“Not a clue.”
“Steeg, what’s going on? Why’re all these cops dressed like Space Troopers here?”
DeeDee stood in the doorway with her arms wrapped tightly around her body.
“I guess I really annoyed someone, kiddo.”
“The cop downstairs said there was a shooting a couple of floors up,” she said. “So I run upstairs, and it’s you.”
I walked over and put my arm around her shoulders. She was trembling.
“Yeah, but as you can plainly see, he missed. Nothing to worry about.”
She put her fingers on my cheek.
“Really? Then why is blood streaming down your face?”
I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and swiped it across my cheek. It came back red.
“Came through the window,” I said. “Must have been some flying glass.”
“Other than that you’re good, right?”
“As gold.”
She turned to Reagan.
“And what the hell are you fat asses doing about it?” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve got cops all over the building knocking on doors, when it’s obvious even to a kid like me that the guy who did this is still out there. Fucking unbelievable! You people couldn’t catch rain with a bucket!”
Reagan looked down at DeeDee as if he were regarding a pesky Lilliputian.
“You’ve got some mouth on you, little girl,” he said.
“That seems to be the consensus,” I agreed, hugging DeeDee tighter.
“But the kid’s right. The guy’s still out there, Steeg.”
“He had a scope,” I said. “It could have been a warning.”
Reagan shrugged. “Could be. Sure you want to chance it?”
“Can you think of an alternative?”
“Yeah. Stop holding out on me.”
After Reagan left, I went into the bathroom to get a Band-Aid. The cut on my cheek was small but deep. I rinsed it with cold water. Dried it. And stuck the Band-Aid on. When I came out, DeeDee was sitting on the sofa crying.
I sat down next to her, slung my arm over her shoulder, and pulled her close.
“It’s over. I’m fine. So why’re you crying?”
“All this time, I’ve taken you for granted.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the reason I’m me. The thought of anything happening to you is just …”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
24
Armand Federov was the last vic on my list.
By all accounts, he was the reincarnation of Mother Teresa. Caring neighbor. Dedicated teacher. Parents and students loved him. Spent his spare time tutoring shelter kids, and never asked for a penny. Took them to ball games. Slipped their families money when they were short. Served Thanksgiving meals to the homeless at a local Lutheran church. The pastor was Federov’s biggest fan of all. Claimed Federov did God’s work, and the world was worse off for his loss.
On the debit side of the ledger, Federov, like the others, was a fringe guy. No friends. No romantic entanglements. Just his work to keep him warm on cold winter nights.
But he didn’t quite fit the profile.
Truth be told, I would have been surprised if he had. I learned long ago that most investigations don’t fit into neat little boxes. But if you kept at them long enough, chances were all would be revealed. That belief was the only thing cops had to hold on to. And it kept the good ones from eating their guns.
By the time I was done with Federov, it was only noon. My rental car had a GPS, and I was in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. An extraordinary confluence of events that brought Justin Hapner to mind. And Bensonhurst was close by.
I spotted a parking spot that some guy had spent hours digging his car out of. Better yet, it was right across the street from Justin’s apartment house.
I got out of the car and my cell phone rang.
“Steeg, it’s Luce. Where are you?”
I told her.
“What’s up?” I said.
“There’s been another one. Just came over the wire.”
I parked in the shadow of the Wonder Wheel, on Surf and West Twelfth, and walked a short block to the crime scene. Overhead, serious-looking clouds were blowing in off the Atlantic, turning it white with chop.
Detective Esteban “Cholo” Somoza stood just outside the yellow tape, directing the action. A few joggers, a sprinkling of truants, and a clutch of red-cheeked babushkas and their equally red-cheeked men stood on the boardwalk watching him do his thing.
Cholo was a big man who favored black ink tattoos, custom choppers, and people who didn’t bullshit him. We’d always got along just fine.
“Hey, Cholo. How goes it?”
“Look what the tide washed up,” he said. “What in hell are you doing here, Steeg?”
“Luce said you might have something I want to see.”
“She’s one of the good guys. Always liked her. Follow me, and be careful where you walk. The techs are just about finished, but…”
“I know the drill. It’s still your crime scene.”
“My own little piece of hell,” he said. “I hear you’re off the sauce.”
I nodded. “Used to be my little piece of hell.”
“Was it tough?”
“Like pulling a glass-studded rope through my brain.”
Cholo put his arm on my shoulder and kept his voice low.
“I had the same deal with blow,” he said. “I’m clean now, but a day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss it.”
“The junkie’s lament. Ain’t an addictive personality grand?”
“A bitch, ain’t it? Fuck it! Let’s go see a stiff.”
I followed Cholo a few yards under the boardwalk to to where the victim—or what was left of him—was lying on his back. I couldn’t count the puncture wounds that covered his body. And the slashes that crisscrossed his face looked like someone had used it for a demented game of tic-tac-toe. The snow between his legs was dyed vermillion.
