by R.J. Ellory
Seeming to grow out of the shadows in the upper hallway, it was as if he had somehow managed to materialize out of the air itself. There was nothing, and then there was something. There was no-one, and then there was someone, and that someone stood for a long time - ten, perhaps fifteen minutes - and he was utterly motionless, nothing but the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed, and beside him, resting there against the carpet, was the butt of a rifle.
The figure eventually moved, took two steps forward, and before he reached Frances Allen′s bedroom he propped the rifle against the edge of the jamb. With one hand against the upper frame, the other on the handle, he eased it open, pushed it wide, and stood there - again for some considerable time - perhaps listening to her breathing. He did the same with each door until he found the main bedroom, the sleeping parents - Howard and Jean Allen - and then he walked around to Jean′s side of the bed and leaned down to look at her face. After a moment or two he reached forward, closed his hand firmly over her nose and mouth, and waited for her eyes to open in surprise.
Which they did - wide and frightened - and when she saw the eyes looking back at her, eyes looking out of the single slit in a ski-mask, she felt as if her heart was exploding out of her chest in sheer terror.
And when she saw the rifle, and the way the figure calmly leaned across her and nudged Howard until he woke, she knew with a sense of utter certainty that something terrible was happening - and that it was not a dream.
At twelve forty-five Gifford came through to Irving′s incident room and stood in the doorway until Irving had finished his telephone conversation with Captain Farraday.
′I have a name for you,′ Gifford said.
′What name?′
′Name of the person that supposedly employed our friend Desmond to break into the Hill house.′
′He′s still holding onto that?′
′He′s still holding onto it yes, and I think you need to come and hear what he has to say.′
′Why? What′s he telling you?′
′That it was Anthony Grant.′
Irving stopped dead. He shook his head for a moment, and then looked back at Gifford with disbelief. ′Anthony Grant?′
Gifford nodded. ′He said the guy was a lawyer, his name was Anthony Grant, and he paid Desmond Roarke two thousand dollars to break into Gregory Hill′s house and find evidence that Hill had murdered Grant′s daughter—′
Irving rose to his feet slowly, felt as if he might lose his balance. ′You can′t be serious . . . you cannot be fucking serious . . .′
′Even gave the girl′s name . . . Mia Grant. Clear as fucking daylight.′
′And?′ Irving asked, his tone incredulous.
′He says that Grant thought Gregory Hill had killed her and there was evidence in the house.′
Naked, paralyzed with utter horror, barely able to stand as the man with the rifle held her hair, as he pushed the muzzle beneath her chin, Jean Allen looked back at her husband as he stood there, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to even look at what was taking place.
The rifleman marched Jean through to the hallway, told Howard to walk ahead of her, to make his way down to the end of the landing and step into the second bedroom.
It was fast. Breathlessly, unbelievably fast. The way he pushed them both into the room - Marcie and Leanne still sleeping, the house in darkness - and then he was standing there, no hesitation at all, and the sudden roar and flash of the gun as he shot both girls, one after the other, and Howard started screaming, and Jean was screaming too, and when Howard lunged forward to wrest the gun away the man just turned, and with the butt of the rifle he floored Howard with a single blow to the head. Jean looked down at her husband, the wide gash across his face already running with blood, and she went down like a stone. Fainted cold. The rifleman left them there on the floor. He took off at a run, one room to the next, shooting as he went, killing each of the remaining two children in turn before returning to the parents. He set his gun down on the floor, and one by one he carried Jean and Howard back to their bedroom and lay them face down. Jean began to stir as he re-entered the room with the rifle. He shouldered the gun, took aim from a distance of two or three feet, and he executed her. Unmitigated, unequivocal, decisive.
He did the same to Howard. Wide symmetrical arcs of blood and brain matter were sprayed across the wall over the headboard.
From the moment he leaned over Jean Allen and pressed his hand over her mouth, to the moment he started back down the stairs to the front hallway, was less than two minutes.
