Jack and Daskivitch followed him down a steep staircase. A strong musty smell hit them and Jack thought of another basement, in Red Hook…and yet another one, on Governors Island. He was tired of basements.
Konetz’s flashlight swung circles ahead, and then the old man reached up and tugged a chain. A dim bulb went on overhead, barely illuminating a narrow, wood-paneled hallway, floored by a moth-eaten white carpet. Jack sneezed; the place was thick with dust, compounded by plenty of fingerprint powder brushed on by the Crime Scene techs. He noticed a faint smell of urine.
“You own the house?”
Konetz turned. “I already told those cops last night. Don’t you guys put your information on a computer? My grandson is a real whiz at that crap.” He snorted. “The kid’s got one of those little metal pegs in his tongue. I can’t believe my daughter let him get away with it. You can get diseases from that crap, you know, some dirty biker tattoo joint…” He shook his head, then winced in pain and pressed his hand against his bandage.
The old man’s rambling talk made Jack wonder if he was suffering some residual shock. He tried again. “Are you the owner?”
Konetz snorted. “Who, me? Not goddamned likely. I just rent the top floor. And I look after the place—the owner lives in Jersey.” He shuffled halfway down the hall and stopped again. “You understand that this is not an apartment down here, right? I was just doin’ the guy a favor.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jack said. He figured the tenant was pulling in a little cash on the side, renting out a basement room with no Certificate of Occupancy. No taxes, either. He noticed a red stain on the carpet. “This is where the man attacked you?”
Konetz nodded. He looked pale, all of a sudden, and Jack worried about his ability to stay upright.
“How did you meet him?”
The little man frowned. “It was a few days ago. I was at the bar down the street. Tony B’s.”
Jack’s eyes widened. Sperry had the nerve to appear in public? What if he had sat down next to the man by accident last night, when every cop in the five boroughs was hot on his trail? “Did you talk to him much?”
Konetz squinted. “He said he was new in town, lookin’ for work and a place to kip. He told me his name was Rogers. Bruce Rogers.” He made a face. “Jesus, if I had known he was some kind of psycho killer…”
Daskivitch held a pen poised over a notepad. “You didn’t recognize his face from the newspapers?”
“I don’t read much; my eyesight isn’t so hot. They could invade the country or somethin’, and I wouldn’t find out about it till three weeks later…”
“Why did you come down to the basement last night?”
Konetz gestured toward a closed door. “I was gonna look for a sled in the boiler room here. A Flexible Flyer. You remember those?” He brightened. “They made a great old sled. You ever see that movie, black and white, with Orson Welles? What did he call that thing? Rosebush, or somethin’?”
“You were looking for a sled?” Jack asked, steering the little man back on track.
Konetz nodded. “Yeah. For my grandkid. My daughter says he’s too old, wouldn’t be interested in something like that, no batteries, no computer screen. I say to hell with it—if I wanna give him a sled, I’ll give him a goddamned sled.”
Over the old man’s shoulder, Daskivitch smiled.
“So you came down here. Then what?”
Konetz shivered. “It was quiet, and I didn’t call out or nothin’, ’cause I didn’t think the guy was around. That’s his room, down at the end there. I was just about to open this door, and Bam! Next thing I know, I’m seein’ stars. When my eyes cleared up, there he was, holdin’ a chair leg or somethin’. He had this crazy look, like he didn’t even recognize me.” He grimaced. “I was about to ask why the hell he hit me, when he clocked me again.”
“Did you fight back?”
The old man raised the big metal flashlight. “I got in one good lick, with this. I think I caught him on the arm. Then he hit me again, and I passed out.”
“When you came to, he was gone?”
Konetz put a hand against a wall to steady himself. “No. I woke up because I felt somethin’ on my face. I didn’t know what the hell he was doin’, so I kept my eyes shut.” He reached up and touched his forehead. “It wasn’t till they brung me to the hospital that I found out that he had written on me. Creepy bastard.”
