by Oliver Stark
Harper called through on the radio: ‘We’re nearly there, people. Get the rest of them cuffed and move them out of here. We need to get this whole place cleared.’
Harper saw the big guy from the truck disappear down an alley with two other rioters. Not wanting any of these cowards to escape, he darted after them, back up the alleyway. As they headed back to their truck, Harper pulled out his badge and called: ‘NYPD. Stop! Drop your weapons – now.’
The lead guy stopped and turned. He saw that Harper was alone. Harper saw them come at him. Three of them and he was the only thing stopping their escape. A hammer flew at him, hard and low. If it hit, it would break his leg. Harper jumped out of the way and the hammer smashed into the brick wall.
‘I didn’t appreciate that,’ said Harper. ‘Not one bit.’ The second hammer rose high and flew across him. It was easy to avoid. Hammers were slow and heavy. Harper pulled the rioter towards him. He landed a boot in his groin and butted him to the ground. The other two came in fast. One jabbed at Harper with the ax, while the second guy threatened a big blow to his head.
Harper backed to the wall. An ax, a hammer and two frightened and desperate rioters. There was no fear, just the thumping of his pulse and the softening of the boundaries between his mind and his body. He could hear the screeching of alarms in the background. He could smell the smoke. He could even see the fear in the two sets of eyes staring out through their masks. He felt the wall at his back, the ax-head thump in his stomach again, the hammer press against his shoulder, being driven backwards like some beast.
Harper calculated they were just out of reach of his fists. He needed to get closer, inside the range of their weapons. He ducked, pushed the hammer away with his right shoulder, and moved inside the ax-head using his left arm. It gave him what he needed: something within his reach. He came up from below, delivering a thunderous uppercut to the hammer guy and an elbow to the lead. The hammer guy dropped his weapon and crumpled, dazed. The lead guy was shaken but not out. Harper moved in. This was no boxing match, this was a street fight. His right boot scraped hard down the man’s shin and dug into his foot, while his arms reached up, grabbed the masked head and tugged it forward at speed. His knee then came up hard to meet the head. There was a loud crack and then a thud as the guy hit the ground.
Harper knelt down and pulled off his mask. ‘You want more?’ The man’s nose was split wide open, and his eyes had that lost look that Harper had seen so many times in the ring. ‘I said, do you want more?’
The man shook his head. Harper grabbed him. ‘Where’s Martin Heming?’
‘Fuck you,’ he gasped. ‘Heming isn’t here. Heming is cleaning up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Yeah, like I’d tell you.’
Harper raised his fist, then stopped himself and stood. He had to use his head now. What would Heming be cleaning up?
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 12, 11.45 p.m.
Harper was sitting on the hood of his car looking out over the destruction with Denise. Eddie Kasper was in the back of an ambulance talking to a young female paramedic with cute dark brown eyes. Any opportunity, Harper thought.
‘What now?’
Harper looked at Denise. ‘We’ve got twenty-four more individuals to talk to, so we can hope that they’ve heard of Sturbe or that they know where Heming is hiding. But how helpful are they going to be?’
‘No sign of Heming, then?’ she asked.
‘He wasn’t here. The guy I took out said he was “cleaning up”.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve been trying to work it out.’ Harper took a call on his cell phone. It was Mark Garcia. ‘Where are you?’ said Harper.
‘Just taken our arrests to the cells. I’m back at McRory’s. Where are you?’
‘I’m still at the scene. You found something?’
‘Yeah, we found the black cards. They all just have the address in Borough Park. They were ditched in the toilets, torn-up and flushed. They weren’t careful. Quite a few pieces were on the floor.’
‘So what’s the news?’
‘One of the cards didn’t have the address on it.’
‘What did it have on it?’
‘We only got two pieces of it. On the right hand side it just says SS and 88. The word Obedience is in the top right corner.’
Harper said, ‘Thanks. Not sure what it means. The SS, the 88 and the motto . . . Hold on, Garcia.’
‘What?’
‘The other cards. Did they have the 88 on them?’
‘Not that we found.’
‘Neither did the card we found in Lukanov’s place with Denise’s name on it. Keep that card, Garcia, I want to see it. It might be the killer’s card, which means he might be out tonight, with a new target. Oh, and one more thing . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘We need the name on that card. They could be in danger. Get the sewers checked out. The card might be somewhere.’
‘You’re kidding? You want me to search the sewage?’
‘It’s someone’s life, Garcia, and I never kid.’
Harper called the investigation center and got through to Swanson, who had returned earlier.
‘What you got, boss?’
‘We’ve got the potential of a hit tonight,’ Harper said.
‘What’s the lead?’
‘Black card with the moniker 88 and the letters SS.’
‘No name, I guess.’
‘No name. We just got the half with the SS and 88.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Swanson asked.
‘I want to see if we can get as many patrol cars on the streets of Manhattan as possible.’
‘Yeah, right – double overtime. I’ll ask, Harper.’
‘Put me through to Lafayette, can you?’
‘Sure, but he’s gonna say the same thing.’
