The Anniversary Man

by R.J. Ellory

  ′My books. My writing. The things in my apartment?′

  ′I know, John, I know, but you have to agree that there′s something strange about—′

  ′About me? About who I am? About the way I live my life?′ Costello smiled sardonically. ′I don′t think it would take a lot of work for someone to consider that there′s something strange about you, Detective Irving. You live alone, you eat in the same restaurant every day, you have no friends, no social life. You can′t start a relationship, let alone make it work—′

  ′This isn′t about me, John—′

  ′Isn′t it? I think perhaps you should take another look. I think that you is exactly and precisely what this is about. This is who you are, Detective Irving. What you are doing right now, what you have been doing over the last few weeks, seems to be the only thing that defines you—′

  ′John . . . seriously. I need to understand who I′m dealing with here—′

  ′What you are dealing with? Why do you think you are dealing with something?′

  ′The books in your apartment . . . a room full of books. Ionizers or whatever—′

  ′Dehumidifiers,′ Costello said matter-of-factly. ′They′re there to make sure the room doesn′t get damp.′

  ′But what does it all mean? What does—′ ′What does it mean? It doesn′t mean anything, Detective. Or maybe it does. Fact of the matter is I don′t care if who I am and what I do means anything to you or not.′

  ′John . . . goddammit, John, I have to justify my decisions here, and one of them was having you work with us—′

  ′You don′t have to justify anything any more, Detective. Don′t concern yourself with that. I quit.′

  ′You what?′

  ′I just quit,′ Costello said. ′Real simple. No problem at all. You don′t have to explain yourself or justify anything to anyone.′

  Out of the corner of his eye Irving caught a flash of movement through the small window in the door.

  Gifford evidently saw it too, for he got up and stepped out into the corridor. He returned moments later, tapped Irving on the shoulder, indicated that he was needed outside.

  The expression on Bill Farraday′s face said everything. ′The news has it,′ he said under his breath. ′I′ve had Ellmann on the phone ten times already. What the fuck is it with this guy?′

  ′Who the hell knows,′ Irving said. ′A fucking weird apartment. A lot of material that I′d like to take a close look at, but right now I have no reason to. I can explain breaking into his apartment, but I have nothing to hold him on, nothing to charge him with except suspicion of being fucking nuts—′

  ′Let him go,′ Farraday said.

  Irving looked down at the floor. It had been inevitable.

  ′Get him out of here,′ Farraday said. ′Tell him to get his door fixed. Tell him to have it billed to us. Get him out of the building, off the payroll . . . Jesus, I knew this was a fucking mistake—′

  ′He already quit,′ Irving said.

  Farraday sneered. ′Oh that′s really rich, isn′t it. God, this has become a fucking circus. I need you to finish with him, Ray, I need him out of here - and I need him muzzled on this. His story in the fucking papers is the last thing in the world I want to deal with right now.′

  Irving knew there was nothing on which they could hold Costello, no justification for searching the apartment, no reason to pore over the several hundred journals that were book-shelved and dehumidified and extraordinarily suspicious.

  ′Six dead, and four of them were kids . . .′ Farraday left the statement incomplete.

  Irving returned to the interview room, told Costello that he could go, that there was no reason to hold him. He also asked him to maintain confidentiality regarding what had happened.

  John Costello smiled, standing there at the door, the look in his eyes one of unspoken patience.

  ′Tell me something,′ Irving said.

  Costello raised his eyebrows.

  ′Tell me that I didn′t make a mistake about you. Tell me you′re not involved in this thing.′

  And Costello smiled again, but this time there was something that appeared almost superior - not disdainful, not critical or censorious, but knowing - as if Costello knew he was so far beyond the banality of Irving′s thought processes.

  ′Involved in this thing?′ he said. ′Of course I′m involved, Detective, and you′re the one who got me involved.′

  And with that he opened the door and left the room.

  Irving looked at Gifford. Gifford looked right back.

