by Oliver Stark
‘You didn’t fail, you took a chance. What do they want, police by numbers?’
‘That’s exactly what they want. Statistics don’t lie. We’ve got a serial killer in Manhattan, they asked me to catch him and I didn’t close the deal. I’m embarrassing some serious players up at the top of the tree.’
‘They want him caught in under three weeks? What the hell do they expect?’
‘Kitty Hunyardi died when we were busy interrogating an innocent man. The way it looks, we went way, way down the wrong track.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I made a mistake. I’ve been going over it in my head. I don’t know where it happened.’ Tom looked across at Denise. ‘I’m sorry for what I said about the profile. You were right to doubt Carlisle. I was pumped up. I saw what Sebastian wanted me to see.’
Levene stared up to catch his expression. ‘How did this Carlisle guy get caught up with Sebastian?’
‘Carlisle had a history of minor sexual assaults, and my guess is he made a good ringer. The killer must’ve come across him in the hospital on Ward’s Island somehow. They’re looking into it, but Winston said that the first time he saw this guy was at the halfway house. Sebastian chose him to make us look like fools. He could’ve left us to stew for a while, but he went for Kitty as soon as he could. I think he got jealous of all the attention Winston was getting. Maybe he had to show the world that the great killer was still top dog. And that the cops had fucked up.’
‘What was Erin Nash’s part?’
‘Sebastian met her in a bar, told her he was a cop, fed her information and ended up in her bed. He set that up too. He wanted the world to know what he was doing in all the detail.’
‘How is she? Quite a shock to discover you’ve been sleeping with a killer.’
‘Yeah, the shock lasted a good ten minutes, then she realized that she was sitting on a gold mine. You could see the book title running before her eyes: My Nights With a Killer by Erin Nash.’
Denise shook her head and started to pound her feet on the ground to keep warm. ‘Is there a café around here?’
‘Not at this time of year.’
‘Hell, it’s freezing.’ She stood up and they began moving on. ‘My thoughts on the profile have changed a little, Tom. He’s not going to be like the statistical norm, he’s one of the pathfinders. An original.’
‘It’s not my case any more, Denise. You’ll have to find another cop.’
‘Come on. Don’t give in so easily. What about the girl in the dumpster? Any leads on her?’
‘We identified her as far as we could. She had two tattoos that people recognized. We think her name is Lottie Bixley. She was a hooker. She went missing for four days and then turned up dead. No one thinks it’s his kill. It’s not his style. There’s no prints, no DNA, nothing.’
‘What about you, what do you think?’
‘I can’t quite believe it’s nothing to do with Sebastian. I found a cherry blossom petal in the dirt by the dumpster. You don’t find much cherry blossom in New York in November. Everyone else thinks I’ve lost it.’
‘It needs explaining.’
‘I know, and it’s one of three things. Either it’s one of life’s strange but random coincidences, one of us contaminated the scene or Sebastian was somehow involved in her death.’
‘Where would you put your money?’
‘She’s a hooker and there are no other similarities, but I would bet on Sebastian’s involvement.’
‘She was missing for four days. He’s not done that before, has he?’ Denise said.
‘Well, maybe I’m just reading too much into things. It’s only a petal.’
‘Unless Sebastian changed his MO radically because of some changed circumstance, like his wife and family were away for a few days and he couldn’t let himself miss the opportunity. It’s worth a look, isn’t it? Maybe he had an opportunity to keep one at his house for a while. Maybe he dumped her quickly because something disturbed him.’
‘I’d look at it, Denise, but, as I said, it’s not my case.’
‘You can’t give up, Tom.’
They walked along the sand until Tom stopped and his arm reached across to halt Denise. ‘Wait up one second.’ He put his binoculars to his eyes and felt a warm thrill reach right down to his stomach. ‘She’s a damn beauty. Take a look at that.’
Denise took the binoculars. It took her a second to find what Harper wanted her to see. There it was, sitting on a heap of white rocks, the wind buffeting its white feathers.
