The Anniversary Man

by R.J. Ellory

  ′And then there′s the other matter,′ Farraday said. He turned and faced Irving, walked to his desk and sat down.

  ′The bit about it becoming personal?′

  Farraday nodded somberly. ′He said that it would be at least six, perhaps more, and after that it would get personal.′

  ′Far as I know we′ve had no other homicides reported in last night.′

  ′We haven′t,′ Farraday said, ′but that doesn′t mean that they didn′t take place. The Montgomery Street girl we didn′t find for twelve days.′

  ′And the personal thing?′ Irving said. ′That could mean me, or it could mean something else entirely.′

  Farraday leaned forward. ′We now have a total of seventeen victims, almost conclusively attributable to one man. This is not going to stay off the radar any more. We cannot hold this thing down any longer. The police presence at the Hill address, again at the Allen crime scene . . . we had press down there, both locations, and they only need to speak to Desmond Roarke, maybe to Greg Hill, a few of the neighbors that you canvassed, and they′ll start putting things together.′

  ′So - how long?′

  Farraday turned his mouth down at the corners. ′A day? Two at best.′

  ′So I′m following up on the crime scene reports, the autopsies as well. I′ve got Ken Hudson tracking down Karl Roberts, see if he had anything to do with the Roarke break-in—′

  ′When I said a day or two, what I meant was that I′m going to have to make a statement in the next day or two. Once we make a statement we′re in the headlines. That means we have to get something solid—′

  Irving got up. He straightened his jacket. ′The only eyewitnesses I have are dead. The evidence I′ve got, certainly from the crime scenes, is not only circumstantial, it′s inconclusive. I have a picture of someone dressed as a cop who may or may not be our guy, could even be someone who was paid to turn up in Central Park and photograph me and Costello—′

  ′Which brings me to the next point,′ Farraday interjected. ′And sit the fuck down, will you?′

  Irving did as he was told.

  ′So has this guy been of any use to you at all?′

  ′Sure he has.′

  ′So it′s worth keeping him around?′

  ′If you need someone to justify why we did this—′

  ′Don′t worry about justifying anything. The public don′t give a fuck what we do as long as we get results. We hire the New England fucking Patriots to run this investigation and no-one will actually give a damn if we nail the guy.′

  ′I know that,′ Irving replied. ′But you′re asking me for something substantial, something probative, and you want it in the next twenty-four hours. The real truth of this entire situation is that it′s been more than five months since Mia Grant was murdered and we have nothing—′

  ′That kind of statement stays inside this room,′ Farraday said.

  ′I know it stays inside this room. Jesus, Bill, what the hell do you think is going on here?′

  ′So what do you need? Seriously. Your friends down at the City Herald, the vultures at The Times . . . they′re going to be onto the Allen murders already. I mean, for God′s sake, four kids have been killed in their beds. This is going to go down like . . . Jesus, I can′t even imagine what the reaction′s going to be, but with the political climate as it is now, with all these questions being raised in the Mayor′s debates about police funding and God only knows what . . .′

  ′I know all about that,′ Irving said. ′I just need people and time. That′s all I need.′

  ′Time I can′t give you. You′ve got Hudson and Gifford. Who else do you need?′

  ′I need at least six uniforms. I have a lot of houses, a lot of questions. I have missing people who might have been there last night. I have to follow up on the Greg Hill wife-beating thing. I have no shortage of fucking work, and true, some of it might be bullshit. This PI could have nothing at all, and the situation with Hill and his wife might be so far from relevant it′s not even funny, but all of these things have to be followed up, and if I′m following them up then I′m not pursuing the direct line of inquiry with Jeff Turner. Our best hope is that we find something about the victims, something in the house that tells us a little more about who we′re dealing with. It′s a jigsaw puzzle, Bill . . . I mean, for God′s sake, I don′t need to tell you how this goes. This isn′t TV show stuff. This doesn′t start and finish within the hour with all the clues just lying there for Briscoe and Green to find—′

  ′Six gonna be enough?′

  ′For now, yes. I just need all these lines pursued, and I sure as shit don′t have the time to do it. If I need more I′ll let you know.′

