Fatal Deception

by Russell Blake

  Ron and Ben waited in their car for backup to arrive. The neighborhood was on the edge of a section of town that was a no-man’s land between the recently renovated and abject squalor, where even the police hesitated to go after dark and the residents kept to themselves, crimes avenged with the blade of a knife or a bullet rather than a call to 911 and vain hopes for justice from a system that viewed the poor as expendable.

  Ron had spent enough time on the street to know that most unfortunates perceived the police as storm troopers and the courts as subjugation tools of an apparatus bent on grinding them to dust. One of his retired friends had commented at his farewell party, after enough Irish whiskey had gone down the hatch to kill a platoon, that if you wanted to understand whether a system was just, you didn’t ask those in a position of privilege, you asked the underdogs and the downtrodden. Ron had long ago dispensed with the idea that he was doing the Lord’s work, but rather saw himself as a societal survival mechanism that dealt with the worst of the worst – those who had, somewhere along the way, slipped a gear and become the stuff of nightmares.

  He’d put away enough serial killers to know that evil was very real and existed as something more than the moral abstraction most believed it to be. He’d stared madness in the eyes countless times, and with each instance understood that Nietzsche’s declaration that when you peered into the abyss it looked back into you was accurate. It took all his courage every day to face himself in the mirror and not quit the job, his soul having been stained by every exposure to degrees of evil most could never grasp.

  Ron had seen the mundanity of sociopathology, the complete absence of remorse of killers who could butcher a family and then have a hearty breakfast without a second thought; he’d listened to dispassionate accounts of murder, torture, and depravity relayed with no more concern than discussions of the weather. It would have been far more comforting to him if the offenders looked especially noteworthy or different, but the truth was that most monsters looked exactly like their benign brethren, their material distinction only that they had no problem killing to achieve their ends.

  Ben’s radio crackled on the seat beside him, and the backup checked in. Ben murmured into the radio, his eyes roving the street, and instructed them to take the alley in back, in case their quarry tried to bolt. When the backup confirmed they were in position, Ron and Ben stepped from the car and moved to the hotel entrance, past a pair of vagrants dozing on the sidewalk, filthy newspapers covering their bodies.

  “Nice,” Ben whispered as they neared the steps.

  “Our man’s got good taste,” Ron agreed.

  A skittish clerk whose discolored bags beneath his red eyes lent him the appearance of a bulldog regarded them from behind bulletproof glass. Ron showed him his badge.

  “Hitoshi Sato,” Ron said.

  The clerk nodded and checked his register. “Three D.”

  Ron nodded and pointed to the stairs. Ben’s nose crinkled at the ammonia smell of dried urine and industrial cleanser as they made their way to the dark stairwell. Ron gestured to a rear exit sign glowing at the end of the hall. “Take the back stairs.”

  Ben moved to the door and pushed it open, and scowled at Ron. “I think something died in here.”

  “Hopefully not recently,” Ron answered, and then ascended the steps, head angled upward.

  At the third floor he paused, listening. A woman’s voice echoed down the hall, chiding someone for being a no-good bum and a lousy baby daddy. Ron’s eyes adjusted to the gloom as he made his way to the end of the hallway, where the door to 3D stood ajar.

  Ron cursed and glanced at the open window beside him, and then toed the door open, his weapon drawn. “Hitoshi Sato? Police,” he called into the room.

  No answer.

  Ron peered into the dark space and noted that there was no bathroom and only a small window at the far end – too narrow for anyone to escape through.

  He spun, moved to the window at the end of the hall, and hoisted it open, only to see a figure disappearing onto the roof from the fire escape. Ron pulled his radio from his pocket and called in his pursuit to the backup officers. He didn’t wait for a response, instead forcing himself up the rusting metal ladder, ignoring the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him.

