by Ty Patterson
‘Why?’ Anger crept in her voice. ‘He’s a jerk, not a murderer.’
‘We know that now. We didn’t, when we started.’
Alisha stared at the two of them, whirled, and walked away without a word.
‘I didn’t hear thanks. Or did I miss it?’ Meghan drawled.
Beth laughed genuinely. She hooked her arm in Meghan’s. ‘Come on sis. You’re getting as bad as Broker.’
Meghan sighed. ‘This settles it. There’s nothing personal that connects the killer to Lester. He was just another of the serial killer’s victims.’
Beth nodded. They would have to work this out the hard way. Go after the killer.
They walked to the nearest subway station and joined a bunch of people, all lost in their own thoughts.
They didn’t notice the man shadowing them. Zeb. He boarded the car next to theirs.
He’d followed them once he knew they were checking out the boyfriend.
They can take care of themselves, but still.
They had taken care of themselves.
Carl Istomin and Nate Pokrovsky were bouncers in a night club. They also hung around one Igor Komarov, a gang boss who was on the NYPD’s watch list for drug running, prostitution, and gambling rackets.
Carl and Nate were the lumbering men who had accosted Gomez when Zeb had visited the warehouse.
Zeb leaned back against the trunk of a tree and observed a white building across Emerald Street in Brooklyn. Zeb was in the Hole, a unique piece of real estate in New York that was quite unlike the normal perception of the city.
The Hole was a five-block triangle that sat between Brooklyn and Queens, west of the Linden and Conduit Boulevard intersection. The Hole was just a few feet above the water table and its homes were not part of the city’s sewer system. As a result, water frequently pooled and formed lakes on the streets, paved concrete disappeared and marshes threatened the drivable areas.
The Hole was a famous body dumping ground for the mob. It was characterized by an absence of sidewalks, boarded up buildings, empty lots, and streets named for gemstones.
Komarov’s gang operated out of the Hole, a well picked location since the neighborhood had seen everything and nothing phased it anymore.
The gang was small, about twenty hoods, their primary business was running girls and selling weed. They muscled in on smaller gangs, took over territory and reached the limit of their growth when they came up against larger gangs.
The illegal immigrant business was a new foray for them. Gomez and his business were easy prey since the recycling firm needed labor, which they could supply cheap. They also supplied labor to restaurants, warehouses, many establishments that required manpower.
Komarov came late in the morning to his office, just before midday, and left just before midnight. He was a heavyset man with a thick shock of hair who moved with a lightness that belied his weight. He was never without two goons, one a lanky, bald man who had still eyes, and the other, a short, dark-skinned man whose eyes never stayed still.
Komarov had one affectation, cigars.
He usually came out of the building at night, lit one, and puffed away as he scanned the sky. There weren’t any establishments in the sky that required labor, so presumably he thought of terrestrial matters as he smoked.
Zeb spent a week watching them, photographing all those who came to the gang leader. At night he fed the pictures to the twins and Broker who built a dossier. On the tenth day, he followed Komarov as he was driven for an hour by Lanky to a midnight drug exchange. Komarov was the buyer.
Buying from another gang which requires his presence. Or maybe he doesn’t trust his guys with those sums.
He followed them back through twists and turns in Brooklyn as the night watched them curiously, and ended up at a store that wasn’t what it appeared to be. The store was set back from the street, had a couple of parking spaces in the front and a wall ran around the sides.
A weather-beaten signboard advertising a pharmacy hung forlornly from its roof. It looked abandoned, but Zeb could see cameras mounted on it. The door sounded heavy and thick from the way Komarov and Lanky opened it. The three men hustled as they unloaded cartons from the car and took them inside; an hour later they were back in the car. Lanky stayed behind in the store.
This is where they cut the drugs to smaller sizes and distribute.
Lanky and Shorty made him on the tenth day.
He was hidden deep in the shadow of an abandoned car that lay under a tree, three hundred yards from Komarov’s building. Lanky and Shorty drove the gang leader there and escorted him inside. Shorty hesitated for the slightest moment as he entered the building; he made to look to his left, to where Zeb was, stopped himself and disappeared inside.
