by Alex Barclay
‘C’mon, I’m kidding,’ said Danny. ‘But I’m sending it back, it doesn’t taste right. It’s kind of … sour.’ He turned to Gina, ‘Hey. Where’s my laughter track tonight, baby?’
‘I’ll laugh when you say something funny. That’s how it works. Joe, how’s your tiramisu?’
‘It’s totally sick,’ said Joe. ‘As I heard Tara say to Shaun yesterday.’
Anna smiled. ‘It’s so funny to listen to her. For me, sometimes, it’s like a whole new language.’
‘The other day,’ said Joe, ‘I heard her bitching to Shaun about some guy who had “storked” one of her friends.’
‘Stalked?’ said Gina.
‘Storked. Like “porked”, but with the end result being that the girl winds up pregnant.’
They all laughed.
‘That makes Danny a serial storker,’ said Gina.
‘And I am a lone storker,’ said Joe.
‘Shooting blanks for years,’ said Danny.
‘Amen to that,’ said Joe. ‘Sad and all as it will be, Anna and I will be packing off our beloved son to college next year and then we’ll have the freedom to—’
‘Argue at full volume,’ snapped Anna.
‘Jesus, Anna,’ said Joe. ‘What’s your—’
He watched as she bunched up her napkin, slid her chair back from the table and stood up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have to go. I forgot to … I have a conference call with … Paris.’ She looked at her watch.
Joe stared at her. ‘No, you—’
‘Enjoy the rest of the evening,’ she said to all of them.
‘Wait. I’ll come with you,’ said Joe, standing up, hitting the table hard with his knee.
‘Stay,’ said Anna. ‘Please.’ Her voice was cracking.
Joe looked from Danny to Gina.
‘Stay,’ said Anna. ‘Have a night out.’ She walked quickly through the restaurant, her head bowed.
‘Guys, I really apologize,’ said Joe. ‘I have no idea …’ He shrugged.
Gina squeezed his arm. ‘She’s had a rough time,’ she said. ‘You go. You look after her. She needs you.’
Joe followed Anna through the restaurant but he couldn’t avoid stopping at one table.
‘Oh. Hey, boss,’ said Joe. ‘How you doing?’
‘Joe,’ said Rufo, sliding his hand away from his date’s. ‘Good. I’m doing good.’
Joe nodded and looked towards the door where he could see Anna standing on the corner about to step out onto the cobbled street to hail a cab.
‘This is my … this is Barbara Stenson,’ said Rufo. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Barbara, Detective Joe Lucchesi.’
Joe turned back to them, hovering.
‘Hi,’ said Barbara. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise. Great place for dinner.’
‘One of the best,’ said Rufo.
‘We like it.’ Barbara nodded.
‘You on your own?’ said Rufo.
‘Uh, no,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve had to rush off. I just left Danny Markey and Gina on their dessert.’ He stared at Barbara as he spoke. She held his gaze.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘After this, we were going to take a walk, have dessert somewhere else.’
Rufo frowned. ‘We were?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘My little surprise.’
Rufo looked like the happiest man alive.
‘Catch you later,’ said Joe, nodding.
‘Take care,’ said Rufo.
Joe didn’t tell him he had sauce on his tie. And he definitely didn’t tell him Danny had slept with his girlfriend.
TWELVE
Joe shared the elevator to the sixth floor with Irene, who he knew only from her name badge; black backing, gold print. They had never spoken. She had thin lips, flossy grey hair and sharp metal glasses. Joe pitied anyone who had to go through Irene to get what they wanted. They had taken the elevator with babies, bouquets of flowers, beautiful people, singing people, even a clown, and none of them had cracked her. She represented a day he hoped he wouldn’t have.
The smell of Colombian coffee filled the office, but when he went to get some, both pots were empty. The detectives in the task force corner all had fresh cups.
Denis Cullen sat alone at his desk.
‘Yes,’ he said suddenly, slamming his hands onto the desk. He stood up. ‘Everyone? I’ve got the perp’s way in.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Joe.
