American Devil th&dl-1

by Oliver Stark

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A guy. We had a drink.’ She was twisting in her seat. How the fuck did she get out of this one? She had no idea. Maybe last night had marked the end of her career, not the beginning.

  ‘Sleep with him, did you, Erin?’

  ‘That’s not against the law, is it?’

  ‘Is that how you got the information? Sexual favours?’

  ‘Fuck you, I’m a grown-up, I can sleep with who I like.’

  As he was about to speak, Harper’s cell phone buzzed. He picked up and listened. The room went deadly silent as Harper ’s face tensed, and then his eyes closed momentarily. The duty sergeant on the line had just got a call from the patrol at Kitty’s apartment. It wasn’t good news. They’d found Kitty Hunyardi’s body and she was posed just like Erin Nash’s article said, with her hands removed. But there was one important fact that Erin had missed. Kitty’s body was still warm and a copy of the Daily Echo was sitting by her head. She’d been killed after the paper had come out. Harper listened and then hung up. Kitty had only just died. Harper turned to Erin, his face very harsh.

  ‘Who’s your source, Erin? Believe me, this just got fucking serious.’

  ‘He said he worked on your team.’

  ‘I want a name, Erin.’

  ‘Mark Garcia. I looked him up. He’s authentic. He works your team.’

  Harper pointed to the shocked cop standing at his side. ‘This is Mark Garcia. Was this the guy?’

  ‘No,’ Erin said, her voice trembling. ‘That’s not Mark Garcia. He was much taller, dark-haired, slightly grey.’ She stared at Harper’s face. ‘What is it? What’s with the look? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s happened?’

  ‘You slept with this guy? This fake cop? You let him in your apartment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About three weeks ago? We spent the night together a few times. He gets in touch by phone. We talk. He didn’t seem that interested in me. Who is it? Who the fuck is it?’

  ‘When did he last call?’

  ‘Yesterday evening. He told me all about Kitty’s murder. I just had to run with it.’

  ‘What can you tell us about him?’

  ‘It was a while ago. Like I said, he was nice-looking, had salt-and-pepper hair and was about six foot one or two. Tell me what the fuck’s going on, please!’

  ‘That call was from the precinct. Kitty Hunyardi has just been found murdered in her apartment. Her body’s still warm. How the hell did your source know about a murder before it had even been committed? How did you know?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t think.’

  ‘Then let me spell it out for you, Erin — there’s only one person in the world who can know about a murder before it’s been committed.’

  Erin was shivering and shaking her head. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. She’d kissed the guy, slept with him. Jesus!

  ‘Your source, Erin, the man you brought back here to fuck around with. The man you let into your apartment. The man you’ve been helping all along.’

  ‘No, please!’ Erin Nash’s face drained of colour. She was completely still. Shock was paralysing her. She couldn’t speak.

  ‘It wasn’t Mark Garcia feeding you the information. It was the killer — the American Devil — he’s your fucking source, Erin. You’ve been sleeping with the American Devil.’

  PART THREE

  November 26-December 1

  ‘For each man kills the thing he loves.’

  Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Rockaway Beach, Long Island

  November 26, 3.12 p.m.

  Out on Rockaway Beach, the Atlantic winds snapped across the two walkers’ faces in sharp icy bursts. Up above, the sky spread out bright and cloudless. ‘It’s cold as hell,’ shouted Denise Levene as she struggled along with her chin deep in her collar. Ahead, the athletic figure of Tom Harper continued to push its way along the edge of the surf, binoculars scanning left to right.

  Kitty Hunyardi’s death had knocked everybody off their feet, including Harper. The investigation went from elation to sudden meltdown. Then it got worse. The press had been primed by the police commissioner to hunt for their victim down at North Manhattan Homicide and they descended like a swarm of angry bees. And Harper got stung, along with everyone else who worked Homicide that day. The public were frightened, the press were stoking the sense of outrage and wouldn’t let up. Winston Carlisle was not the American Devil. He was a set-up.

  It had been a tough time for Tom, but worst of all was the horrible realization that the American Devil was still out there, planning his next kill. Harper found himself wishing that the battle-hardened Nate Williamson was at his side as they fielded press questions. Nate would’ve told it how it was. No soft soap, no apologies, just iron with a sprinkling of lead. He’s a maniac killer who’s trying to fuck the city up, confuse us and throw us patsies. It’s a fucking game to him — what do you think he would do, hand himself in? Tom heard Williamson’s voice in his head and couldn’t believe he missed the guy as much as he did.

