The Caller jl-2

by Alex Barclay

  Anna paused, watching the couple on television directing two men into the house with a red leather sofa. ‘Only if I get the main credit,’ she said finally.

  ‘You’ll do it?’ said Chloe.

  Anna’s heart was beating rapidly, but not out of excitement. ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, if I’d known it was going to be that easy, I would have called Marc months ago.’ Her laugh was shrill. Anna was silent.

  Chloe jumped in. ‘Oh, listen to me being so insensitive. Of course you needed all that time-’

  ‘Please,’ said Anna. ‘Email me the details.’

  ‘Of course. Done. Darling, thank you. Thank you so much.’

  Joe leaned into the mirror in the men’s room, snipping away the nasal hair that had spent three hours soaking up the smell of death. He never figured out if it was a practical or a psychological routine or both. He didn’t like seeing his face up close, seeing the new lines around his eyes, the extra grey hairs at the side of his head; more things that were out of his control. He went to his locker and grabbed a bottle of tea-tree shower gel that Anna had given him. He got undressed and threw his suit into a plastic bag.

  ‘The smell of that crap,’ said Danny walking in. ‘I think I’ll go back to the autopsy.’

  ‘Screw you,’ said Joe. ‘I’d rather smell-’

  ‘Like weird-ass tea-’

  ‘Like – clean, than how you go out with your cheap foaming shit that doesn’t cover up nothing.’

  ‘If a woman can’t handle the smell of death from a man-’

  ‘She can’t go out with a deadbeat.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Danny, closing his locker door. ‘I’m all out of shower gel. Give me some of that crap.’

  Joe went back to his desk and checked his email. Danny walked over a few minutes later, smelling the back of his hand and frowning.

  ‘Get over the fucking shower gel,’ said Joe.

  ‘Let me pull that file,’ said Danny. ‘The one I told you about – Aneto.’

  Joe made space on his desk, laying a stack of files on the floor beside him. Danny came back and opened William Aneto’s file in front of him. Aneto was thirty-one, slightly built, handsome, with collar-length black hair. Joe looked at his head shot and saw a TV actor’s face; the four-line max guy, two or three steps back from the main action. His role in a Spanish language soap opera was the friend of the brother of the leading man. He was killed almost a year earlier, his body discovered in his Upper West Side apartment by a female friend. The case had quickly gone cold. As a victim, William fell into the high-risk category, promiscuous on the gay scene, known for disappearing at the end of a night with a stranger. Danny and Martinez had interviewed hundreds of Aneto’s friends, acquaintances and lovers and had gotten nowhere. His murder was down as a hook-up gone bad.

  Joe pulled out the next photos and laid them in rows on the table in front of him. Danny stood beside him. Like Ethan Lowry, the body was found in the hallway. But behind William Aneto, hair smears of blood curved across the grey tiled floor like tracks through red paint from a dried brush.

  ‘Yeah. It’s all coming back to me,’ said Danny. ‘Most of the action happened in the kitchen. He was killed there and then dragged to the front door to be finished off. Wait ‘til you see the kitchen. Hand prints, foot prints, all over the floor, up the wall – kindergarten art class. You know – if all the paint was red. And the children were Damian.’

  Joe studied the photos of the kitchen. He pointed to the bloodied corner of a granite counter top. ‘So I’m the perp, standing here behind the vic, bashing his face off this.’ Blood was spattered onto the wall, the counter, the floor, misted across the granite.

  Danny nodded. ‘Yup.’

  They looked at a wide shot of the hallway – the crumpled corpse, the spatter of a gunshot wound, the pooled blood under his head.

  William Aneto’s face was more damaged than Ethan Lowry’s, destroyed by injuries that left the entire surface pulped and bloodied. His right eye socket was completely impacted from one of the blows, obliterating the entry wound from the bullet that, based on the autopsy results, followed a similar trajectory to Lowry’s.

  ‘Yeah. It’s a no-brainer,’ said Danny.

  ‘The caliber was too low,’ said Joe.

  ‘Funny guy. Shit, the phone – look,’ said Danny, pointing to the tiny silver cell phone beside Aneto’s body. ‘I forgot about that.’

