by Jason Starr
When Geri had been a patrol cop at the 34th Precinct, she’d had a mentor, Detective Antonio Munez. Antonio—now retired—was an old-timer, had been with the force since the seventies, and Geri had learned everything she knew about detective work from him. Maybe it was corny, but sometimes when she was working on a case she heard Antonio’s voice in her head, guiding her, and now she heard one of his favorite phrases: No hay tal cosa como coincidencias (“There are no such things as coincidences”). That advice had never seemed any more appropriate than in the Olivia Becker disappearance case. She was dating a shady guy, Michael Hartman, who was the alibi in three murders in New Jersey, and now her best friend was killed at close range, with no apparent motive? There had to be some connection somewhere.
Geri wasn’t sure what to do next. She could go to her CO, Dan, trying to persuade him to let her take over the investigation, but coincidences weren’t evidence, and she doubted Dan would let her have the case, especially given how much of a hard-ass he’d been about the Becker case. Since the disappearance was Detective Mangel’s case, she could let him in on what had happened to the woman he’d questioned, but would Mangel take it seriously? Yeah, he’d look into it, talk to the Michigan police, but without any solid link to the Olivia Becker case it was doubtful he’d start requestioning witnesses. Mangel had struck Geri as a paper pusher. He had to be in his midfifties, probably looking at early retirement options. Why rock the boat? If Mangel did find a link to Becker and possibly to the New Jersey murders, it could be even worse because with a killer possibly crossing state lines, the Feds would get involved. At that point, Geri would be shut out of the case completely.
Willy and Wonka were meowing, Willy rubbing his head up against Geri’s leg as she sat on the toilet, peeing.
“Okay, guys, I’ll feed you, I’ll feed you,” Geri said. “Just chill out. Mommy’s got a lot on her mind this morning.”
They kept meowing until she went into the kitchen and put some Fancy Feast filet mignon–flavored cat food into their bowl.
“I helped you guys out, how about you give me some help now?” Geri said to the cats. “What do you guys think I should do? Do I hand this over to Mangel so he can sit on his fat sexist ass, or do I work on it myself?”
The cats ignored her, devouring their food, and then, with horror, Geri thought, Oh, God, was I actually talking to my cats? Maybe it was just lack of sleep, or maybe she was going crazy, losing her mind.
But she couldn’t deny that seeking advice from her cats and hearing herself out loud had solidified in her head what she had to do. She had to be uptown later in the morning, to meet about the Washington Heights case, but before then she was going to go downtown, hopefully to talk to Michael Hartman at his apartment in Tribeca. She had questioned him there before, when she was investigating the New Jersey murders. She considered calling first, to save time if he wasn’t there, but she preferred to have the element of surprise in her investigations. When people were caught off guard they were more likely to slip up, sometimes leading to breaks in cases.
She cabbed it downtown, making it in good time early on a Sunday morning. Hartman lived in an industrial building that had been converted to co-ops, probably in the eighties or nineties when a lot of the gentrification in Tribeca had taken place. She remembered that Hartman had told her that he owned the entire building. How many millions was a building this size in Tribeca worth? Five, ten? His family used to own a brewery, so maybe that was where he’d gotten rich. Or, who knows, maybe he was a drug kingpin. There was definitely something off about the guy. Maybe he didn’t kill his girlfriend and her best friend to cover it up, but he was probably hiding something.
After pressing the M. HARTMAN button, Geri waited about a minute. It was possible he wasn’t home or was still sleeping—it was only just after nine after all. Or maybe he was home but just wasn’t letting her in. There was a camera on the intercom; it could be on and he was watching her. She definitely felt watched. She buzzed again, waited about a minute, then buzzed a third time and waited. She was about to buzz time number four when she heard the intercom go on.
“You’ve come to see me,” Hartman said.
Geri remembered that Michael had this weird way of talking, where he was very direct and straightforward. It was only one of the weird things about the guy.
“You remember me, huh?” Geri said, looking at the camera, uncomfortable that he could see her but she couldn’t see him. It made her feel like she was one step behind, not in control, and she hated that feeling.
The buzzer beeped and Geri entered the vestibule, where the elevator’s doors opened on their own for her. In the elevator, she pressed 4, but the button didn’t light up, and then the doors closed very fast. She tried the button again, still no luck, and then tried the other buttons.
Muttering to herself, hoping she wasn’t stuck, she continued pressing buttons. Then, after maybe ten more seconds, the elevator started moving. At the fourth floor, when the doors opened, Michael was waiting. He was maybe ten feet away from the elevator with his hands at his sides. His gray, almost white hair was combed straight back and he was wearing the same red silk robe he’d been wearing the last time she’d interviewed him. Who did the guy think he was, Hugh Hefner?