‘He’s got something the vics want,’ said Cullen.
He cleared his throat. ‘All the vics cancelled their credit cards a week or two before they died.’
Some of the men nodded. Others waited for more.
‘Right, OK,’ said Joe. ‘So they all had their wallets stolen. That would explain Lowry’s two wallets. He got the cards re-issued. Then he gets his original one back. The night he died.’
Cullen nodded. ‘Perp’s got their wallet means he has their address, phone number, place of work. Calls them up, they’re so grateful. And hey, everyone’s going to trust the guy who’s honest enough to return a wallet.’
‘He can spend as long as he likes with it beforehand,’ said Joe, ‘thinking about the victim’s potential, looking through their things, checking where they shop. He can call the house at different times, see whether there’s always someone home. He might rule someone out if they’ve kids, someone with kids is going to have photos in the wallet—’
‘Lowry had a kid,’ said Rencher.
‘Yeah,’ said Joe, ‘but every Sunday they went to her ma’s. The perp could have noticed that, Lowry could have mentioned it on the phone, we don’t know.’
‘Also,’ said Cullen. ‘He can take a wallet and never choose that person as a victim. He could have wallets of people he’s never called.’
‘Bobby, Pace – you were on the phone records, right?’ said Joe. ‘No-one noticed they all must have got an incoming call the night they died?’
‘That’s not for sure,’ said Bobby.
‘Well, did you notice anything unusual in the incoming phone records?’ said Joe.
‘We would have said,’ said Pace.
‘Do you mind if I take a look at them?’ said Cullen.
‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Bobby. ‘Knock yourself out.’
Joe was walking away when the phone on his desk rang.
‘Detective Lucchesi? Joe Lucchesi?’
‘Yeah.’
‘My name is Preston Blake.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I … uh … is this confidential?’
‘If that’s what you want, sure,’ said Joe.
There was silence at the other end. Then faint breathing, deep, but quiet.
‘Sir? What can I do for you?’ said Joe.
‘You’re working on The Caller case. I saw your name in the paper.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think … The Caller …’ He inhaled, long and slow.
Joe waited.
‘He tried to kill me.’
Joe sat down. ‘Kill you?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Six months ago.’
‘Mr Blake, have you been following all the media reports on the investigation?’
‘Yes … but that’s not why I’m calling. This is real. This really happened.’
‘Is this your first time getting in touch with us, Mr Blake?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ said Joe. ‘Please, tell me what makes you think it was The Caller.’
‘I let him into my home, he stripped me naked and beat my face and pulled a gun on me.’
‘How did you get away?’
‘I overpowered him and he ran.’
‘Are you sure it was the same guy?’
‘Did any of the victims have … was there a phone near them …?’
This time Joe went silent.
‘Mr Blake, can I take some of your details? My partner and I would like
to pay a visit to your house, talk to you a bit more, if that’s all right with you.’
‘I … don’t know if it is.’
‘Let me start with getting a few details, OK? Your name again.’
‘Preston. P-R-E-S-T-O-N Blake.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘04/16/72.’
‘And where do you live?’ said Joe.
‘1890 Willow Street in Brooklyn Heights.’
‘Me and my partner would like to drop by. You home this afternoon?’
‘I don’t know if I can do this. I … no-one has been here since … no-one.’
‘You’ve made this call, Mr Blake. That means you want to help. We’re not going to do anything to make things worse for you. I can promise you that. We’ll stop by, ask you some questions and then we’ll be outta there. If this is the killer, you’d like to see him caught, right?’
Blake sucked in a deep breath. ‘You must have seen what he did to his victims. You must have seen their corpses … the living proof might be harder to take.’
Brooklyn Heights was a quiet upper middle class neighborhood, one subway stop – but a world away – from Wall Street. At three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, the main action on the residential streets was nannies with strollers taking kids to the tiny playground by the promenade.