  Like Ethan Lowry, it looked like William Aneto could have made a call just before he died. Joe flipped through the file to a statement from a Mrs Aneto.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Danny. ‘His mother said the call was just to say goodnight.’

  ‘Maybe you should talk to Mrs Aneto again.’

  ‘She no likey me,’ said Danny, making a face. ‘Maybe Martinez could warm her up again.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s one I won’t be tagging along for.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Maybe you should ask Martinez,’ said Joe.

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘See how he looks at me? I’m a homewrecker. He had eleven good months with you, I show up, you take me back, the guy’s life is over.’

  Danny shook his head.

  ‘He gets that glint in his eye when you’re around,’ said Joe.

  ‘Screw you. What you are seeing is professional admiration.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s go talk to Rufo.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Rufo when they walked in.

  ‘We got a link,’ said Joe. ‘Between Ethan Lowry and William Aneto.’

  Rufo frowned. ‘The guy I’ve been getting all these calls about this week?’

  Danny nodded. ‘Yeah. The year-anniversary-still-no-answers thing.’

  ‘Interesting timing,’ said Rufo. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Both happened at home, no sign of forced entry, similar facial injuries, similar twenty-two caliber gunshot wound, phone found beside both of them, bodies left in the hallway behind the door.’

  Rufo nodded. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  Shaun Lucchesi lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. The stereo blasted the same lyrics over and over: left behind/left behind/left behind. It had been almost a year since his girlfriend, Katie Lawson, was murdered. They had met on the first day in school when he arrived in Ireland and they had been inseparable until she died. What made things worse was that Shaun had started out as the prime suspect, convicted by most of the small village until they learned the truth.

  For months after Katie’s death, Shaun had woken up with a void inside him that had ached like nothing else he had ever known. On the good days, he was lifted by memories. On the bad ones, he was trapped in a loop of images that started from the time he picked her up that night and ended at the last moment he saw her. Everything now seemed unimportant. He came back to New York and met his old friends and went to the old hangouts, but it was such a different life to the one he had with Katie, it was surreal. His life with her was stripped down to how they felt about each other, how they made each other laugh, how they lay on his bed wrapped around each other for hours, just talking or watching movies. It wasn’t about who your friends were, where you went, what you owned, who you were sleeping with, who had the latest cell phone, who had the fastest car. Sometimes he was so overwhelmed at the thought of never being that happy again, he almost couldn’t breathe. He turned off the stereo and went to his closet. From the top shelf, he pulled out a small, chunky round tin. A thin layer of wax coated the bottom of it and a short black wick twisted from the centre. It was Katie’s favourite candle – Fresh Linen. He took a lighter from his drawer and lit it. He could only burn it for a few minutes at a time, it was so low. He couldn’t bear the thought it would ever burn out completely.

  Everyone else would remember the anniversary of Katie’s funeral three weeks from now. But this night, one year ago, was the night he nearly had sex with her for the first time. But then they had fought. And then she had run away from him. And the
n she was killed. He lay down on his bed, closed his eyes and, for half an hour, let the tears run down his face onto the pillow. Then he sat up and grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through his photos. Katie at school. Katie on the beach. Katie in his room. Delete. Delete. Delete.

  FIVE

  Joe sat at his desk, pressing his fingers against his forehead, pretending to read a report that had started to blur a few minutes earlier. His phone rang. It was Reuben Maller from the FBI, Eastern District – the office that covered the whole east coast. They got on well since their first case together. The last one they worked was Donald Riggs.

  ‘Can you talk?’ said Maller.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Joe.

  ‘How are you all doing?’

  ‘Who?’ said Joe. ‘You mean here? Manhattan North?’

  ‘You, Anna… Shaun. How are you holding up?’

  Joe paused. ‘We’re good… why? What’s going on?’

  Maller let out a breath. ‘OK,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Off the record, I got some news from the Bureau in Texas. On Duke Rawlins.’

  Joe stopped breathing.

  ‘Before you say anything, Joe, it’s sketchy, I don’t have a lot of details. And you do not know this.’

  Joe fought the nausea rising in his stomach. ‘Tell me,’ he managed.

