by Oliver Stark
Harper was remembering Denise Levene’s words. All day, they hadn’t heard one fact directly from Winston Carlisle.
‘We’ve got to see this reporter, right now,’ he said.
‘If this is all bullshit, then she’s going to pay,’ said Eddie.
‘She’s been running this story from day one,’ said Harper. ‘Someone’s been leaking to her. We’ve interviewed everyone, but we got nothing.’
‘You sure this wasn’t a little bit of revenge?’ said Lol Edwards. ‘She maybe stopped giving her source what he wanted and he leaked her this false information?’
‘Could be,’ said Tom, ‘but I’d feel a whole lot better if we could get in touch with Kitty Hunyardi.’
‘I think someone’s playing games with Erin Nash,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s gotta be that.’
‘We got to go and see Erin Nash, Captain.’
‘That’s exactly where you’re all going, right now.’
The previous afternoon, Kitty Hunyardi had spent three hours at the precinct while her story was checked and she identified Winston Carlisle in a line-up as the man in the subway. Two officers took her back to her building. She didn’t want to spend any longer than she had to in the company of cops and dismissed them at the door. The whole dirty business was something she wanted to erase from her brain, including the acrid coffee breath that all cops seemed to have.
Inside her apartment Kitty crouched down under the hot stream of the shower and cried. It had been a hell of a couple of days. The worst she’d ever experienced. It was too much. She wanted to be strong and independent but she needed someone. It was hard, knowing a killer had been stalking you for weeks. That’s what the cops had said. That he tended to scope his victims and even take their clothes and shoes. The idea was terrifying. She felt violated and it dragged her out of the privilege and safety of her wealth and into a place she didn’t recognize.
Worse still, the killer had got close enough to her to kill her. He could have put a knife into her right there in the street. He had grabbed her crotch. All her life, she’d been safe and protected. Now she remembered his hand on her, her fear. She felt sickness starting to rise in her stomach and ran to the lavatory. Her wet blond hair flopped over the white bowl of the toilet as she retched up her guts.
Kitty walked out of the bathroom feeling weak and tired. She had promised herself that she’d never ask for her father’s help. She’d made it a point of honour that she would be able to cope in her own apartment. She wouldn’t ask for his help now, either. She had to get through this alone. It was over. She just had to sleep. She lay down on her bed and closed her eyes, feeling a little calmer. She hugged herself. In truth, she wanted to be eight years old again, far away from the present, back in a time when everything was safe and secure and men didn’t grab you on the street. The line-up had been horrible, but there he was, that face, that disturbed face. That horrible, ragged, miserable face.
Warmth. Forgetfulness. She drifted into sleep. Sleep was its own world. Soon enough, Kitty Hunyardi was finally dreaming peacefully again.
An hour ticked by. The still and regular sounds of the night slowly slipped through the apartment.
Just after 4 a.m., the door to the bedroom opened. A man stood there in the doorway, a silhouette in the darkness of a silent apartment. He was tall and wearing a black suit.
Sebastian was smiling. His plan had worked. He’d fooled the cops and now he was five steps away from girl number six. Winston had played his part like a professional. He’d get his fifteen minutes of fame, but the real fame would come to Sebastian. He was better than them all. In his hand he held the morning’s Daily Echo.
‘Kitty,’ he whispered. She didn’t stir. He looked around her room. It was very clean. There was a faint smell of perfume. It was all tastefully done. Homely. You know. In an artless and decadent way.
He shivered. He hated happiness. He had always hated it. Her arms and legs were splayed across the bed, enjoying the space. He wanted her now. Kitty Hunyardi. He took a seat and stared at her, his head tilted to one side. Nice lips, nice skin, nice low relaxed breathing.
These moments lived with him. They were the only moments of quiet he had ever known, the moments before his innocent women became his victims, when he felt a serene sense of power. He was a god now, looking down on his beautiful creations, blissfully unaware they were being watched. Blissfully unaware the devil had come to take away God’s gift.
