The Fifth Angel

by Tim Green

  McGrew shared with Amanda a heartfelt, if ridiculously wicked grin.

  “When he does . . .” McGrew said, “he’s gonna talk, and we’re gonna have ourselves a killer.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Tidwell stared at the young cop and then looked at Amanda with raised eyebrows.

  “What’d he say?” Tidwell asked.

  The three of them were sitting by themselves in the same interview room on the third floor.

  “Sergeant,” Amanda said, “if you’re not willing to talk to us, just say it. You know what he said.”

  “That’s a pretty funky accent,” Tidwell said.

  “Right,” Amanda said.

  “I said,” McGrew said, speaking slowly as though he were addressing a three-year-old, “despite what you’re telling us, we already know from someone right here in this office that there was a man here during the time we’re talking about who asked to see the subdirectory. Twice.”

  “Then why don’t you talk to whoever that was?” Tidwell said. “Because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We already talked to her,” McGrew said. He was smiling falsely now. “That’s how we know you’re the one in charge of letting people into this little fucking room to thumb through the perv files.

  “And we know that the guy we’re looking for was in here,” McGrew said. “A blond guy with glasses. But you were the one who talked to him. You were the one who probably wrote down his name . . .

  “And we know,” he said, “we know, Tidwell, that you don’t have more than a handful of people come in here every month. If that. So what in the fuck is your problem?”

  McGrew stood up and looked at Amanda.

  “Let’s go talk to the chief,” he said. “I’m ready to take some action here.”

  Amanda hung back and watched Tidwell’s face. He didn’t sweat or blink. He just formed a thick fake smile on his lips and looked at McGrew like you would a shoe after stepping in dog crap.

  “You want to take action?” Tidwell said. He stood, too, now looking down at the shorter man. “Come on, brother. I been waitin’ for this since you walked in the door at about ten o’clock this morning.’’

  McGrew lunged at Tidwell and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Don’t fuck with me,’’ he yelled. “This is a major case, you idiot.’’

  “McGrew!” Amanda shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him back. “McGrew. Let go, you jackass.”

  Tidwell swatted McGrew’s hands off of him with ease and stood breathing hard and blinking slowly at the two of them.

  “I’m sorry,’’ she said to Tidwell. “Give us a second.’’

  McGrew huffed and stared at Tidwell. Then he snarled gamely and said, “Yeah, you better look at me, big man. Get a good look, ’cause I’m not through. I know you’re hiding something and I ain’t gonna rest until you tell us who the fuck that guy is.”

  “McGrew!” Amanda said.

  Tidwell rounded the table and let himself out, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Shit,” McGrew said, shrugging Amanda off of him and slumping down in his chair. “Shit.”

  “What the hell was that?” Amanda demanded.

  “What?” McGrew asked. “That? That was nothing. That was me letting him know that we mean business, that we ain’t going away.”

  Amanda shook her head, her face distorted with incredulity. “You can’t act that way. And don’t say we. That’s not we, McGrew. I’m an FBI agent. We don’t do that.”

  “Yeah,” McGrew said. He muttered something Amanda didn’t catch.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  She was about ready to throw a chop right to this jerk’s throat and leave him flopping around on the floor like a dying fish. “They had to send you to me,” she said, reaching for the door. “Of all the things . . .”

  “Hey,” McGrew said. “Where the hell are you going? This is a fucking investigation. There’s a serial killer out there. If I’m off base, then I’m off base. I’m sorry. I care about this shit, you know. I’ve never lost on a case.”

  “I’m not here to baby-sit you,” Amanda said. “I don’t care who your uncle is—I’m not going to be a part of this nonsense, this . . .”

  “Tell me I’m not right,” McGrew said. “Tell me he’s not hiding something.”

  Amanda stopped.

  “I can’t tell you that,” she said.

  “Ha. I’m right and you know it.”

  “Whether you’re right or not isn’t the issue,” she said, closing the door and turning back to face him. “This isn’t good cop, bad cop. I graduated from that in fifth grade. Get your shit together.’’

  “We’re onto something,” he said.

  “I know that,” she said.

  “You do?”

  “McGrew,” she said, “a child could see he was lying to us, but you also have to see the big picture. He’s not going to help us, at least not now, not after that stunt you just pulled.”

  McGrew shrugged and said, “Okay. I’m done with that. I’ll follow your lead. Can you get anything more out of him?”

  Amanda frowned to herself and thought. After a moment of consideration she said, “No, not after that.”

  “What about threatening his boss?” McGrew said. “Don’t you have some kind of federal habeas corpus or something like that that you can threaten everybody with?”

  “Habeas corpus?” Amanda said raising an eyebrow in puzzlement. “No, that’s wh— Haven’t you ever just tried to ask for help? You have to build relationships, McGrew. That’s how cops work together. After what you did with Tidwell, that’s now out of the question.”

  “So you say we just leave it alone?” McGrew asked.

  Amanda looked at the door through which Tidwell had disappeared. “I think I’ll go talk to him. I’ll give him my card and tell him if he changes his mind to call me. I’ll apologize for you.”