Jack nodded, picturing the two red letters. And he thought of the way he himself had played possum the same night, over at Natalie’s place. Weird. “Why did you wait until one in the morning to call nine-one-one?”
Konetz shook his head, winced. “I passed out again. Didn’t come to for a while…”
“Did you hear anything while you were still conscious? Did he say anything?”
Konetz grimaced. “He didn’t say anything, but I heard somethin’. I’m not sure, but I think the guy was crying.” He shook his head, and trembled. “I’m just glad I kept my eyes shut. If he saw I was still alive, I think for sure he would’ve killed me.”
THE ROOM DOWN THE hall, the one where Sperry had been staying for the past several days, was dismal. It was stuffed with crap: a bed frame, cardboard boxes, a cane chair with a ruptured seat, piles of faded newspapers. This jumble had been shoved aside just enough to make room for an old cot. The source of the urine smell was revealed: a pail in the corner. (Evidently the nonapartment had a nonbathroom.)
Jack shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense.”
Daskivitch was poking around by the cot, nose wrinkled against the smell. “What?”
Jack eyed the grubby hideout. “I understand why Sperry wouldn’t go back to his place in New Hampshire, since that’s been in the papers. But he could have gone anywhere in the whole country to hide out, in a lot more comfort than this. New York is an incredibly risky place for him to be. Why in the hell would he stick around?”
The answer came in just nine hours.
CHAPTER forty-two
THE FACT WAS, JACK was sick and tired of Robert Sperry. The man wasn’t some diabolical serial killer. He had really only killed once in premeditation, and that was possibly a quote-unquote mercy killing. The other times, Sperry had felt threatened and cornered, and he had lashed out. He wasn’t an active murderer, seeking victims out; he was more like a hidden rattlesnake, or a human land mine. He was a sad mess, and he needed to be stopped, but Jack wished he had never been called onto the case. He had his own problems to worry about.
After leaving the latest crime scene, he and Gary Daskivitch stopped at a local deli for coffee. Jack had just settled into the passenger seat of the young detective’s car when Daskivitch said, “Hey, do you and Michelle wanna go out to Sheepshead Bay with me and Jeannie next week? We were thinking about checking out one of those Italian restaurants on the water.” The big kid set his drink in a cup holder, put the car in gear, and swung out onto Atlantic Avenue.
Jack sat in silence. Daskivitch’s wife was the one who had originally set him up with Michelle. The women were friends. Evidently Michelle had not told her about what had just happened. Was she embarrassed? Was she ashamed? “Jack? You in there?”
He roused himself. “Sorry. I was still thinking about Sperry.”
“So whadda you think? A double date?”
Jack sipped his coffee, scrambling for words. “I’ll talk to Michelle about it. We’ll get back to you.”
He flushed and looked away, out the window, at a woman in a bright knit cap pushing a baby stroller down the sidewalk.
FOR THE REST OF the tour, a blot of shame and dismay spread through his chest. The afternoon went by in a daze; typewriters clacked in the background of the Seven-six squad room, phones rang, reports came in of the canvassing effort up and down Jerome Konetz’s block, but Jack couldn’t focus.
After work he went home and lay down, but couldn’t sleep. He was wired, uneasy, as if he had drunk a gallon of coffee. For the first time, he peered around his stubborn secret ho
pe and saw that Michelle might be gone for good. Unwanted feelings writhed in him like cats in a bag. It wasn’t just that he missed her, their time together. His future had disappeared. For fifteen years after his first marriage, he had grown used to his return to bachelorhood, thought he was comfortable with it—and then Michelle had shown him how much he was missing.