“There he is in living color,” Cholo said.
“Holy shit!” I said.
“Tell me about it. Makes the Top Ten list of the worst I ever saw. When I first laid eyes on him I nearly puked.”
“Eminently understandable.”
“You know the first thing that jumped into my mind?”
“Better him than you?”
“OK, the second thing. Remember that poem about Lizzie Borden? Took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks?”
“And when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.”
“Yeah. Only whoever turned this guy into tatters used a knife as sharp as a scalpel. And check the crotch. Lot of anger here, Steeg.”
I noticed there was no blood spatter, and mentioned it to Cholo.
“Good eye,” he said. “We found a shitload of blood at the bottom of the stairs, and drag marks leading here.”
“Footprints?”
He shook his head.
“The doer cleaned up after himself. We also ruled out robbery. Guy had over five hundred in his wallet.”
“Who found him?”
“A bum.” Cholo pointed at a large carton deep under the boardwalk, about twenty yards away. “Lives over there. Spent the night scavenging. Found him when he got home. Flagged down a patrol car. And here we are.”
“So he saw and heard nothing.”
“Absolutely nada.”
Cholo jerked his chin at the body. “Word is you have an interest in these guys.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“One Police Plaza is a regular yenta fest.”
“I do.”
“Any help would be appreciated.”
I clapped Cholo on the shoulder.
“If I manage to stumble across something in my wanderings, you’ll be the first person I call,” I said. “Count on it.”
“Sure you will,” he snickered.
“So tell me, when did you becom
e so callous, Cholo, my friend?”
“Comes of years cleaning up after psychos.”
I turned to leave, but Cholo’s voice stopped me.
“By the way, we found sticks topped with cotton candy and arranged like a bouquet of flowers next to the body. Nice touch, huh?”
“Very creative. It seems like the guy was going for romance.”
“Sometimes being a romantic has its downside,” Cholo said. “Guy brings his true love a cotton candy bouquet. She was expecting diamonds. It pisses her off, and he winds up being reduced to a mess of Kibbles.”
“Love is a bitch.”
25
A lot of anger here.
That had to be the understatement of the eon.
Six packing crates. Six men. And then there was the fire. The ME’s report said that a couple of the men were alive when the fire started. Why bring them to the warehouse? That one was easy. For the same reason Angela and the guys she was with picked it for a Christmas Eve party. It was abandoned, therefore private. But why would the killer torch the place and destroy his perfect hidey-hole?
And that left the latest victims. The guy in a West Side hotel. Walter Cady, the Bowery flop manager. The man in Coney Island. And who knows how many others waiting to be discovered. The murders were getting closer in time, and the killer’s rage was increasing. Once the warehouse was gone, the killer was out of his comfort zone. And more prone to mistakes. And that meant nailing the son of a bitch was just a matter of time.
It was speculation. But there was logic to it, and it felt right. But there was one more issue that needed to be resolved.
I called Luce.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “And Cholo sends his regards.”
“Could be the last heads-up you’ll get from me.”
“Meaning?”
“My boss told me I may be facing a departmental trial.”
“For what?”
“Conduct unbecoming. Lifestyle issues, he said. Translation… being gay.”
Dave’s warning rumbled in my head. They’ll come at you in ways you didn’t think possible.
“And the specifics?”
“Internal Affairs is poking around my life and trying to come up with some.”
“I’m sorry I got you into this, kiddo. I’m the one they should’ve dropped the hammer on.”
“If you can’t help a friend…”
“Somehow I’ll make this right.”
“That’s real sweet, but screw right! I want to see all those fat cat bastards go down. So, what can I do for you?”
“Got a new theory.”
“Lay it on me.”
“The doer’s gender may be wrong.”
“We’ve been through this already and rejected it.”
“I know. But we didn’t take the killer’s occupation into account. Think gay and on the stroll.”
“A gay hustler?”
“Yeah,” I said. “So far none of the vics—even the married guy—seem to be into women. Given the sexual nature of the crime, a male prostitute fits the bill.”
A few seconds passed while Luce considered this new wrinkle.
“Plausible,” she said. “Even when you throw in the Rohypnol.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Everything remains the same, except gender.”
“It does,” she said. “And wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Let me reach out to my connections in the community. I’ll get back to you.”
I dropped the phone in my pocket, looked up, and saw Kenny Apple walking up to me.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Steeg. When you take a road trip, you manage to hit all the high spots,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s nothing to be said for Coney Island this time of year. Or most other times, either. Cold. Dreary. And bloody.”
“You followed me? What the hell for?”
“Heard about the shooting. Figured you could use some backup.”
I loved Kenny Apple.
“See anything interesting?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Like what?”
“Spotted him right away. When you left your apartment. Big guy with close-cropped hair. Driving an old, gray Ford. Trying to blend in, I guess. Was with you every step of the way. When you dropped the car off, he took off.”
