Voices cursed and faces stared grimly at the screen. Rachel in her not-injured photo was quite pretty, sweet-faced with curling brown hair. Lauren’s dark hair was longer, her smile sexier.
Ricky continued, “Lauren worked as an assistant for some hotshot hedge funder and may have been romantically involved with him, according to one friend. Her name is Terry Mercer, she’s going over to visit Rachel at noon, and will talk to us there. She was pretty shook when she called. Sounds like she doesn’t want to be seen talking to the police.”
Kerri asked, “These three were all friends?”
“Yes.”
She filed away the name Terry Mercer.
Ricky filled in the others on Rachel. “Divorced two years ago in Boston, hasn’t seen her ex since. She brought her three-year-old son to New York, found work in a psychiatrist’s office, and last year went back to school. College had been interrupted by her pregnancy and marital troubles…the ex was abusive. Recently she’d started to date again, but nobody serious according to friend Mercer.”
“Found the ex?” Mackey demanded.
“Working on it,” Alex replied. “He’s been in rehab, in bad shape from the sound of it. We’re also searching the name of Rachel’s shrink employer. She didn’t like him a whole lot - according to a friend named Gina Wheat. She’s the daughter of Rachel’s building superintendent.”
Mackey straightened from Zienuc’s desk, his color high above his too-tight collar. “Wait, back up. Lauren Huff or Rachel Sparkes - which woman was the target?”
Alex looked over at Kerri. “You want to take this?”
She nodded, described her theory that Rachel was the target since the killer went to her apartment.
Mackey paced, chin down, squeezing his drooping jowls. “You can’t be sure,” he snapped. “I like the Huff romancing the hedge funder angle.”
“There’s more,” Kerri said, and described the walkie talkie. “A gift from Lauren. Charlie loved it and Rachel probably had a hard time getting him to bed. That would’ve made it a long wait for anyone waiting for Lauren to come out.”
Mackey stared from her to Alex, his scowl deepening. “Autopsy report?”
Alex folded his arms. “The ME says there’s a high probability Lauren was the first victim because it was such a good shot, straight to center chest. That split second is likely what gave Rachel the chance to try to duck, because the creep’s second bullet just hit her shoulder.”
“So why didn’t he shoot again?” Mackey demanded.
“He got distracted, may have shot Lauren first because he didn’t want a witness. He was definitely more hesitant with Rachel.”
Alex motioned to Ricky, then looked at Kerri again, giving her the floor. They’d rehearsed this over their seven a.m. coffee and burnt toast.
New images came onto the screen: Rachel’s floor cluttered with books, toys, drawings, and a close-up of one of the walkie-talkie pair with its purple cord protruding.
“Watch the cord,” Kerri said, as more images moved across the busy floor to the bathroom. The cord disappeared and reappeared; traveled across wood and then white tile to the second of the walkie talkie pair near the tub.
She stared at the last image, then looked out to the room.
“The attack happened around nine-thirty, judging by when Charlie ran out. If the killer knew Rachel had a child, he may have expected him to be in bed - and he wasn’t, he was in the bathroom having fun transmitting with Mom and Lauren, likely with the door closed. So the killer burst in and shot, then saw the cord, realized someone was peeking out…and may have faked leaving. That’s when he got hesitant with Rachel, Charlie ran to her, the creep grabbed him, and Charlie squirmed free.”
Someone from the Sixth wanted to know how the hell a little kid could squirm free from a killer.
“Rachel thinks he may have scratched her assailant’s face. She only saw him in his ski mask, but Charlie flailed and pulled at his mask. Distracted him, derailed his plan.”
Kerri looked at Alex – done – and looked back to the room. “That’s our preliminary sense of what happened.”
They started to wind up, with Alex announcing that they were waiting for results of scrapings taken from under the child’s nails. “He’d already been bathed. Came in covered with his mother’s blood. I’m guessing the nurses were thorough.” Alex’s face was tight.
Someone asked if the boy was still mute, traumatized.
Alex gave a grim nod.
“Police guarding them?”