He left behind him six dead. Two parents, four children.
It was sixteen minutes past midnight, early hours of November 13th.
FIFTY-EIGHT
At twelve fifty-five Ray Irving sat facing Desmond Roarke in an interview room at the Fourth Precinct. Roarke had pleaded for cigarettes, but had been given none. Twice he had used the bathroom, both times handcuffed, two officers with him, and aside from that he′d done nothing but argue back and forth with Detective Vernon Gifford about his rights, his access to legal counsel, about the fact that being found on someone′s roof was - in and of itself - nothing more than a trespass charge. Away from the Hills′ house he seemed to have regained some composure, even self-confidence, and whatever explanation he had given earlier about Anthony Grant, about being paid to break into the house to look for evidence, seemed to have been forgotten.
′You′re going back,′ Irving told Roarke emphatically. ′Whatever the hell charge we bring against you, you′re still on parole, and any arrest means you go back.′
Roarke didn′t respond.
′How much time is that? Another nine months?′
Once again, Roarke said nothing. He looked back at Irving contemptuously.
′And aside from the grand theft auto thing that we′re gonna need to talk about, there′s also the girl′s murder—′
′What the fuck?′ Roarke snapped, and stood up suddenly.
Gifford, behind him, grasped Roarke′s shoulders and returned him forcibly to the chair.
′Hey, you were the one who used her name,′ Irving said. ′Until her name came out of your mouth we had nothing to tie you to Mia Grant. Now we have at least sufficient to hold you while forensics takes a look at the stuff in your bag.′ Irving looked up at Gifford. ′Wasn′t the girl bound with duct tape . . . same tape as in Desmond′s bag, right?′
′Exactly the same,′ Gifford replied, and once again held Roarke down as he tried to get up from the chair.
′You′re full of shit!′ he snapped. ′You guys are so full of shit. You′re just fishing on this. You have nothing, absolutely fucking nothing to tie me to some girl′s murder.′
′Not what Grant says.′
′What?′ Roarke said. ′What are you talking about?′
′Grant. Anthony Grant, right? We already spoke to him. Says he never heard of you—′
′That′s bullshit, man, and you fucking know it. He was my defense lawyer—′
Irving looked up at Gifford. Gifford smiled.
′Whatever, Desmond . . . fact of the matter is that Anthony Grant has been very adamant in denying any knowledge of you. Says he never heard of Gregory Hill. Never spoke to you, never paid you any money. You don′t think we didn′t check this thing out soon as you mentioned it?′
′That fucking asshole . . . Jesus, man, what the fuck is this? This is some fucking railroad bullshit. He was the one who called me, said he needed me to do this thing, said he′d pay me . . .′ Roarke tried to wrestle free from Gifford′s grip on his shoulders, but Gifford held him still. ′I even have half the fucking money . . . half the fucking money up front, half the money when it was done.′
′And what exactly was it that he wanted you to do, Desmond?′ Irving said.
′Check out the house,′ Roarke replied. ′Go in there and check out the house. Said his daughter was killed by this freak, this Gregory Hill character. Said that his teenage daughter was killed b
y this whacko and I should go in the house and find something that belonged to the girl . . . prove it, you know? Prove that this guy was the one who did her.′
′And when was the last time you saw Anthony Grant?′ Irving asked.
