Forgotten City

by Carrie Smith

  “That won’t be necessary.” She showed her shield again. “This young man is with me. Is Mr. Merchant at home?”

  The doorman’s eyes went to Brandon.

  “Is he, or isn’t he?” Codella demanded.

  The doorman nodded ever so slightly.

  “You liar,” Brandon hissed at him. “Everyone either lies to me or about me. I’m so sick of it.”

  “Get in the car,” repeated Codella.

  The doorman retreated to the lobby.

  Brandon sauntered toward the passenger side and got in. He slumped in the seat next to Codella and said, “You should have seen that press conference.”

  “What press conference?”

  “At Park Manor. An hour ago. Starring Merchant and Hodges. What a show. How come they can get away with their lies and no one believes me? I told you—”

  Codella held up her hand to stop him. “I believe you, all right. I know you didn’t kill anyone.”

  He turned.

  “I know you’re innocent, Brandon.”

  “You do?”

  “Now I need to go have a talk with Merchant. Can I count on you to wait for me in here?”

  He nodded. She got out of the car and went into the building. “I’m going up to Mr. Merchant’s floor,” she told the doorman.

  “The elevator opens directly into his apartment. I need to call him first.”

  “Then do it,” she said.

  He picked up a house phone and dialed. Then he hung up. “There’s no answer.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “Forty-five minutes ago?”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has anyone else gone up to his apartment?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said.

  “Could they get to his apartment without you knowing?”

  “Only if they went in through the Fifth Avenue door and used the fire stairs or service elevator,” he said. “And only if Mr. Merchant left his entrance to the stairs and service elevator unlocked.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Codella found him lying facedown on a king-size bed in a large bedroom to her right off the elevator. She felt for a pulse at his neck. His skin was warm, and her touch caused him to turn his head and moan.

  She quickly scanned the large room. Ice-frosted windows faced Central Park. The bed was on the south wall, and at the north end were twin love seats facing each other in front of a restored gas fireplace. On a coffee table between those couches sat two Starbucks cups. She went over and looked at the cups. “Fuck!” she said under her breath. There had been too many strange liquids in the bottoms of cups and glasses. She turned back to Merchant. How long did he have, she wondered, before whatever he’d swallowed pulled him into death’s grip?

  She took out her cell phone and called 9-1-1. Then she looked around for the phone and called down to the doorman. “An ambulance is on the way for Mr. Merchant,” she said. “Send up the young man sitting in my car. He has EMT training. Do it now.” Then she hung up.

  She left the bedroom and made her way to Merchant’s living room where the vaulted ceilings gave the room a cathedral-like feel and the floor-to-ceiling windows were an altar to New York City. She walked through the dining room, kitchen, and study and climbed the spiral stairs to a second-floor balcony that led to seven spacious rooms. They were all empty.

  She found Merchant’s master suite on the top floor of his triplex. It was decorated with dark wood panels on the walls and a raised bed. She searched his intricately tiled bathroom and opened the door to his cedar-scented walk-in closet where dozens of suits and monogrammed shirts hung in neat rows across from racks of polished Italian leather shoes. And then she paused to think.

  If she was right about who had killed Lucy Merchant and Baiba Lielkaja—and she had to be right—then why was Merchant lying unconscious on that bed? Had he always been the intended third target?

  She went back to his kitchen. The door to the fire stairs and service elevator were unlocked. She unsnapped her shoulder holster and kept her hand on her gun as she opened the door. She found herself staring into a small landing in front of the service elevator. At one end of the landing sat a blue recycling bin and a large gray garbage can. At the other end was a closed door labeled “Fire Stairs.” Codella turned the doorknob, but the door was locked from her side. No one had left Merchant’s apartment via these stairs.

  Brandon Johnson found her staring into the landing. “What is it?” he asked.

  “You need to be with Merchant,” she snapped.

  “He’s okay for now. Semiconscious.”