Now the fun begins.
He brought the email app up on his phone, transferred all his pictures to Broker’s account and settled back. The gang was small time, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous.
They’ll watch me, follow me, see who I meet, and where I live. Tomorrow they’ll make their move.
He left his hideout at two a.m., walked to the end of the street, disappeared round a corner and jogged swiftly to an abandoned lot where his SUV was camouflaged.
He hit Linden Boulevard in fifteen minutes. Traffic was very light and ten minutes later, he spotted the tail, a dark sedan. The car stuck with him as he took them through the somnolent city, over the bridge and downtown. He stopped at an all-night pharmacy, leaned against his SUV and made calls. He disappeared inside and returned with steaming coffee.
He drank slowly as the night and traffic crawled by, the drink warming his insides. He made out the sedan through the corner of his eyes. He thought he could see shadows move inside, but couldn’t be sure.
The lights of the bridge winked in the distance and the singing, throbbing feeling came alive in him. It lay dormant most of the time, woke up when his body prepped for action, sped time for him, or slowed it when needed.
Tomorrow.
He repeated the routine the next night, parked his SUV a block away from his apartment in Jackson Heights and walked home. He slowed his steps to give them time to catch up. A darker patch of night gave him the cover to slip off his backpack to his left hand.
Fifteen minutes.
No one ahead of him. He touched the shades he wore. The inner screen came alive with night vision. The shades were customized Ray-Bans, tooled by Broker, with nano cameras in their stems. The cameras were fitted with night vision and projected on the inside lens. A tiny switch turned them into a rear-view counter surveillance device.
Ten minutes.
Two shadows behind him. Ahead of him was empty sidewalk, dim light pierced through the night. An ambulance wailed in the distance.
Fitting.
Eight minutes.
The shadows came closer. Resolved into Lanky and Shorty.
Zeb picked up the pace suddenly, the shadows broke step, and burst into a run.
Fifteen feet away.
Zeb started jogging. He could hear panting.
Five feet away.
He saw the gleam of a knife. No a gun.
Lanky sprang at him.
Zeb sidestepped, bent smoothly and the backpack swung in an arc and caught Lanky in the face. His jaw cracked as the heavy camera smashed into his face. His howl was cut abruptly as Zeb’s fist sank deep into his abdomen, a knee met his chin and Lanky was out of play.
Shorty was cautious, wiser. He took a couple of steps back and aimed his gun at Zeb.
‘Don’t move.’ He yelled.
Zeb didn’t stop moving.
First mistake. He should have stood ten feet back. The gun would’ve been more effective.
His knee came away from Lanky’s face, a stride brought him against Shorty, a hand blurred up, swatted the gun away, another punched him in the throat.
Second mistake. His finger was nowhere near the trigger. Milliseconds matter.
He looked down at the fallen men
, thought about questioning them, and discarded the thought.
Komarov’s the man.
He bound their wrists with ties, taped their mouths and dragged them a block away where he threw them inside a half full dumpster.
Komarov’s hideout in the Hole was deserted the next day. Zeb had expected that. The gang boss was hiding in a duplex in Crown Heights, surrounded by a bunch of his men. Zeb had placed a tracker on his vehicle during his surveillance which led him to the gangster’s new location.
Zeb was in a white van, parked five doors away from the townhouse. The wheels bore the logo of a well-known utilities firm, though its inside bore no resemblance to a utility company’s vehicle. It bristled with electronics and snooping gadgetry.
Zeb lay prone on a central bench, a pair of high-powered binoculars in his hand, his camera handy. He wore a tiny headset through which he maintained contact with Broker and the twins.
Waiting. Hollywood would go bust if they depicted the real life of deep black operatives. It was endless and patient waiting with sparse bursts of action.
A few thugs hung outside the townhouse at all times, doing what thugs did. Smoking, chatting, and using their phones.