  Neither of them spoke, because neither of them had anything to say.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  By five that afternoon, Ray Irving was certain that Anthony Grant and Desmond Roarke had not spoken to one another since the conclusion of their professional relationship some years before. Detective Ken Hudson, pursuing whatever lines he could regarding the whereabouts of Karl Roberts, Grant′s PI, also found time to meet with Gregory Hill. Ostensibly to elicit any further information regarding the Roarke break-in, Hill was brought to the interview room and questioned without his wife. For this he was grateful. She had been through enough. Her affair with Grant was in the past. They had managed to get over it. She had recognized it as a huge mistake, something that she had convinced her husband was a once and once only thing, and he had forgiven her.

  ′And were there physical confrontations?′ Hudson had asked Hill, a question that had prompted Hill to avert his gaze, to look ashamed, to respond in a whisper.

  ′I was drinking,′ he told Hudson. ′I said some things . . . did some things . . .′

  ′Did you physically harm her, Mr Hill?′

  ′I was a different man back then,′ Hill said. ′I hit her. I cannot tell you how ashamed I am of my behavior. Regardless of what someone might have done, violence is never justified.′

  Hudson believed the man to be genuinely contrite. The Hills had weathered the worst that could happen to a marriage, and they had somehow survived. The way the attempted break-in now appeared confirmed that the focus of the investigation was not to be Anthony Grant, nor Greg Hill, nor Desmond Roarke. The subject of their concentration and focus was the man who had called Roarke and pretended to be Grant. The man who had hired Roarke to break into the Hill house, suggesting there was evidence that implicated Hill in the murder of Mia Grant. CSAs at the Hill house had found nothing. Roarke had made no calls to any number registered to Grant. Access to Roarke′s phone records gave them three phone booths, all within a ten-block perimeter of the Fourth, from which calls had been made coincident with the times he believed Grant was calling him. There was nothing probative to tie these men together. Their stories held.

  Desmond Roarke would carry through on the attempted B&E. He′d invalidated his parole and would return to complete his sentence. Laura Hill would not be dragged through an interview regarding her infidelity. Evelyn Grant would not be told of her husband′s affair with Laura Hill five years earlier. Grant was a lawyer. He knew how far the police could walk, and where they had to stop. There were lines, and some were not crossed.

  Each way Irving and his men turned there were walls, and the walls were wide, and they were high, and there appeared to be no way around them.

  At quarter of seven a meeting was held in the incident room. Present were Farraday, Irving, Gifford, Hudson, Jeff Turner, and the assistant CSA from the Allen house.

  ′Before we go through all the crime scene and autopsy reports we need to consolidate what we have,′ Farraday said.

  ′What we don′t have,′ Irving said.

  Farraday ignored the comment, read through some notes on a sheet of paper, and then said, ′Roarke is being processed on the B&E attempt, right?′

  ′He′ll be done tonight,′ Hudson said. ′We′ll turn him over to County in the morning.′

  ′Where′s he going?′

  ′We don′t know yet. All of them are overcrowded. We′ll get a decision tomorrow.′

  ′Mak
e sure they tell us before he vanishes. We may need to speak to him again.′ Farraday found another sheet of paper, read over several points, and then set it aside. ′So where are we? Greg Hill is not our man. We′re sure of that?′

  ′There′s nothing in the house. He has alibis for pretty much every date of the recent murders. Out-of-state, three days extended weekend holiday through Sunday, August sixth. The weekend when the three kids were killed. I don′t get him for this.′

  ′And the wife situation?′

  ′Laura Hill?′ Hudson shook his head. ′She was banging Grant for a while. Grant′s wife didn′t know then, doesn′t know now. Hill admitted to hitting his wife, said he was drinking too much. A domestic situation that stayed indoors. No report filed, no complaint from the wife. We′ve not solicited any request for investigation or charge. They seem to have dealt with it.′

  ′Which leaves us with two assumptions,′ Farraday said. ′First, that our man knew we were talking to families with six members. Secondly, that he was the one who set Roarke up to do the Greg Hill break-in.′

  ′And if Roarke had actually broken in?′ Hudson asked. ′How did that fit into anything?′

  ′I have no idea,′ Farraday replied. ′I think that sending Roarke to the Hill house was not a diversion for us, but another fuck you from our guy. He′s ahead of us. He wants us to know that. He does whatever he has to do in order to remind us that we′re way behind on this one.′

  ′Roarke, Grant, Hill,′ Irving said. ′They′re all out of the frame as far as I′m concerned. Chase those and we′re up a blind alley.′

  ′Which gives us the crime scene and autopsy reports from the Allen house,′ Farraday said, and looked at Turner.

