Alone with the Dead

by Robert J. Randisi

  Keough wasn't sure what category he fell into. He really didn't spend that much time talking to her beyond saying good morning, and he had never asked for a favor before.

  "Good morning, Dani," he said, fronting her desk.

  He hoped that using her first name wouldn't be a mistake.

  She looked up at him, her face blank for a moment, and then she smiled, which was encouraging.

  "Detective Keough, right?"

  "That's right," he said, and then added, "Joe."

  "What can I do for you, Joe?"

  "The Post has a story about another Lover murder in Brooklyn last night."

  "Yeah, I saw that."

  "I was wondering who was working the watch last night?" he said.

  She didn't seem to think anything was out of line about the question.

  "Let me see," she said. She checked her logs and then said, "Detective Jackson, from the Six-Nine; Detective Carcaterra, from the Six-One; and Detective Godoy, from the Seven-One."

  "Carcaterra, huh?" he said. Another coincidence, like him catching the Carradine murder in his own command while working the watch.

  "And who had the duty?"

  "That was Captain Deutch, the exec from the Seven-Oh."

  "Do you, uh, have any information on the case yet?" he asked.

  "I don't think an Unusual Report has been forwarded to us yet, Joe. Why are you so interested?"

  "Well, I caught a case on the watch a couple of weeks ago…"

  "Oh, that other girl," she said, suddenly remembering. "Was that you?"

  "Yeah, it was me."

  "The case went to the task force, didn't it?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, they'll probably get this one, too, won't they?" she asked.

  "I guess they will," he said. "I was just… curious about it, you know?"

  "Sure, I can see why," she said. "Tell you what, if I get any information on it during the day, I'll give you a call. How's that?"

  "That'd be great, Dani," he said with genuine gratitude. "I'd appreciate it. If I'm out, maybe you could leave a message?"

  "Sure," she said, "no problem. I drink tea, lemon, no sugar, no milk."

  It was customary to pay off the civilians for favors in coffeeor, in this case, tea.

  "I'll remember," he said, and went out.

  He bypassed the second floor on the stairwell and went directly to the first. He still had his New York Post in his hand as he left the building and went out to his car. There was one other place he could check for information.

  ***

  Mike O'Donnell was probably the New York Post's top crime reporter. That was why he was the one rousted out of bed and sent out to South Brooklyn at three in the morning to cover the discovery of the latest Lover victim's body.

  O'Donnell had been working for the Post for six years. He'd made himself a small reputation working for some other, smaller papers in New Jersey, but when he broke a story in Newark that resulted in the federal government's shutdown of a top Mafia family there, and then wrote a best-selling true-crime book about it, the Post hired him in a minute. Since then, his reputation as a crime reporter and true-crime writer-two other books, which also made the bestseller list-had grown considerably.

  O'Donnell was going over his notes, trying to sort them out legibly so that when he started to work on his Lover true-crime book he'd have everything laid out in an orderly fashion, when his phone rang.

  "Yeah, O'Donnell," he said, his tone distracted.

  "This is downstairs," a man's voice said, "the guard in the lobby?"

  "Yeah?"

  "There's a man here wants to see you," the guard said.

  "Who is he?"

  "He said to tell you he's buyin'," the guard said. "Said that would shock the shit out of you."

  O'Donnell looked up from his notes. It always shocked the shit out of him when Joe Keough offered to buy.

  "Tell him I'll be right down," O'Donnell said.

  "He says he'll meet you at Brendan's."

  "Tell 'im I'll be there in fifteen minutes," O'Donnell said.

  He hung up and started carefully putting away his notes. After all, a free drink is a free drink…

  CHAPTER NINE

  The New York Post was housed in a huge white building on South Street, near the docks and not far from the South Street Seaport. Keough had always preferred their location to the midtown locations of their competitors, the Daily News and The New York Times.