Komarov made an appearance just twice and both times he was surrounded by large men. Once, he departed in a town car, and the second time, he returned.
None of the thugs paid any attention to Zeb’s van.
A black SUV rode up when dark fell and the street was empty, a figure stepped out and knocked on the van. Zeb ghosted out under cover of the van’s body. Keys changed hands. Meghan crawled through the rear of the van, settled beside the wheel and drove it away. The SUV became the surveillance vehicle.
At midnight, Zeb got what he wanted.
Two shadows exited the house, moved to its side and leant against the wall. A match flared and a red dot appeared.
Komarov lighting his cigar. A hood accompanying him.
The next day, the utility van returned.
Komarov disappeared for a few hours, a gang boss in hiding still had a gang to run, and returned. The same hoods surrounded him.
Night fell.
The urge to have a cigar grew and at midnight he succumbed.
He fumbled in his pocket for the Havana, stuck it between his lips. Another searched for a match.
A match appeared, lit, in front of him.
He sucked deeply and contentedly.
Realization struck.
His thug never carried matches. He carried guns.
He whirled around and Zeb struck him on the forehead.
Zeb taped his mouth, cuffed and taped his companion, and dragged Komarov to the SUV.
He drew to a deserted parking lot, hauled the man out and untaped him roughly. He tore away Komarov’s clothes and left him naked. Zeb had learned that in a far-off land.
Komarov, lurched at him, raised his bound hands to attack Zeb, shouted and fell silent when Zeb slapped him.
He struggled to his feet and charged at Zeb.
He stumbled and fell when Zeb tripped him.
He mouthed curses and spit blood when Zeb backhanded him.
He fell silent eventually and shivered in the cold as the fight in him drained away.
Zeb lit the cigar, placed it the man’s mouth.
Komarov sucked and exhaled.
Zeb snatched the cigar away and pressed its burning tip against the man’s cheek.
Komarov’s scream was lost in the night.
‘Now, let’s begin.’ Zeb told him mildly, breaking his silence for the first time.
Komarov told him everything half an hour later.
He had killed a few people. He hadn’t killed Curtis though. Nor had he killed any of the serial killer victims.
Zeb left him in another dumpster, naked, shivering, and glad to be alive.
Zeb doubted the man would give up his criminal ways. It didn’t matter.
Thugs didn’t have a long shelf life.
Chapter 8
‘That’s two suspects crossed off the list anyway.’ Broker leaned back and relaxed in his swivel chair in his office.
Beth looked at him incredulously. ‘List? We don’t have a frigging list. Those two were the only possibles and let’s face it; both of them were remote possibles.’
‘If it were that easy, Pizaka and Chang wouldn’t have a job. We’ll get there. This detective work always takes time.’ Broker made himself more comfortable. There, that angle of his foot on his desk gave the right support to his back.
He had worked hard, for all of half an hour while the twins banged keys on their computers.
It’s my wisdom that matters.
He looked at the fourth occupant in the room, who looked as if he was fast asleep. He looked at Beth who quirked an eyebrow. He nodded.
A paper ball sailed out of Beth’s hand, headed at Zeb and ended in his hand that moved deceptively slow. He still had his eyes closed.
Broker snorted. ‘Don’t let that fool you, girls. He’s practiced that so that he can impress the women.’
‘Baseball bats.’ Zeb said.
‘We don’t need anymore, Zeb.’ Broker said patiently. ‘We’ve enough.... ’
His feet crashed to the ground as he stood up, all energy.
‘Beth, check out how many bats got sold in the last six months in the city. Who sold them and to whom. Meg, light a fire under Chang’s ass, no, under Pizaka’s ass. Let him feel some pain. Ask him how many bats were reported stolen.’
He tossed a vehicle’s keys to Zeb. ‘Haul your ass. I swear you sleep more than a sloth.’
‘Where’re you guys headed?’ Beth shouted at their backs.