  Ron poked his head over the roof lip and saw a man loping toward the adjacent building. He took aim, but the man was too fast and had jumped to the next roof, out of range, before Ron could yell a warning. Ron hauled himself onto the flat concrete and got to his feet, gun in hand, and sprinted toward the spot where the man had vanished over the side.

  The next roof was cluttered with debris, and Ron saw his quarry picking his way through it, some of the piles stretching from one end of the roof to the other. Ron gripped his weapon in a two-handed combat grip and called out.

  “Hitoshi Sato. Freeze. Police.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder as though calculating the distance between them and, when he spotted the gun, stopped and slowly raised his hands. Ron nodded and took careful steps toward him, eyes locked on his face, and when he was ten feet away, extracted his radio from his jacket pocket and called to Ben.

  Sato’s face was expressionless, his eyes the flat black of a shark’s. His bare arms extruding from the sleeves of his olive camouflage pattern T-shirt were covered with scabs, scars, and tattoos. Ron could see wiry bulges of muscle beneath the taut skin and the jaundiced whites of eyes that spoke of hepatic disease. Yet the performance artist was barely breathing hard, whereas Ron’s chest rose and fell from the exertion of the chase. He kept his pistol leveled at Sato’s torso as Ben approached from behind him.

  “Cuff him,” Ron said. He nodded to Sato. “Try anything, and you’ll regret it.”

  “Why are you arresting me?” Sato demanded in a tight voice, only lightly accented.

  “Besides resisting arrest and evading police, you mean?”

  Sato spat to the side and returned Ron’s glare. “How could I know you were police?”

  “Who else would we be?”

  “In this neighborhood? Just about anybody but the cops.”

  The cuffs snapped closed and Ben did a careful search of Sato’s pockets. He retrieved a wad of hundred-dollar bills, a lighter, and a room key. Ben looked to Ron as he held up the finds.

  “Looks like our boy here is flush.”

  “Is it against the law to carry cash now?” Sato asked, his voice reasonable.

  “Depends,” Ben countered.

  “On what?” the Japanese asked.

  “On what we find in your room.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Ben grinned at Ron. “Hear that? We’ve got yet another innocent man. Amazing how that’s all we ever seem to arrest, isn’t it?”

  Ron nodded, his face somber. “The city’s full of innocent men. Come on. Let’s get him out of here and put a forensics team on his room.”

  Chapter 27

  Gunter awoke with a start, his head spinning, and groaned at the light from the window. He glanced at the digital clock on the end table next to him and rolled off the bed, every nerve in his body radiating pain. He stared at the nude man still snoring beside him and remembered where he was – he’d met his date at one of the clubs last night and, after Olympian quantities of tequila and coke, had accompanied him home.

  Gunter shook his head in an attempt to clear it and winced. His pulse was thudding in his temples, and his throat felt like he’d swallowed molten tar. He looked down at his naked form and moved to the bathroom, where he found a dusting of cocaine on a hand mirror that he was able to scrape into a tiny line and snort.

  The rush was barely sufficient to raise his pulse, but it was a start. He showered quickly and, after toweling off, found his clothes and slipped into them before making his way to the small living room.

  Three shots of tequila in a glass of orange juice cleared some of the haze of a blinding headache. He blew his nose into a paper towel and frowned when he was rewarded wit
h a palmful of blood.

  Five minutes later, after applying pressure and breathing through his mouth, the bleeding had stopped. He considered leaving a note for his new friend, but decided against it – the sex had been rough and wild, but nothing to write home about, and Gunter knew he could do better. The young man had potential, he thought, but better developed elsewhere. Gunter was not a patient instructor.

  Out on the sidewalk, he switched on his cell phone and checked his messages. There were two from potential clients asking to make appointments. He was in no shape to return calls, much less walk home, so he slipped the phone back into his pocket and hoofed it to the intersection to flag down a cab.

  The ride was mercifully short, and when the taxi pulled up to the curb at his block, Gunter paid the driver, fighting down nausea from the rocking of the car. He climbed from the back and approached his building – a two-story turn-of-the-twentieth-century wedge with four flats, perennially faulty plumbing, and reasonable-for-the-city rent.

