Abruptly lifting her head from the desk, Stone shook off the sleep, rubbed her eyes, and focused. “Okay, then: spill it. What’d they find?”
“Well, it looks like you were right; the DNA is a match.”
“I told you.” Stone jumped up and shouted. “Let’s go pick up the search warrant. We need to do this now.”
“Slow down there, partner. It’s ten o’clock at night. No judge is going to be available to sign it until tomorrow morning.”
“Come on, Watts—who do you think you’re talking to? The warrant’s already been issued.”
“How can that be?”
Stone laughed. “I had the prosecutor’s office apply for it this morning, in anticipation of the result. I simply stretched the truth and told them the results were already in. We just have to go and pick it up.”
“You’re too much. You know procedurally that could pose a problem.”
“This is the real world, Watts. We don’t have the luxury of time. Evidence tends to disappear if you don’t search it out fast enough. Now let’s get moving.”
Less than an hour later, Stone and Watts pulled up to the Sullivan home in Bellerose, Queens. The neighborhood was quiet. The only light illuminating the area radiated from the porch lights of the row houses that lined the suburban street.
Stone took the lead and rang the doorbell repeatedly until a light clicked on inside the home. The door opened, and a balding, gray-haired man, wearing a stained white undershirt, greeted the two detectives.
“Can I help you?” the old man slurred. His breath, and the stink of his sweat, was of cheap whiskey. “Heyyy,” he said, stretching the word into a long wheeze. “Weren’t you the cops that came here the other day looking for my son?”
“That would be correct, sir,” Watts said as he eyeballed the drunken man.
“I tol’ you guys, I ain’t seem him for days. What the hell you want from me at this time a night?”
Stone held up the warrant. “We have a search warrant, and we need to search this place.”
“Now? You kidding me—this time a night? What’re you—some kinda Communists? This is America. You can’t just come barging into a man’s house in the middle of the night.”
“This warrant says we can, Mr. Sullivan,” Stone said, firmly. “Move out of the way and let us do our job.”
Watts stepped forward and brushed the old man aside. “Where is your son’s room? We’ll start there.”
“I want a lawyer,” Sullivan demanded. “You can’t do this.”
“You’re welcome to call a lawyer any time, sir.” Stone offered.
“This time a night—you gotta be joking.”
“In the meantime, where is Tommy’s room?” Watts asked again.
Sullivan pointed to the stairs. “It’s down there. Just don’t make no mess. I ask that kid a hundred times a day to keep it clean down there, and he does what he’s tol’. You hear me?”
The old man trudged off into the living room, opened a cabinet, and took out a bottle of whiskey. He took a long pull from it, walked over to the stairs, and hollered down at the two detectives. “So what kinda trouble is my stupid-ass son involved in that’s got you all worked up this late at night?”
Ignoring him, Stone stopped in the doorway, wide-eyed and mouth agape. “Holy crap, would you look at this place? It’s immaculate. Everything is so damn neat.”
Watts squeezed through the door and opened the closet. “This guy is seriously disturbed. All his clothes are tightly folded and stacked. Even the hangers are evenly spaced apart.”
Stone shook her head. “It reminds me of my days in the service.” She patted the bed. “Look at these bed sheets: they’re sharply wrapped underneath the mattress.”
“I’ll bet you can bounce a quarter off them.” Watts pulled open the dresser drawers and admired the neat rows of socks and underwear. “There’s not a speck of dirt here.”
“Just our luck,” Stone said, as she examined a pair of sneakers that she pulled from under the bed. “Go check out the laundry room. I’ll go through the rest of this room.”
Watts nodded, left quickly, and began searching the washroom.
Minutes later, he called out to Stone. “There’s not much in here. Just a pile of smelly undershirts and clothes, which clearly belong to the old man. No bloody clothes or anything to link this guy to the girl. And no laundry has been done for days. The old man probably has the kid doing it for him, but since he’s not around, it’s just building up here.”
“Sounds about right,” Stone said.