  “I think he just took whatever was in one of those cups on the coffee table. Don’t touch anything in there, Brandon. Just stay at Merchant’s side until the EMT arrives. He might get worse. He might stop breathing. Someone might have given him a narcotic. You may have to resuscitate him, you understand?”

  Brandon nodded.

  “Don’t let him stop breathing. We need him alive. I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down. I’m going to find whoever’s responsible for this.”

  “How?”

  “Never mind. Just go.”

  She watched him turn, and when he was gone, she called the service elevator. The motor that powered the pulley whined as the car ascended. When it finally arrived and the door opened, she stepped inside and the strong smell of garbage hit her. She took only shallow breaths as the elevator descended. It moved slowly, like the elevators at Park Manor, and when it finally jerked to a stop, she wanted to rush out, but she held herself back. Who was out there?

  She squeezed the grip of the Glock, still in its holster. She exited slowly. The drone of the building’s boiler drowned out all other sounds. Ahead of her was a long, narrow corridor with doors off to either side. She would have to open each of those doors and search the rooms one by one. Under any other circumstances, she would not be doing this. It was foolhardy to come down here alone. It was wrong to leave Brandon with Merchant. The right thing to do was get back in the elevator, go to the lobby, and call for assistance. But this was her chance to put the last nail in the coffin. She had disobeyed McGowan’s order to cease her investigation, and if she didn’t come out of here with her handcuffs around the killer, her career in homicide would surely be over. It might be over even if she did.

  Three-foot-long fluorescent ceiling strips bathed the corridor in light, and that, at least, was a relief. She stepped to the first door marked “Bike Room” and turned the knob. It was locked. If anyone were in there, they had unlocked the door with a key, and it wasn’t likely that Merchant’s visitor had that key handy.

  The metal door beyond the bike room was ajar. Codella pulled her Glock from its holster as she pushed the door open with her boot. The room was dark, and she stuck her hand inside and slid her palm up the wall until she hit a switch and the room became flooded with fluorescent light. Tools of every kind hung from hooks on pegboard: hammers, mallets, saws, chisels, cable cutters, and an entire row of screwdrivers. A worktable in the center of the room was covered in sawdust. Her eyes moved quickly around the room, but no one was hiding in there.

  Codella returned to the corridor and continued on. When she turned the next doorknob and pushed open the door, the first thing she saw was a row of tan aluminum lockers. She stepped inside. On the left was a worn-out couch—more threadbare than the one in Cheryl O’Brien’s apartment—an old Panasonic television, and a small kitchen area with a table, chairs, refrigerator, and microwave. To her right was another door.

  She stared at that door. She took another glance into the corridor, and then she stepped across the staffroom and stood next to the door. Adrenaline made her heart pound as she listened for sounds on the other side. Then she raised her weapon, pulled the door open, and looked in.

  Behind the door was a small pedestal sink and a toilet with the seat up. A roll of toilet paper sat on top of the toilet tank, several squares dangling down like a paper tail. The overwhelming smel
l of urine told her men had missed the bowl in here many times and that no one had disinfected the tiles recently.

  She returned to the brightness of the corridor. Then, as she considered her next move, all the brightness was extinguished and she was standing in darkness as black as a mineshaft. She heard the flick of something. A lighter? A flashlight? She turned. And then pain exploded in her skull, and the blackness in front of her eyes became blackness inside her brain.

  CHAPTER 73

  Brandon heard the squawk of radios as the paramedics stepped off the elevator. He came out of the bedroom. “He’s in here. Hurry! His breathing is shallow.”

  They followed him to Merchant. “How long has he been like this?”

  “I don’t know. At least twenty minutes, I think.”

  “What happened?”

  “A detective was here. Detective Codella. She found him. She told me to tell you he might have been drugged with a narcotic. He was partly conscious until a little while ago.”

  Brandon watched the paramedics strip off Merchant’s silk shirt. One paramedic checked his pulse and airways. The other one prepared an IV.

  “Do you have Naloxone?” asked Brandon. “If somebody gave him a narcotic, Naloxone would help, wouldn’t it? It couldn’t hurt to try it.”