  ′Who was at the Allen house with you?′

  ′Anderson and Maurizio.′

  ′Keep them. I′ll give you Goldman, Vogel . . .′ Farraday leaned forward and tugged a shift schedule from beneath a heap of papers on his desk. He scanned through the names. ′Anderson, Maurizio, Goldman, Vogel . . . and Saxon and O′Reilly. That′s six. I need detailed reports. Everything you find. Then we′ll review where we′re going and reassign as needed. And if you need more detectives just holler. Where the fuck I′m going to get them from I don′t know, but I will.′

  Irving didn′t speak.

  ′Now you can get up,′ Farraday said. He looked at his watch. ′It′s ten-fifty. Let me know where you′re at by noon. Get the desk sergeant to round up these uniforms and you and Gifford can brief them in the incident room.′

  SIXTY-SIX

  Before the assigned crew arrived, Irving checked his inbox for any mail from Turner. There was nothing as yet.

  Eight minutes past eleven he stood before the gathered detectives and officers in the incident room and began by outlining the case as it currently stood.

  ′I′m taking you off the Grant PI thing,′ he told Ken Hudson. ′I need you to go see Gregory Hill. Anderson, you′re with Ken. Talk to Hill, find out what, if anything, he really knows about Anthony Grant. Find out what the deal was with the affair. Apparently Hill beat his wife when he found out about it, but she didn′t press charges against him so we have nothing on file. Find out what really happened. Speak to Laura Hill on that point if you need to, but right now I′m more interested in what Hill thinks about Grant. Was he holding on to a grudge? Is there anything that suggests he might have had sufficient hatred for Grant that he would harm his daughter? Once you′re done with him I need you to get Laura Hill to tell us everything she can about Grant. How did she meet him, how long their affair went on for. Everything you can find, okay?′

  Hudson and Anderson got up and left the room.

  Irving turned to Detective Gifford. ′Vernon, take Maurizio with you . . . go see Anthony Grant. Get his take on the affair with Laura Hill. I want to know everything from his point of view. Remember that right now Evelyn Grant doesn′t know about the affair, unless he′s told her in the last few hours. Tread careful. The guy′s a lawyer. I don′t want any harassment suits.′

  Gifford got up. ′What time do you need a progress report?′

  ′Most important thing is information. If you get these people talking don′t worry about the time. When you get a chance, send me a text or something, give me some idea of what the deal is, okay?′

  Maurizio followed Gifford from the room, and Irving waited until he could no longer hear their voices before turning back to the remaining four uniformed officers.

  ′Saxon, O′Reilly, I need you to pursue this Karl Roberts guy. You′ve got the address for his office there. Go chase him up. Speak to him, question him about Desmond Roarke. Does he know the guy? Ever heard of him? Have a look round without being too obvious. Get a feel for who he is, whether or not you think he might be involved in this. Find out what Grant told him about his daughter′s murder when he was first hired. Ask a lot of questions. One of you talk, one of you write things down. He′s a PI. He′ll be used to questions. Experience tells me that these guys love the sound of t
heir own voices.′

  Saxon and O′Reilly got up.

  Irving was left with Vogel and Goldman. ′You guys,′ he said. ′I need you to follow up Desmond Roarke. He′s still in the tank, but we′re gonna arraign him in the next hour or so. Only reason we′re hanging on to him is to get a warrant signed. We′re gonna put a line on his phone, see who he calls, who calls him. You guys need to go get jeans and sweatshirts on and follow him. We′re treating him as an indirect suspect in the murder case. A bit thin, but right now everyone′s sufficiently wound up about this thing to let us get away with it. What we want to know is whether or not he receives any further calls from Anthony Grant, or someone pretending to be Grant. That′s why the tap on his phone. Surveillance will deal with that from the Second - that′s where the anonymous call about the Allen murders came in - and if Roarke gets anything incoming or outgoing that sends him out to visit someone, then that information will come to us directly so we can tail him.′