  “Good,” McGrew said cheerily. “But you know it’s the blond guy, right? We can go and check out the murder scene. The place by the university got cleaned up and rented out already, but the scene by the hospital is still pretty much the same as it was the day that Drake pervert got whacked. A guy named Zuckerman is in charge of the case. I lined it up for him to take us out there. He sounded like a stiff on the phone, but you never know, do you?”

  “No,” Amanda said. “You don’t. And if you go at it right, you might even build a relationship or something. I’ll meet you downstairs at the front desk.”

  “Better than that,” he said, “I’ll pull the car out front to pick you up and I’ll call Zuckerman so he’s ready.

  “I feel good about this now,” McGrew said. “Do you?”

  Amanda looked at him for a moment.

  “I don’t know if I feel ‘good,’” she said. “But I know we’ve just confirmed that the man your plumber saw on Long Island is the same guy who came in here looking for sex offenders to kill. We’ve got a long way to go, McGrew. Don’t forget that. And we may never get there. But I also know this: We’re onto something big.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Amanda found Sergeant Tidwell in his cubicle, going over some paperwork as if nothing had happened. He looked up at her from beneath his heavy eyelids and actually smiled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was totally uncalled for. I don’t want to sound condescending, but that’s not how we do things at the Bureau, and Detective McGrew is not from the FBI. We’ve been teamed up on this case temporarily. He’s from New York. You know? Enough said.”

  Tidwell waved his hand in the air. “That’s nothing . . . like a gnat. I’m fine. Look, I understand where your partner’s coming from, too. I’m a cop, but some folks just don’t have as good recollection powers as others; that’s all. Mine fails me on this one. I just don’t recall anything about it.”

  Amanda looked at him for a minute. She liked him.

  “We’ve got a man out there who’s
killing people,” she said. “He’s dangerous. He’s going to do it again.”

  Tidwell returned her stare without expression and nodded. “Yes, we do.”

  Amanda sighed and took a card from her shoulder bag. “Would you call me if anything jogs your memory?” she asked. “That happens sometimes . . .”

  Tidwell shrugged and took her card in his enormous hand, slipping it into the top drawer of his desk after running his thumb over the raised golden Bureau seal.

  “You never know,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Amanda replied.

  Outside, McGrew sat waiting patiently in the car.

  “That’s Zuckerman right there,” he said, pointing to the unmarked cruiser at the curb ahead. They followed the car through the streets of Pittsburgh to a crumbling neighborhood sprawled beneath the shadow of an ancient V.A. hospital. When they stopped in front of a three-story brick tenement, Amanda and McGrew got out of their rental car and approached the Pittsburgh detective.

  Zuckerman rolled down his window and pointed to the building with his thumb. “It’s on the second floor, number twenty-one twenty-one. You can’t miss it. Here’s the key.”

  “You want to go in with us?” McGrew asked.

  Zuckerman looked at him blandly and shifted in the cruiser’s well-worn cloth seat before saying, “No. I got some calls I need to make. I’ll be right here.”

  As proof, the graying detective held up his cell phone.

  McGrew was off and Amanda followed him up to the building. A handful of young men in oversize pants and an array of colorful jerseys glared at them from their roost on the steps as they entered. McGrew glared right back. The elevator was broken and by the smell of it, Amanda thought she’d be just as happy to take the stairs, until she got a whiff of the stairwell.

  McGrew jogged up the metal steps like he was seeing his college dorm room for the first time. Breathing through her mouth to avoid the stench, Amanda placed her hand on the railing, only to yank it back after touching something foul and jellylike. Choosing her steps amid the refuse that littered the stairs, she picked her way carefully to the second floor. McGrew was waiting for her impatiently in the hall. A man rolled up in newspaper and reeking of alcohol and the pungent body odor of the unwashed was lying against the wall.

  McGrew, impervious to the wretched sights and smells, turned and strode down the hallway until he came to a door marked by a web of plastic yellow crime scene tape. After tearing aside the tape the young detective unlocked the door and swung it open.

  “He would have knocked,” McGrew said out loud without looking at Amanda. “Then, when Drake comes to the door and opens it: Pow. Pow. Pow. He just starts banging away.”

  “From what I’ve seen in the reports,” Amanda said, “no one heard anything, here or anywhere. What about a silencer?”

  McGrew nodded. “Definitely. This guy is a pro.”

  He walked into the room and began to examine the bullet holes still remaining in the floor next to the chalked-off shape of Gilbert Drake’s body.

  “I still think he’s not,” Amanda said, watching him from the doorway. “Too many shots for a professional, way too messy.”

  “You said that on the phone,” McGrew muttered, sticking his finger into one of the holes and wiggling it around.

  Suddenly he popped up and said, “Let’s talk to the neighbors.”

  Amanda nodded. Next door, an older woman with glasses answered their knock. After carefully examining their badges she removed the chain from the door and swung it open enough for them to see her red terry-cloth bathrobe and the powder-blue shower cap atop her graying head. She stood barring the way in, however, and Amanda spoke for them both from the hall. The woman listened carefully before her brow grew dark and her mouth turned down beneath her scowling eyes.