Harper waited. The SS. The Nazis’ elite force. The previous card didn’t have the SS written on it. Perhaps there were different cards for different things. Some with names, others not.
Lafayette picked up. ‘Yes, Harper.’
There was silence on the line. Harper was thinking again. SS . . . Then he made a connection. What was Heming going to clean up? He was going to clean up any shit that could incriminate him.
‘Jesus!’ shouted Harper. ‘We got to go!’
‘Harper, what is it?’ demanded Lafayette.
‘I got to go,’ Harper repeated. He disconnected and slid across the hood of the car. ‘Get in,’ he ordered Denise.
The car was moving in an instant, eating up gravel and screeching out of the gates.
‘What is it?’
‘They found a black card with the letters SS.’
‘So what? We know Sturbe was a member of the SS. Our killer likes to use these monikers and symbols.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought too. If I’d seen it, I’d have known immediately, but I didn’t. I just heard over the radio.’
‘What would you have known?’
‘The SS doesn’t stand for the Shutzstaffel or whatever it was. It’s the last two letters of a name. All the cards have names on, right?’
‘Becky Glass,’ said Denise. ‘Was that Becky’s card?’
‘Not Becky Glass,’ said Harper. ‘Becky Glass is dead.’
‘Then what?’
‘There’s only one possibility. Her kids – Jerry and Ruth Glass.’
Chapter Seventy
The Safe House, Manhattan
March 12, 11.47 p.m.
Jerry and Ruth Glass were being held in a well-used temporary safe house in the city on 14th Street. It was a two-story building with an anonymous-looking façade, a used Chevy out front and a yard scattered with kids’ toys like any normal family home.
Inside, a female cop was sitting reading, as the social worker assigned to the children sat beside her watching television. Upstairs, the two kids lay fast asleep in
the same room, where they felt safest.
There were usually two cops on duty, but at the moment there was only one. The rota only changed one cop at a time to ensure continuity, but that meant that often, the cop at the end of his or her shift would leave dead on time, while the relief cop often turned up late – so at shift changeover, the house was at its most vulnerable.
Unknown to anyone in the safe house, a car was heading towards them, the driver looking down at his watch. His slot was narrowing. A few minutes had gone already. He had to be quick.
On the other side of town, speeding towards the house, were Denise and Tom. Harper reached his hand out of the open window and put a siren on his car. He drove like a bullet through the greasy streets. It was coming together in his head.
‘How do you read it?’ she asked.
‘Someone made the connection. We put out the information about what the child said. We didn’t mention the children, but the killer must’ve worked it out. The papers were full of it. And they reported the fact that Becky had two children. He spotted the link.’
‘Who called it?’
‘They’re protecting the organization, I guess. Heming might be on it himself, or even Sturbe.’
‘You think they’re different people?’
‘I don’t have time to think. I know we’ve got two names, that’s all.’
They shot through dark streets, their fear palpable. Harper called through to the house, but the line was dead. They called the police radio. It was switched off. A major violation. Harper hit the steering wheel.
He then called the precinct. ‘Swanson, I’ve got someone after the kids in the safe house. I need a number. Find out the name of the officer on duty or the social worker, and get me a cell-phone number.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Swanson.
The killer turned into the street. He felt his neck tensing and twisted his head around. He was gripping the wheel too damn tight as well. He parked on the opposite side of the street and got out of his car. He breathed deeply. He was a little late. The world seemed silent for a second. He moved around to the trunk and opened it. He took out two body bags, a thick rope and a climbing grapple. Then he walked across the street, checked his gun and looked up. He saw the lights go out in a downstairs bathroom. They were not expecting any trouble.
He walked around the back of the house. He needed to silence the children. It was as simple as that, but it didn’t feel good. It wasn’t part of what he wanted to do. He felt angry about it, angry and disappointed that he’d left a clue. He looked up at a large oak. It wasn’t close enough to the window, but that didn’t matter. He climbed up the tree, eased himself out on a branch, and then tied the grappling hook to the rope and swung it in a large circle. He released it. It skittered on the tiles and slid down, missing the chimney stack. He tried again, leaning out more. The throw went further. The hook slapped on to the higher tiles and went over the peak. He tugged slowly until the hook bit, and then dropped the rope. It hung down the guttering and right in front of the bedroom window.
He climbed down the tree, sweating from the exertion. When he reached up and tested the rope, it was fixed nice and firm.
He put one hand as far up as he could and jumped, reaching up higher with his second hand. His upper body was strong and he slowly pulled himself up the rope. One hand over the other, slowly advancing towards the window where the kids were sound asleep.
Harper’s cell phone finally rang. He switched off the sound of the siren and answered.
‘Garcia here. I’ve got the cell phone of the officer.’
‘Go ahead.’
Harper took the number and immediately cut Garcia off and dialed the officer. He waited as the ringer started up. The cop finally answered. ‘Hi there, it’s Candy.’
‘Candy, nice to know your first name. My name is Detective Tom Harper of North Manhattan Homicide. Are you with anyone?’
‘Just me and the social worker.’
‘Where’s the second officer?’
‘They haven’t turned up yet, but they should have been here by now.’