  Irving looked back over his shoulder at the cork board, the faces of the victims, a space to the far right where a mother and father and four children would soon look back at him. ′My opinion, I don′t think Desmond Roarke is directly involved in this, but he received calls from someone, and that someone could very well have been our man pretending to be Anthony Grant. Either that, or the PI that Grant hired went a little beyond his brief. Either which way, it doesn′t matter. We need every base covered.′

  Vogel and Goldman got up. Goldman thanked Irving for the assignment, the expression in his eyes all-too-obvious. He was after making detective - Vice, Homicide, Narco, it didn′t matter. The vast majority of these guys figured that anything less than that was nothing. Irving watched them go, and believed that as of that moment speeding tickets and domestic disturbances were an infinitely more attractive proposition.

  Irving called Jeff Turner′s office, left a message that he would now be away from the office, that he could be reached on his cell. He then called Farraday′s assistant, told her that he would be back before one, that Farraday had expected a report at noon but he needed an extra hour.

  He gathered what notes he had on the Allen killings and drove away from the Fourth toward the offices of the City Herald. The traffic on 34th was not too bad, and he reached 31st and Ninth by ten of noon. He wanted to see Karen Langley. He wanted to see her simply because she made him feel more human. John Costello was a different matter however. In all truth, he did not want to see Costello. He needed to see him.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  ′Your guess is as good as mine,′ Karen Langley said. ′I can′t remember how many times I′ve called, but no answer.′

  ′I spoke to him this morning,′ Irving said. ′Must have been about eight. I told him about the Allen killings—′

  ′He never failed to show up for work before. In the time that you have known him he has done it twice.′

  Irving assumed a somewhat sardonic expression, and sat down. ′I don′t think you can hold me responsible for that, Karen—′

  ′You don′t think that this stuff affects him? He′s been through this sort of thing himself. Personally, you know? Not like us. It can′t be the same for him, can it?′

  ′Appears to me that he made his own choices a long time ago. You′ve got to remember, he was the one who did the research on the original article that brought you and me together.′

  ′But that′s the point, Ray. He does this stuff at arm′s length. That′s how he deals with what happened to him. He′s a spectator, not a participant, and you′ve put him in a situation where he has to be involved—′

  ′You′re talking about Central Park? He wanted to go out there, Karen. You make it sound like I forced him.′

  ′You obligated him, Ray. You made him feel like he could do something to help, and that was all it took. He′s a child, Ray, that′s the truth. This thing happened to him, and everything since then has been carefully constructed to make sure it never happens again . . .′

  Karen Langley looked away toward the window, pensive for a moment, almost sad, and when she turned back to Irving it appeared that her defenses had come down a little.

  ′I don′t even know what I′m talking about,′ she said. ′I′ve worked with him all these years and I don′t even know who he is. I say these things because I don′t have any other explanation for his behavior. He doesn′t go out, except to this meeting with these other victims at the hotel. He doesn′t have a girlfriend, has never had one as far as I know . . . not since her. Not since he was with—′

  ′Nadia McGowan,′ Irving interjected.

  ′Right. Nadia. He told me once that it was Russian for hope.′

  ′Ironic.′

  ′No, Ray, not ironic. Just very fucking sad, that′s all. His whole life has actually been really fucking sad, and I often wonder why he isn′t totally insane. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to go through that, to be in that situation, the things that would go through your mind after the fact. The explanations you would try and find for yourself to help deal with it.′ She sighed audibly. ′It′s a mess, and that′s the truth, and the only thing that I figured was keeping him sane was working here, you know? Doing something that he could do in an environment where people just let him be who he was . . . and right now it looks like even that is under threat as a result of what′s happening.′

  ′So how do we best reach him?′ Irving asked.

  ′Well, I can′t help you,′ Karen said. ′I′d go over there, but right now I don′t have time to breathe. He′ll show up sooner or later, and I′m sure he′ll have a perfectly acceptable explanation for his disappearance—′

  She stopped mid-flight when she saw Irving′s sudden change of expression.

  ′What?′ she said.