  ‘Duke Rawlins’ home town, Stinger’s Creek? Geoff Riggs – Donald Riggs’ father – said he had a visit last week from Rawlins. Geoff Riggs is in really bad shape, Joe. No-one knows the last time he was sober. He walks through town, railing about things, not making a lot of sense. Last week, he said to some young kid in the liquor store that Rawlins was out at his cabin the week before. The kid was freaked out and called the cops. They went to speak with Riggs. I have it written here verbatim. Geoff Riggs said, real calm: “Sure, I had a visit from Dukey. He was wanting to say Hi, catch up. Been years. Wanted to take a look around Donnie’s bedroom. I said, ‘Knock yourself out, buddy’. Not a lot in there since y’all turned it upsideways last year. So Dukey comes out, then he go on out to the shed out back where I keep my tools and I say, ‘Sure you can, Dukey. You’re a good boy.’ He seemed kinda aggritated. Had some sort of bug in his bonnet. Anyways, last I saw of little Dukey.”’

  ‘That’s it?’ said Joe.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Geoff Riggs didn’t call the cops, nothing?’

  ‘No – this guy’s brain is so fried. That statement I just read to you took two hours to extract from him. My guess is Rawlins is taking advantage of the relaxed surveillance.’

  ‘The no surveillance,’ said Joe.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maller. ‘It’s been a year – he hadn’t shown anywhere anyone expected him to. And his visit to Geoff Riggs is only part one of the story. The second part is that a few days later, the custodian of the Stinger’s Creek cemetery was doing his rounds and when he got to Donald Riggs’ grave… well, there was another one opened up right beside it.’

  Joe paused. ‘Someone was dug up?’

  ‘No. Someone had just dug a grave. It was empty. It was thoroughly searched and there was nothing or no-one in it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe.

  ‘What we have got to remember is everyone out there knows what Rawlins and Riggs did. And on the one hand, you’ve got people baying for blood. On the other, some of the officers from the sheriff’s department who went to investigate this, spoke to a group of stoners who were all, “Man, Duke Rawlins is, like, sick.” In a good way. So it could have been an angry relative of a victim, it could have been a teenage prank.’

  ‘Maller, why don’t we cut the crap, here? You know what this is. Alcoholic witness or not. It’s not a coincidence – we hear Rawlins shows up, pays a visit to a tool shed and within days a grave is opened up next to his old buddy. Come on.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maller. ‘It’s just I know what this man has done to you. I mean, that’s why I called you on this… yeah, I don’t think this one’s a false alarm.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘I have to ask,’ said Maller, ‘has he tried to get in touch with you?’

  Joe did not hesitate. ‘No.’

  Anna Lucchesi sat at her dressing table in her bathrobe, her hair pulled back with a black jersey headband, her face pale, her eyes shadowed. She opened a packet of cleansing wipes and started wiping down her makeup products, getting rid of dust and dried-in foundation and caked powder. She grouped them together and lined them up, ready for the following morning. A photo beside the bed showed her as she used to be, her hair dark and glossy, her cheeks healthy, her eyes alive.

  The notice board at Manhattan North was covered with badges from police departments all over the country and around the world. Joe stood in front of it, thinking about Duke Rawlins. Every evil thing Rawlins had done had settled close to the surface and deep down inside. He didn’t know what would end it, but every day a new scenario took him away from where he was supposed to be.

  ‘Joe? That’s your freakin’ phone,’ yelled Martinez.

  Joe grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Joe? It’s Bobby Nicotero. From the 1st.’ Bobby’s father was Victor Nicotero – Old Nic – a retired cop and close friend of Joe’s.

  ‘Jesus, Bobby. What’s up?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘How’s Old Nic?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Joe paused.

  Bobby’s laugh was off. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. How is my father?’

  ‘Well… last time I saw him was at that barbecue, couple weeks back. You had to be somewhere with the kids, I think. He was good, taking it easy, enjoying writing.’

  ‘Writing what?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Joe. ‘He’s working on a book.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been busy…’

  ‘Yeah – your old man’s writing his memoirs.’

  Bobby shot out a laugh. ‘I got a few chapters of my own I might like to add to that.’

