Danny handed Mac a copy of the thin book. Mac opened it to the inside back flap and saw the face of a serious young man looking back over his shoulder at the camera.
Early that morning, before he went to the woods just before the sun rose, Mac, warrant in hand, had gone to Shelton’s studio apartment in a gray, uninviting prewar stone building. He had found lots of Shelton’s prints. He felt certain they matched the bloody ones at the Vorhees house.
Shelton’s room was clean, dominated by a gleaming all-purpose exercise machine. One solid dark wood bookcase was filled with books, mostly about philosophy and psychology: Jung, Freud, Nietzsche, Sartre, some names Mac didn’t recognize. The bottom shelf was filled with CDs. Shelton’s taste, like Mac’s, ran to the Baroque: Bach, Vivaldi, Hayden, Mozart. There was a slightly faded futon against the wall across from two windows, which had recently been cleaned. A heavy dark wood chest with six drawers rested against the wall. A round well-polished wooden table with two metal folding chairs stood next to the refrigerator and built-in pantry. A small desk with a chair stood against the last wall. A computer, slightly past its prime, sat on the desk. Mac checked the computer files and e-mail.
The Beast was a puzzle. He received and sent e-mails about the need for a massive movement to send troops or mercenaries into lawless African countries. He was ready to go fully armed and ready to kill if a mercenary army could be organized. He also received and sent e-mails about children starving and dying in third world countries, and abuse of children in all countries. Some of the e-mails were clearly written in a rage. In all of his e-mails, Shelton quoted philosophers, novelists, poets and psychiatrists.
There had been no copy of Kyle Shelton’s own book in his apartment.
“So,” said Mac. “Shelton is smart.”
“Looks that way,” said Danny.
Mac looked at the credit card printout on his desk and said, “If he’s so smart, why did he use his Visa card for gas a few hours ago in New Jersey?”
“No cash?” Danny guessed.
“He could have gotten cash from an ATM in Manhattan,” said Mac.
“He wants us to know he was in New Jersey,” said Danny. “He wants us to think he’s running west or north. Or he could also be doubling back and heading south.”
Mac nodded his agreement, his eyes on the credit card statement.
“My guess is that he’s on the way back here,” said Mac. “Probably here already. There’s something he has left to do.”
When Danny left, Mac removed the leaf from the sealed see-through bag and twirled it by the stem.
You have something important to tell me, Mac thought. But what?
A second check of the Vorhees neighborhood turned up a single linden tree in the backyard of Bob and Shirley Straus.
Mac found the Strauses, who were in their early sixties, wearing shorts, broad-brimmed hats and loose-fitting long-sleeved shirts as they worked in their garden. The Strauses knew the Vorhees family casually, but they had never visited each other’s homes or belonged to the same church or club. Bob Straus, who wiped his sweating neck with a red bandana, assumed the Vorhees’ were Republicans, but he didn’t know where he had gotten the idea. Had any of the Vorhees family been in the Straus backyard? Both Bob and Shirley said it was possible, but they didn’t think so. No reason for them to.
Mac had walked over to the linden tree and picked a leaf up off the ground. It was a good match for the one he had taken from Jacob Vorhees’ bedroom.
“We’re going to save that tree,” said Bob, pointing a trowel at the trunk.
“Inchworm infestation,” Shirley said, pushing back the brim of her hat so she could get a better look at Mac. “Late in the year for it, too. Thank God it hasn’t gotten to this neighborhood, but if it does come, we’ll be ready for them.”
To Mac she sounded like a feisty character from a horror movie saying she and Bob would be prepared when the zombies came ambling down the street.
“Think the worms will miss us,” said Bob. “They only live a few weeks.”
“And then there’s something else,” said Shirley.
Bob nodded in agreement and said, “Mites. But we’ve kept them from touching our trees.
“Trade-off,” Bob continued, returning the bandana to his pocket. “We use chemicals. Maybe add a little pollution into the ground and air, but if we didn’t, it would be the end of our trees.”