“One thing though: there’s a container of bleach, mostly empty. And the cap isn’t screwed on right.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“You know, the threads—they aren’t lined up, like someone was in a rush and didn’t close it properly. It’s also a little out of place. If you think the bedroom is far too neat, you’ve got to see this. Every container is faced out like they do at the grocery store. The labels are all lined up and facing out, except for the bleach. That label is turned around and almost backward.”
“May be nothing, but you never know. Bag it and keep looking.” Stone eyeballed the computer on the desk, “Watts, get back in here. He’s got a computer.”
Watts grinned. “You know, I just love digging into a perp’s personal life directly though his computer. Turn it on. Let’s see if we can get in.”
“I’m way ahead of you, partner. It’s already booting up. If we’re lucky, he won’t have a password; otherwise, we’re going to have to bring it in and have one of the geeks look at it.”
Watts took his place behind Stone, watching as the icons loaded on the screen.
“Check the word-processing directory.”
“I know the drill.” Stone said, as she rolled the mouse and double-clicked the Word icon.
She scrolled to the index. “There’s only a few files, I’ll check the latest one first.”
Stone opened it and began to read: A while back I experienced a life changing event and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. On a scale of one to ten, it was a twelve. Two guys followed me out of a bar, cornered me in an alley, and started kicking the shit out of me. They would have killed me, but this dude showed up out of nowhere and laid them out like it was nothing. He totally saved my life.
I’ve gotten to know Troyer Savage over the last few months and I have to say he is one very cool dude. We’ve become friends and he’s been teaching me some of his moves. He’s taught me a few wicked fighting skills and schooled me on some of the finer points about how to score with chicks. The guy is smooth as silk and tough as nails. Troyer says if I play my cards right, I can be too.
Tonight I’m meeting Troyer at Club Radical.
“Hello!” Watts shouted. “That puts him at the scene.”
“That it does.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No. That’s the end of the file.” Stone fingered the keyboard and opened more documents and found nothing of interest. “Dead end with the rest of the files. Sullivan is clearly not a wordsmith.”
“Don’t sweat it. Now we have evidence tying him directly to Club Radical. Why don’t you check the Browser. See what he is into.”
“You read my mind.” Stone double-clicked the Explorer icon and opened the search history. She drew in a breath and held it as she scrolled down.
“What? What is it? You know I can’t read anything without my glasses.”
“You’re not going to believe this, but most of his latest searches are about Gilgo Beach and the unsolved murder.”
Watts gasped as his mind flooded with thoughts about the infamous case. “Holy crap! This can’t just be a coincidence.”
“Another missing girl, another connection to Gilgo Beach, I’d say we just stumbled onto something big.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Let’s get a team over there right away.”
“And we need to pick up Sullivan. Now we’ve got more than enough for a warrant.
”
“I’m on it,” Watts said, pulling out his cell. “Ross, its Watts. You need to move in on Sullivan now and arrest him.”
Ross hesitated before he spoke. “Uh, Detective—I—uh, I lost him and haven’t been able to track him down.”
“You what? How in the world could you lose him?”
“He just slipped away. I’m sorry.”
“Well, then why don’t you GPS him with his cell phone?”
“I tried that already. He must have wised up and turned it off.”
“Great—just great. Look, Ross, this is a serious screw-up. You’ve got to find him . . . and fast.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll do what it takes and get back to you.”
“Okay, just get him!” Watts turned to Stone. “Can you believe that? He let Sullivan slip away.”
CHAPTER 15
Sergeant Monty Tanner of the Seaview police force was reexamining the murder scene at the Waterside. The area was still roped-off, but Tanner deftly maneuvered his slender frame and stepped over the police tape. At six-foot-five and weighing less than two hundred pounds, he looked gaunt and ill-equipped to handle the rigors and physical demands of a job that required intimidation to achieve results. But what he lacked in appearance, he made up for in diligence.
