The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  The good news was that he was in the most exciting place in this country to get laid, which is exactly what he intended to do if he was forced to wait it out here. He’d check out some of the nightclubs to see what he could find and if that didn’t pan out simply pick up one of the many whores walking the streets. Paying for sex had never been one of his preferences but what the hay—sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

  He adjusted the rear view mirror so he could see himself and nearly laughed out loud. What woman in her right mind would let him in her pants the way he looked? Jerry Rankin had once been a suave, handsome, sophisticated man about town before the ravages of prison had taken over. What he now saw in the mirror was an old, malnourished, out of shape piece of shit that looked like some burnt-out derelict.

  That would all change in time, he reminded himself. He would become his next incarnation and be even better than before, by God. Even Jerry Rankin will pale in comparison.

  But first things first. He needed to find a place to stay for the night that was relatively low-key but still half decent. Bernstein had suggested the Radisson on West Thirty-Second so Stanley headed in that general direction, keeping his eyes peeled for anything that might look suspicious. He had learned earlier that his escape had made the local news and although he doubted anybody would be looking for him in the Big Apple, he could never rule it out. His ace in the hole was the nondescript, boring car he was driving. Nobody knew he had this getaway vehicle so it was off the radar. He could thank Ted Stillman for that.

  The city was crawling with traffic and it didn’t take long to decide that midtown was out. He needed to be in a more obscure neighborhood—somewhere like Soho or Tribeca. He took Broadway south to Canal Street and started looking for a place to park. Moments later he actually found a spot on Leonard Street, squeezed into the space and kept the car running while he Googled hotels in Tribeca on the burner.

  There was a Holiday Inn on Canal Street that had some vacancies. He turned off the car, locked everything up in the trunk and walked back toward Canal. At the hotel he went ahead and checked in using his UK Visa card. The great thing about New York was that nobody would give a foreign credit card a second look unless there were insufficient funds in the account or something seemed awry. After he was handed his key, Stanley thanked the man and took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor.

  The room was clean and had a wonderful view of lower Manhattan. He noted the alarming absence of the twin towers and spotted the new skyscraper under construction that was to replace the World Trade Center. He likened his own existence to this new chapter in history. Soon he too would be rebuilt from the ground up, with a whole new look and a fresh new start.

  It was nearly six-thirty and he was absolutely famished—he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. But before he could even think about eating he needed to call Max again to see if he’d had any luck finding somebody else to provide him with a passport. He had no sooner taken out his phone when it vibrated. It was Max.

  “I was just getting ready to call—did you find somebody?”

  “This must be your lucky day—I did in fact do just that. But it’s not going to be cheap, so I hope you brought a lot of cash.”

  “I’ve got plenty of funds, Max—don’t worry. How soon can he do it?”

  “You’re to be at the Washington Square arch at eleven sharp tomorrow morning. Your connection will be wearing sunglasses, a Mets cap and carrying a New York Post under his left arm. He’ll be expecting three g’s cash up front or you can forget it, he told me. Providing you come up with the cash, he’ll take over from there.”

  “Perfect. Thanks, Max—I owe you big time.”

  “Yeah, you do—two grand to be exact. And you need to pay up tonight, or I’ll tell this gentleman the deal’s off.”

  “Just say when and where,” Stanley said.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Canal Street.”

  “Meet me at Paddy’s in an hour—it’s on Bleecker, near Thompson Street.”

  “Sounds like a plan. See you then.”

  Stanley disconnected, a huge smile on his face. Thank you, Max!

  For the first time since his escape he truly felt in control again. Everything was suddenly falling into place. All he had to do now was obtain the passport, book his flight and blast off to Paris and his new life.

  He checked his watch. He could be in Greenwich Village in twenty minutes to pay Max, which would allow him enough time now to re-park the car, unpack and take a quick shower. He’d worry about eating later.

  Heading toward the door, Stanley’s mind was awhirl. He recalled those wonderful years he’d spent in Europe, watching his diabolical plan come to fruition. He’d been nothing more than a tall, ugly, lanky geek back then—a hopeless excuse of a man who hated himself and everything he stood for. The only really good thing to have ever happened in his life had been the enormous wealth he’d amassed from his winnings in Vegas and brilliant investments in the stock market. Yet as ironic as it was, having all of that money hadn’t made him one bit happier or any less insecure about himself. He had in fact come within a millisecond of pulling the trigger on his forty-four Magnum one night and putting a swift end to his miserable existence. But just in the nick of time a light had suddenly come on and a better solution came to mind. He’d had an epiphany of sorts and subsequently masterminded a sure fire way to make his life much, much better. He had conceived a more efficient way to eliminate Stanley Jenkins, the four-eyed nerd loser that nobody wanted by replacing him with a brand new, much improved model altogether.

  All that was needed was a total makeover. And he meant total!

  He would become Jerry Rankin, return to the States, take care of those bitches who had made mincemeat of him back in high school and thereby earn his just reward: Ann Middleton’s heart.