  And there was one other piece of bad news that Harper hadn’t yet told Denise. At the end of the twelve-to-four shift the previous day, Captain Lafayette had called Harper into his small glass office on the fourth floor and twisted his mouth sympathetically. That wasn’t a good sign. Harper saw it and shook his head. He was off the case. He was off Homicide. He was off active duty. Harper was asked to hand his shield and gun over. He did so in silence, the two men awkward and clumsy.

  They needed a carcass to throw to the press pack and it was the lead detective first. They needed to say that a new lead was being given the ball. If that didn’t calm the situation down, the commissioner would just keep humping bodies out the door. Lafayette would be next. ‘I’m sorry,’ the captain had said. Harper had smiled thinly and walked out.

  The long white sands reached out as far as they could see. From Jacob Riis Park all the way to Atlantic Beach, the sea rolled white crests over and over with a relentless crashing beat. The two friends were buttoned up against the wind, their hair flapping wildly. Denise’s spaniel was running all over the beach, his big soft ears flopping around in the wind. Denise had heard about the murder of Kitty Hunyardi on the news but could only guess how Harper was feeling. She tried to contact him all through Sunday, but he’d gone for a long walk.

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk,’ said Denise.

  ‘Yeah, but walking is better.’

  ‘Better to keep it all inside till it ruins you. Just what I would’ve recommended, as your psychologist. It’s a surefire way to mental health.’

  ‘Not much to say, Denise. I’m here for some R and R — and I want to show you something.’

  ‘There’s nothing here that could possibly be worth seeing.’

  They walked up the low dunes that reached towards the streets running across Long Island. Tom stopped by a low sign cautioning against the tide.

  ‘The great unknown,’ said Tom, staring out across the vast ocean.

  The grey water was churning and beating the shore with a frightening regularity. Denise pushed her hands into her coat and sat down. ‘You got a hat or something? My ears are gonna fall off.’ Fahrenheit appeared between Denise’s legs and placed his muzzle on her lap. She stroked his warm fur.

  Harper reached into his backpack and handed her a green hunting hat with ear flaps. Denise pulled the hat over her head and tied it under her chin, then turned to Harper. He nodded in approval. ‘You look like Kyle from South Park.’

  ‘God, you know how to make a woman feel special,’ said Denise.

  He raised his eyebrows and looked out to the ocean.

  ‘Listen, Tom, at least tell me what happened,’ she said, reaching out and putting her hand on his arm for comfort.

  ‘I got moved off the case. That’s it. I got moved off the damn case.’

  Denise felt a lump in her throat but con
trolled it. ‘Remember what I taught you about revealing the detail, Tom?’

  Harper’s head shook slowly. ‘The detail is I failed. The detail is that this maniac killer just duped us all and got me and half the team canned. So they’re going to start again with a new lead. Someone from Manhattan South. It’ll take them weeks to catch up. The killer’s going to be laughing. I feel so fucking useless, Denise, if you want the truth. So fucking impotent. And more women will die because of this.’

  ‘The killer set you up?’

  ‘Yeah, but we don’t know how, exactly. It looks like Winston Carlisle was being controlled and manipulated by someone. Witnesses saw another man visiting Carlisle on several occasions. Winston is a little vague himself but said he thought he was a doctor from the hospital. This guy, who we presume is the American Devil, sent Winston this list of instructions about how and when to stalk Kitty. Winston followed them to the letter. Let’s face it, I called the chase at the subway and it was the wrong guy.’

  ‘You didn’t fail, you took a chance. What do they want, police by numbers?’

  ‘That’s exactly what they want. Statistics don’t lie. We’ve got a serial killer in Manhattan, they asked me to catch him and I didn’t close the deal. I’m embarrassing some serious players up at the top of the tree.’

  ‘They want him caught in under three weeks? What the hell do they expect?’

  ‘Kitty Hunyardi died when we were busy interrogating an innocent man. The way it looks, we went way, way down the wrong track.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I made a mistake. I’ve been going over it in my head. I don’t know where it happened.’ Tom looked across at Denise. ‘I’m sorry for what I said about the profile. You were right to doubt Carlisle. I was pumped up. I saw what Sebastian wanted me to see.’

  Levene stared up to catch his expression. ‘How did this Carlisle guy get caught up with Sebastian?’

  ‘Carlisle had a history of minor sexual assaults, and my guess is he made a good ringer. The killer must’ve come across him in the hospital on Ward’s Island somehow. They’re looking into it, but Winston said that the first time he saw this guy was at the halfway house. Sebastian chose him to make us look like fools. He could’ve left us to stew for a while, but he went for Kitty as soon as he could. I think he got jealous of all the attention Winston was getting. Maybe he had to show the world that the great killer was still top dog. And that the cops had fucked up.’