Tanner stood by the bathroom door and scanned inside. The body had been removed from the tub, but the area was still covered in blood. He turned as his deputy, Samuel Sung, approached.
“Have you ever seen so much horror in one spot, boss?” Sung asked, in a Chinese affect.
“Can’t say as I have, Deputy. This is by far the worst I’ve seen. Before my time, about eight years ago, there was another one that was pretty awful, too, but not as bad as this. Anyway, we’re running down a new lead, and I need you to come with me to question the witness.”
“Witness, boss? I thought no one saw what happened?”
“Not here, but Johnny, the old bartender at the Tides Inn, he may have some relevant info for us. I just wanted to take one more look before they clean this place up.”
A half hour later, Tanner and Sung arrived at the Tides Inn. Johnny Mulligan was a fixture behind the bar, wiping an imaginary stain from a spot in front of the beer pulls. For fifteen years, Mulligan had been wearing out the wood floors behind the counter, pacing back and forth, serving customers at an often feverish pace, and at other times at a pace so slow you’d wonder if perhaps the entire town was on the wagon. It was the end of a crazy week, with the Battle of the Bands coming to a close in only one day.
“Afternoon, Monty,” Mulligan said, as he looked up.
“Howdy, Johnny. How ya been?”
“A bit tired, Sarge. The Battle’s been a killer this week.”
“Not funny, Johnny.”
“Sorry—I didn’t mean it that way. It’s been so busy this is the first real chance I’ve had to clean up.”
“Place looks fine to me. Why don’t you take a break and tell me about the loner that came in here Monday.”
“Sure thing,” he said, as he began wiping the imaginary stain again. “It’s like this: Midday Monday this guy comes in—turns out his car broke down and he’s stuck—so I give him Chunky’s number at the Mobil down the road. Chunky comes by and picks up the car and the guy has to stay overnight because Chunky needs to get some parts to fix it. I’m pretty sure he stayed at the Waterside that night, so I figured I’d call you. The kid seemed harmless and all, but I’ve never seen him here before. Anyway, then it got all crowded with kids and Battle week, so I just forgot all about it, until I started thinking about the murder.”
“So, Chunky worked on this guy’s car?”
“Yup.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“Nope.”
“All right, then, time to go see Chunky and find out what he knows.”
Ten minutes later, Tanner and Sung pulled into the Mobil station. They found Chunky in the back, snacking on a pair of chili dogs, a basket of fries, and a jumbo frosty shake—standard pre-dinner dietary supplement. Chili sauce dripped from his chin. He pulled a greasy hand towel from the pocket of his overalls and wiped his face.
“Hey, guys,” Chunky said between chews. “Johnny called and tol’ me you were on yer way. What can I do to help?”
“You fix some kid’s car Monday?” Tanner asked.
“Yeah, there was this kid from outta town stuck over at the Tides. I hadda tow him and keep his car overnight for some parts. I tol’ him to go to the Waterside for the night.”
“What can you tell me about the kid?”
“Aww, he was a punk-ass wise guy. Seemed in a rush to get outta here and all pissed off his car couldn’t be fixed right away.”
“What kind of car?”
“2002 Honda Accord. Silver. New York plates. Got some info inside,” Chunky stuffed the last of his first chili dog down his throat and chewed. “Punk said he was just passing through. Could be a killer, though. He looked the part.”
“And what does a killer look like, Chunk?”
“Oh, I dunno—shifty eyes, punk-ass attitude, dirty, whatever.”
“So what did this kid look like, then?”
“Slim, blond hair, girly features, something in his eyes that looked nasty. A real punk, if ya ask me.”
“When did he pick up his car?” asked Sung.
“First thing Tuesday morning. Maybe around ten.”
“What else can you tell me about him?” Tanner asked.
“Well, he didn’t talk much, but he did sneak up on me while I was working under the hood. Practically scared the crap outta me.”
“Then what?” Tanner asked.