‘That’s what I came for. Isn’t it the finest thing you ever saw?’ said Harper, taking the glasses back.
‘What is it?’ said Denise.
Harper laughed. ‘That city-girl act is no act, is it?’ Denise shook her head. ‘It’s a snowy owl,’ he said and stared again at the yellow eyes, the ripple of black markings and the end of its hooked beak. ‘Looks beautiful, but it’s got some serious talons under those pretty feathers.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Jersey Bar, Harlem
November 26, 10.35 p.m.
The interior of the Jersey Bar looked just like Harper felt and that was how he wanted it. He sat on a red velvet barstool with a rip right across the centre and looked into the dim lights peering from beneath old yellowing shades. There wasn’t a barman in sight, only the streaks of dried beer running the length of the counter. Up back, a small wooden dance floor stood empty and looked as sad as a three-legged dog. Four other customers in various shades of lonely were stowed away in darkened booths and none of them looked like they wanted to talk, which was just about perfect. Tom slumped his whole weight against the bar and waited for someone to serve him.
They’d driven back over from Long Island in the warmth of her little Honda with the dog licking his neck the whole way. They’d talked a little more about the case in sentences that seemed to get lost in the sound of the traffic, and at some point she realized that he wasn’t listening and the case drifted away into the darkness. She let him out just over the Triborough Bridge, but he only managed two or three steps towards his apartment before he felt the old familiar sense of dread. The horrible fact of being alone was that you went home dog tired but as soon as you were through the door the bright lights in your heart flickered on and you were trapped with your own carousel of memories. Home was a place you sometimes didn’t want to get to.
Four beers in and Harper was drumming his fingers to the country music and letting his memories pitch and recede like the tide. He watched the oddballs come and go with little curiosity and sometimes managed a smile of acknowledgement. Patsy Cline was soon drowning out all else in the bar with her sad stories. She’d just started an old song, ‘I Don’t Wanna’.
Tom sipped his beer. He didn’t need memories now. He listened to Patsy Cline singing about love and the lack of it. The beer and music were doing all the work his heart needed.
Love felt like a hollow echo of some once perfect time and place. Perhaps it was just a fantasy that kept emerging from the deep to ruin your life. He felt so mad at Lisa, his teeth clenched. It wouldn’t happen again. He’d keep things tight and impersonal. His eyes lifted. A couple danced in the gloom. He watched their hands clasp and their hips touch.
Sometimes it was hard to admit that it wasn’t anger eating him up, but something else entirely. Levene had it right. It was plain old loneliness. It was never easy to open the door to need, but the beer was helping and Harper knew that what he wanted was nothing more than to hug up close to someone and let the world drift away. He drained his glass and listened.
As the song finished, an attractive brunette who’d been catching his glances sidled up to him at the bar and pulled up a stool. She was mid-thirties, wore tight denims and a top with a deep neckline.
‘You mind if I join you for a conversation?’
‘I never mind a conversation,’ Harper said.
She sat. For a moment, Harper wondered where she was from and what she did. He to
ok in the heavy perfume, the lack of a ring on her wedding finger and the tired look in her eyes.
‘What you thinking about tonight?’ she asked.
‘Why love passes us by.’
‘My, that’s a big topic.’
‘How about you? Love pass you by?’
She smiled. It was nice. ‘Well, it stopped in the station a day or two.’
‘Same here,’ Harper said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Samantha. You?’
‘Tom.’
‘What do you do, Tom?’
‘Me, I don’t know. I really don’t know any more.’
She laughed. ‘Me neither.’
They talked for an hour - he told her all about Lisa; he heard all about her Frank. Then Tammy Wynette came on the jukebox, singing ‘Help me make it through the night’, and Samantha took his hand and led him out from the seat. She came up close to him on the dance floor and they slow-danced to the sentimental old song, her warm body comfortable against his.