  About a block from the Post building was a dive called Brendan's. Hugh Brendan, the owner, invested not one red cent in ambience, and he served the best Irish coffee in the city. When Keough worked Vice, he spent a lot of time there, shooting the shit over Irish coffee or a beer, many times with Mike O'Donnell.

  "Well, as I live and breathe," Brendan said as Keough entered. "Where the hell have you been, me boyo?"

  "Got bounced from Vice, Brendan," Keough said.

  "So? That don't mean ya can't come a see an ol' friend once in awhile, does it?" Brendan asked. Brendan was in his sixties now and had been in this country for fifty years, but he still hung on to enough of his Irish brogue to please his customers.

  "I'm in Brooklyn now, Brendan." Keough took a stool.

  It wasn't 9:30 A.M. yet, but more than half the stools were taken, and most of those customers were leaning over an Irish coffee, even in the summer heat.

  "Ah," Brendan said, nodding, "that explains it. Would ye still be likin' a taste of my Irish coffee?"

  "And quick," Keough said.

  "Your buddy still comes in here," Brendan said, setting Keough's coffee in front of him. "O'Donnell."

  "I know," Keough said, "I'm meeting him here."

  Brendan gave Keough a little salute and then left the detective to his thoughts. One of Brendan's talents was knowing when his customers wanted to talk and when they didn't, and he was greatly appreciated for that ability.

  Keough knew he was probably making a mistake in talking to O'Donnell. All he was going to do was get the reporter's curiosity up, but his own curiosity was running pretty high. If he was right, then a second case that shouldn't be transferred would be transferred to the Lover Task Force.

  He opened the Post and spread it on the bar. The name of the girl who had been killed last night had not yet been released, and neither had her age. In fact, there was precious little information in the paper except that a second Brooklyn murder had occurred and it was being attributed to the Lover.

  The first time Keough became aware that O'Donnell had walked through the door was when Hugh Brendan put another Irish coffee on the bar. He turned just as the reporter took the stool to his left.

  "Ah…" O'Donnell said. He closed his eyes and took a moment to revel in the first sip of the day, then wiped the cream from his lips with a napkin.

  O'Donnell was older than Keough by five or six years. His graying hair was cut very short and held two tones of gray-silver and iron. He hadn't shaved that morning, and his stubble was black and gray. His eyes were bloodshot from being dragged out of bed at 3:00 A.M.

  Keough knew O'Donnell was unmarried. More than once his friend had said he wouldn't get married unless he could find a woman who would drink Irish Coffee with him at 10:00 A.M., and Irish whiskey at 10:00 P.M.

  "You have a fine way of worming your way back into a person's heart, Keyhole man," O'Donnell said finally. He opened his eyes and looked at Keough. "Where the fuck have you been?"

  "He's in Brooklyn now," Brendan said, nodding sagely, as if that explained everything.

  "Shit," O'Donnell said, "it's just across the fuckin' bridge-and you got two bridges to pick from."

  "I've just been out of touch, Mike," Keough said.

  The sympathy O'Donnell felt for his friend seeped through the banter.

  "It's been rough, huh?" he asked.

  "I liked Vice, Mike."

  "Bullshit," O'Donnell said, "but I'll give you one thing-you were good at it."

  "Yeah," Keough said.
He finished his coffee and signaled Brendan for another drink. "Beer this time."

  "What kind?"

  "What else?"

  Brendan smiled and set a bottle of Harp on the bar in front of Keough.

  "So what finally coaxed you across the bridge-whichever one you took?" O'Donnell asked.

  Keough pushed his copy of the Post along the bar until it was at O'Donnell's right elbow and pointed to the front page.

  "That's right," O'Donnell said, "you found the first victim in Brooklyn, didn't you?"

  "I found a victim in Brooklyn, yeah," Keough said sourly.

  "Ooh," O'Donnell said, "that sounds familiar."

  "What does?" Keough asked, looking at him.

  "That 'I know something you don't know' tone of voice," O'Donnell said. "Gimme, gimme."

  "You first."