When Mac turned to leave, Shirley Straus said, “Detective?”
Mac turned back to look at her.
“The boy,” she said. “Jacob. Is he…?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Mac.
“I can’t…” she began.
Before she could cry, her husband was at her side, one arm around her shoulder.
“We have two boys, men now,” said Bob Straus. “Can’t imagine what it would be like…I hope he’s alive.”
His wife nodded in agreement, holding back tears.
“We’ll find him,” said Mac.
He didn’t say whether he expected to find the boy dead or alive. Mac thanked them and drove back to the lab.
Arvin Bloom’s furniture shop on Eighty-second Street just off of Second Avenue was small, but in a good location near dozens of antique shops, many specializing in furniture.
When Stella, Flack and Aiden entered, they could hear a soft buzzer sound in the rear of the shop and they could smell the mixture of new and old wood.
The shop was packed with furniture, large armoires, dressing tables, desks, a few ornate lamps and four huge crystal chandeliers overhead.
From an alcove a big balding man in his fifties with a paunch appeared, wearing a suit and carrying an apron, which he placed on a wooden armchair with a gold cushion. Stella was sure the cushion was both old and silk. The man walked slowly.
“Looking for something in particular?” the man asked with a smile.
Something about the smiling man irritated Flack, who took out his wallet, showed his shield and said, “Arvin Bloom? We’re looking for a murderer.”
Bloom looked at the two women, puzzled.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Asher Glick was murdered yesterday,” said Flack.
Bloom bowed his head. “I know. I was going to sit shiva, but, to tell the truth, I don’t know if I’d be welcome.”
“Why not?” asked Stella.
“I owe Asher a great deal of money,” he said.
“Forty-two thousand dollars,” said Aiden. “We checked the business log on his computer.”
“Actually, more than that,” said Bloom. “My wife made the purchase from Asher. She saw it for the bargain it was and checked it with me. I was bedridden at the time. Prostate cancer. I’m fine now. Radiation treatment and radiation pellet implants. When Ivy, my wife, was talking to Asher, it turned out that we were Yeshiva students together.”
“Can we speak to your wife?” asked Flack.
“Certainly,” said Bloom. “I’ll get her. Would you like some coffee? I always have it brewing for customers. Coffee and tea. Trade secret; if a potential customer accepts coffee, tea, wine, cookies, they feel obligated, not necessarily to buy, but to look more seriously than they might have done otherwise.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Aiden.
“I will pay every penny I owed Asher to his family,” Bloom said. “This is an up and down business. I have two pieces with buyers for the pieces we bought from him. They will bring in more than enough money to pay what I owe.”
“Do you mind if I look around?” asked Aiden.
“Please do,” said Bloom. “And feel free to ask any questions or touch any item as long as you are careful.”
“I’ll be as careful as I am with crime scene evidence,” said Aiden, kit in hand, moving past Bloom, who followed her with his eyes.
“There’s a small workspace back there where I make minor restorations myself,” Bloom said. “My wife and I have an apartment up there.” He indicated a wooden stairca
se that led up to a pair of doors.
Bloom looked at Stella and Flack, nodded, and said, “I’m a suspect, aren’t I? The young lady said something about a crime scene.”
“You’re someone who might be able to supply us with some information,” said Flack.
Stella moved to the chair where Bloom had dropped his apron. She opened her kit.
When she took out the mini vacuum, Bloom said, “I think you need my permission to do that.”
“What do you think I’m going to do?” Stella asked.
“Vacuum my apron for evidence,” Bloom said.
“You know about forensics?” said Flack.
“A little, television,” said Bloom with a shrug. “Go ahead. Permission granted. But your time would be better spent looking for the lunatic who killed Asher.”
“What lunatic?” asked Flack.
“Joshua,” said Bloom. “He’s a madman.”
“You were part of the minyan yesterday,” said Stella after she had carefully vacuumed the apron.
“You want to take it?” said Bloom. “Take it.”