  ′You remember the letter?′ Irving said. He was standing up then, standing slowly.

  ′The letter to The Times? Sure I do,′ she said. ′What about it?′

  ′He said he was going to kill six people, maybe more, and then he was going to get personal.′

  ′You think—′

  ′He was there in Central Park wasn′t he? Either he was, or he sent someone to take pictures of me and John.′

  ′You think he′s after John? You think that′s what he meant?′

  Irving didn′t reply. He was already at the door.

  ′Jesus, Ray . . . no, for God′s sake . . .′

  Irving didn′t hear her because he was already running, the sound of his feet on the stairwell, his cellphone in his hand, already speed-dialing the Fourth to get a squad car out to 39th and Ninth, the third floor apartment near St Raphael′s Church in the Garment District.

  Like John Costello had told him, every single day was an anniversary for someone′s death.

  Howard and Jean Allen could have vouched for that.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Vogel was recalled from the Roarke stake out, O′Reilly from the interview with Anthony Grant. Irving called Farraday from the car and requested he expedite an At Risk warrant on John Costello′s apartment.

  ′Jesus, Ray, that shit is for abused kids, not newspaper researchers who didn′t show up for work—′

  Irving cut him short, explained his fear, that the threat to get personal may already have become more than just a threat.

  Farraday said to move ahead with the operation, that he would handle the paperwork.

  Irving arrived at Costello′s apartment building at five of one. He went up the stairs with his gun drawn, his senses attuned to every sound in the place, and had already knocked several times without any response by the time Vogel and O′Reilly arrived.

  ′There′s another black-and-white out back,′ Vogel told Irving. ′If you need them on the back stairway—′

  ′Tell them which apartment,′ Irving said. ′Tell them to stay silent, that we may not need them to access, but be alert for anyone trying to leave.′

  Irving banged on the door again, called Costello′s name, identified himself, waited pati
ently for any sound from within.

  Five minutes later, he nodded to O′Reilly. The officer had brought the hydraulic punch from the car, came forward to position it over the lock. He switched it on, and there was a whining sound for a few seconds before it lit up green on top.

  Irving stepped back, hollered Costello′s name one more time, waited for a handful of seconds and then gave the go-ahead to O′Reilly.

  O′Reilly fired the punch, and with a sound like a gunshot a hole was driven through the door. O′Reilly stepped back, and the section of door containing the lock fell through into the interior of the apartment. The door, however, remained rigidly in place.

  ′Deadbolts above and below,′ O′Reilly said, and Irving stepped back as he reached through the hole and felt along the doorframe.

  Within a moment Ray Irving stood on the threshold of John Costello′s world, looking down the clean and undecorated hallway, the walls bare of pictures, a strip of featureless linoleum on the floor. The place was cold, and for a moment Irving wondered whether a window had been left wide somewhere within the place. Thankfully, the smell of the dead, that cloying and unmistakable odor that filled the nostrils, the mouth, the throat, the chest, was absent. Neither could he smell the precursor - the rich, coppery haunt of blood, pooled and drying somewhere close.

  Irving turned and looked back at the uniforms. Guns drawn, all three of them made their way down the hallway toward the doors at the end, one to the left, one straight ahead. Irving indicated that he would go through the door directly facing them, that Vogel should take the left, O′Reilly acting as cover for both of them in the event that defensive action was required.

  But Irving sensed that the apartment was empty, and so it was with something less than his usual caution that he opened the door and stepped through into John Costello′s living room.

  At first it was difficult to appreciate what he was seeing, and even after some moments - turning back to look at O′Reilly, O′Reilly frowning, looking puzzled, almost bemused - Irving still wondered whether there was some trick being played, some trompe l′oeil, for ahead of him was a series of metal bookshelves, erected so close together there was barely space to stand between them, and upon those shelves were the spines of some sort of journal, literally hundreds of them, side by side, spanning the room from one wall to the next. In each corner of the room was a small device rather like a computer modem, a series of lights on its top, a number of holes in its fascia, and these devices hummed, and somehow served to emphasize the restful, almost timeless atmosphere in the room.