It’d been years since Harper had felt another’s skin next to his own apart from Lisa’s. He felt strange, like a man doing something he shouldn’t. He was moving like a wooden marionette, and Samantha felt it.
‘It’s no big deal, Tom, just a dance: she’s not watching.’ She pulled him back towards her and leaned her head on his shoulder. Tom felt her hair brush against his skin. He remembered something Denise had once said to him. You want to get to somewhere new, let go of the ledge. Tom slowly moved his hand on to her back and let it lie flat against her shoulder.
‘Let’s enjoy tonight just for itself,’ she whispered.
That seemed the right thing to do. One hand off the ledge at a time. The two of them held each other tight and danced into the New York City night, momentarily parted from their loneliness.
Chapter Fifty-Three
East Harlem, 7-Eleven
November 26, 11.55 p.m.
Outside, snow had started to fall. The thick white flakes turned black as soon as they hit the wet street, but the tops of cars were gathering a blanket of thick snow. Inside the one lit all-night shop on a narrow and dilapidated row, wet footprints trailed from the door to the counter. A path made of ripped-up brown boxes continued around the two aisles. In the back room of the 7-Eleven, Maurice Macy danced from one foot to the other like he was desperate for a leak. He picked up a large stack of boxes of tinned meat without breaking sweat.
Benny Marconi looked up from the old black leather La-Z-Boy in the corner of the back room and nodded his approval. Mo had only been with him a few weeks but he was the best worker Benny’d ever had - strong, silent and able to work fourteen-hour shifts, seven days a week for minimum wage without a single complaint. Mo, aka ‘Redtop’, was the perfect employee. Benny leaned out of his seat and slapped his back as he passed. ‘Way to go, Kong!’
Maurice placed the three boxes on the floor of the shop and took out a knife. He ripped open the first box. Tins of prime cooked mince. He more or less lived on tinned mince and tinned stew. He smiled and licked his lips. But his mind was a simple one and had very few avenues for thought. The idea of mince made him think of dinner, dinner made him think of home.
And home made him shiver and sweat.
It had been like that for days now. Half the time, he had too much to do and could forget all about it. Put it out of his mind. He was normal old reliable Mo. Smiling, forgetful, helpful Mo. Serving the coffee, sweeping the store, helping an old lady get something off the high shelves.
Then it’d come to mind like a sudden vision and he’d shake. He’d shake because he suddenly remembered. And it was hard to remember. Too hard. All his life he’d been cold. He didn’t want to be cold again. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be warm now. Good and warm.
He left the boxes of mince and walked over to the till. The only way to stop his anxiety was counting. He liked to count. Counting was his best thing. He opened the till.
‘Just counting up, Mr Marconi.’
Benny Marconi mouthed something under his breath, but let the big guy do his thing. Redtop cashed up about eight, nine times a day. He was compulsive like that. But in the short time he’d worked there, Maurice hadn’t lost a cent.
Now he was cashing up, but little Lottie was still coming to mind. She’d been strong. She’d cried all night long. Low horrible sobs. All night long. Even when he warned her. Even when he held his hand over her mouth and really pleaded with her to be quiet.
‘Don’t be making me do this. Please don’t be making me do this.’
He didn’t like it when they got emotional. He liked just talking to them and holding them sometimes. Looking after them was nice. His hands started trembling. He liked to pet them, that was all. A sweat formed on his brow. He knew there would be trouble if she didn’t shut up.
Now Lottie was gone and he missed her something terrible. His boss, Benny Marconi, was jabbering on from the back room. Something about cockroach suppliers and some whore he’d heard would give head for eighty-five cents. Benny’s truck was busted. When the truck was working, Mo would go up to the Bronx and get the good cheap supplies, but what they were getting delivered now was expensive shit. Benny moaned every day about it.
