by B. A. Morton
Chapter Twelve
Connell collected his car, begrudgingly paid the extortionate fee and headed back to his apartment. It had been tenantless for a month or so but it hadn’t been a home for him since he’d met Lizzie. Since he’d been tied to a chair and beaten senseless by a man who, fortunately, was no longer around to beat anyone. All the same, the sooner he was rid of the place permanently, the sooner he could move on and forget all the crap that had gone before, as both Gerry and Marty had recommended.
He thought again of Frankie’s ridiculous offer. Far too high to be seen as anything other than the bribe that it was, but so tempting nevertheless. He cracked a wry smile as he wondered whether he had the balls to really step over the line, pick up the cash and jump back quick before Frankie’s can of manure exploded and they all got covered in shit. Lizzie wouldn’t approve and neither would Marty, judging by the look on his face when the offer was made. But, hey, just because he was willing to take go away money, it didn’t mean he was actually going to go anywhere.
He dumped his jacket and headed for the shower. Marty’s barber had done a good job, transforming him from bum to halfway respectable, but when the guy pulled out his cut throat razor, Connell decided he’d had enough slashing for one day and instead planned to rely on his own steady hand. With a shave and a set of fresh clothes, he was ready to take on the world and when he checked the time, he realized he’d better get a move on if the day wasn’t going to be a total waste of his time.
He tried calling Lizzie while he emptied his jacket pockets. The jacket was by necessity destined for the drycleaners. There was only so much dried blood and grime a guy could carry around before it stopped looking dangerously fashionable and started veering toward homeless chic.
Lizzie’s phone went straight to voice mail, which didn’t surprise him. If she was still at the hospital, she’d listen to her messages when she next had a break. He checked his watch. It was after five. Maybe she was on her way home or headed over to his mom’s to pick up Joe. Either way, he’d rather have heard her voice, but as long as she could hear his, he’d keep in her good books and it was definitely worth his while to do that.
“Hey, babe,” he sighed. “Having a really boring day. Marty’s a pain. Do I really have to have him tagging along?” He smiled as he pulled out Joe’s photo from his wallet. He looked for Lizzie’s but couldn’t find it. “Missing you, sweetheart. Hope you’re not working too hard, ‘cause, you know, you gotta save all that energy for yours truly. Tell Sandra I’m real sorry but I only have eyes for you, and tell Joe to quit with the mischief and behave.” He paused, glanced around the empty space, the place where he didn’t want to be, and wondered why the hell he was doing it. Marty was right, he should be home with Lizzie and Joe. “Hey,” he continued, “I love you, don’t you forget that...” whatever happens, he added silently.
He gathered up his wallet, car keys and notebook, and was about ready to leave when something stopped him and he flipped open the notebook at the page where he’d sketched Molly’s room. He stared at the pattern of books stacked on the floor. He’d seen it someplace else.
Not bothering to wait for the ancient service elevator, Connell took the stairs two at a time, and when he got to his car, scrabbled in the glove box, checked the pockets in the car doors and finally found what he was looking for, jammed under the passenger seat. He spread out the street map across the dash board and zeroed in on the area downtown that he’d seen on the incident wall. With a growing sense of alarm, he dialed Gerry’s number and willed him to pick up.
Another answering service. Where on earth was Gerry? It seemed that everyone he wanted to speak to had better things to do.
“Gerry, you gotta call me now!”
He ended the call, stared at the phone and tried to recall the details he’d seen about the murder locations, but he knew that he hadn’t seen what he needed to know. He toyed with ringing Hamilton, Gerry had said he was straight, and Gerry should know, but Connell wasn’t convinced. He’d a natural suspicion of anyone who he didn’t know personally, particularly those who’d tried to pin multiple murders on him. He thought of Wilson, but the big guy had been too ready to believe the worst about him and probably still did.
Where the hell was Gerry when he needed him?
He looked again at the map, found the court building, started the car and headed on down there. Gerry called him back as he circled the block trying in vain to find somewhere to park. No way was he going to pay the city another towing fee. In fact, if he had his way, Gerry would be picking up the first tab.
“You know, Tommy, I respond more promptly when you put a please on the front of your demands,” said Gerry shortly, a little annoyed and not necessarily at Connell.
“Sure, Gerry, listen this is important. Musgrave, he was killed at the courthouse ...”
“Yeah ...”
“Which floor? Can you remember which floor?” There was silence while Gerry did his usual and Connell tapped impatiently at the wheel, keeping his eyes on the lights and making sure he didn’t tail end the car in front.
“I can’t be sure, Tommy. I’m not at my desk, but I think it was the third floor. He made up some shit about feeling nauseous and was taken into the nearest bathroom to the court where his case was being heard. I think there was talk it might have been a botched escape plan, until they found him gutless.”
“Yeah, well, a fitting end, if you want my opinion.” Connell found a spot, swung the car into it amid much blaring of horns, and switched off the engine.
“Why do you need to know?”
Connell ignored him. “So, was he the first?”
“No, another guy named Leonard was the first, but of course they didn’t start linking them until number three - some traffic cop name of Sheldon.”
