[Sign Behind the Crime 02.0] Aries

by Ronnie Allen

  He’d take care of Emma Sanders first then he’d find the other two. He knew where they lived.

  ***

  Sam, Nick, and Frank were anxious. Taking a working dinner break, they sat around the conference table in the War Room in the precinct. Sam and Frank had their usual chef salad, and Nick indulged in a veal parm hero. Withers joined them, carrying stacks of folders.

  “Yours is over there, Dingo. Sausage and peppers hero. Just be careful not to drip on the paperwork,” Sam warned, receiving a unappreciative glare in return.

  “Yeah? Well, I’m starved. So I’m eating first. Smelled the sauce all the way down the hall.” Withers placed the files on a shelf behind them and sat down at the table in front of his foot-long hero. He spoke as he unwrapped it. “Okay, Crime Scene is back at the lab. They found the computer in the master bedroom in a dresser drawer. Our AriellaRose must be a techie. She had an app on her smartphone that remotely wiped her hard drive clean. Our guys are smarter. They recovered everything in the slack space. Accessed it. The passcode was easy to crack. Went along with the Aries theme, rook--uh--Wright. Think it’s time. You did good. The passcode was Golden Ram 1989. The year she was born. They found a lot. Every order she sent. You were right, Khaos. She probably wanted to make us think the kills were gang related, especially for the first one. She created gang-related attire to the hood. Sent all over the country. Very little in the city. All money was wired to a place in Philly. We could let the dough stay there for a while. Legit business. She paid taxes. Listed employees. Same three women for this year. Now it gets creepy from here.”

  “Why?” Nick asked.

  “She’s had the biz three years. There were different women listed as employees for the first and second. We don’t know if they are aliases for these three or she eliminated others as need be. But their addresses were different from year to year, so she either had them moved with a new identity or we’re going to be looking for nine women, not three.” Withers added. And then he took a big bite of his hero. Sauce plopped out onto his tie.

  Sam snickered. “Okay. There were enough outfits up there for nine women or more. We could figure out the times and wouldn’t there be some DNA transfer on those outfits even if they’ve been dry cleaned? And we can compare the DNA on those knives and towels. Let’s start at the addresses for these three. That should be easy. Nick will get the warrants. He’s attached to the hip with Judge Martinson by now, and I’ll direct the teams out to their apartments. We’ll synchronize the arrests, so they won’t be able to warn each other. How’s that for a plan?”

  Nick nodded. “Okay, I get it. I’ll call the judge after we make it solid. Don’t you think we should arrest AriellaRose for conspiracy to commit murder by now?”

  Frank swallowed his mouthful of food. “She’s locked up tight. All of her personal belongings taken. No pockets in her gown, now. Still on IV, needing meds. A cop is outside her room. Door’s locked, so she can’t open it from the inside. She’s handcuffed to the security railing with her left hand, her non-dominant one. She was having temper tantrums, so I ordered a Tylenol based relaxant. Just to keep her comfortable and calm. I’ll go to the hospital with you two if you want to make the arrest tonight. We have more than enough to warrant it. As for Mr. and Mrs. Manning, they both refused protective custody. Couldn’t believe that. Even after I told them there was going to be one more hit on someone. Told me, they’ll go to their summer house in the Hamptons. They haven’t heard from Adam, either. But I agree, we better make the arrest tonight. I think the Manning’s wanted to stay around if AriellaRose needed an attorney. Actually, I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Manning to already have one on standby for her. Then she won’t be able to talk to us at all. What addresses are we going to, with the three beauties? Actually, I’d really like to go to Emma’s, Calinda’s, whoever it’s listed under.” He paused to take a breath, pulled the file, and copied the address onto his pad. “Okay, here is Emma Sanders’s address. In Staten Island. Off Victory Boulevard.”

  Withers put down his hero. “Rachel Hawthorne is a Brooklyn gal. Wasn’t she the one listed as homeless? Guess she isn’t. Coney Island. Down Ocean Parkway, off Surf Avenue. And Meredith Cummings, that southern twit you met at the hospital, Brooklyn, too. Where Flatbush intersects with Nostrand Avenue. Oh, yeah. That’s the Junction near the college.”