′See him? I never saw him. All done by phone. He called me last week, said he had a job for me, something simple. Said he needed me to go in some place and get something for him. Said he′d stay in touch, call me when he knew exactly where it was, and that I should just make myself available.′
′And then he called you when?′
′This evening. Like eight o′clock or something. Gave me this guy′s name and address, said I should go down there and get in the place. Said there′d be something like some clothes, maybe a piece of jewelry. He said there′d be no-one in the house, that the people were away. It wasn′t a robbery or anything. It was just - well, like he was trying to get something that would nail this motherfucker for doing his teenage kid, you know? I figured it was a good thing, that I should do the guy a favor. He was a good lawyer. He looked after me, got me a community order for something that I shoulda done some time for.′
′So you didn′t actually see him?′ Irving asked. ′You didn′t actually have a face-to-face with him?′
′Hell no, I ain′t seen him since he was on my case four years ago.′
′So how did he get you the money, the half up front?′
′Put it in my mailbox, that was all. Brown paper envelope, bills inside, clean and new, and that was that. A thousand up front, a thousand when it was done.′
′And you never saw him?′
Roarke shook his head. ′No, I said that already. It was all on the phone. He calls me up, he tells me what he wants, we agree a price, he pays the half, I wait for the instructions. It ain′t fuckin′ rocket science.′
′So you have no way of knowing that it was definitely Grant that contacted you?′
′Sure it was Grant. Jesus, who the fuck else would it be? Some stranger calls me up, says he′s gonna pay me two grand to break into someone′s house just for the hell of it?′
Irving understood exactly what had happened. He rose from his chair. ′You′re staying for a while,′ he told Roarke. ′Keep your mouth shut and behave yourself.′ He looked at Gifford. ′Get Grant in here now,′ he said as he reached for the door.
′What the fuck?′ Roarke said. ′You said you′d already spoken to Grant.′
Irving ignored Roarke, ignored his hollerings about his rights, about legal representation, about violation of civil liberties.
Irving and Gifford hurried from the interview room and started up the stairs.
FIFTY-NINE
One-twenty a.m., and Anthony Grant sat across from Ray Irving in the detective′s office. Irving could have taken him to the incident room, but there were photographs of his daughter on the cork board. He could have taken him to an interrogation cell, but he believed that Grant had nothing to do with Roarke′s appearance at the Gregory Hill house. He also believed, though it was yet to be established, that Gregory Hill had never heard of Mia Grant, let alone had anything to do with her disappearance and ultimate murder.
′Desmond Roarke? Sure I know him. Defended him on some two-bit thing a few years ago. Why?′
Irving leaned back and felt the weight of the thing, the pressure, the fact that he was digging a hole that he knew would lead nowhere. Meanwhile, midnight had been and gone. It was the 13th of November.
′Because, Mr Grant, he has made a very serious accusation against you that we have to determine the validity of.′
′Accusation? Accusation about what?′ Grant said.
Irving watched the man. Despite the defense lawyer presence, the skill he evidently possessed in hiding his hand until the final moment in cross-examinations and rebuttals, it appeared that Grant was genuinely surprised. Gifford had fetched him from his house, and Grant - despite the hour - had come willingly. Perhaps he had believed that it was something to do with his daughter, and it was, though not in the way Grant might have expected.
′That you paid him, or at least offered to pay him, two thousand dollars to break into someone′s house and look for evidence relating to the death of your daughter.′
Grant frowned. And then he shook his head, and then he kind of did a double-take, and hesitated a few moments before asking, ′He said what?′
′I assume you didn′t,′ Irving said.
′God, man, I haven′t spoken to Roarke since I defended him, and that was - when? Four years ago? He said I paid him to break into someone′s house? Whose house?′
′I′m sorry, I can′t tell you that, but nevertheless I′m going to need your co-operation, Mr Grant. I need to verify that no calls were made from your phone to Desmond Roarke.′
′What? From my landline? My cellphone? That won′t prove a goddamned thing. I could have called him from a phone booth, or a single-use cellphone . . . any number of places.′
′Sure you could,′ Irving said, ′but I have to start somewhere. I have a case to build against someone, and I need as much evidence to exclude people as I do to include them. I know you understand the situation.′
′So how does this relate to Mia?′ Grant said. ′Does this bring you any closer to finding out what happened to her?′
Irving hesitated for a moment.
′It doesn′t, does it?′ Grant said. He sighed deeply, lowered his head, and when he looked up Irving could see the depth of shadows beneath the man′s eyes, the fact that he was carrying a burden comparable to his own, but with Grant it was so much closer to home.