“Okay, Gerry, I need a list of locations, exact locations, floor, house number and I need the order these guys were capped.”
“What are you thinking, Tommy?”
“I’m not sure,” Connell prevaricated. “I may have something, but it’s too early to say.”
“It’s never too early to say. You got an inkling of something, you need to share.”
“I won’t know for sure till you get me the details, and Gerry, I need them like yesterday.”
Connell heard Gerry’s long suffering sigh. “I’ll get straight back to you. Give me half an hour.”
“Sure thing, Gerry, and hey, Gerry, you got me that order yet?”
“It’s with the judge now, Tommy. Where do you think I was when you phoned? Calling in favors. It should be clear by close of business.”
“Should be? I need to know for certain, Gerry. If this kicks off, I don’t want to be looking at some hokey child abduction charge. Hamilton would just love that.”
“You going to pick her up?”
“I may need to soon, for my own piece of mind if nothing else.”
“You need help?”
Connell considered his reply, swept his gaze between the map and the notebook, and shook his head slowly. “No, Gerry, I think this is something I’m going to have to do on my own.”
“That’s not a good idea, Tommy.”
“I hear you, Gerry.”
Sure, he heard him. He just wasn’t listening too clearly.
Connell didn’t need to use his illegal entry skills to get back into Molly’s apartment. When he got there, the door was ajar and the lock in pieces. He stopped, strained his ears for any sounds of movement from within, and when he heard nothing, he pushed open the door and moved quietly into the hall.
He stepped carefully over the broken kitchen chair blocking his path. The mirror was smashed and glass crunched beneath his feet, the fragments embedding themselves in the threadbare carpet. He bent and carefully retrieved one of the broken chair legs and hefted it in his right hand, testing the weight, the swing, the power it would yield if it was required as a weapon. Moving stealthily along the narrow hall, he checked each room in turn. The place was e
mpty, but with growing frustration he realized it had also been completely trashed.
In Molly’s room, the neat rows of books were gone, scattered randomly across the floor, two or three deep in places, pages torn, bindings cracked. The bed was upended and jammed up against the window, which made it difficult in the poor light to make out the full extent of any damage. The bedding was stuffed inside the closet and it appeared there’d been some attempt to ignite the material. A faint smell of accelerant competed with the smell of unwashed linen.
Connell squatted down, raked about in the mess of books and found a couple of homemade bookmarks that hadn’t been wrecked and a number of newspaper substitutes that matched the one in his pocket. He slotted them inside his notebook and was about to rise when he spotted an envelope caught in the iron springs of the upturned bed. Jammed as it was between a broken spring and the bed’s wooden frame, it would have remained unseen had he not been crouched down. He reached across, pulled it free and got to his feet.
The envelope was obviously a keepsake from a birthday card, embossed flowers on the back, and on the front the word ‘Molly’ was scrawled in ink with three kisses after. Connell pulled a face; well, at least at some point in this kid’s life someone had cared enough to remember her birthday. Maybe they would again, if she was lucky.
Inside the envelope was a card for the special six year old from Grandma Beatrice. Connell wondered if Grandma knew what had happened in the last four years to her darling little granddaughter. Along with the card was a photo of Mom, Dad, Lydia and Molly in happier times, a photo of an older lady with graying hair, presumably Grandma, and a photo of Dad and his buddy holding up one heck of a fish. The sight of the photos, and how Molly had treasured them, twisted Connell’s gut but Molly’s drawing, tucked in with them, almost finished him off.
The family scene, with Molly at the center, brightly colored with happy smiling faces, drew his mind back to when Joe had drawn his idea of his own family. The picture, the work of a mere four year old then, had depicted Joe, Connell and Lizzie and a longed-for puppy. Joe’s wish had come true. Connell knew in his heart that Molly’s never would.
He pocketed the envelope and stood a moment regaining his focus, finding it difficult to assign the heartbreaking images to the back of his mind even though he knew that he must if he wanted to help her.
The living room had been equally trashed and anything of value taken. Graffiti was scrawled on the wall, and although on the face of it the most likely culprits were kids, Connell wasn’t convinced. It all seemed a little too convenient.
He moved aside the sofa, its cushions slashed, and lifted the rug and the board beneath. The assorted collection of papers was still there, so whoever it was who had decided to play mess up, it wasn’t the weird lizard guy.
Collecting together the papers, Connell scanned the walls and tried to make sense of what was written. He wasn’t familiar with gang tags, but neither, it seemed, was the artist. Connell had seen better artwork at Joe’s kindergarten. Reaching out a hand he traced his fingers along the line of the fluorescent color, pulling back with a curse when he realized that the paint was still wet. Wiping his hand on a discarded cushion, he cast his gaze warily about.
Wet paint seemed to indicate that whoever had been in the apartment hadn’t long gone, and yet he’d passed no one making a quick getaway down the stairs or legging it down the street with paint on their clothes. The smell of the accelerant was stronger in here, and as he checked the floor for any discarded aerosols cans that might offer up finger prints, he was aware of an ominous tinkling in his head that should have been warning enough. If he’d bothered to take heed.
Wandering into the kitchen, he found the aerosol cans in a pan on the stove...