  One of the paramedics lifted Merchant’s eyelids. He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  As they dug into their equipment, Brandon backed out of the room. He was no longer needed. He went to the kitchen and pressed the lighted service elevator button. When it came, he stepped in and pushed the button for the basement. When he reached the bottom, the door opened onto darkness.

  “Detective?” he called tentatively, but Codella did not answer. He stepped out. He called out for her again. Had she already found whoever she was looking for? Had she gone up to the lobby?

  The darkness was absolute. It felt alive and malevolent. He reached for his iPhone and flipped on the flashlight app. Its little beam was no match for the black cave in front of him. He turned and looked for the illuminated elevator button, but it wasn’t where it should have been.

  Instead, his little iPhone beam illuminated the gray barrel of a weapon pointed at his face.

  “Step back,” said the voice, “three steps and put your hands in the air. If you hesitate at all, you’re dead.”

  CHAPTER 74

  She felt as if she were swimming in quicksand. Each time she broke the surface of consciousness, she sank right back. Sleep, a voice said. Just sleep. There was really no need to get up, she thought. She could just lie here for a while. But she wasn’t comfortable. Her feet were cold. Her fingers were cold, too. And her head was so heavy. All she could hear was an ear-splitting roar. What was that noise? An alarm clock? Maybe she should get up. Yes, she had to get up.

  She opened her eyes. The room was dark. What time was it? She reached one arm out to turn off her screaming alarm clock, but her hand hit something hard and rough. She slid her palm down the surface. What was that?

  She pushed herself into a sitting position, and then her head erupted in so much pain that she lay back down and curled into a fetal ball and rocked herself. She remained like that for several moments until it occurred to her that something was very wrong and that she was not in her bed or anywhere near it.

  Her hand moved instinctively to the Glock in her shoulder holster. Her gun was not there. This awareness triggered a warning in her brain. Adrenaline gave her a surge of energy, and her lethargic mind grew more focused and alert. She reached behind her into her IWB holster. Her concealed backup gun, a Smith & Wesson, was still there, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Think, she told herself. Put it back together.

  She rubbed her eyes. She had come to Thomas Merchant’s apartment. He’d been lying on the bed. She had left him there—with the caregiver, Brandon. Now she was in the basement of Merchant’s building. How long had she been lying there?

  As soon as Codella stood, the blood rushed out of her head and she saw so many pinpoint particles of light in front of her eyes that she was certain she would faint. She bent over. A tide of nausea flooded her, but she held down the vomit and stayed as quiet as she could. She lowered herself back to the floor, sat against the cinderblock wall, and waited for the lightheadedness to pass. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and at the opposite end of the corridor, she noticed a thin strip of light under a door.

  She pulled the Smith & Wesson out of its holster. Then she got to her feet again, more gingerly this time, and leaned against the wall until she was sure she wouldn’t faint or throw up. Then she tiptoed slowly down the dark corridor, one delicate footstep at a time on the concrete floor, careful not to cause any sound to disrupt whatever was happening in that lighted room.

  She stopped when she came close enough to hear the voices within. “Why are you doing this?” She recognized Brandon’s voice.

  “You wouldn’t understand. You’re just her stupid twenty-dollar-an-hour caregiver. You thought you knew her, but you didn’t. You knew nothing about her.”

  “But why would you kill her? And Baiba? What did Baiba do to you?”

  “You don’t get anything, do you? You know what I found in her room yesterday? A pair of Tiffany clip-on earrings. I looked them up online. They cost him twenty-five thousand dollars. Almost six carats’ worth of diamonds. She was cashing in. Don’t feel so sorry for her. Don’t be so naïve.”

  “You won’t get away with this, you know.”

  “Oh, yes I will. Thanks to you. He’ll take the blame for both murders, and you can be the jealous caregiver who tried to avenge Baiba’s death. You can kill the cop who was coming to arrest him. You’ll shoot Codella in cold blood. And then you’ll shoot yourself. You made this so easy for me by showing up here. It’s a much better ending than trying to sell another suicide.”