“Thank you,” said Stella, carefully folding the apron and placing it in her kit.
“When was the last time before yesterday that you were part of a minyan?” asked Flack.
Bloom smiled.
“When I was fifteen,” he said. “I had a bar mitzvah when I was thirteen. I was considered a man who could make up the sacred number. A man named Ruben Goldenfarb found me on a street corner with some other kids. This was back in Cincinnati. He didn’t ask me if I wanted to come. He simply said, ‘Come,’ and I came.”
“Then why yesterday?” asked Flack.
“I had recovered from my treatment and I wanted to see Asher. He suggested I join the minyan and we could talk afterward. I said yes. I owed him. More than money. He was good to me, steered buyers to me.”
“We know,” said Stella. “We were at Mr. Glick’s store.”
“Your wife,” said Flack, reminding the man that they wanted to talk to her.
As if on cue, one of the doors at the top of the landing opened and a woman came down the steps. She was short, slightly overweight, wearing a colorful orange and yellow dress. Her hair was short, touches of gray, neatly brushed, and she was wearing makeup and no smile. Aiden pegged her at forty plus.
“My wife,” said Bloom with a smile. “These are the police. They want to ask you some questions about Asher Glick.”
The woman vaguely registered Bloom’s words and took a few seconds to turn her head to look at him, then turned to look at each of the strangers before her.
“He’s dead,” she said softly.
“When did you last see him?” asked Stella.
“I only saw him three times,” she said. “Always at his shop to look at merchandise. The last time was, I think, last Monday. We bought a French Regency period commode, early nineteenth century, three doors, carved walnut with a marble top from L’îe-de-France.”
“It didn’t have the original hardware,” said Bloom, “but Ivy knew that I had perfect period hardware. And the legs needed a little work. The restoration is undetectable. It is one of the pieces we have a buyer for.”
“Your computer,” Flack prodded.
“My accounts,” answered Bloom. “I prefer the old-fashioned way, the feel and smell and touch of a craftsman’s shop.”
Bloom moved behind the counter, reached down to a shelf and pulled out an oversized old clothbound notebook.
“Before I forget,” said Bloom, making some notes in the book with a pen he pulled out of a white mug on the counter. “I keep track of where I am on each job.”
“We checked Mr. Glick’s computer,” said Stella.
“Yes?” said Bloom, looking up over the top of his glasses.
“What we didn’t find on Mr. Glick’s computer was more interesting,” said Stella.
Bloom looked puzzled.
Aiden appeared from the back of the shop, nodded for Stella to follow her.
“We didn’t find anything he bought or sold in the last year made of bloodwood,” Stella said, nodding at Aiden. “There was nothing in his shop made of bloodwood. But Asher Glick had bloodwood dust on his clothes. Do you have anything made of bloodwood?”
“Yes, back where your friend was,” said Bloom. “A beautiful piece. I was working on it when you came. My guess is that a fair number of people Asher was doing business with have pieces made of bloodwood. Have you checked them?”
“None of them were part of that minyan,” said Stella. “None but you.”
Stella left Flack with Bloom and joined Aiden in the small back room. Aiden pointed to a red sideboard.
“Transfer from Bloom to Glick,” said Aiden. “Can we match sawdust to a specific piece of furniture?”
“I don’t know,” said Stella, “but we’re going to find out.”
“He’s not left-handed,” said Flack as they left the shop.
Neither Aiden nor Stella responded. They had both noticed the same thing. Wristwatch on Bloom’s left wrist. Notes he made in his notebook with his right hand. The killer’s chalk marks, hammered nails, and written message near the body were definitely made by a left hand.
“But he avoided telling us if he had a computer,” said Stella. “We know he does.”
“Glick’s e-mail,” said Aiden. “He sent messages to Bloom.”
“Could use a computer at the library or an Internet coffee bar,” said Flack.
“Could be,” Stella said. “Let’s find out if he’s got one.”
“Will do,” said Flack, wondering what they would find on Bloom’s computer when he found it—and Flack was sure he would find it.