  ‘Really?’ said Joe. ‘What can I-’

  ‘Actually I’m calling because I think I’ve got something you might be interested in. The Upper West Side homicide you got? Your vic – Ethan Lowry. Was there a phone by him when they found him?’

  ‘Yeah. There was. Why?’

  Bobby sucked in a breath. ‘Sounds a lot like this case I caught in SoHo back in December. Guy’s name was Gary Ortis, badly beaten about the face, gunshot to the head, phone in the hallway beside him. We never got the guy.’

  ‘Jesus. And it looks like we’re already linking this one to a case a year back. Was your guy gay?’

  ‘He was single and he dated women,’ said Bobby, ‘but who knows? Yours?’

  ‘Ethan Lowry was married with a kid,’ said Joe. ‘William Aneto was gay.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I know where you’re coming from,’ said Joe, ‘it has that feel about it. That was some hardcore facial damage and I don’t know about you, but last few times I saw shit like that, it was two guys, lovers’ spat. No-one died, but…’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Look, why don’t you call in to the Two-Oh, bring what you got.’

  Joe put down the phone and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. He pulled out two pills and took them with a can of Red Bull.

  ‘Guys,’ he said. ‘That was Bobby Nicotero from the 1st. Looks like he got a third vic, happened back in December. He’s on his way over.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Danny.

  ‘On Lowry’s records? said Blazkow. ‘The last call at 10.58? Was to a woman – Clare Oberly. Lives on 48th Street between 8th and Broadway.’

  ‘OK,’ said Joe. ‘Danny and I’ll go check her out this evening.’

  ***

  Half an hour later Bobby Nicotero walked into the twentieth precinct with his partner. Bobby was thirty-nine years old with a thick neck, broad shoulders, short legs and suits too cheap to flatter any of them. He had close-cut black hair, a heavy brow and a ran
ge of facial expressions that stretched to pissed off.

  ‘Hey,’ said Joe. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘You too,’ said Bobby, shaking his hand. ‘This is my partner, Roger Pace.’

  Pace was shockingly gaunt with eyes set deep into dark sockets.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Joe, shaking his hand. ‘Thanks for coming in.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Pace, slipping back behind Bobby.

  ‘OK,’ said Joe, walking over to the others. ‘Bobby, you know Danny Markey. And this is Aldos Martinez and Fred Rencher from Manhattan North. Tom Blazkow and Denis Cullen from here at the Two-Oh. Everyone, Bobby Nicotero and Roger Pace from the 1st.’

  Everyone nodded.

  ‘Do you want to tell us what you got?’ said Joe.

  ‘Sure,’ said Bobby. ‘I read the paper and I just saw our friend, the “source close to the investigation” saying that the vic was found naked and his face was severely beaten. I figured there could be something to it, could be nothing.’ He opened the file.

  ‘Our vic’s name was Gary Ortis, DOB 07/10/69, cause of death – GSW to the head from a twenty-two. There were signs of oxygen deprivation, you know, petechial hemorrhages. He was found naked in his apartment on Prince Street in SoHo.’

  ‘Body behind the door,’ said Joe.

  ‘Yup.’

  Everyone nodded. ‘That sounds like our guy,’ said Joe. ‘Any leads?’

  Bobby shook his head. ‘Nothing. We thought it was a gay thing, but the guy had lots of girlfriends-’ He shrugged. ‘Not that that means anything.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Martinez looking at Danny.

  Danny rolled his eyes.

  ‘Looks sexual to me,’ said Blazkow. ‘They’re all found naked like that, beaten so bad.’

  ‘We got the ME talking about a homosexual motive,’ said Joe.

  ‘Makes sense when you look at the physical damage,’ said Rencher. ‘When I was in the 17th, I caught this case – a high school junior, one of those small, pretty boy types, hooked up with this forty-year-old guy, they had a thing going on for a while. Then we’re called out, the boyfriend has beaten the crap out of the poor kid, totally smashed up his face and, I mean, like our vics, he was unrecognizable. The boyfriend was out of his mind with grief, crying and saying he just wished the kid hadn’t spent so much time talking to that cute barman, that he would have been still alive if he had. Unbelievable.’