  “It’s too late. The police are on their way. You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Maybe I won’t, but maybe I will,” she said. “They’ll see a bunch of dead people and you’ll be holding the gun. I might just slip through. You never know.” She laughed. “Now get up!”

  “No!” shouted Brandon.

  “Get up,” she said again. “You have a cop to kill.”

  Codella gripped her gun with both hands. Brandon would come first through the door. She would kick him aside and shoot quickly. That was her only chance.

  “I’m not leaving here,” said Brandon. “Just shoot me now.”

  “Get up!”

  “I told you, I’m not doing this. I’m not going to let you frame me. You’re not going to get away with it. Just shoot me if you’ve got the nerve. Do it, because I don’t really care anymore.”

  Codella wanted to scream at him, Quit playing the martyr. Get out here and let me end this.

  “You’re the crazy one,” Brandon said.

  Then Codella heard the thud of something hard. Gunmetal against flesh, she guessed. Brandon moaned. Codella didn’t wait any longer. She kicked the door open. Julia Merchant swung her arm around wildly and fired Codella’s Glock, but the round hit the cinderblock above Codella’s head. Codella fired the Smith & Wesson once—steadily, accurately—just nicking the side of Julia’s hand and sending the Glock to the floor.

  Julia fell and reached for the gun, but before her fingers closed around it, Brandon pulled her back. Julia threw wild punches until he pinned her to the ground. Codella kicked the Glock out of Julia’s reach and aimed the Smith & Wesson straight at her. “That’s enough.” Then she took out her handcuffs and fastened them around Julia’s wrists. “This is over.”

  CHAPTER 75

  The paramedics wanted to look at her. “I’m fine,” she insisted. But she felt like hell.

  “No, you’re not,” said the tall, thick one who’d probably played football or rugby and suffered his own share of concussions. “You need a staple in your scalp, Detective.”

  “A staple? Jesus Christ!”

  “Maybe two. You’ve got an inch-long gash ther
e.” The thin black paramedic pointed. “Let us take you to the hospital.”

  “No,” she said abruptly. “And I’m not getting any staple if it means you have to shave my head. This head never gets shaved again.” She looked at Haggerty. “Tell him.”

  He turned to the paramedic. “She means it.”

  “How’s Merchant?” she asked the paramedics.

  “On his way to New York Presbyterian. He’ll be okay. He kept calling out someone’s name.”

  “Who?” asked Codella.

  The paramedics looked at each other. “Somebody named Constance,” said the tall thick one.

  “Constance? He asked for Constance Hodges?”

  The paramedic shrugged. “Constance. That’s all.”

  Codella asked Haggerty, “Are they taking Julia Merchant straight to Manhattan North?”

  He nodded.

  “Good, because I can’t wait to talk to her.” Then she closed her eyes and thought of McGowan. He had shut her down. She had disobeyed his command. She might not be talking to anyone. “Oh, God, Brian. I’m so fucked. He could suspend me over this.”

  Haggerty put his arm around her. “He’s outside. And so is the press.”

  “That’s great. He can publically humiliate me.” She buried her head in her hands. “Shit, I could use some Advil.”

  “You could use a hospital bed and, dare I say it, some oxycodone.”

  She laughed, but the laughing hurt. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Muñoz called me. He didn’t like the idea of you coming here alone. He said you sent him to get a warrant and I should come over here. I got here ten minutes after you. They were carrying Merchant out on a stretcher. No one knew where you were. Whatever they gave him revived him, and he was going crazy.”

  “We might as well go out there. I have to see McGowan sooner or later.” She took Haggerty’s arm, and he pulled her to her feet. “If I face him while my head’s split open, maybe he’ll cut me a little slack. You think?” But she doubted it.

  They got on the elevator along with the paramedics. The lobby was crowded with uniforms. Haggerty stopped her. “I should duck out. This isn’t my scene.”