  "At least some things haven't changed," O'Donnell said. "What do you want to know?"

  "What you know about last night's victim," Keough said.

  "Not much," O'Donnell said. "The follow-up will have a lot more facts."

  "It should," Keough said. He tapped the paper and said, "This had none, except that a girl was killed."

  "And found in the monkey bars," O'Donnell said. "That was a nice touch."

  "How old was she?"

  O'Donnell shrugged and said, "I'll get that on the follow-up. Young, I think."

  "How young?"

  "I don't know," O'Donnell said. "Why?"

  "What did you see, Mike?"

  "I didn't see anything," O'Donnell said. "By the time I got there, they were carting her away. I talked to the cops who found her, but they weren't sayin' much. I also talked to the night-watch detectives, but they weren't giving me much, either."

  "In the paper, you said there was a rose on her body," Keough said.

  "That's what they told me," the reporter said. "A rose in her vagina, like the others. So? That just makes her one of the Lover's victims."

  "Mike," Keough said, staring into his beer, "what color was the rose?"

  "Whoa," O'Donnell said, "stay with me on this one, partner. That's the first time I've heard anything about the color of the roses."

  "Rose," Keough said, "we're talking about one rose, right, Mike?"

  "What gives, Keough?" O'Donnell asked, his tone and expression curious.

  Keough looked around. Brendan's wasn't exactly a hangout for reporters and cops, but there was still a possibility that there might be some in the place.

  Brendan had a few booths in the back and Keough tugged at O'Donnell's elbow so that the reporter followed him to the back.

  When they were seated opposite each other in a booth, O'Donnell said, "What's goin' on, Joe?"

  "I'm not sure, Mike," Keough said, "and you can't do anything with this, because it's just my theory. Understand?"

  "Sure, I understand," O'Donnell said, a hungry look coming into his eyes. "Let me have it."

  Keough told O'Donnell what he knew about the Mindy Carradine case and ended by saying that he didn't think Mindy had been killed by the Lover.

  "There were too many discrepancies, Mike," he said. "Okay, enough similarities to make it sound like a Lover case, but I don't buy it."

  "What, then?" O'Donnell asked. "A copycat?"

  "Maybe," Keough said, "I don't know… but this one last night… I need some more information on it."

  "Like the color of the rose?" O'Donnell asked. "What's that about?"

  "Mike," Keough said, "I don't want to say any more, but I need your help."

  "And in return?"

  Keough grinned and said, "You're already planning another bestseller, aren't you?"

  O'Donnell scowled and said, "My publisher hopes so. That last book really wasn't a best-seller, you know. I mean, it made some regional best-seller lists, but it didn't make the Times or Publishers Weekly lists or anything like that. I need whatever I can get, Joe, to make this one a national bestseller."

  Keough said, "You know you'll get whatever I know, Mike, but remember I'm not on anyone's A list anymore. I've been hung out to dry in Brooklyn."

  "But if you can prove that the Brooklyn victims aren't Lover victims, that there's another killer… Jesus…"

  "How am I going to prove it?" Keough asked. "I might get enough to convince myself, but I have to deal with paper, captains, and lieutenants…" He ended by shaking his head. "Do your follow-up, Mike, and then we'll talk again, but I can't promise anything."

  "When did you ever?" O'Donnell asked. "Okay, Joe, I'll let you know what I find out."

  "Thanks."

  "What are you gonna do meanwhile?"

  "I'll try and talk to the night-watch guys," Keough said. "I know Carcaterra from the Six-One. Maybe he'll tell me what I want to know."

  "Okay, then," O'Donnell said, "you tell me what you find out."

  "Okay, and Mike, you could do me a favor?"

  "What's that?"

  "I didn't pay much attention to the news articles of the first murders. Could you have someone clip them and send them to me?"

  "The Post ones I could, yeah."

  "Well, what other newspaper would I want them from?"

  O'Donnell smiled and said, "Good man."

  "And we'll talk about this again, Mike," Keough said, "I promise."