“Yes, both have witness protection. There’s a uniform outside the pediatrics cubicle, another one outside Rachel’s room.”
Someone murmured, “poor little kid.”
The air was tense. Tom Mackey stared at the screen, looking conflicted.
Kerri, aching, watched Ricky put up a final image: Charlie with Rachel, a stilled swing before them. Charlie was reaching joyfully up the swing’s chain, yelping for more. You could almost hear him…
“Any potential witnesses coming in?” Mackey asked.
“Three,” Alex answered. “Between ten and eleven.”
15
A man in a gym suit said he’d jogged to the station. Jo Babiak greeted him, offered him a seat and sent Buck a look: the guy didn’t inspire confidence. He was overweight, hadn’t broken a sweat, and was looking around like he’d never been in a police station. Too fascinated. He was having fun.
Jo heaved a sigh and got her pen ready.
“So you think you saw someone?” she asked.
“Definitely.” The man, named Nate Nichols, leaned excitedly forward. “In front of that building just after nine, leaning on a street lamp. Who leans on a street lamp in the rain with no umbrella?”
Someone high maybe waiting for a drug connection? It didn’t sound like a clever stalker, but Jo made a note.
“Can you describe this person?”
“Male, about five nine. Shorter ’n me.” Nate smiled and sat straighter. His round head was shaved bald and he wore a walrus mustache. This type liked attention.
“Did you see his face?”
“No, he was looking down at his phone. When I passed he was yelling at someone, really mad. That’s what caught my attention.”
Right, all stalkers shout and call attention to themselves. It was someone pissed because the weather made his connection fink out. Jo scribbled two words.
“Describe his attire please?”
“Like Batman. Long black shiny cape with a hood attached. I think it was vinyl.”
Stalkers don’t wear attention-getting outfits, either.
“That’s probably why he didn’t need an umbrella.” Jo stood. “Thanks for coming in, Mr Nichols. If you see or hear anything else, let us know.”
“Will do. I’m a firm believer in civic duty.” Nate rose, put his pudgy fingers to his heart. “I’ll spread the word around the neighborhood. Somebody must have seen something.”
“That’s what we’re hoping. Thanks again. The same officer will see you out.”
Jo sank back in her chair. Buck, at his desk across from her, raised his brows in subtle commiseration: I got a beaut here too.
His potential witness was a depressed-looking woman named Ann. Sallow skin, sallow expression; Jo could hear her thin voice that sounded like it didn’t get used much. She stayed in, mostly, but looked out her window a lot. And she’d seen a male just after nine, dressed in dark clothes and hurrying.
“That’s what was suspicious?” Buck asked her, pen poised. “He was hurrying in the rain?”
“Well, it was his posture.” Ann’s pea jacket smelled of mothballs. “It was hunched forward like he was chasing someone, or headed to no good.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Well, how could I? It was dark and I was looking down from the second floor.” Ann looked suddenly earnest. She’d torn herself from her mothballs because someone’s death had re-started her pulse. “It’s just that with that weather last night there were few peo
ple out, so I thought you should know. That I saw someone. Definitely male with an aggressive gait.”
She couldn’t guess the man’s height, either. The angle from her window made it impossible.
Buck sighed and wrote something. Jo, looking back up to him, wondered what he could possibly be writing. Then she looked across to Alex.
His witness interview had just arrived.
She didn’t like the look of him.
“Have a seat Mr Gilbey. Thanks for coming in.”
“It’s the least I can do. This is so bad. Don’t know if I can help, though.”
His first name was Mitch and he was tall but slouching, early forties. Rodent-like profile, serious overbite above a receding chin, two-day stubble. Looked around at the other detectives; looked back.
“Why don’t you tell me what you told Detectives Zienuc and Connor last night,” Alex said. “Start there.”
Mitch Gilbey shrugged in his tan work jacket. He cracked his knuckles, planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.
“Okay. I’m the super of the building next door. I was done fixing a busted pipe in the basement and sick of the place, so I decided to go out. To a bar or something.”