‘These are some very nice houses,’ said Joe.
He took a left onto Willow Street, lined with trees and perfectly kept terraced brownstones. Preston Blake’s house was on the right-hand side, close to the corner, a narrow, three-storey over-basement Anglo-Italianate design with an antique black door.
Joe rang the bell and spoke into the intercom. ‘Mr Blake? It’s Detectives Joe Lucchesi, Danny Markey.’ They held their badges up to a small security camera mounted in the right-hand corner above the door. After several seconds, they heard a series of muted beeps from inside. They waited, then counted the halting slide of bolts that ran from the top of the door to its base. The door opened inwards, but was hinged on the same side as the keyhole. Joe and Danny exchanged glances. No-one appeared. Joe pushed the door gently and walked inside. His chest was hit with a constricting spasm as he took in the vast white expanse around him. Suspended from the ceiling by thick steel cables were evenly spaced rows of six-foot tall, two-foot wide white perspex bookshelves. White, high-gloss floor tiles shone with the reflected overkill of hundreds of shelf-mounted spotlights. Joe stepped forward and felt a surge of regret. Every book title was a desperate search for relief, a net cast wide across disciplines; acupuncture, angels, auras, Buddhism, meditation, reflexology, reiki, yoga. Joe and Danny hovered, emotional intruders. They turned to the man who didn’t look like he’d found an answer in any of these pages.
Blake raised his hands. ‘Don’t worry. I have The DaVinci Code too.’ He flashed a lopsided smile from the right-hand side of his mouth. A small pool of saliva leaked onto his lower lip. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief. ‘But codes …’ He gestured to the security panel by the door. ‘I’m sure someone could … well, maybe that’s not a great leap.’
Joe smiled.
‘Anyway, hello.’ Blake stretched out his hand from behind the door.
‘Thanks for letting us come over,’ said Joe, shaking it firmly.
Blake was lean and stooped. Whatever he had been through had left his face older and shadowed, his most striking feature, loose flesh hanging under dark, weary eyes. The skin on the right side of his chin was lumpy and uneven. He was dressed in baggy chinos and a lightweight black turtleneck. A red baseball cap was pulled low on his head. Panic flickered in his eyes. Danny followed his gaze to the open door and quickly closed it. Blake walked past him and ground the bolts back into place.
‘Follow me,’ he said when he was finished.
He led them through the complex of shelves and through heavy white double doors into a sparse and spacious living room. The floors were polished oak, the walls soft yellow. There was no dining table, no sideboard. Heavy green drapes hung down by the windows.
Blake sat on a white sofa facing the door and gestured to the matching one opposite. Danny and Joe sat down.
‘You’ve got a nice home here,’ said Joe.
‘Thank you,’ said Blake. ‘Can I offer you something to drink, coffee …’
‘Coffee would be great,’ said Joe.
‘Yeah,’ said Danny. ‘Thanks. Black for both of us.’
Blake paused, but got up and walked across the room to a discreet door that led into a dim hallway. Joe stood up and wandered over to a vase of dried white flowers that stood by the huge, empty fireplace. Just behind it, Joe noticed the corner of a picture frame. He bent down and picked it up. In it was a faded colour photograph that looked like it was taken in the eighties – an older couple, the man thin and stern, the woman chubby, heavily made up and with a sparkle in her eye.
‘My parents,’ said Blake, coming back in, smiling at the photo. ‘They adored each other.’ He set a tray on an ottoman between them with three mugs of black coffee.
‘How long have you been living here?’ said Joe.
‘All my life. My parents both passed away. I have no siblings.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I make jewelry.’
‘Did you make that?’ said Joe, pointing to a black leather cuff Blake was wearing.
Blake nodded.
‘My son wears things like that.’
‘I have more up in my—’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s not a problem. It’d be a pleasure.’
Joe smiled. ‘Thanks, but he needs to get a handle on his schoolwork before I come back with any gifts for him.’
‘Well, let me know if he does.’