“I’m waiting for you,” he said.
In addition to the weird way he spoke, he had an accent, maybe German, but it didn’t really sound German. It sounded like a mix of German and something else.
“Well, I got up here as fast as I could,” Geri said.
She waited for him to say something, maybe invite her into the living room area of the huge loft, which was the size of an entire floor of the building—he had all this money from a beer business that wasn’t even a business anymore? Hm—but he didn’t say anything, just stared at her with his very dark eyes. That was another weird thing about him—his eyes and the way he stared at her. She didn’t know if he did that to everybody or if he was just trying to be a wise guy, to make her feel uncomfortable. Geri was usually good at reading people, could figure out an MO, but Michael Hartman was a total mystery to her.
“So,” Geri said, “can we sit down for a few minutes? I know it’s early in the morning, but something just came up that I really need to talk to you about.”
“You’ve found Olivia,” Michael said.
“No,” Geri said. “Actually I’m not really working on that case, but that’s actually part of the reason I’m here. Can we sit down?”
That’s the way, tell him what to do. Take back control.
But Michael just stood there.
“Or,” Geri said, “if you prefer to go down to the station and talk, we can do it that way.”
“It’s not your case,” Michael said.
“Yeah,” Geri said. “So?”
“You won’t take me to the precinct to talk. You can’t take me to the precinct; that’s why you’re here.”
So much for getting back in control.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk to me, you don’t have to,” Geri said. “But this might be my case soon, and I guarantee if I have to come back here again I won’t be nearly as pleasant.”
Geri was trying to regain the upper hand, the way she would with a usual person she questioned on a case, but Michael wasn’t a usual person—that was becoming very clear. Nothing seemed to faze this guy. Actually Geri’s threat had the opposite effect, as she was the one who felt threatened. He wasn’t doing anything to make her feel in danger; there was just something about him that exuded a general feeling of menace. Maybe it was the way his dark eyes were fixed on her and his expression was entirely blank, and she had no idea what he was thinking, or what he might do next. Just in case, Geri was aware of her Glock 26, her off-duty piece, tucked in a holster right above her waist. She knew, if she had to, she could have it in her hand and fire it in less than two seconds. She’d always been a quick draw, the fastest draw in her year at the academy.
“Come,” Michael said, and he walked towar
d the living room area, leaving her behind near the elevators.
Geri hated that she felt so intimidated; she was the cop, she was the one who was supposed to do the intimidating. She took a deep breath, getting a grip, then went into the living room area, where Michael was already seated where he’d sat the other time she’d been here—on a chair across from the couch. It was a wooden chair; it looked like an antique, and it was several inches higher than the level of the couch where Geri sat. Had he planned it this way so he could be above her, looking downward? Yeah, probably.
“Your son with his mother?” Geri asked, looking toward a Power Ranger Black Wolf action figure on the coffee table. She’d met his young boy during his last visit.
“You don’t have children,” Michael said.
“Excuse me?” The statement was so unusual that Geri was caught a little off guard.
“Having a child is the most beautiful thing in the world,” Michael said. “There is nothing more rewarding than looking into your son’s eyes, noticing his resemblance to yourself, knowing he’s yours, that you created him.”
“Yes, I agree,” Geri said, deciding that Michael was probably mentally ill or at least had a major personality disorder, and she had to stop letting him get to her.
“Yet you chose not to have a child,” he said. “You wanted to be alone, without beauty.”
Geri had no idea how he seemed to know details of her personal life.
“Thanks for your insight,” Geri said, “but I’m not here to talk about me; I’m here to talk about a woman who was killed in Michigan last week. Do you know Diane Coles?”
“Yes,” Michael said.
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.
She asked, “How did you two meet?”
“Olivia was my lover.”
“So you met through Olivia.”
Michael didn’t answer.
“Did you talk to Diane after Olivia disappeared?”
“No,” Michael said.
Geri was frustrated that she still couldn’t read Michael; she had no idea if he was lying or telling the truth.
“Were you and Diane friendly?”
“She was a friend of my lover.”
“I know, you said that, but were you friends?”
Long stare, then finally, “No.”
“So did you see Diane frequently?”
“Diane was the lover of a man in my pack.”
“I’m sorry. Your pack?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I’m wrong about this, but you don’t seem very surprised to hear about Diane’s death.”
“Death never surprises me.” Michael was deadpan.
“Really?” Geri wondered, Is this guy for real?