‘To learn about baseball bats.’ He thumbed the elevator as he grumped. ‘Why does it have to be me who does all the thinking?’ He ducked inside the elevator doors as another paper ball flew at him.
’Wood.’ Broker hung the phone up and glanced at Zeb who drove their wheels.
‘That was Pizaka. The killer used a wooden bat not metal. The bat is new each kill. Forensics is trying to see if they can match the finish to a brand, but he’s not holding his breath.’ Zeb nodded silently. He had suspected a wooden bat. The feel of wood was special and metal, no matter how well-crafted, couldn’t create that feel. It figured that the killer would use wood, if he used baseball bats, to make each kill memorable.
‘Thirty-three companies are licensed to sell bats to big leaguers.’ The speaker was short and bald and caressed his white beard as he spoke. They were in the basement of Pete’s Sporting Emporium, a hidden gem near Times Square that sold sporting goods of all kind. The basement housed bats, mitts, balls, shoes, baseball gear of all kinds and in all shapes and sizes that gave the store a unique smell.
Pete brought out a bat, lovingly stroked it and presented it to them. ‘That’s a Louisville Slugger P72 Ash wood bat that was used by Derek Jeter in all his twelve thousand five hundred plate appearances. It’s no longer manufactured now. The company retired it when Derek Jeter announced his retirement.’
He went inside the depths of the basement and returned with an array of bats which he laid out. ‘Major League Baseball requires its players to use wooden bats for several reasons; the bats require more skill, there’s less danger of the ball injuring spectators, batting averages are more realistic.’
He picked out a selection of the bats. ‘Louisville Slugger bats were the most widely used bats for a long time, almost a hundred years, but now the market is crowded. There are several manufacturers out there.’ He pushed a couple of bats forward. ‘Marucci bats are very popular and I’d say Louisville Slugger and Marucci have a sizeable market share. Then there are other companies, Trinity, B45, Rawlings, MaxBat, Tucci, and several others.’
Broker picked up a bat and swung a few times. Pete watched him and went over and helped him with his grip.
‘Wood bats are mostly made of white ash from Pennsylvania or New York, because it’s hard, durable and gives feel to the bat. The trees from which the bats a
re made are usually fifty years old. Maple bats are common too. They cost more than white ash, but last longer. Then there are hickory bats, birch bats, and even bamboo bats.’
An hour later they knew all that they needed to know about wooden baseball bats. Zeb drove randomly, picking out sporting goods stores in Manhattan, crossed the bridge to Brooklyn and headed to Sunset Park.
Broker shook his head in frustration. ‘There are a bazillion sporting goods stores. By the time we go ask each store about sales, the killer would have racked up a few more victims.’
‘He could’ve bought online. No security cameras there.’
Broker pondered it for a minute and sighed. ‘Heck yeah. After all he spends hours on the internet for victim profiling.’
Zeb waited at a traffic light, his eyes on a boy crossing the street, a bat slung over his shoulder.
‘Maybe not online. He likes to kill obviously and he has a thing for bats. Maybe he goes to stores and selects bats. Maybe it’s like an event for him, the buildup before a kill.’
He hung a right and headed back the way they had come.
‘One Police Plaza,’ he said when Broker looked askance at him. ‘Let’s run this past your friends.’
Pizaka glided toward them to greet them when they arrived, their images grew larger on the reflective lens of his shades.
‘Progress. Forensics confirmed the make of the bat he uses, a high end one.’ He named a brand. ‘There was a particularly large paint flake on Koppel’s belt buckle which matched with previous trace evidence. On another victim, there was an indentation of the brand on the victim’s face.’
He pulled a face. ‘Your girls called. You’ve any idea how many stores in the city sell bats? There are thousands. How many have cameras? Not many. How many will share receipts with us? ’
‘None?’ Broker said helpfully.
‘Well, maybe not none, but it’ll take time. We’ve sent in the requests and we have feet on the ground following that up, but so far, no store has responded.’
He patted down his hair. Hair and shades had to be just right even if a detective was frustrated and was having a bad day. ‘You know how many get stolen?’