  He recalled how the wheels had been turning the moment he got off the plane at Heathrow. He’d begun his journey by staying at one of London’s most exclusive hotels and eventually immersing himself in English society. The Brits were more forgiving of his obvious foibles than Americans had ever been and in time he was actually able to shake off his revolting Midwest accent and idiotic mannerisms by simply being around these wonderful people for an extended period.He had been one determined, hungry sonofabitch back then, fed up with being shit upon all the time. By getting out of the States and residing in Europe he had at last managed to take the bull by the horns and make something happen for a change.

  Having tons of money to throw around hadn’t hurt his cause any, either.

  In the course of hobnobbing with the British upper crust, he had made some important connections and acquired indispensable knowledge that helped further his master plan. He was eventually introduced to one of Europe’s finest and most respected plastic surgeons, Doctor Claude Boutin. This man could turn a frog into a prince, he’d been told, but his services were outrageously expensive plus there was a lengthy waiting list. It hadn’t taken Stanley long to commit to Doctor Boutin in spite of the huge cost and long wait. He wanted the very best.

  Six months later he had gone to Paris in preparation for his total makeover. He’d had plenty of time to research and draw a few sketches of how he wanted to look. When he showed his sketches to Doctor Boutin, the surgeon assured him that it was all doable, right down to the squared-off chin and delicately sculpted nose.

  After the series of operations were completed and the bandages removed, Stanley had been absolutely floored. In spite of the bruising and swelling he could already see that the French doctor had exceeded his expectations. He had become a fucking god!

  Throughout all this time, Stanley had also been working on his body. He’d joined a fitness center—one of the finest in Britain—and consulted with a nutritionist to start getting himself in tip-top shape. He’d jogged regularly in Hyde Park, often for hours at a time. He’d spent months in the gym doing bench presses and ab crunches until he’d developed an impressive six-
pack. No more kicking sand in the face of Stanley Jenkins, you bastards! Now you have to deal with super-stud, Jerry Rankin!

  Stanley frowned. Perhaps super-stud was pushing it a bit? For despite his brand new, super-ripped body and handsome good looks, scoring with the chicks had continued to evade him for some reason. In fact, he’d eventually become convinced that he was cursed. What the hell was wrong?

  As he waited to cross Broadway, Stanley felt his high spirits swiftly evaporate and come to a screeching halt. He’d had episodes like this before—too numerous to mention in fact. It was the one goddamn thing he could not get a handle on and it was a relentless plague. A big, black hole in his life.

  He’d told himself countless times that it would all change some day. He would be appreciated for what he was and start reaping the bounties he so rightly deserved. That’s what he’d felt would happen when he’d linked up with Ann. She would be the one who understood him, who could relate to him, who could find him worthy of her time and beauty. She would be the ultimate prize—the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Stanley deliberately bit his tongue so hard he cried out. Everyone standing on the corner turned and stared at him, wondering what his problem was. He forced a weak smile in an effort to show that he was fine and to please quit staring at him. They shrugged and turned away.

  Got to get a handle on this!

  The walk sign came on and he joined the throng crossing the street, swallowing the blood oozing out from his tongue. At that moment all he wanted to do was crawl in a hole and hide long enough to recover from the painful memories. And after he had regained his grip on things, he would postpone his European trip, return to Ohio and eliminate Ann Middleton from the face of the earth once and for all. Then he would feel well enough to move forward.

  He reached the other side of the street and headed toward Leonard. With great determination he managed to exorcise all of this negative shit from his mind by the time he reached the car. No sense crying like a big baby about the past and all that bullshit, he resolved. He needed to focus on the future, and that, by God, was just what he intended to do.

  The smile suddenly returned to his face at the thought of returning to Europe.

  Chapter 10

  Sam didn’t know how long the phone had been ringing by the time he’d fumbled in the darkness to pick it up. He squinted his eyes to read the caller ID but didn’t recognize the name.

  “Hello?” he answered groggily.

  “Mr. Middleton?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “That’s not important. I’m calling to let you know where Stanley Jenkins is,” a man said.

  Sam bolted upright on the bed. “Who the hell is this? And how do you know anything about Stanley Jenkins?” he demanded.

  “All I’m gonna say is I know where you can find him if you’re interested. I don’t want to get involved. So you want to know or not?”

  “Yes, I do,” Sam replied, now fearing that the caller might hang up on him.

  “He’s staying in a house on the west side. I saw him a while back but didn’t recognize him. Then I saw him again today driving by where I work and was pretty sure it was the same guy who murdered that local woman a while back. Thought I’d let you know.”

  “Did you report this to the police?”

  “Nah. I hate cops—that’s why I’m calling you instead. I heard what that bastard did and I wanted to give you a shot at catching him. His house is near the end of Twig Hollow on the right. That’s all I can say. Good luck.”

  “Wait, I—”

  The line went dead.

  Sam switched on the lamp, his heart thudding in his chest. He saw that it was 2:43 a.m. as he called Roger Hagstrom.

  The call immediately went to voicemail.

  “Goddamn it, Roger! Pick up!”

  He waited for the beep and said, “Roger, please answer the phone! Somebody just told me where Stanley’s hiding out—he’s out on the west side. We have to go out there now! Call me the second you get this!”