“This was what time?”
“Just before nine-thirty.” His eyes fixed on the edge of Alex’s desk. “I know ‘cause I had to check the boiler before I left, it’s got a timer thing. Anyway, there’s a bar on the corner so I was headed there when, pow, this guy came running outta nowhere and rammed into me, just yards from where the shooting happened. ‘Chrissakes!’ I told him, but nothing. He kept his head down and kept going. No apology. ‘Pretty goddamn rude,’ I yelled after him, and he didn’t turn.”
“Did you get a look at his face?”
“It was down, but yeah, kinda.”
“White? Hispanic? Black?”
“White, I think. Maybe light-skinned Hispanic.”
“Height?”
“About five ten I’m guessing, but like I said, he had his head down.” Gilbey leaned his elbow on the chair arm, and slouched. “May have been wearing boots, too. It was dark.”
His jacket was a heavy corduroy on the outside. Alex gestured to it, holding his breath. “Were you wearing that when he rammed you?”
Gilbey fingered his sleeve with the dawning look of a man who watches cop shows. “You mean like for fibers?” He gestured. “Bad luck, I was wearing my vinyl slicker. Wore it with my hood up for the whole rest of…what happened. I was in the crowd, feeling bad. The ambulance…all that.”
Shit. The downpour would have washed off fibers that were unlikely to have stuck to vinyl anyway. Alex tapped his pen on a file, trying to plumb this for more. Was there more? Generic description and no evidence on a night when everyone was rushing to get inside.
He looked back, and saw that Gilbey’s eyes had wandered.
To Kerri, at the desk facing him, engrossed in files. On four hours of sleep she was bristling with nervous energy, yanking a file from the stack before her and leafing into it.
Alex’s gaze sharpened; Gilbey saw and his eyes slid back to the edge of the desk.
Something had just shifted. A feeling. Alex’s antennae buzzed.
“So…” He leaned back in his chair, both hands fiddling with his ballpoint. “You’re next door’s super. Had you seen the victim Rachel Sparkes before?”
“Sure.” Gilbey nodded vigorously. “She was always out with her little boy. He liked to ride up and down on his scooter, talk to the dog walkers. Jeez, how is he? That poor kid…”
Took his time asking about Charlie. “They’re both in the hospital. How did you know Rachel’s name?”
“She’s friends with her super’s daughter, Gina, and I’m kinda friends with Gina’s father Frank Wheat. I mean, we both work two old buildings side by side, so we got acquainted.”
“Just kinda friends?”
“Well, allies. The same sonofabitch landlord owns both buildings. Lets stuff break, fixes nothing, then tells the tenants it’s our fault. So we talk, get together and bitch.” Gilbey shook his head. “That sidewalk’s like a village. In good weather, I mean.”
His eyes flicked back to Kerri.
She looked pretty in her black crewneck sweater with the sleeves rolled up. On her phone now, hunched and animated with questions, straw-colored hair flopping out of her ponytail to her shoulder. She was looking more than pretty. Alex wanted to grab Gilbey by the neck and fling him against the wall.
She must have sensed their eyes, because she glanced up for just a second; checked out slouching Rodent Face’s tiny dark pupils, sent an I see him look to Alex, and continued her call.
Alex pointedly indicated her.
“She familiar to you?”
Gilbey’s features closed down and he shrugged. “Saw her last night running into the building. Like I said, I was in the crowd.”
Uh-huh.
And suddenly Gilbey was up, checking his watch. “Almost eleven? Jeez, I gotta go, I’m late.”
“What are you late for?”
“Building inspector. Landlord told me to lie about some crap or I’m out. He’s threatened to fire me, so I gotta toe the line.”
“Frank Wheat have the same problem?”
“Oh yeah. Listen, I hope I’ve helped. Like I told those two detectives, a guy crashed into me but I didn’t get a good look.”
“Thanks for coming. Call if you see or hear anything else.”
“You bet.”