‘Okay, Officer Candy, listen up. We’ve got reason to believe that someone has the location and identity of the kids. Have you seen or heard anything at the house?’
‘Nothing, Detective, it’s all quiet here.’
‘That’s good. But this killer is smart. Listen to me. Don’t get alarmed, but I want you to stay on the phone and go upstairs.’
‘Have you called patrol?’
‘Yeah, everyone’s on their way. We’re on our way. Just keep calm.’
‘Okay, I’ll go check.’ The officer stood up and walked to the stairs. She pulled out her gun and switched on the light. The cell phone returned to her ear.
‘Anything?’ said Harper.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Check the kids.’
‘I’m going up,’ she said and walked slowly up the stairs. She felt a cool breeze down the corridor and edged into the children’s room.
‘What do you see?’ asked Harper.
‘They’re both sleeping,’ she said, feeling relief rise in her stomach.
Harper thought for a moment. ‘How about the window?’
‘It’s wide open. I’ll shut it.’
‘Was it open when you left them?’ said Harper.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Candy.
‘Then it might be too late,’ said Harper. ‘Pull your gun. He’s there already.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ, oh no,’ she said.
‘What?’ Harper said urgently. ‘Come on, Candy, keep it together.’
‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Her voice was high and trembling.
‘Help me here, Candy.’
‘I’m looking outside. There’s a rope hanging down from the roof.’ She leaned out of the window and saw the rope swinging right down to the ground. Across the street, she noticed a red car that hadn’t been there before.
‘There’s a car parked across the street. It wasn’t there earlier. It’s red. License-plate is not visible.’
‘Shit,’ said Harper. ‘Check the beds now.’
The police officer raced over to the beds. Neither child was visible. For a moment, she dared not look, the only sound Harper’s breathing in her ear.
‘Are the kids there?’ said Harper. The officer placed the phone on a bedside cabinet, took a deep breath and pulled back both covers. She picked up the phone.
‘Harper,’ she whispered. ‘They’re safe. Still sleeping.’
‘Thank God. We’re on our way – we’ll be there soon as we can.’
The police officer put down the phone and checked the children’s breathing, the fear subsiding slowly. She turned to the door and the fear returned immediately.
He was standing in the dark, behind the door, no face, a gun out in front of him. He motioned her towards the window, his finger on his lips to indicate that she should remain quiet. Her heart felt as if it had stopped.
He pulled the gun from her hand and threw it on the bed. He then took her handcuffs and cuffed both hands behind her back.
The officer couldn’t help herself. ‘Please stop. You can walk away from this. This house is surrounded by cops. You’ll never get away. Just leave the kids and walk. You’ve still got time.’
He pulled the rope through the window, wrapped it three times around her shoulders and arms and tied it.
‘Please don’t hurt the children,’ she said.
He forced her to the window and pushed her out. She dropped a few feet then jerked to a halt. Her body strained as the rope pulled around her shoulders. She dangled there beside the tree.
The man turned to the now waking children. He opened his backpack and took out the body bags. He looked at the phone on the side. All he could hear was a voice calling for the officer. He picked up the cell and put it to his ear, then he killed the call.
On the other end of the line, Harper hit the wheel. ‘We’ve been cut off.’ He screeched around a corner.
‘What?’ said Denise.
‘It means he’s in the house.’
Chapter Seventy-One
The Safe House, Manhattan
March 12, 11.59 p.m.
As they arrived at the safe house, Harper looked for the car parked across the street. It was gone. Harper got out of the car, Denise following quickly behind. He told her to wait at the entrance and walked around the house. At the back of the house, he saw a strange shadow. There was something large hanging from a rope.
He felt his pulse quicken and for a moment he thought the figure was dead. Moving closer, he saw a female officer with the rope pulled tight around her shoulders.
She saw Harper in the dark and called out, ‘He’s gone. He’s taken the kids.’
‘We’ll get you down,’ shouted Harper.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to get him. I think they’re alive. I caught his license-plate as he drove off.’
Harper was astonished. ‘Well done, that’s got to help.’
‘I feel so guilty,’ she said. ‘I was looking after them.’
‘You shouldn’t have been alone,’ said Harper. She told him the license-plate and Harper called it in immediately to Dispatch.
With a racing pulse, he moved quickly into the house. The social worker was sitting in an armchair facing the TV, motionless. Denise flinched. ‘Are you all right?’ Harper asked.
‘He said he’d kill them if I moved,’ she explained, a look of terror across her face.
‘Did you see what he looked like?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He was wearing a balaclava.’
‘Stay here,’ said Harper. Denise sat beside the woman and comforted her while Harper ran upstairs. A moment later he reappeared in the living room. ‘There’s nothing there. He was hiding in the closet. I need to haul the officer in the window. Denise, I need your help.’
He turned to the social worker. ‘What happened? Just tell me.’
‘He took them, in two bags. Black bags.’
Harper called base and gave them the lowdown. They’d send an ambulance, and backup was already on its way. He then took Denise upstairs and together, they pulled Officer Candy Simons back through the window. They untied her and she flung her arms at them. ‘Leave me, for God’s sake. Go after him.’