied many times over. It was a mammoth city.

  Right now, he’d be carefully weighing what he should say.

  Craig strode over to him.

  He knew how badly he smelled by the way his boss’s face crinkled as he arrived.

  “You found him,” Egan said quietly.

  “As I feared.”

  Egan shook his head. “I don’t get it. If
the killer knew about the old ice chute in the basement, why go after Blom and kill him to get in the building? Why didn’t he just come in through the chute and leave Blom out of it?”

  “Well, I don’t really know, and I’m working on that. For one, if he didn’t figure out a way to get a key, he wasn’t going to get anywhere other than the lobby,” Craig said.

  “But according to the security firm, each resident could only get to his or her floor.”

  “We’re going to have to go through phone records and email. Maybe once the killer was in the building, they could have called Mayhew and had him bring them up? Mayhew and Blom might have been friendly enough to stop by each other’s places for a drink or cup of coffee. Then it would be easy enough for the killer to get out.”

  “Right. So, the killer sees Blom leave with the dog. He lures the man to a back alley and kills him and leaves him. Then how the hell did Blom’s blood wind up in a pool on the basement floor?”

  “I don’t know,” Craig said. He hesitated. “Part of the problem is that because he was wearing a hoodie and doesn’t look up at the security camera, we can’t say if it was Blom coming and going, or someone else, either time. Maybe the killer found Blom in the park, lured him to the ice chute somehow, brought him down to the basement—and killed him there. Then somehow dragged him back out and disposed of him here.”

  “Why not just leave him in the basement?”

  “To make it all harder to figure. Cast suspicion on him and slow us down. It’s working, after all. Have we confirmed if the blood in the basement did belong to Blom?”

  “You haven’t checked your email.”

  “I’ve been dumpster diving.”

  Egan nodded grimly. “It’s Blom’s blood,” he said. “Lab rushed for us—yes. We have a match.”

  “Then that’s the only scenario I can figure,” Craig said. “And damned difficult to pull off. There would have had to be a reason that Blom would trust someone enough to follow them down the ice chute.”

  Egan didn’t answer.

  “You know, I don’t think Nicholson committed these murders,” Craig said.