‘Thanks,’ said Joe. ‘So, where do you work?’
‘Here.’ He gestured upstairs.
‘So does that mean customers come to your home or suppliers or whoever? I’m just trying to get a feel for people who would know you, know the house.’
‘I have a small client base. I design high-end pieces, made to order. I will meet with a client at their home, discuss designs, go away and create. None of them come here.’
‘OK. Suppliers?’
‘I get the leather sent here. Metals and diamonds I go to 47th Street.’
‘You have cleaning staff? Delivery people coming through?’
‘No. I’m the cleaning staff.’
‘For the whole house?’
‘I got a lot of time on my hands,’ said Blake.
‘Have you ever been the victim of another crime?’ said Joe.
‘Like what?’
‘A burglary, a robbery?’
Blake shook his head. ‘No – why?’
‘Or even had your wallet stolen?’ said Joe.
Blake frowned. ‘No. Never. Why?’
‘Just wondering. OK. Do you think you could talk us through what happened that night?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Blake.
‘You take your time,’ said Danny. ‘We think you’ll be able to do it. We really do. That’s why we’re here.’
Blake took off his baseball cap, smoothed down the black, wiry hair that bounced up, then put it back on. He took a deep breath. ‘It was Monday night. March 13th, I think. I was home watching a movie … two movies. Back to back.’
‘What about that morning?’ said Joe. ‘I’m going to need as much detail as I can about what you were doing that day, where you went, who you spoke with … I’m sorry, but it’s important. If the perp chose you, it could be that by some twist of fate, a change in your routine meant you crossed paths with him. Monday, you stop for coffee at the deli outside your apartment building, Tuesday you hold off ‘til you get to the subway, right next to the killer’s hotdog stand. You get the picture.’
‘OK,’ said Blake. ‘I got up. And I started work immediately. I didn’t go out that day. And no-one called. I get so absorbed in work sometimes, I lose track of time. Which,
I guess wouldn’t make me the most reliable witness.’ He smiled. ‘I can’t even tell you what time he called to my door.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Danny. ‘Neither of us know, here, what details might help. That’s why we’ll go back and forth with some questions and answers and see what comes up. How about that?’
Blake nodded. ‘I’m sorry. This is so hard.’
‘I understand that,’ said Danny. ‘But I’m betting you’ll feel a hell of a lot better once you’ve got it all out.’
‘It was late,’ said Blake. ‘He … he called to my door, saying he was a realtor. He was admiring the building and asked to talk to me about selling or wanted to tell me about house prices in the area …’
‘And you let him in.’
‘Yes. I let him in. He had material from Acheson & Grant, the realtors on Montague Street … and yes, I know, it sounds kind of dumb.’ He took in what looked like it would be a deep breath, but ended up halting and shallow.
‘It’s the way we are,’ said Danny, ‘most of us want to trust people. Even I want that.’
‘Thanks,’ said Blake. ‘So I invited him in to the foyer and next thing I remember, I was under the kitchen counter—’
‘Sorry – before that,’ said Joe. ‘When you opened the door, did you get a good look at the guy? Could you describe him?’
Blake shook his head. ‘I wish I could. What I can tell you is he was slightly shorter than me, maybe five nine? He was normal build, that’s the best I can do. And his clothes were black – you know, as opposed to the usual bright pink criminals wear.’ He smiled. So did Danny and Joe.
‘He must have looked like a realtor to you – so, was he in a suit?’ said Joe.
Blake shrugged. ‘From what I remember. I think. But I couldn’t swear to it.’
‘What about hair color?’
‘I don’t know. Blond? Grey? I think it was light.’
‘Or any facial features that stood out?’ said Joe.
‘Not that I can think of. Believe me,’ said Blake. ‘I’ve spent so much time going through that night, replaying everything … if I haven’t remembered already, I don’t think I ever will.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Danny. ‘Don’t get yourself worked up about it. Something might come back to you again. Let’s go back to after you woke up on the kitchen floor.’