He shook her shoulder. Her eyes opened. She screamed loud and high-pitched. Sebastian smiled and a gloved hand smacked hard against her mouth. ‘Shh, now, princess, shh and all will be well.’
He watched her eyes. He was waiting until she calmed, until reason returned. ‘I’ve just come to deliver the morning paper,’ he said. ‘But don’t scream. If you stay quiet, I’ll let you live. Do you understand?’
Kitty nodded. She didn’t understand anything at all. A newspaper was placed in front of her. The gloved hand slowly slipped from her mouth and the bedside light flicked on. ‘Read all about it,’ Sebastian said. ‘It’s not often we can see how we’re going to be remembered.’
Kitty’s eyes glanced over the headline.
AMERICAN DEVIL STILL AT LARGE
PSYCHO SLAUGHTERS BLONDE HEIRESS AS COPS CLAIM CAPTURE
She started to read but tears were streaming from her eyes and the paper was shaking so hard, she couldn’t take in the words.
Sebastian smiled as he watched her. His right hand moved to his pocket and pulled out a neat little surgical bone saw. It was only about six inches long. He snapped the handle into place as he looked down at Kitty’s shaking hands. He loved her. He always had. She had such beautiful hands.
Chapter Fifty
Blue Team
November 24, 4.38 a.m.
Forty minutes later, a buzzer screeched in the darkness. Erin Nash’s hand had reached out to stop the alarm when she realized that it was the door. She was naked in her large pale pink bed, a leathery-skinned naked body asleep at her side. She’d chosen Jed Brown after all. Shit. Her head was barely functioning. It had been a late night. She’d filed the copy and then gone back to see Jed to celebrate. She had an exclusive on the sixth victim of a multiple killer - this was going to get her everything she wanted. Every other paper was screaming about the killer’s capture, but she knew better. He had killed again: her source had said so.
The paper was paying her well for the inside track on the serial murders. Very well. But Jed Brown had offered to double her salary, then he’d offered her a ride home in a limo, then he’d offered himself.
The buzzer screeched again and didn’t stop. Erin rose and pulled on a gown and then walked to the intercom.
‘Hey, what’s so fucking important?’
‘NYPD, open up. Is that Erin Nash? You’ve just reported a murder that no one knows about but you. Open your fucking door. NOW!’
The news hit her like a wave of cold water and woke up her mind quicker than a double espresso. She buzzed the door and sat back in a lazy chair, her body fizzing with fear. Shit and fuck and fuck again! Had someone sold her a dud story? Was it her source following some weird agenda of his own? What the fuck was happening?
Tom Harper, Eddie Kasper, Lol Edwards and Mark Garcia appeared at the door of her apartment. All four faces were angry and tired.
Eddie Kasper moved closer to her. ‘Is your name Erin Nash?’ She nodded slowly and looked from man to man.
Harper moved in. ‘You remember me, I hope. My name is Detective Tom Harper, NYPD. Let me just make this clear for you. You’ve reported the death of a woman called Kitty Hunyardi. Is that true?’
‘I filed the story late last night. What’s happened?’
‘The murder you reported has not been notified to the NYPD. We know nothing about it. Not a thing, but you’re telling us Kitty Hunyardi is dead. What do you know? Someone’s screwed you. Who’s your source?’
‘I don’t reveal my sources,’ said Erin, defiant even though her limbs felt
like jelly.
‘I know you claim that, but this is different.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re going to bust you for obstructing an investigation and Katrina Hunyardi’s family is going to sue your paper for so much money that it’ll have to shut down. Ms Hunyardi was in the station yesterday afternoon. Now you tell us she’s dead. You got any facts, Erin?’
She shook her head. Harper continued: ‘You just might be an accessory after the fact. Anyone who receives, relieves, comforts or assists an offender in order to hinder or prevent his apprehension, trial or punishment is an accessory after the fact. Do you understand? We’re going to arrest you, Erin. Now open your mouth. Who is it? Where did you get this? We need to know, Erin.’