  Perturbed that he couldn’t get through, Sam shot out of bed. He pulled on a pair of jeans and went down to the kitchen. After cuing up the coffee machine, he pulled up Google Maps on his iPad and searched Twig Hollow. When the map of West Smithtown appeared on the screen he zoomed in and saw that there was indeed a Twig Hollow Road that ran off the state route about three or four miles past the state forest lodge. He switched over to satellite view and dragged his finger along the road, noting that it wasn’t very long with just a few small homes before dead-ending into what looked like a creek bed. He zoomed in even closer on the last house, wondering if Stanley Jenkins was truly inside the place at this very moment.

  The phone suddenly came to life and Roger’s name came up on the screen.

  “Thank God you called! I know where we can find Stanley!”

  “So I hear,” his friend replied in a half-awake, detached tone of voice. “How did you find out this stunning revelation in the middle of the night, anyway?”

  “I just got a call from some guy who’s actually seen Jenkins twice. And he lives on the west side, which makes sense since that’s where Stanley went when I was tailing him. He’s actually been living there all this time!”

  “Just curious—did this caller tell you his name?”

  “No, but only because he said he doesn’t want to get involved. I can relate to that. He wants to play it safe—can’t blame him for that.”

  “Not to rain on your parade, but have you considered the possibility that this guy was just fucking with you?”

  “It crossed my mind of course, but I just located the road where he said Jenkins lives on my map app. This looks legit, Roger. So let’s go check it out!”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now! I don’t want to take a chance of the bastard getting away!”

  “Tell me: why did this guy call you of all people, anyway?”

  “He knows about the Marsha Bradley murder case just like everybody else in the damn county, Rog. He knows who I am from the paper and figures that naturally I’d be interested in busting Stanley Jenkins.”

  “Let me guess—he didn’t bother calling the sheriff’s office, though, because he doesn’t want to get involved. Right?”

  “Well, more like because he hates cops. But it doesn’t matter—now I’ve called you and you can call the sheriff instead. Storm the place and drag the fucker out!”

  Roger moaned. “Jesus, I can’t believe this. I’ll bet you anything this is a big farce, Sam—I can just smell it. But you’re not going to let it go so I can go back to bed and get some much needed sleep are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. And you better have a cup of coffee waiting for me.”

  “I’m brewing some now. Thanks, old friend.”

  Sam returned to the bedroom and put on some shoes and a sweatshirt, put off by Roger’s doubt of the caller’s legitimacy. Sam was tired of how his friend always thought he was off-base when it came to Jenkins and he couldn’t wait to prove he’d been right all along. And once they had the prick in custody Sam could finally put the whole matter behind him and get on with his life.

  He poured freshly brewed coffee into a pair of travel mugs and added milk to one of them. Taking a sip, he went over and stared out at Smithtown, shrouded in darkness. He’d probably be able to see Roger’s headlights as he turned on to Highland Street since there was virtually no traffic at this hour.

  Fifteen minutes passed and still there was no sign of Roger. Most likely hung-over, if not still drunk from his usual excessive intake of Jack Daniels the night before.

  Another five minutes went by and Sam called the detective on his cell phone. It went immediately to voicemail, suggesting that he hadn’t even turned it on yet. Sam wanted to scream—did he go back to bed?

  He tried Roger’s landline and it too went to voicemail just as it had before. What the hell? This was not like him. Had something happened? Maybe he was cal
ling the sheriff and didn’t want to take his call.

  Several more minutes went by and nothing happened so Sam tried both numbers again. Voicemail. Feeling his patience waning, Sam decided to give Roger a couple more minutes and if he didn’t call, he would drive out to the west side himself.

  Screw this!

  He stormed out of the house, started up the Jeep and suddenly thought of something. Leaving the engine running, he ran back inside and went into his bedroom. He opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic. He slid in the clip, closed the drawer and hustled back to the Jeep.

  Half expecting to see Roger’s car any minute as he drove down the driveway, he waited until he reached the boulevard before calling him again. This time he left a message: “I don’t know where the hell you are but I’m heading out to the west side myself. When you get this call me, damn it! Jenkins’ house is at the end of Twigg Hollow Road—that’s where I’ll be. I’m calling the Sheriff right now since I don’t know if you’ve called him or not. C’mon, Roger—help me out here!”

  Sam disconnected, held the home button and engaged Siri. “Call the sheriff’s office.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get that,” Siri replied in her pseudo-cheery voice.

  “The sheriff’s office—call it!” Sam snapped.

  “Okay, Let’s see. I’ve got one Sherry listed in your contacts—would you like me to call her?”

  “Goddamn it—I said sheriff’s office, you idiot! Call the sheriff!”

  “Calling Sherry—”

  “Screw you, Siri!”

  Feeling his blood pressure spiking, Sam pulled on to the freeway and floored it. He watched the speedometer climb up to eighty-five and hit the cruise control. If any cops chased him down, he would simply keep trucking and lead the way to Jenkins’ home in Twigg Hollow. That’d be one way to get law enforcement involved, by God.