16
So kind, they all were, such pity-filled eyes…
Rachel lay heartsick in her blur of pain meds. The nurses coming in and out meant well with their encouragement; same with her surgeon, and the hospital psychologist who had just left. I do believe in never giving up, she’d said with feeling; then delicately described Charlie’s state, preparing Rachel to understand, be strong for him.
Shattered. No words for it…
Just hold him, the woman said. Many children have pulled through violence…wars, even. They just needed time and love.
“But wouldn’t they be scarred?” Rachel had whispered. “Do they ever recover the joy of…being little kids…?”
She had closed her eyes when she asked that. Somehow, the woman’s fine scent and her freshly pressed linen blouse…hurt. Bespoke someone spouting lines from a textbook, a life of safety far removed from the struggles Rachel had known.
Now this.
She breathed shallowly, waiting. Out in the hall, every voice, every sound of gurney wheels meant they were bringing Charlie to her. Then the voices passed, the wheels rolled away.
A woman in a volunteer smock came in, smiled brightly while changing the water in the pitcher. Manicured nails, pearl studs, and a comment about the weather. Then someone came for Rachel’s untouched breakfast tray, and a young doctor darted in to check her monitor. She tapped something onto her tablet, and with an absent smile rushed out.
Rachel moved her head, back and forth on the pillow, starting to cry. The box of tissues was too far away, beyond where her left arm was immobilized in a sling, so as the tears burst, her free right hand clutched the sheet and jammed it desperately to her face. Most of all don’t cry, the psychologist said; it’s important for Charlie that you be strong.
Strong meant not crying?
Forget it, the tears came. A tsunami of grief and helplessness with the world crashing down on her. She’d been a survivor until this…through loss and then abuse in her marriage, but she’d struggled through it, hadn’t she? Escaped with the baby to New York and found a miracle of a first job with a grandma who let her use the crib in the back? She’d done okay, hadn’t she? She’d been a survivor then, she wept into the sheet – but now?
She was beaten. Desperation had never felt so final. Charlie would need care. He’d have to stay home from the kindergarten he’d just started, which meant she couldn’t work…and…
Wheels in the hall.
Voices.
Then, slowly, a train of scrub-su
ited young doctor pulling in a gurney; and on it, under a blanket, a little mound, a little head of messed, light brown hair, and a uniformed orderly pushing the rear.
“Package for Smedley,” greeted the doctor, tall and kind-faced, clearly seeing that Rachel had been crying. “Hey…” he said gently, coming alongside and patting her right arm, moving it further out from her body. To make room for Charlie, she realized. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said.
“Sez you,” she whimpered, her gaze glued to her child. He seemed to be asleep.
“Yeah, sez me,” the doctor said firmly. His hair was brownish-red, his eyes warm amber. He was moving her sheet and blanket down to her waist. “He’ll be better right here.” His fingers pressed lightly through her hospital gown to her ribs. “Snuggle. Emotional comfort is healing.”
Gently, he and the orderly lifted Charlie to the crook of her arm so she could hold him. Then he pulled Rachel’s sheet and blanket back up over both of them, making tucking motions around Charlie’s chin.
“My name’s Jake,” he said, glancing over to Rachel’s out of reach tissues. “Uh, Dale?”
The orderly saw and ran around the bed. With a sympathetic smile he put the tissues closer, within reach.
“Thanks,” Rachel whispered, holding Charlie. “But I’ve been told not to cry.”
Jake raised his brows. “By whom?”
“The psychologist.”
He made a face. “Don’t listen. You’re human.”
“But Charlie…”
“He’s feeling like you’re feeling. He’ll know if you’re strangling yourself.”
Rachel almost smiled through her tears. The fog of her meds was lifting a bit, and she saw the doctor’s name tag: Jake Benton.
The orderly named Dale jerked his thumb to Jake. “He was up most of the night with Charlie.”
Rachel blinked, watched the doctor reach back to the gurney.
From under the blanket he produced a jar of Skippy peanut butter, two cans of Coke, and a box of bendy straws; placed all of them on the table near Rachel’s pillow.
Shoeless Child Page 5