“I’m sorry, maybe I’m just having trouble reading you,” Geri said, “but you don’t seem very upset about any of this actually. I told you the girlfriend of one of your friends was killed, and you don’t seem to care very much one way or another.”
For a long time, maybe ten seconds, Michael didn’t answer. Again, Geri was aware of the menace he was emitting, and she was trying her hardest not to let it affect her.
Finally he said, “I don’t feel sadness.”
“Never?” Geri tried to stare at him, give him a taste of what it felt like, but she felt silly and it didn’t seem to be having any effect on him anyway. Then she said, “You don’t even feel sad when somebody dies, somebody close to you?”
“The woman wasn’t close to me.”
“But ‘the woman’ was close to your friend. Don’t you feel bad about that?”
“Only the weak feel bad about death.”
“I know some strong people who feel pretty bad when somebody dies.”
“Death is natural.”
“Diane didn’t die of natural causes.” She didn’t want to mention that Diane had been shot, hoping that he’d let this fact slip himself if he was involved.
But instead he said, “Animals don’t mourn the dead.”
“Why does it matter what animals do?” Geri asked. “And by the way, that’s not true. If a dog loses a friend, the dog mourns. Monkeys mourn.”
“Mourning is weakness,” Michael said.
Geri was frustrated that she’d lost control of her questioning again, that they were talking about freaking monkeys. She asked, “Where were you the night Olivia Becker disappeared?”
“You’re asking this question, yet this isn’t your case,” Michael said.
“Please just answer the question.”
“Questions only waste time. You should be direct. You don’t have questions; you want knowledge. You’re asking me if I killed my lover, Olivia, or if I killed Ramon’s lover. I didn’t kill these people. Now you have the knowledge you came for and you can leave.”
Hating that she was flustered, Geri asked, “Is Ramon the guy in your pack?”
“Yes,” Michael said.
“Okay then, well, if you don’t mind another of my silly questions, can anybody besides your father vouch that you didn’t take a trip to Michigan last week?”
“My pack knows where I was.”
“Who else is in your pack of friends besides Ramon?”
“There is Charlie.”
“What about your playground buddy, Simon Burns?”
Michael didn’t answer. Geri was getting tired of mind games.
Then Michael said, “Yes, Simon is in my pack. But Ramon and Charlie know I was here. You must go now.”
Even though she was about ready to leave anyway, she didn’t like being told what to do.
“Do these guys in your pack, Charlie and Ramon, have last names?” she asked.
“I don’t know their surnames,” he said.
“Wait, these are your friends and you don’t know their last names?”
“Names don’t concern me,” he said.
“Yeah, well, they concern me,” Geri said. “How about their phone numbers?”
Without bothering to mention where he was going, Michael walked away to another part of the loft. He returned a few minutes later with his phone and gave Geri Charlie and Ramon’s numbers.
“I have given you what you want; now leave,” he said.
Smiling, thinking, Well, this is one day I’ll never forget, she went to the elevator. When she got on, Michael stood watching her until the doors closed. Geri pressed the button for the ground level, but, like before, the elevator didn’t budge for a long time, and then, without any button lit up, it moved on its own. Maybe there was something wrong with the buttons that they didn’t light up, but Geri had a feeling that Michael was controlling the elevator with some remote switch. But just because the guy was weird as hell and a control freak didn’t mean he had anything to do with any murders. Still, Geri felt something off about him, and she was eager to check up with his friends Charlie and Ramon. It was interesting that Michael had seemed uncomfortable at the mention of Simon Burns. Was there some kind of rift there? That was another thing to look into.
It was ten to ten and Geri needed to be all the way uptown at Manhattan North ASAP or she’d catch more hell from Dan. She figured a cab would be faster than the subway, but maybe this wasn’t her day because in midtown she hit bumper-to-bumper traffic—thank you very much, marathon.
Simon rushed into the bathroom off the hallway and tried to lock the door but couldn’t. His hands had already partially transformed into claws and he couldn’t push the lock on the handle. The pain in his joints and bones was practically unbearable, and though he was trying to scream, he was making a loud growling sound.
“Simon? What the hell is going on in there? Simon?”
Alison opened the door to the bathroom, but only an inch or two, before Simon used his weight to slam it shut.
“Simon, what’s wrong with you?”
“I’m okay,” he said, or tried to say. He could think the words but couldn’t speak them.
Alison was still pushing against the door, saying, “Simon, open up, Simon,” and th
en he had an idea. He bent over—it was weird, his back felt extremely flexible and agile—and used his tongue—which had become thicker, longer, and much stronger—to push the lock shut. The whole thing was ridiculous, of course, because how could a flimsy little lock restrain him?