  Nick left the table. He sat on the couch, talking on the phone. He seemed to have gotten the person he wanted. Sam watched as he nodded.

  “Thank you, Judge Martinson. We’ll stop by your office and pick them up...Okay. By the reception desk. We could be there in thirty.”

  Sam sat back confidently. “I’m all game to pay Emma a visit, tonight in fact. Maybe we could stop that fifth kill. I’ll put in a call to the teams. Tell them to meet us at the judge’s office. I think, gentleman, tonight we’ll solve this case.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The avenue was desolate, and dark. Businesses all locked tight. Delivery trucks parked in driveways. Jesus tugged at the padlock on the closed warehouse door.

  Oh, man, is that a big sucker.

  He’d need bolt cutters to break that one. The door was a heavy stainless steel. What the fuck does AriellaRose store in here? Has to be more than fabrics. Are they worth that much to protect like this? What the fuck. Everything in Brooklyn needs to be protected.

  He walked down the entire block length of the front, turned the corner, and went to the back entrance. Through a tiny window, he saw a woman lying on the floor in a fetal position. She had long red hair. That was all he could make out. Certainly wasn’t his target tonight. He checked his smartphone. Yeah, she was on his list. Meredith Cummings.

  What the fuck? Screw it.

  He was no do-gooder. He’d let her lie there. Maybe she’d OD before he had to pull the trigger. He sprinted around the corner, got into his sedan--next stop, Staten Island.

  He bet no one would miss Emma, especially if she could leave a so-called friend like this. They’d be happy when they found her dead. Yeah. He was doing the citizens of New York City a favor, murdering one of their scum. One less for them to worry about and he had a feeling, just a feeling, that this was the broad who did Steven Larcon in. Adam didn’t give him the details of who did what. He just knew his sister was doing no good. When people started showing up dead, he knew it was her. Finally, she’d admitted it to him, when she ordered the three girls taken out, the other day. What was Adam supposed to do? He wouldn’t think of turning her in. Jesus chuckled at what Adam had told him. That AriellaRose was half his soul. If AriellaRose was smart, Adam would be next on her hit list.

  Emma was banging Mr. Larcon and Adam. What a cunt she was to break up a happy marriage. Yeah, right. The thought of a happy marriage, especially for him made him nearly vomit on his steering wheel. Maybe he’d bang her before he did it.

  The ride south on the Staten Island Expressway seemed to take forever, even after rush hour. Finally, he made it to the Victory Boulevard exit. He got off, bore to the left, and, at the corner, made a left turn. About a mile up, he made another left, and her apartment was on the upper floor of a private house. Parking was scarce.

  He saw her Camaro in her driveway. He had to drive around three blocks to find a spot. Okay, good. He’d casually walk back to his car after he did it. No sweat. This would be a piece of cake. He pulled his Taurus with a suppressor out of his glove compartment and tucked it under his sweatshirt in his back belt. His jacket would conceal it, no problem. He checked his hair in the rear view mirror, removed his nose and lip rings and eyebrow studs, and put them into his glove compartment. One thing witnesses remembered were face piercings. He’d stand out. No good. Then he pulled his hood over his head to cover his forehead tats and his long ponytail. He pulled the strings around his neck tight. That would work. It was cold enough.

  He got out of his car, zipped up his jacket, and did some pretend warm ups, stretches, as if he was going for a jog. People might wonder, but heck, everyone was used to guys
jogging around polluted Staten Island. He took off slowly for a block, then jogged faster, and the last block, Emma’s block, he slowed. A few people came out of the house next door to hers, but ignored him. He blended in with the rest of the residents--the same age, mid-thirties, looked like a blue collar worker. No big deal. When he saw them pull out in their car, he sprinted up the steps and rang Emma’s bell.

  A groggy voice answered. “Who’s there?”

  Sleeping already? Man, it’s only nine. “I’m a friend of Arie’s.”

  “Who?” The voice came from a distance.

  “Emma, I can’t scream it and wake up the neighborhood.”

  He heard her plodding down the steps, coming to the door. And sniffles. Then the lock turning.