  He keyed open the front door and climbed the stairs to the second-story landing. At the sound of the floorboards creaking, the door across from his flat opened, and an exaggeratedly feminine male voice called through the gap.

  “Gunter, sweetie. Is that you?”

  Gunter groaned inwardly. It was Marty, the obnoxious toad of a queen who lived next door. “Yes, Marty. I’m afraid it’s been a rough night, and I’m just getting in…”

  Marty stepped into the hallway, his paunch straining at a green silk shorty kimono. “You don’t look too bad. Nothing a little sleep won’t fix. Want a mimosa?”

  “Not today, thanks.”

  Marty’s expression grew serious. “The police were here looking for you not ten minutes ago.”

  “The police?” Gunter asked, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “Why?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “They talked to you?”

  “No, love, they knocked on your door. Nearly gave Miss Beth a heart attack.” Miss Beth was Marty’s annoying Yorkshire terrier, who, like her master, was easily spooked and resentful of anyone bigger than she was. The little rat growled at him whenever they encountered each other in the hall. Gunter didn’t know which he despised more, the dog or its owner – Marty was always making clumsy passes Gunter did his best to ignore.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. How did they get in?” Gunter asked.

  “Must have buzzed Arnold or Mrs. Guthrie downstairs.”

  “How odd. I hope there wasn’t a burglary at the shop…”

  “Best call your alarm company. I hope not.” Marty gave him a slit-eyed glance. “Ooh, you do look a little worked. I’d go down for a few winks. Been there myself a few times.” Marty sighed. “Seems like forever…”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Gunter said, anxious to terminate the discussion.

  “Ta-ta. Knock if you need anything. Anything at all. My offer of a mimosa or three stands.”

  “Will do.”

  Marty disappeared back into his lair, and Gunter fumbled with his keys. He’d barely gotten the door open when another wave of nausea enveloped him, this one far stronger than the last. He staggered to the kitchen and vomited into the sink, the prior night’s tequila and the morning’s cocktail less pleasant on the return trip, and stood dry heaving until the spasms passed. Weak from the exertion, he made it to his bedroom, swallowed two Xanax to fend off the worst of the hangover, and collapsed on his bed, resolved to call the alarm company as soon as the pills kicked in. He closed his eyes, the room spinning, and within two minutes the only sounds in the flat were the dull roar of a motorcycle from the street below and his soft snores, the drugs and three hours of drunken sleep having taken their toll.

  Chapter 28

  Ron arranged for DJ Endo to be released, with a promise he would remain in the city at a number where he could be contacted until further notice. The DJ griped about having to turn down work elsewhere, but agreed when Ron gave him the alternative, which was more time to think about things in the drunk tank.

  Ron watched the skinny punk strut from the station with typical jailhouse swagger and shook his head. Some were just meant to spend their lives in the system and would never learn from their near misses. Ron had absolutely no doubt the man would be back behind bars sooner than later, and his threat of Rikers would wind up being his reality.

  Normally Ron didn’t have much interaction with garden-variety criminals, who were usually below average intelligence – after all, one of the reasons they risked everything by being criminals in the first place was their inability to weigh risk against reward. The serial killers and the aggressively violent who were Ron’s beat tended to be at the higher end of the spectrum, which made the job more challenging, as well as frustrating.

  Ron and Ben reunited outside the holding room, where Sato was cooling his heels. They’d found a number of syringes and a dime bag of heroin in his room, along with a handful of antibiotics with no prescription, but nothing that pointed to his guilt with the victims. It would have been too easy to find a box with Dakota’s head in it, but that never stopped Ron from hoping.

  They opened the slab door and took seats across the familiar table. Sato was sitting motionless with his eyes closed. He opened them and fixed Ron with a neutral gaze. Ron resisted the urge to shiver – it was like being stared at by a lizard.