“I tol’ him I’d be done soon and to wait. So he sat on the bench and waited. I hit him up for some extra dough ’cause I didn’t like the way he snuck up on me, but he paid cash and took the car. That was it.”
“Anything else?” Sung asked.
“Nah—why? Do you really think this kid coulda done that girl at the Waterside?”
“We’re just running down the evidence,” Tanner said. “No suspects yet. Just keep it quiet, and if you can think of anything else, let us know.”
“Will do,” Chunky said, as he lifted the lid off the frosty shake and guzzled.
“One more thing,” Tanner said. “You get a license plate?”
“Yeah, ’course. It’s on the receipt.”
“Great. Can you get that for me?”
“Sure thing.” Chunky grabbed a handful of fries, stuffed them in his mouth, and headed toward the office. The two detectives followed behind.
A small stack of repair invoices littered a faded wooden desk. Chunky rifled through it.
“I got it right here,” Chunky declared, triumphantly raising a piece of paper above his head.
“Great, Chunk,” Tanner said. “Give it to me.”
“Do I get some kinda reward?”
“I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow.”
Deputy Sung was already on the phone and reading off the plate number. He covered the phone and looked up at Tanner. “I’ve got New York DMV on the line. They’ll have a name and address shortly.”
Tanner nodded as Sung pulled out his pad and pen and began to write.
“Okay, boss, the car is registered to a Thomas Sullivan. I’ve got an address in Bellerose, New York.”
“Looks like we’re headed to Bellerose, wherever the hell that is,” Tanner said, as he turned and walked to the cruiser.
“You really think this guy could be our perp, boss?” Sung asked, following at his heel.
“No idea, Deputy, but it’s our first real lead, so we’ve got to follow it up. In the meantime, get on the computer and see if this guy’s got any priors.”
“Will do, boss,” Sung answered. Sung was a follower, not a leader. He took orders well enough and did what he was told, but beyond that, he was neither an asset nor a liability. When he was first hired, the force had needed to meet some imaginary quota of non-white employees,
and Samuel Sung had come along at just the right time. He was hired not for his skills but for his heritage. No other force in central Jersey employed a Chinese, so when the opportunity arose, Seaview jumped on it, with the expectation that it would result in kudos and more state aid. Ultimately, it did neither, but Sung became a fixture on the force and did his level best to prove himself worthy. In Seaview, that wasn’t too difficult. DWIs, shoplifting, and domestic disputes were the routine in this jurisdiction. There had been only one other murder in the last eight years—until now.
Sung vacillated between excitement and fear, not knowing if he was possessed of the wherewithal to help solve the crime but thankful for the opportunity to escape the mundane. He took his place on the passenger side of the police cruiser, pulled open the laptop, and punched in a password to access the online database. Tanner took the wheel, and they began the three-hour drive to Bellerose.
“Okay, boss—here it is. Sullivan appears relatively clean. He received a speeding ticket a few years back, but other than that, nothing.”
“Does that tell you if he’s ever been fingerprinted?”
“Not this record, but I can check elsewhere.”
“Good—let me know. And while you’re at it, get me directions to Bellerose. I know how to get to the Verrazano Bridge, but after that, I’m lost.”
“I’m on it, boss.”
That afternoon, Tanner and Sung arrived at the Sullivan home and pulled in the driveway behind an old, blue Nissan Sentra. The door was wide open in the detached garage out back.
Tanner called out, “Hello? Is anyone home?”
There was no answer.
“Mr. Sullivan, are you out here?” Sung yelled loudly.
Still nothing.
“Okay Sammy,” Tanner said, pulling his gun and pointing, “you head around back the other way, and I’ll move in from here.”
Sung nodded, took out his gun, and clicked off the safety. Tanner took a low crouch, moved quickly up to the house, and leaned his back against the brick wall. Inching his way forward, his eyes darting back and forth, Tanner slowly made his way to the garage.
Sung took the other direction, circled the house, and approached from the far side.
Again, Tanner called out, “This is the police! Is anyone out there?”
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