  She opened the door. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m Adam and Arie’s friend, Jesus. Remember we met in the shop last week and in the Heights last summer? I brought you some stuff, girl.” He pushed his way past her, ran up the steps into the apartment.

  She followed, holding on to the banister. It took her a while to make it up thirteen steps. At the landing, he pulled out a baggie full of Blue and handed it to her.

  She stumbled into her apartment after him. “Oh thank, God, Jesus, I’m all out.” She took the baggie and stashed it in her robe. “What do I owe you?”

  “There are ninety in there. Twenty-seven hundred.”

  “No problem. Have--a seat. I’ll--bring it--out.” She wobbled to the bedroom, eyes half closed, as he sat on her couch and looked around.

  He stared at his reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite the couch. Damn. He looked pretty acceptable without his piercings. Had a decent build, too. He could have gotten a job in construction. His six-foot-two-hundred-pound frame could handle it. That was, if he wanted a day job. Nah, being self-employed was much better. He definitely had that entrepreneurial spirit. And boxing gave him some legit dough when he could arrange a match.

  Emma came out of the bedroom with the cash and handed it to him.

  “Why don’t you sit down, girl, while I count it?”

  “I’m really wiped. I drank a bottle of cough syrup, I was so stressed. Why don’t you just shut the door behind you? I’m going to bed.”

  “I said, sit.” He pulled on her arm and, being so wobbly, she fell on top of him. He was stunned for a moment, trying to figure out how to position her. He flipped her around while she lay limp across his lap, got up with Emma in his arms, and laid her face down on the couch. He stretched out her body.

  She squirmed and twisted her head to face him but had no strength. “What--are--you--doing?”

  After he put the cash in his left jacket pocket, he retrieved a plastic zip tie from his jeans pocket and bound her arms behind her back. Without thinking about it, he yanked his Taurus 9 mm from his belt. The suppressor added two inches. He put the nuzzle at the base of Emma’s brain and pulled the trigger, watching his handiwork. Her head bobbed from the force, her chest stopped moving the instant the bullet entered.

  “Okay, Mob hit number one. Done,” he said, pretending he were marking a list. No emotion. No sentiment.

  He searched her pocket. No Blue. He darted into her bedroom and pulled open every drawer. He didn’t want to waste time looking, so he re-entered the living room, looked out the window, and, with it clear, opened the door and went down the steps, closing the door behind him.

  He grimaced as he hoofed it down the block. Man, was the barrel of the Taurus hot as it pressed against his lower back.

  ***

  Sam, Nick, and Frank parked lengthwise in back of Emma’s car in her driveway.

  Sam grabbed her bag from the car floor. “Okay, let’s see if we can get at least one out of three.”

  For the first time, Nick showed compassion toward her. “Sam, we’ll get them, relax. You have to not be so tense. You won’t think straight after a while.”

  She pushed the door to his SUV open. Wow. Better accept that when I can. “Thanks, Nick. I’m glad Loo let us keep a watch on the other two. They may have skipped. They know AriellaRose is in a psych ward and their game will soon be over. They’re getting careless. I can’t believe they sent the text of the cut they did on Emma.”

  She stood looking around at the congested block. All attached homes. All looked alike. That little wrought-iron-framed porch, just big enough for one person to stand on, up six steps, where anyone else had to stand in a descending line. The neighborhood was lit up by street lights. Leaves blew from the sparse amount of trees.

  Then it hit her. She was cold standing there in just a bulky ribbed knit sweater over her blouse and slacks. Better move. She hopped up the steps and rang Emma’s bell. No answer.

  Crap. Why did I expect anything different?

  She rang the landlord’s bell.

  “Who’s there at ten o’clock at night?” The woman’s voice shook with fear.

  Sam double-checked the warrant in her hand. “It’s the police, Mrs. Smith.”

  She heard footsteps approaching the door. Mrs. Smith opened it wearing a red fleece robe with her hair in curlers.

  Oh God, Sam had had her fill of red. “Mrs. Smith. Sorry to bother you so late. I’m Detective Samantha Wright. This is Detective Nick Valatutti and this is Doctor Frank Khaos. We have a warrant to search Emma Sanders’s apartment.” She handed the dazed woman the warrant.

  “What did she do?”