Kyle Shelton had abandoned the pickup on a street in the Bronx. The street, he knew, was an elephants’ graveyard of abandoned cars. He didn’t bother to wipe off fingerprints. He did bother to remove the license plate and tuck it into his backpack. It was four blocks to the subway station in a neighborhood where a white face was a rare exception.
In spite of the name on the vanity plate, Kyle Shelton’s nickname was not The Beast. The plates had belonged to his cousin Ray, as had the pickup truck. People just assumed the nickname went with the driver. Kyle felt nothing about abandoning the pickup. It was a piece of crap, falling apart, rusting through the bottom, radio a spray of static, brakes needing fluid every two weeks. Ray wouldn’t care either, but he would want his plates back.
Kyle hitched the pack onto his shoulders. It contained clothes, a disposable razor, a toothbrush, a few books, a few nutritional bars. It had two more items too. One of them was a long-bladed kitchen carving knife encrusted with dry blood. Kyle had considered throwing it away, but he decided to hold on to it. He didn’t know much about forensic evidence, but he knew there were things Crime Scene Investigators could find that might help him with what he was trying to do.
It was midday, the sun burning bright in the clear sky, humidity coming thick from the air. He felt the moist itch in his crotch, under his jeans and against his scalp. It had been this hot in Iraq, especially on the unsafe roads across the desert, bouncing, hallucinatory.
The streets of the towns of Iraq had been dangerous for a soldier, more dangerous than this street in the Bronx.
The buildings on the street were mostly two- and three-story brick apartments built in the 1920s. Between some of them were debris-filled lots where buildings had been torn down.
Kyle had a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he could come up with. He had slept in the pickup the night before for about two hours. He was tired. He half closed his eyes and was aware of children somewhere in the distance laughing and arguing. What he wasn’t aware of until he heard the voice was the three young men standing on the crumbling stone steps of one of the old three-flat buildings Kyle was about to pass.
“You lost?” asked the voice.
Kyle looked up. The speaker was maybe eighteen or nineteen, black, hair cut short, clean yellow T-shirt and brown jeans. Fl
anking the speaker were two other young black men wearing identical T-shirts and brown jeans.
Kyle didn’t answer. He pulled the brim of his baseball cap down, shifted the weight of his backpack and kept walking.
“Asked you a question, brother,” said the young man, who was obviously the leader. There was irritation in his voice now.
Kyle stopped, tilted back his cap and looked at the young men who had taken a step toward him. He had been through situations like this, on the streets of Fallujah, at Riker’s.
“Bo asked you a question,” said the young man to the right of the leader.
“ ‘Life is not a spectacle or a feast. It’s a predicament,’ ” said Kyle, reaching over his shoulder into his backpack.
“Say what?” asked Bo.
“George Santayana,” said Kyle. “A philosopher.”
“He’s high,” said one of the others.
“Hand over the backpack,” said Bo, holding out his hand.
The three took another step toward Kyle, who shook his head “no.”
“ ‘I believe in the brotherhood of all men, but I don’t believe in wasting brotherhood on anyone who doesn’t want to practice it with me. Brotherhood is a two-way street,’ ” said Kyle. “You know who said that?”
“Don’t give a shit,” said the young man.
The young man on the right pulled a small gun from his pocket after looking up and down the street to be sure no one was watching.
Kyle didn’t seem to notice.
“Malcolm X,” said Kyle. “He said it. You know who he was.”
“I ain’t simple,” said the leader. “Saw the movie.”
Kyle’s right hand came out of the backpack holding a .45 caliber army pistol, which he aimed at the leader. The trio stopped.
“You gonna shoot all three of us?” Bo said.
“Looks that way,” said Kyle. “Unless he puts that gun away and you all back up and sit down on the steps and talk about the heat and listen to the radio or some CDs.”
The one called Bo scratched the side of his head, smiled and looked at Kyle.
“I like you,” said Bo.
Blood on the Sun (CSI: NY) Page 7