  Turner shook his head before he even started talking. ′I am not the bearer of revelations,′ he said. He tapped his finger on a stack of manila folders on the desk. ′Six autopsies, a full crime scene report. Tox, firearms, fingerprinting, the wire to the alarm outside, lock-pick marks on the back door . . . we′ve been through everything. We found one print in the soft earth of the verge outside a window. Size eleven sneaker, generic brand, same size as the print found at the Central Park site, but that confirms nothing. No prints inside but those of the family, a couple of smudges, a couple of unknown partials on the mailbox outside. There was a mess of them around the external fuse box, but we contacted the electric company and the Allens had a registered electrician service the box less than two weeks ago. The perp left nothing behind to make your job any easier.′

  ′Did you get anything more on the .35 rifle?′ Irving asked. ′Firearms said that Remington Marlin produce a model called a 336. They have them chambered for a .35.′

  ′Jesus,′ Irving said. ′He even used the same brand of gun.′

  ′Well, it′s not a rare gun. So far we′ve got three hundred and forty registered in the city, and if we go county-wide we′re into the thousands.′

  ′Excluding the illegals, the pawn shops, the unreported thefts,′ Irving said.

  ′Trouble this guy goes to he′s not going to use a gun that′s registered to himself,′ Farraday said. ′I think that′s a dead-end . . . wouldn′t waste any time on the rifle.′

  ′Truth of the matter is that every line we′ve followed has gone dead,′ Hudson said. ′Certainly that′s been the case so far.′

  ′Well,′ Farraday said, ′we′re gonna have to do whatever the fuck it takes to bring them back to life.′ He glanced at his watch. ′It′s ten past seven now . . . I need you guys to get your heads together and write a proposal that I can take to Chief Ellmann at nine. We′ve had headliners on three news stations on the Allen killings. It′ll die down, but the more attention it gets the more phone calls come through from the Mayor′s office—′

  Irving opened his mouth to speak but Farraday stopped him with a gesture. ′I have enough to deal with without your viewpoint on the Mayor′s office,′ he said, and rose from his chair. He straightened the stack of papers on the table and then made his way to the door. ′Nine o′clock,′ he reiterated. ′A sensible fucking proposal, not some bullshit whitewash job that we all know won′t work, okay?′

  Turner looked at Irving, Irving looked at Hudson and Gifford. All of them watched Farraday as he left the room and headed for the stairs.

  ′Right then,′ Turner said, ′I′ll leave you ladies to it.′

  ′The fuck you will,′ Irving said. ′Sit the fuck down. You′re in this as deep as we are, and we′re gonna go through it all again until we have something for the Show ′n′ Tell.′

  SEVENTY-TWO

  It was gone eleven p.m. by the time Irving arrived home. In his pocket he had a small slip of paper upon which he′d scribbled Karen Langley′s home phone number.

  He made some coffee, he sat in the front room looking out through the window into darkness, and he wrestled with himself.

  At eleven-twenty Ray Irving picked up the receiver and dialed her number.

  ′You′re an asshole,′ she said.