  “That’s why you’re coming here?” she asked. “You think we aren’t glad he’s gone? That was the Lord’s will.

  “You,” she said, pointing her finger at Amanda, “you coming all the way up here from Washington, D.C., to find out who killed that Gilbert Drake? You know what he did? Well, no one told us what he did. They just moved him right in here next door to me.

  “But I read about it in the paper after he was dead. He got what he deserved if you’re asking me. The Lord punished that man, I say. And didn’t no one try to find the people that killed my boy when he was shot dead right out on the street!” she said. “No one came up here from Washington, D.C., then. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, coming all this way for a man like that. If I knew who did it, I’d shake his hand, praise God. Now go away and leave an old woman in peace.”

  With that, she slammed the door in their faces.

  “That relationship was doomed from the start,” McGrew said. “You can’t blame me for that one.”

  They fared little better with the rest of the neighbors.

  “At least no one else slammed the door,” Amanda pointed out.

  After returning the key to Zuckerman, the two of them got into their rented car and headed back to their hotel. They had an appointment with Zuckerman’s counterpart, the investigator on the Lincoln case, in the morning.

  “You want to get a drink?” McGrew asked, pulling up in front of the lobby.

  “No thanks,” she said, “I want to think. I’m going to get a run in.”

  “A run?” McGrew looked puzzled.

  “You know,” she said, getting out of the car, “with sneakers, like the thing they do in Boston every spring.”

  “That’s a marathon,” McGrew said, throwing the car in park and getting out after her.

  “Well,” she said, heading for the door, “I’m not running a marathon, but I’m going to clear my head.”

  “Great,” he said. “I’m with you. When?”

  Amanda stopped and looked back at him doubtfully.

  “I’m going as soon as I get checked in and changed,” she said. “If you want to, you can try and keep up, but I’m not slowing down.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to,” he said.

  She was already gone.

  CHAPTER 39

  Amanda unpacked her bag, hanging her suit for the next day and carefully removing two watercolor pictures from the bottom of her things. They were the children’s paintings, one by Teddy, one by Glenda. She slipped their edges beneath the frames of the hotel artwork hanging on the wall opposite her bed. Teddy’s painting was a tree with bright red apples hanging from its thick branches. A sun blazed in the corner and green grass covered the ground where a squirrel sat. Glenda’s was of a girl with a horse. Amanda inserted a wallet-size school photo of each child in the bottom corner of each picture and stood back to look.

  She smiled to herself, kissed her fingertips, pressed them to the photos, and then got changed. McGrew was waiting for her in sneakers and a pair of black dress socks. He looked down at them and shrugged apologetically.

  “It doesn’t bother me,” she said. “Here we go.”

  She set out at a fast pace, trying to burn him off right away, but after a time, she realized he wasn’t going down so she settled into her usual pace.

  They arrived back at the hotel in a sweat. McGrew was buried, but to his credit, he’d hung on the whole way. Still, he didn’t have enough left to do anything but nod and watch and she was able to bid him good night amid the confusion of valets, bellcaps, and a throng of Japanese tourists disembarking from a tour bus.

  The sun was nearly down. Amanda went to her room, ordered some food from room service, and made her calls to home. The Gushers were a hit and Parker had taken them out for Dairy Queen after homework. Things seemed settled and Amanda was able to breathe a little easier. But her call was disrupted by someone knocking insistently on her door. It was just after nine. She hung up and went to answer it.

  She had presumed that she’d seen the last of McGrew until the next morning, but she had no idea who else it could be. She heard his voice. Definitely McGrew.

  “What, McGrew?” she asked
through the bolted door. “What do you want?”

  Amanda looked out through the peephole. She could see him fidgeting in the hallway as if he’d been stung by a bee. Suddenly, he put his eye right up to the hole.

  “Open up,” he said. “We’ve got to go.”

  Amanda thought for a moment then opened the door.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I just got a call,” he said. “I know an investigator in the New York State troopers’ office. We could wait for a flight tomorrow, but it’ll waste time and I can’t sleep anyway. You can sleep. I’ll drive. We can be there first thing in the morning.”

  “Drive where?” Amanda asked. “What are you talking about?”

  McGrew stopped and tilted his head dubiously. “I’m sure you never heard of it. It’s a place in the Adirondack Mountains up in New York State. It’s called Racquet Lake.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Hey Ben.”

  Benjamin Hanover started from his reverie. He whipped his feet down off his desk and scowled.

  “Mike,” he said. “Damn, no one even calls me Ben anymore. You kind of startled me.”

  “Lots to think about?” Collins asked. He was a tall man, tall and thick with curly brown hair and a serious face.

  “Oh, yeah,” Hanover said. “You don’t even know. ASAIC, man, it isn’t easy. Sit down.”

  “No thanks,” Collins said; he was just inside the doorway. “I just wanted to run something by you. I’ve got a guy—his name is Charles Wheeler. I don’t have anything to prove it, but I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that he’s the other guy who was in that apartment in Jackson. He and Oswald shared a cell together in Angola.”

  “Oswald?”

  “You know, the Hubble Sanderson guy . . . Marco.”