  “It’s part of an investigation. We may have to speak with you later,” Nick told her.

  “All right. Wait in the hall while I get the key.” A minute later she returned. “Hope everything is okay. She’s a good tenant. Not the best. But good.”

  “What do you mean?” Frank asked.

  “Her father pays her rent on time. No wild and crazy parties, but too many men coming and going. I’d be surprised if she didn’t have one of those sex diseases. Here you go.” She handed Sam the key to the upstairs apartment. “Just slip the key back into the slot on my door when you’re done.”

  They walked up the thinly padded, worn carpeting to Emma’s apartment. They didn’t have to use the key. The door was ajar. Sam pushed the door open. Emma, with her hands tied behind her and a bullet wound in the base of her skull as she lay face down on her couch in a robe, was not the sight they expected. Sam threw her arms up into the air. Nick checked for a pulse in Emma’s neck. None. He grabbed his phone, put in a call to 911, then Withers, who’d call Crime Scene, again.

  Frank shook his head. “Is this what AriellaRose meant for the other two to do her?”

  “I’m looking around.” Sam pulled gloves from her pocket. She went over to the body, looked around, and bent low to the ground. “Bullet casing, edge of couch. Looks like nine millimeter. Only one. I’m leaving it here.”

  She walked into the attached bedroom. A few dresser drawers were open. Sam ignored them. She headed into the bathroom. Pretty sloppy. Hair tools all over the sink. Assorted brushes. Face creams, anti-acne medications. Toothpaste tube uncapped. Makeup and toothpaste stains in the sink. She pivoted around and noticed an empty bottle of an antihistamine cough syrup in the trash. She hastened to the body and sniffed at Emma’s face. “Okay. She drank a bottle of cough syrup, probably to drown the pain from the cut they gave her. Bottle’s in the trash.”

  “Did they make her drink it, so she’d be an easy kill?” Nick asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Frank walked into the bedroom. “Unkempt, bed not made. Looks like she was in bed when whoever killed her came over.” He approached an open drawer. Just underwear. The second drawer, tank tops, shorts. He didn’t look under them. “I’d sure like to tear this place apart.”

  “Me, too. Can’t yet.” Sam joined him in the bedroom. Something had come over her. She perked up, shook her head, and, with a frown as if she didn’t believe it herself, walked over to a covered wicker basket next to the left side of Emma’s bed. With the tip of her index finger she raised the lid. She stopped for a moment, appearing dumbstruck. “Fran
k! Nick! Look!”

  They raced and leaned over her. Inside the box was a Ruger handgun, suppressor, box of .380 hollow point bullets, rubber band wrapped hundred dollar bills and a bag of Blue.

  Sam frowned. “Why would she drink a bottle of cough syrup if she had this much oxycodone?” She blinked. “I know why! The person who killed her brought her the drugs.” She pivoted to the dresser. “After he or she killed her, they went looking for the pills to take them back. They couldn’t find them in the drawers and didn’t look around this side of the bed. We need prints on this bag.”

  After an hour of waiting, a team of two men in Tyvek protective gear entered the apartment. At least they weren’t dressed for combat. The lead investigator approached her with a smile. “Officer Wright. What have you got here?”

  “It’s Detective now, Perry. Manhattan Mid-Town South. This case has taken us across boroughs.”

  His smile indicated more interest than just for the case. “Congratulations! What’s going on?”

  Sam understood it, too, and glanced in Frank’s direction. So had he.

  “The vic, Emma Sanders, is wanted in two murders so far. The Steven Larcon family kills. What I need here are whatever fingerprints you find and, of course, the bullet identification. Found a Ruger in the bedroom. Need to know if it was the same weapon that killed Meghan Mason. They used a hollow point. Need to find the weapons that killed Valerie and Mrs. Larcon. Bullets were thirty-eights. Collect all knives. And there’s a baggie of Blue. Fingerprints there, too.” She turned to Nick and Frank. “Let’s leave these guys to work. First, I want to ask Mrs. Smith if she saw this guy here tonight.”

  Downstairs, Sam rang the bell.

  Mrs. Smith opened the door, as if she had been standing, waiting for them. “I guess it isn’t good news. All I want to know is, will I have to find another tenant?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”