‘Okay. I’ve been briefed by a cop in Homicide. One of your team, Detective Harper. One of your own fucking team.’
‘Who?’
‘A guy. We had a drink.’ She was twisting in her seat. How the fuck did she get out of this one? She had no idea. Maybe last night had marked the end of her career, not the beginning.
‘Sleep with him, did you, Erin?’
‘That’s not against the law, is it?’
‘Is that how you got the information? Sexual favours?’
‘Fuck you, I’m a grown-up, I can sleep with who I like.’
As he was about to speak, Harper’s cell phone buzzed. He picked up and listened. The room went deadly silent as Harper ’s face tensed, and then his eyes closed momentarily. The duty sergeant on the line had just got a call from the patrol at Kitty’s apartment. It wasn’t good news. They’d found Kitty Hunyardi’s body and she was posed just like Erin Nash’s article said, with her hands removed. But there was one important fact that Erin had missed. Kitty’s body was still warm and a copy of the Daily Echo was sitting by her head. She’d been killed after the paper had come out. Harper listened and then hung up. Kitty had only just died. Harper turned to Erin, his face very harsh.
‘Who’s your source, Erin? Believe me, this just got fucking serious.’
‘He said he worked on your team.’
‘I want a name, Erin.’
‘Mark Garcia. I looked him up. He’s authentic. He works your team.’
Harper pointed to the shocked cop standing at his side. ‘This is Mark Garcia. Was this the guy?’
‘No,’ Erin said, her voice trembling. ‘That’s not Mark Garcia. He was much taller, dark-haired, slightly grey.’ She stared at Harper’s face. ‘What is it? What’s with the look? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s happened?’
‘You slept with this guy? This fake cop? You let him in your apartment?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘About three weeks ago? We spent the night together a few times. He gets in touch by phone. We talk. He didn’t seem that interested in me. Who is it? Who the fuck is it?’
‘When did he last call?’
‘Yesterday evening. He told me all about Kitty’s murder. I just had to run with it.’
‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘It was a while ago. Like I said, he was nice-looking, had salt-and-pepper hair and was about six foot one or two. Tell me what the fuck’s going on, please!’
‘That call was from the precinct. Kitty Hunyardi has just been found murdered in her apartment. Her body’s still warm. How the hell did your source know about a murder before it had even been committed? How did you know?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t think.’
‘Then let me spell it out for you, Erin - there’s only one person in the world who can know about a murder before it’s been committed.’
Erin was shivering and shaking her head. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. She’d kissed the guy, slept with him. Jesus!
‘Your source, Erin, the man you brought back here to fuck around with. The man you let into your apartment. The man you’ve been helping all along.’
‘No, please!’ Erin Nash’s face drained of colour. She was completely still. Shock was paralysing her. She couldn’t speak.
‘It wasn’t Mark Garcia feeding you the information. It was the killer - the American Devil - he’s your fucking source, Erin. You’ve been sleeping with the American Devil.’
PART THREE
November 26-December 1
‘For each man kills the thing he loves.’
Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Chapter Fifty-One
Rockaway Beach, Long Island
November 26, 3.12 p.m.
Out on Rockaway Beach, the Atlantic winds snapped across the two walkers’ faces in sharp icy bursts. Up above, the sky spread out bright and cloudless. ‘It’s cold as hell,’ shouted Denise Levene as she struggled along with her chin deep in her collar. Ahead, the athletic figure of Tom Harper continued to push its way along the edge of the surf, binoculars scanning left to right.
Kitty Hunyardi’s death had knocked everybody off their feet, including Harper. The investigation went from elation to sudden meltdown. Then it got worse. The press had been primed by the police commissioner to hunt for their victim down at North Manhattan Homicide and they descended like a swarm of angry bees. And Harper got stung, along with everyone else who worked Homicide that day. The public were frightened, the press were stoking the sense of outrage and wouldn’t let up. Winston Carlisle was not the American Devil. He was a set-up.