Mo counted the nickels and dimes slowly and methodically - he didn’t want to have to start again. He would cash up and leave. He wanted to be out on the street. Feel the night air in his lungs. He needed someone warm, that was all. He couldn’t live alone any longer. Not any more. For years he’d been alone, locked up in those small white cells on Ward’s Island. He’d told the psychiatrists that he didn’t want to touch the girls any more and he thought he would be all right. But once he was out again, he saw them on the street and the old feelings came back. He wanted one. He wanted one of his own to keep. Lottie was so nice and warm. But she had gone now and he needed more.
He wrote the total in the final column in pencil. He added across the columns. He added up thirty-five figures in each of seven rows and totalled them. It took him eight seconds. He checked the number against the till read-out.
Bingo. Not a cent out.
He liked it like that. Not a cent more or less. He worked all day making sure that not a mistake was made. All fourteen hours.
Benny emerged from the back. ‘You get that, Redtop? Eighty-five cents. She’ll take an IOU too, they tell me. It’s cheaper to get your dick sucked than get a cup of coffee in this city.’
Maurice looked up from the books. ‘It’s all correct, Mr Marconi. All exact.’
‘Just like always, Redtop. You’re a fucking marvel. You know that. A fucking counting machine. My big lump of the world’s stupidest genius!’
‘Just like to get it right for you, Mr Marconi.’
Redtop took off his blue apron and hat. He hung them carefully on a hook labelled Mo. He put on his jacket, over one of the bright red rollneck sweaters which had given him his nickname.
Maurice was one of life’s sad stories. The kind of guy that little guys like to take a pop at in the street. He was six foot one, clean-cut and strong. It was only the look in his eye that told you something inside wasn’t quite right.
As he got to the door he picked up the large brown suitcase that he used to carry laundry to and from the launderette.
‘You washing again, you dirty old dog? What’ve you been up to?’
‘Just like clean sheets, Mr Marconi.’
Maurice nodded his goodbye and opened the glass door. It was snowing.
‘Here,’ called Benny and flicked him a dollar as he was leaving. ‘Get your dick sucked on me.’
‘Sure will, Mr Marconi.’
‘You just make sure you bring me the change.’
Chapter Fifty-Four
Central Park
November 27, 12.40 a.m.
It was the perfect evening for young love to blossom - to explode even. The snow had started falling on the city again. New York City in the snow - the air chill on your face and hands and the tall buildings of the city rising
up to the deep dark sky.
East Drive was so quiet you could hear owls from Central Park either side. It was almost deserted. Just a happy young couple weaving along the empty cycle path, laughing as they walked.
Lucy James was twenty years old with long dark hair and a playful smile. She was dressed in a short denim skirt with a big puffa jacket. Seth McAllister walked by her side listening to her glorious ramblings. She was such an extrovert, such a force of nature. An arts major to his love of the sciences. She jumped, skipped and turned as she walked and talked. He just loved to watch her like she was some effervescent experiment and she just loved to be watched.
They’d spent the last few hours drinking and flirting together in a bar looking out over the city - a romantic view, alcohol, mutual attraction . . . his hand brushing against her thigh, her hand touching his arm. It was going to happen tonight. They’d waited months to get this far. Oh, and didn’t the wait make it all so worthwhile. Christ, it was going to be good.
They were so obviously desperate that they could see it in each other’s eyes. They would enter his college room so full of pent-up passion that they would tear at each other’s clothes, kiss deeply and wrestle each other to the floor before they even reached the bed.
They entered the twisting path of the park. It was so beautiful to see the huge snowflakes falling over the trees. They passed a man in a red top sitting strangely still on a bench with a suitcase beside him.
‘On holiday?’ Lucy asked with a giggle. The man on the bench just looked at her. He looked at her short denim skirt. She was the type. She looked like a hooker. Hookers you could take. Hookers didn’t cause a fuss like those rich girls. No one missed a hooker. They all wore clothes like that. Lucy’s laughter floated by. There was no one else around. The couple walked further into the park. Lucy was a risk-taker and a romantic. Seth was getting nervous.
‘Where are you taking me, Lucy?’