  "I've got to get back to work," O'Donnell said. He drained his cup and stood up. "If this pans out, Joe, maybe you can get yourself out of Brooklyn."

  "That's assuming I want to get out of Brooklyn, Mike," Keough said.

  "Well," O'Donnell said, "only you know that. I'll see ya, boy."

  "Thanks, Mike."

  As O'Donnell left the saloon, Keough unfolded the Post so he could look at the front page again. There was a picture of the playground at Bedford Avenue, all torn up with dirt and concrete chunks all over the place. A red circle had been drawn where the body had been found, lying half under the monkey bars.

  If Keough was right, he wondered what the real Lover was thinking about these two extra murders he was being credited with.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Kopykat was sure that his mother was busy in her room with another boyfriend, he opened his photo album and carefully snipped the pages in that day's Post about the newest Lover victim found in the playground.

  LOVER STRIKES AGAIN IN BROOKLYN

  He ran his fingers lovingly over the headline and imagined that he could feel a thrill through his fingertips. From his mother's room, he heard her cry out, but he knew that the pleasure she was feeling-or that she thought she was feeling-was nothing compared with his. He was glad she had brought another boyfriend home last night. Some nights when she came home alone, she made him go to bed with her, and that disgusted him. He didn't like doing that with her. In fact, he didn't like doing it at all. Women, he had decided long ago, were not for doing it with.

  He pasted the headline into his album and smiled.

  ***

  The Lover read the Post over his morning coffee and roll. He chewed vigorously, but the roll was tasteless in his mouth. Somebody was encroaching on his territory, and even though this second killer-and only he knew there was a second killer-seemed to be plying his trade in Brooklyn, the Lover didn't like it.

  There was something in particular, though, that the Lover was actually offended by. After the women he had loved, how could anyone-the newspapers, the readers, and especially the police-believe that he would stoop to… to touching underage girls, high school girls, like the two who had been found in Brooklyn. Wasn't it obvious to the police that these were not his doing? Couldn't they see the difference?

  He had already decided what he was going to do if this bogus killer struck again, and when he got to his office for this morning's summer session he would put his plan into effect. If the police couldn't see for themselves that what was happening in Brooklyn was not his doing, it fell to him to set them straight.

  The city had to know there was only one Lover.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When Keou
gh got to the Six-One house, he presented himself at the desk, identified himself, and asked for Detective Carcaterra.

  "You know where the squad is, don't ya?" the desk officer asked.

  "I know."

  "Go ahead, then," the man said, and turned his attention to one of his uniformed cops, who was complaining about a faulty radio unit. "Whataya want from me? Get another one!"

  "They're all faulty…"

  He went to the second floor, to the office of the squad, where he found Det. Steve Carcaterra seated at a desk, working on a container of coffee and a lethal-looking jelly doughnut.

  "Joe Keough," Carcaterra said, "what are you doing here?"

  "Came to see you, Steve," Keough said. He sat opposite Carcaterra and studied the man. They had been on the job roughly the same amount of years, but Keough had been a class or two ahead of Carcaterra at the Academy, so they had not met there, but on the job.

  "Want some coffee?" Carcaterra asked, looking around. "I think there was an extra container…"

  "That's okay, Steve," Keough said. "I'm good."

  Carcaterra turned back around to look at Keough and said, "Okay, then what can I do for you?"

  "You caught the playground case last night," Keough said.

  "That's right," the other man said, pausing to lick some jelly from his thumb, "another Lover murder. We're passing it on to the task force."

  "Are you sure it's a Lover murder, Steve?"

  Carcaterra shrugged his shoulders and said, "It fits the profile, Joe. Why?"

  "Weren't there some… differences?"

  Another shrug.

  "A few maybe, but more similarities than differences," Carcaterra said. "Hey, it's no skin off my nose if the brass want to give it to the task force. I've got enough cases as it is."

  "So have I," Keough said, "but I caught the other Brooklyn case."