′I employed a PI,′ Grant said.
Irving′s eyes widened in surprise. ′You did what?′
′What the fuck did you expect me to do?′ Grant said. ′My daughter is dead. My wife is a mess, Detective, an absolute mess. Five months and we have nothing. Mia died back in June. It′s now November. You have any idea—′ Grant shook his head and looked down. ′No, you don′t, do you? You have absolutely no idea what it′s like to lose a child.′
Irving didn′t speak.
′So I hired someone, and he made some inquiries, and no, they′ve come to nothing, so at least I know that you didn′t miss anything obvious—′
′Mr Grant, I assure you that we′re doing—′
′Everything you possibly can. Sure, Detective, I′ve heard it so many times, how you′re doing everything you can. I don′t want to hear that any more.′ Grant rose from his chair and buttoned his overcoat. He was unshaven, his hair was tousled. He wore odd socks - one brown, one black - and the kind of moccasins that you slipped on to empty the trash, not to visit a precinct house.
′I need to ask you not to leave the city,′ Irving said.
Grant buried his hands in his pockets. He shrugged his shoulders. ′Where the hell would I go, Detective? I′ve got nowhere to go. I want to see the end of this thing more than anyone. I want to know who killed my daughter, and why.′
′I have to tell you, Mr Grant, that it′s sometimes the case—′
′That you never actually find out who did it? Is that what you′re going to tell me?′
′It′s unfortunately the truth, Mr Grant.′
′I know,′ Grant replied. ′I′m a lawyer. I spend my life defending people like Desmond Roarke. I see both sides of it, and sometimes I wonder which is worse, you know? No offense intended, but I read through case files where the investigative work is just bullshit amateur—′ He stopped mid-sentence. ′I′m going to leave now, Detective Irving, before I say something that both of us are going to regret.′
Grant held out his hand. Irving took it and they shook.
′Have to go home and tell my wife that there′s no news.′
′I′m sorry, Mr Grant, I really am.′
Grant nodded, but said nothing.
′Oh, Mr Grant? The name of the PI you hired.′
′Roberts. Karl Roberts.′
′And he′s based here in New York.′
′
Yes,′ Grant replied. ′I′m sure you′ll find him in the Yellow Pages.′
Irving showed Grant out, and moments later tracked down Gifford in the incident room.
′Get me Gregory Hill,′ Irving said. ′Wherever he is, whatever they′re doing with him, I need him now.′
SIXTY
′We′re being played . . . we′re being played like a fucking orchestra,′ Irving said.
He dropped into the chair facing Gifford. A squad had been sent out to the address at East 35th and Third to get Gregory Hill. Forensics were all over the place down there, trying to find anything at all that might connect Hill to Grant or vice versa.
′There′s no connection between Greg Hill and Anthony Grant. I′m sure of it,′ Irving said. ′Our anniversary guy called up Desmond Roarke and said he was Grant. He set Roarke do this thing tonight. Picked a family of six—′
′You think that′s all there is to it?′ Gifford asked. ′He wanted us to know he could get to a family of six?′
Irving didn′t reply. He could never have been so optimistic. The man they were dealing with had murdered eleven - all the way from the Grant girl to the unidentified ′orange socks′ girl.
Irving glanced at his watch. It was approaching two a.m. It would be November the 13th for another twenty-two hours. He walked to the board on the wall, looked at each of the victims′ faces in turn, and wondered for the thousandth time at the insanity of someone who believed that such destruction and horror was their true calling. This would be their legacy, just like Shawcross and Bundy and Henry Lee Lucas and the others. Too many others . . .
′You get the ID on the last one yet?′ Gifford asked.
Irving shook his head. ′No, we still don′t know who the fuck she was . . . two weeks now.′
The internal line rang. Gifford picked it up. He listened, thanked whoever was on the line, and then hung up.
′He′s here,′ he said. ′Gregory Hill.′