It had been a tough time for Tom, but worst of all was the horrible realization that the American Devil was still out there, planning his next kill. Harper found himself wishing that the battle-hardened Nate Williamson was at his side as they fielded press questions. Nate would’ve told it how it was. No soft soap, no apologies, just iron with a sprinkling of lead. He’s a maniac killer who’s trying to fuck the city up, confuse us and throw us patsies. It’s a fucking game to him - what do you think he would do, hand himself in? Tom heard Williamson’s voice in his head and couldn’t believe he missed the guy as much as he did.
And there was one other piece of bad news that Harper hadn’t yet told Denise. At the end of the twelve-to-four shift the previous day, Captain Lafayette had called Harper into his small glass office on the fourth floor and twisted his mouth sympathetically. That wasn’t a good sign. Harper saw it and shook his head. He was off the case. He was off Homicide. He was off active duty. Harper was asked to hand his shield and gun over. He did so in silence, the two men awkward and clumsy.
They needed a carcass to throw to the press pack and it was the lead detective first. They needed to say that a new lead was being given the ball. If that didn’t calm the situation down, the commissioner would just keep humping bodies out the door. Lafayette would be next. ‘I’m sorry,’ the captain had said. Harper had smiled thinly and walked out.
The long white sands reached out as far as they could see. From Jacob Riis Park all the way to Atlantic Beach, the sea rolled white crests over and over with a relentless crashing beat. The two friends were buttoned up against the wind, their hair flapping wildly. Denise’s spaniel was running all over the beach, his big soft ears flopping around in the wind. Denise had heard about the murder of Kitty Hunyardi on the news but could only guess how Harper was feeling. She tried to contact him all through Sunday, but he’d gone for a long walk.
‘I thought you wanted to talk,’ said Denise.
‘Yeah, but walking is better.’
‘Better to keep it all inside till it ruins you. Just what I would’ve recommended, as your psychologist. It’s a surefire way to mental health.’
‘Not much to say, Denise. I’m here for some R and R - and I want to show you something.’
‘There’s nothing here that could possibly be worth seeing.’
They walked up the low dunes that reached towards the streets running across Long Island. Tom stopped by a low sign cautioning against the tide.
‘The great unknown,’ said Tom, staring out across the vast ocean.
The grey water was churning and beating the sho
re with a frightening regularity. Denise pushed her hands into her coat and sat down. ‘You got a hat or something? My ears are gonna fall off.’ Fahrenheit appeared between Denise’s legs and placed his muzzle on her lap. She stroked his warm fur.
Harper reached into his backpack and handed her a green hunting hat with ear flaps. Denise pulled the hat over her head and tied it under her chin, then turned to Harper. He nodded in approval. ‘You look like Kyle from South Park.’
‘God, you know how to make a woman feel special,’ said Denise.
He raised his eyebrows and looked out to the ocean.
‘Listen, Tom, at least tell me what happened,’ she said, reaching out and putting her hand on his arm for comfort.
‘I got moved off the case. That’s it. I got moved off the damn case.’
Denise felt a lump in her throat but controlled it. ‘Remember what I taught you about revealing the detail, Tom?’
Harper’s head shook slowly. ‘The detail is I failed. The detail is that this maniac killer just duped us all and got me and half the team canned. So they’re going to start again with a new lead. Someone from Manhattan South. It’ll take them weeks to catch up. The killer’s going to be laughing. I feel so fucking useless, Denise, if you want the truth. So fucking impotent. And more women will die because of this.’
‘The killer set you up?’
‘Yeah, but we don’t know how, exactly. It looks like Winston Carlisle was being controlled and manipulated by someone. Witnesses saw another man visiting Carlisle on several occasions. Winston is a little vague himself but said he thought he was a doctor from the hospital. This guy, who we presume is the American Devil, sent Winston this list of instructions about how and when to stalk Kitty. Winston followed them to the letter. Let’s face it, I called the chase at the subway and it was the wrong guy.’