He needed to escape, but he didn’t know where or how. He thought of Natalie. He could return to Tony B’s, pretend he was there to interview the patrons. Maybe she’d be sitting there at the bar, tapping her cigarettes against the scarred wood. Maybe he could drink enough to ask for a second chance. He shifted in his bed, knowing how little that would relieve his torment. He thought of calling his son, but again, he didn’t want to have to admit that Michelle was gone. He thought of going back to work, maybe scanning the Missing Persons lists again, but knew he wasn’t up to it. He considered going for a run in the park, but realized that he could run around the whole thing a hundred times and never outpace the darkness creeping up on him. A mean red notion blossomed: Michelle’s new lover was taking a hell of a risk, cuckolding a man who carried a loaded gun…One little trigger pull and the source of his new troubles would be gone…
He lay back, shaking his head. Too many cops had gone down that terrible dark road.
He remembered something he had seen in an arcade in Chinatown. WORLD FAMOUS DANCING CHICKEN, a sign had read, over a glass booth with a scrawny live rooster inside. You put your money in, and some music came on, and after a moment the chicken launched into a jerky, hectic dance. Tourists gathered, and they laughed and laughed. They didn’t know the secret of the thing: that the bird stood on a metal plate that heated up, burning its wiry feet.
He lay in the dark for another half hour, tossing and turning, until a surprising calm face rose into his mind.
“THERE’S A POLICEMAN HERE to see you,” the young woman said. She left Jack standing in the doorway of Tenzin Pemo’s little office.
The nun looked up, face placid as ever. “Hello. Detective Leightner, is that right?” That British accent, again.
He nodded, standing there awkward, like a kid called to the principal’s office. “I wanted to tell you that we’re going to be moving forward soon with the prosecution of the youths who committed the crime against your, um, coworker.”
The woman nodded. “I know. Someone from the district attorney’s office called the other day.”
“Oh.” Jack’s face fell.
“Did you come all the way over here to tell me that? That’s very kind of you.”
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize, too. For what I said the last time I was here.”
“That’s quite all right.” The nun smiled.
Jack didn’t smile back. He just stood in the doorway.
The nun stared at him, and he felt that she was looking straight into his miserable soul.
“Tell me something,” she said. “Did you drive? I hate to trouble you, but I’d be grateful if you could give me a lift.”
“I guess I could do that,” he said stiffly. “I’m not actually on duty right now.”
She gathered her scarlet-and-yellow robes and stood up. “Thank you. I just need to grab something and I’ll be right back.”
Jack stepped aside. While she was gone, he contemplated the sign on the office wall, EITHER WAY, YOU DON’T HAVE TO WORRY. He scowled. It made less sense than ever.
A few seconds later the nun reappeared, wearing a pink wool coat—surprisingly un-nun-like—and carrying a Tupperware container. “I need to drop this off for a sick friend down near the Manhattan Bridge. It’s matzoh ball soup. That’s an ancient Tibetan remedy.” When Jack didn’t reply, she smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps my delivery could be improved upon, detective, but that was something of a joke.”
THE EVENING WAS SURPRISINGLY warm and the air was dense, foretelling rain. The avenues shone with a special richness, streams of headlights, splashes of neon. Jack didn’t say much on the drive to the waterfront. The nun questioned him a bit about the details of the prosecution, with a special concern about what would happen to the attackers if they were convicted, but eventually she, too, fell silent.
Soon they found themselves in DUMBO, the odd, near-empty old neighborhood between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. A few of the streets were still cobbled; they floored dark canyons between warehouses and industrial buildings. Some artists had moved in, taking over factory lofts, and now developers were starting to capitalize on the neighborhood’s new hipness; they were gutting buildings and installing high-ceilinged condos with river views. On a night like tonight, though, it was hard to believe that these desolate, shadowy blocks would ever really come alive.
“Right over there,” the nun said, pointing to a brick apartment building tucked between two colossal warehouses. She lifted her soup container. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I’ll just run this up.”
Jack nodded, and settled back in his seat. A memory rose: He and Michelle had come down here one weekend afternoon because she had read about a fancy new chocolate shop in some magazine. He’d laughed at the orgasmic look on her face as she bit into some delicate, pricey little concoction…He sighed and closed his eyes. Was this what he was condemned to now, running into her ghost all over town? His love for her was like a terrible worm, burrowing into his chest—he wished he could dig in with his bare hands and rip it out.