  ′Karen—′

  ′Don′t Karen me, Ray. Fuck you. Fuck off out of my life okay? Let me get on with what I was doing. Things were fine until you came barreling into this like some—′

  ′Listen to me now—′

  ′Ray, seriously, I haven′t got time for this. It′s late and I′m tired. I′ve had John to deal with all evening, and right now I′m going to bed, because thanks to you I′ve got more of the same situation tomorrow—′

  ′Everything that happens is a fucking situation, Karen. This is what I do. I deal with all the situations that no-one else wants to deal with—′

  ′But Ray, Jesus Christ, Ray . . . he comes home and before he even gets inside the door there′s some asshole sitting on him trying to handcuff him—′

  ′You have any idea—′

  ′Enough already,′ Karen interjected. ′This is not a conversation I want to be having right now.′

  ′So when? When do you want to have this conversation?′

  ′Never, that′s when. That′s really how I feel right now, Ray . . . that I don′t ever want to have this conversation with you.′

  ′You′re just running away—′

  ′Screw you—′

  ′Screw you right back, Karen—′

  ′I′ll tell you something, Ray . . . I might have no idea what it′s like to stand on the stairs outside someone′s apartment and wonder whether or not there′s a dead body inside, but that′s not the only thing I′m talking about. Truth is, I don′t have room in my life for someone who doesn′t talk to me—′

  ′Talk to you? Talk to you about what, for God′s sake?′

  ′About what′s going on. About what′s happening.′

  ′Like what? Like what I do? You want me to call you up in the middle of the night and tell you what I′m doing? Like, hey Karen, you should see this guy here. Someone came over and beat his head in. His eyes are all eight-ball hemorrhaging, all bugged out and black you know? Or how about telling you how we went over to some junkie′s place and we found mom and her three little kids all carved up by junkie dad, who′s so strung out on crack and fuck knows what else he doesn′t even realize what he′s done—′

  ′Ray. Shut up! Just shut the fuck up, okay? I′m putting the phone down now—′

  ′Don′t you hang up on me, Karen, don′t you fucking hang up on—′

  ′Goodbye Ray.′

  ′Kar—′

  The line went dead in his ear.

  He sat there with the receiver in his hand for quite some time, and then he hung up and sat back in the chair.

  It hadn′t gone as well as he′d planned.

  Like most things.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Early Tuesday morning, the 14th of November. Irving′s sleep had been restless and fitful. Several times he had woken with a start, images playing in his mind, disturbed and fractured. Mia Grant′s black plastic-wrapped body. James Wolfe′s hollow-eyed clown face staring back at him from a hole in the ground . . .


  Everything taunted him, challenged him, made him feel impotent and weak. The Anniversary Man had defined his own proving ground, and had demonstrated his superiority without exception.

  I am better, smarter, faster . . .

  I am so many fucking steps ahead of you . . .

  You people . . . you people make me laugh . . .

  Beyond that, the stress and pressure of the investigation was beginning to show itself. Whatever relationship, professional or otherwise, Irving might have established with Karen Langley was now in pieces, and as far as John Costello was concerned . . . well, he tried hard not to think of John Costello.

  He made coffee. He sat at the kitchen table. He wanted a bottle of Jack Daniels and a carton of Luckies. He wanted a break. He wanted some peace.

  His pager went off at eight-ten. He called back, was informed that Farraday wanted him in his office at eight forty-five.

  ′You′re late,′ was Faraday′s greeting. His face was a blank. No sympathy, no empathy, no compassion, no understanding, no humor.

  ′I have more calls to deal with,′ he said. ′I have newspapers, the press people in the Mayor′s office, Chief Ellmann, the DA. I have TV stations, radio stations, even internet fucking chat-rooms posting cut-and-paste sections from newspaper articles about these killings . . .′ He leaned back until he looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. ′I have people putting two and two together, just like we said they would, and this time they′re coming back with four. This thing is now in the public domain, Ray, and I need it gone—′

  ′I am doing everything—′

  ′I know, I know, but everything you can do is evidently not enough. I need more. I need you to collaborate with FBI profiling, with forensics, with the coroner′s office. I need you and Hudson and Gifford to burn the midnight oil. I need files reconstructed and tabulations done. I need reviews of all crime scene reports.′ Farraday lowered his head and looked directly at Irving. ′What I need more than anything in the world is results.′

  Irving didn′t reply. He′d heard this before, would hear it time and again until the case was closed. He didn′t dare consider the possibility that the case might remain open.