Connell froze. His adrenalin shot to critical level and he made the quickest decision of his life. Grabbing the pan, he swung it straight through the kitchen window and had a gut-wrenching second of doubt till he confirmed with a quick look that the window overlooked an empty back alley and not a crowded street.
That was too close. Marty was right - he needed a new career. He sagged against the window frame, enjoying a measure of smugness as the home-made incendiary landed neatly in an overflowing dumpster. Oh, yeah bring it on. He was far too quick and clever for the likes of Frankie or the Zapper guy, or whoever had decided it would be fun to blow up an apartment building. He gave himself a virtual slap on the back and stepped away from the view.
The ensuing explosion took out a few more kitchen windows, knocked him to the floor and drove the smugness right out of him. Far too big a bang for a dozen or so aerosol’s. He realized with a sickening lurch that he’d left his car parked next to the dumpster.
Not so clever now.
Chapter Thirteen
“You did what?”
Connell leaned against the alley wall, phone pressed against one ear, watching from a safe distance as the fire department cleared up his mess. “I kind of blew up the car ...”
“Tommy, what did I tell you? You gotta get out of there before you run out of chances. You’re not a cat, you haven’t got nine lives.”
“Chill out, Marty, I wasn’t in it at the time.” He turned away, avoiding the accusing glare of the fire chief who hadn’t quite understood that the mess in the alley was a pretty good trade-off for a still standing apartment building.
“Have you broken the news to Gerry yet?”
Connell allowed a sly grin. “No, thought I’d save that for later.” He checked his watch; time was getting on and he still needed to pick up Molly. “I need to borrow your car, buddy.”
“No way. Get a rental. You think I’d trust you with my car?”
“Marty, I’m the most trustworthy guy you know. Today has just been ... unlucky. And you know it started on such a high. I’ll meet you at the warehouse at seven-thirty and we’ll have ourselves a sniff around see if we can’t catch us a lowlife with a loose tongue.”
“And what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”
Connell smiled. “I’m going to see if I can catch me a kid who doesn’t say much at all.”
* * *
The library was almost closing when Connell slipped in, unseen by the librarian and the cat. Making his way to the basement, he didn’t expect to find Molly there, not yet anyway. He checked her lair, left a newly-purchased Happy Meal next to her stash of drawings, and settled himself in a nest of his own making, in a spot where he could keep watch without being seen by janitors or wary ten year olds.
When he’d finished his own Big Mac, he washed it down with coffee so strong it was guaranteed to keep him awake and pulled out his notebook, scattering the contents on the floor where he sat. Reaching out, he picked up the nearest bookmark and carefully smoothed out the folded newspaper. It had been torn from one of the dailies and detailed a number of advertisements from what looked like a down market lonely hearts column.
He began to read about Mitzy who was looking for a well hung male to make her dreams come true and realized with mild frustration that Mitzy’s vital statistics and box number had been left behind when the bookmark had been torn from the newspaper. No matter, he shrugged with a wry smile, he was more than happy to keep his assets solely for Lizzie. He checked his watch, wondered how long he’d have to wait before he could make her dreams come true and turned the paper over distractedly.
The headline on the reverse read ‘Traffic Officer Slain’ and beneath it lay an account of Officer Sheldon’s horrific demise. The guy had pulled over to write out a ticket and wham, no more Officer Sheldon. As it was the third killing with the same M.O., the hacks were having a field day with all manner of ideas discussed as to the killer’s identity. A good deal of criticism was being leveled at the Police Department for not getting their act together and the word ‘incompetence’ stood out with regard to the investigation and the press office releases. It seemed the Department was, quite naturally, reticent about discussing their impotence. The article took up a column and
a half, and the bookmark had been carefully clipped so as not to miss a word.
Connell ignored the unease creeping over him as he reached out for another newspaper cutting. It was a coincidence, nothing more, and he was seeing strangeness again where there was none. Molly had simply run out of card and used the next best thing. The fact that her nest was lined with cannibalized newspaper meant nothing.
The second one showed a segment of an A-list celebrity. He recognized the Hollywood smile but the remainder of the photogenic features had obviously been left in the newspaper or on the cutting room floor. He turned the scrap of paper over slowly, knowing he would find another headline but hoping he wouldn’t.
Top of the column was a picture of Musgrave. It was a face Connell knew well, a smug expression that affected him even now with a twisting gut. Musgrave had almost caused the deaths of Lizzie and Joe, and if he hadn’t already been gutted and left out for the crows, Connell would have been tempted to do the job himself. Even so, the account of his death made for a chilling read. The guy was discovered slumped in an empty stall, head against the pan, entrails smeared across the men’s room floor. The guards meant to be watching his every move maintained he had been out of their sight for less than five minutes. Connell doubted that and also reckoned some journalistic license had been applied to the article to make up for the lack of facts being offered by the press office. He knew how these things worked. Graphic details pertaining to the murder, and witness statements that might prejudice the case, would be unlikely to be offered up on a plate to the media. Yet that was exactly what sold newspapers.
Even more disturbing to Connell than the murders or the media hype surrounding them, was the fact that this macabre collection of bookmarks was being amassed by a ten year old child.