A few minutes later, he was startled when the nun suddenly appeared at his window.
“It’s a lovely night, detective. Would you have time to take a short walk down to the river?”
Jack stared at his hands on the steering wheel. The nun had not asked him what he wanted, but she seemed to sense that he had some hidden agenda. And what was it? What was he doing, a homicide cop from Red Hook hanging around with a freaking Buddhist nun? He was tempted to say that he had somewhere to go—but then the worm would just keep churning away inside. Hell, he thought—he asked people for advice every day, experts on ballistics, organized crime, medical pathologies…Why not her? Who else did he have to turn to?
He sighed. “I guess I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”
When he shut the car door, the sound echoed in the narrow street. There wasn’t another soul about. High above, the massive blue base of the Manhattan Bridge arced into the night like some awesome prehistoric monument. Jack and the nun set off toward the river. A thunderous shuttling overhead, a subway train rocketing toward Manhattan, obviated the need to talk. When the sound died down, the nun broke the resulting hollow silence.
“What’s on your mind, detective? Is it something about my colleague’s death?”
He didn’t look at her. “Not really. I was just thinking about what you were saying the other day. About not having to suffer and all.”
She kept her own face pointed neutrally ahead. “What made you think of that?”
He flushed, and was glad of the dark. He walked another half block before he finally answered. “I guess my interest is not just professional.”
She looked at him with concern. “Did something happen?”
He shrugged, awkward. “Nobody died, or anything. It’s nothing major.”
“A personal matter?”
He lowered his head. He didn’t want to talk about it. He needed to talk about it. He almost had to reach in and pull the words out of his throat. “It’s just…my, ah, my girlfriend walked out on me. She said she’s been seeing someone else.”
The nun stopped. “I’m very sorry to hear that. When did this happen?”
Jack shrank into himself. “Just a few days ago. New Year’s Eve, actually.” He managed a sickly grin. “She did it right after I proposed.”
The nun winced. “Not very good timing, I must say.” She sighed. “That’s quite fresh. To be honest, I don’t know if there’s anything an old woman can say right now that would provide much consolation.” She gestured forward. “Shall we walk?”
He nodded and they continued on, strol
ling with hands in pockets through the moist night air. When the nun spoke again, Jack thought she might launch into some religious platitude, but she surprised him.
“I was a rather unattractive girl.”
He tried to think of something diplomatic to say, but she cut him off.
“Such were the facts. Boys never paid much attention to me. I’m afraid, though, that I grew up on a steady diet of books about romance. You know how it is. The heroine is kind, but rather plain. The hero falls in love with a prettier girl, but at the end he realizes his mistake and comes back for the ugly duckling. He swears he’ll love her unto death.” She scoffed. “My husband made the same promise.”
Jack nodded. “You mentioned something about being married.”
“Indeed. I was twenty-one, and I thought all my days of loneliness were miraculously over. He was a young engineer in my father’s office, and he came along and swept me off my feet, just like in the fairy tales. And we were happy, for a number of years. At least, I thought so.”
An SUV came rumbling down the cobbled street, blasting heavy dance music. Jack watched it go, then turned back to the nun. “What happened?”
She made a sour face. “One day I discovered that my husband had been having an affair with my father’s secretary. For over a year. Very attractive little swan, that one.” She looked at Jack. “I suppose you know what that feels like.”
He grimaced. “Damn right I do. It’s like she yanked the rug right out from under me.”
“And now you have no place to stand?”
He nodded.
“You probably think that’s a very bad place to be. You wish you could get back into your relationship, or find a new one, or find something that would take away this groundless feeling. Am I right?”
He thought it over, then nodded again.
“Do you remember that story I told you about the problem on the subway? About how you can think of it as an opportunity?”
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