  “Like your skag, huh, Hitachi?” Ron began.

  The man shrugged. “Hitoshi. It is useful for the pain.”

  “It’s also illegal.”

  “Many things are in this country. I hurt nobody but myself.”

  Ron eyed Sato’s cuts. “Looks like you got dragged behind a truck there. What happened?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “It was a performance piece.”

  “What kind of sick crap is that?”

  “Like I said, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Is it symbolic of something?”

  “Naturally. All art is, if it’s good. Sometimes one must suffer for effect.”

  “Does that pay well?” Ron asked, genuinely curious.

  Sato shrugged. “I get by.”

  “With twelve grand in pocket change, I’d say you do more than that.”

  “I am a simple man with simple needs.”

  “And the heroin probably eats up a lot of your extra cash, am I right?”

  “We all carry our own burdens.”

  “You’re big into symbolism, huh? Those tats; your so-called art. It’s all about making a show, isn’t it?”

  “My life is performance. Yours is accosting people for no reason. I’m comfortable with my role.”

  “No reason? You took off across the roof. Not exactly the act of an innocent man.”

  “I explained that. I didn’t know you were police.”

  “Sticking with that story?”

  “As you pointed out, I have a small amount of a harmless substance for pain. It seemed prudent to make myself scarce.” Sato paused. “Besides, there is often violence in the hotel. I do not wish to be a victim.”

  “No, you’re all about inflicting the damage, am I right?”

  Sato frowned. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Come on. We know about the snuff films.”

  Sato sighed. “A vicious lie spread by a jealous competitor. Those were faked. The police finally figured it out after much fruitless investigation.” He offered a small half smile. “Even in my country, the police are not so smart at times.”

  Ron frowned. “You think this is funny?”

  “I still do not understand why you arrested me.”

  “Dusty. Does that ring any bells?”

  “You are criticizing my cleanliness now?”

  “Five foot seven. Black hair. Full-sleeve tats. Last seen with you nine nights ago at a party in Connecticut. Going to deny that, smart guy?” Ron growled.

  “You have me at a disadvantage. I did perform at an even
t in Connecticut. I’m still healing from it, as you can see. The rest has no meaning, I’m afraid.”

  “A girl, smart-ass. Dusty. You were doing lines with her after your show.”

  Sato’s eyes narrowed. “It was baking soda, I believe.”

  “Not the drugs, moron. The girl,” Ron snarled.

  “What about her?”

  “You know, you prick. You know damn good and well.”

  Sato shook his head. “It would be helpful if both of us had the faintest idea what you were talking about.”

  “Where did you take her?”

  “Take her? Nowhere. She was one of a number of people I said goodbye to after the performance.”

  “We have an eyewitness that has you with her right before she was killed.”

  Sato sat back, his face still impassive. “She is dead?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  “Why would I?”

  “It’s all over the news, for one.”

  “The hotel doesn’t come with a television. I don’t read the newspapers. You are mistaken.” Sato eyed Ron with his eerie flat stare. “You say she was killed that night?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Then it couldn’t have been me. My assistant drove me from Connecticut. She can vouch for my whereabouts.”

  “A junkie in a skid row pit has an assistant? Oh, yeah, we’ll believe that. So will a jury.”

  “She drove me from the venue to the emergency room,” Sato said. “Where I was admitted and treated. You can check the records. I assume you’ll apologize when you realize your mistake.”

  Ron tried to conceal his surprise. No wonder the man had been willing to talk without an attorney. “What hospital?”

  Sato named the largest facility in New Rochelle. “I was there for at least four hours. A lot of lacerations.”

  “You know we’re going to check.”

  “I hope you do so quickly. I don’t want the hotel to rent my room to someone else.”

  Ron stared Sato down. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Sato smiled, and the effect was chilling. “Detective, if I may offer some constructive criticism, you are not a convincing actor. I mean no disrespect.”