“That sounds like Riley. I don’t suppose you followed him?”
“Tried to, but lost him in rush-hour traffic.”
“Terrific.”
“Look, I do two things really well. Make numbers sing and shoot people. And that’s about it. But not to worry, he’ll be back again.”
“This is turning into a fine kettle of fish, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is.”
I looked at my watch.
“Haven’t eaten all day. Want to grab a bite?”
“I’m going to take a nap. Promise me you’ll stay pretty much close to home for the next day or so.”
“Consider it a solemn oath.”
I walked the few blocks to Feeney’s, looked through the window, saw the usual suspects eating the usual slop, and lost my appetite.
The night was still young. And Ennis and Riley were somewhere out there.
And that rankled.
But not for long.
I headed back to my apartment. A gray Ford was parked at the pump, right out front.
The snakes in my head snapped awake.
Riley was behind the wheel. Ennis sat in the passenger seat. His eyes were black, and his nose was heavily bandaged. The mystery lady sat in back.
I walked over.
Martine rolled the window down. She had a deck of tarot cards in her hand.
“What am I going to do with you, Steeg?” she said.
“The bullet through my window says you pretty much made up your mind.”
“If I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Lucky me.”
“I could make you rich, Steeg.”
“Maybe. But then I wouldn’t have anything to bitch about.”
“Final offer.”
“Dawn said you two had a history.”
Her lips curled into a smile.
“Whores don’t have a history. No future, either. Only a now.”
“What happened to her?”
“Could be anywhere,” she said. “Or nowhere. Who knows what’s in a whore’s mind?”
“What’s in yours, Martine?”
“Touché.”
Her fingers worked the cards. Fanning them out, then squaring them. Over and over. Making sure the edges were perfectly straight.
“You ever been to Haiti?” she said.
“Nope.”
“Makes the rest of the shitbox countries in the world look like luxury resorts.”
“Poor don’t get you a Get Out of Jail Free card. And selling the services of women you’re supposed to be helping isn’t going to earn you a spot in heaven.”
Her face tightened. “I worked hard to get to this place. And I won’t let you ruin it.”
“You’re not the first who’s ever said that.”
“But I’ll be the last.” Her face contorted into a tight, ugly mask. “I’m not going back, Steeg.”
“What do the cards have to say about that?”
She fanned them one more time and held them out.
“Let’s see,” she said. “Pick one.”
I plucked a card from the center.
Riley started the car up and shifted it into gear.
“No more warnings, Steeg,” she said.
When they pulled away, I turned the card over and looked at it.
It was a skeleton riding a pale white horse.
Just a bit of sleight of hand on Martine’s part, I was sure. Well, almost sure.
26
Me and John Walker parted ways a long time ago. Long enough that by now, the days are OK. But the nights are still a bit problematic. Some are worse than
others. And a few make it to Category Five.
It starts with an icicle working its way into the base of my brain. Then it’s an electric slide to tremors, nausea, and sweat so cold the heat of a thousand suns wouldn’t even begin to warm me.
Thanks to Martine, this was one of those nights.
So I did what I usually do when a meltdown is roaring in on a bullet train. Scooted over to see Allie. For some reason Johnny moved on to easier pickings when I was with her.
She reached up and cradled my face in her hand.
“You sounded terrible on the phone,” she said. “And you look worse. What’s wrong?”
“Remember the evil monkeys from The Wizard of Oz? Well, they’ve taken over my bedroom. I closed my eyes and clicked my red slippers, but …”
“When you opened them you weren’t back home in Kansas.”
“I am now.”
She took my hand and led me to the sofa, drew me down beside her, and put my head on her lap. Her hand felt warm on my skin.
“Want to talk about it?” Allie said.
“And ruin a perfectly good rest of the evening? Let’s talk about happy things. Like your job.”
“I’m off suicide watch. My new boss is now my fired boss.”
“Get out!”
“Happened in the twinkle of an eye. Something about a YouTube video.”
“And the subject matter?”
“A Roman orgy kind of thing complete with togas and drugs.”
“And your fired boss was the leading sybarite?”
“Caligula, actually. The link was sent to agency management, and clients.”
“Was the sender anyone we know?”
“Hand to God it wasn’t me, but it could’ve been anyone. His enemies were legion. When security escorted him out the door, a collective cheer went up on Madison Avenue.”
“So, all’s well that ends well.”
“Very well,” she said. “Enough about me. How’s DeeDee doing?”
“What’s that they say about first loves?”
“You never forget them,” Allie said.
“Do you remember your first love?”
“Herbie Aronson. He was twelve. I was ten. Lived in my apartment house in Canarsie. Sixth floor. I lived on the fifth. I could see his apartment across the courtyard. I remember sitting at my living room window for hours just waiting for him to appear at his window. When he did I would melt. Of course, he would have nothing to do with me.”
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