  ‘What was Erin Nash’s part?’

  ‘Sebastian met her in a bar, told her he was a cop, fed her information and ended up in her bed. He set that up too. He wanted the world to know what he was doing in all the detail.’

  ‘How is she? Quite a shock to discover you’ve been sleeping with a killer.’

  ‘Yeah, the shock lasted a good ten minutes, then she realized that she was sitting on a gold mine. You could see the book title running before her eyes: My Nights With a Killer by Erin Nash.’

  Denise shook her head and started to pound her feet on the ground to keep warm. ‘Is there a cafe around here?’

  ‘Not at this time of year.’

  ‘Hell, it’s freezing.’ She stood up and they began moving on. ‘My thoughts on the profile have changed a little, Tom. He’s not going to be like the statistical norm, he’s one of the pathfinders. An original.’

  ‘It’s not my case any more, Denise. You’ll have to find another cop.’

  ‘Come on. Don’t give in so easily. What about the girl in the dumpster? Any leads on her?’

  ‘We identified her as far as we could. She had two tattoos that people recognized. We think her name is Lottie Bixley. She was a hooker. She went missing for four days and then turned up dead. No one thinks it’s his kill. It’s not his style. There’s no prints, no DNA, nothing.’

  ‘What about you, what do you think?’

  ‘I can’t quite believe it’s nothing to do with Sebastian. I found a cherry blossom petal in the dirt by the dumpster. You don’t find much cherry blossom in New York in November. Everyone else thinks I’ve lost it.’

  ‘It needs explaining.’

  ‘I know, and it’s one of three things. Either it’s one of life’s strange but random coincidences, one of us contaminated the scene or Sebastian was somehow involved in her death.’

  ‘Where would you put your money?’

  ‘She’s a hooker and there are no other similarities, but I would bet on Sebastian’s involvement.’

  ‘She was missing for four days. He’s not done that before, has he?’ Denise said.

  ‘Well, maybe I’m just reading too much into things. It’s only a petal.’

  ‘Unless Sebastian changed his MO radically because of some changed circumstance, like his wife and family were away for a few days and he couldn’t let himself miss the opportunity. It’s worth a look, isn’t it? Maybe he had an opportunity to keep one at his house for a while. Maybe he dumped her quickly because something disturbed him.’

  ‘I’d look at it, Denise, but, as I said, it’s not my case.’

  ‘You can’t give up, Tom.’

  They walked along the sand until Tom stopped and his arm reached across to halt Denise. ‘Wait up one second.’ He put his binoculars to his eyes and felt a warm thrill reach right down to his stomach. ‘She’s a damn beauty. Take a look at that.’

  Denise took the binoculars. It took her a second to find what Harper wanted her to see. There it was, sitting on a heap of white rocks, the wind buffeting its white feathers.

  ‘That’s what I came for. Isn’t it the finest thing you ever saw?’ said Harper, taking the glasses back.

  ‘What is it?’ said Denise.

  Harper laughed. ‘That city-girl act is no act, is it?’ Denise shook her head. ‘It’s a snowy owl,’ he said and stared again at the yellow eyes, the ripple of black markings and the end of its hooked beak. ‘Looks beautiful, but it’s got some serious talons under those pretty feathers.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The Jersey Bar, Harlem

  November 26, 10.35 p.m.

  The interior of the Jersey Bar looked just like Harper felt and that was how he wanted it. He sat on a red velvet barstool with a rip right across the centre and looked into the dim lights peering from beneath old yellowing shades. There wasn’t a barman in sight, only the streaks of dried beer running the length of the counter. Up back, a small wooden dance floor stood empty and looked as sad as a three-legged dog. Four other customers in various shades of lonely were stowed away in darkened booths and none of them looked like they wanted to talk, which was just about perfect. Tom slumped his whole weight against the bar and waited for someone to serve him.

  They’d driven back over from Long Island in the warmth of her little Honda with the dog licking his neck the whole way. They’d talked a little more about the case in sentences that seemed to get lost in the sound of the traffic, and at some point she realized that he wasn’t listening and the case drifted away into the darkness. She let him out just over the Triborough Bridge, but he only managed two or three steps towards his apartment before he felt the old familiar sense of dread. The horrible fact of being alone was that you went home dog tired but as soon as you were through the door the bright lights in your heart flickered on and you were trapped with your own carousel of memories. Home was a place you sometimes didn’t want to get to.

  Four beers in and Harper was drumming his fingers to the country music and letting his memories pitch and recede like the tide. He watched the oddballs come and go with little curiosity and sometimes managed a smile of acknowledgement. Patsy Cline was soon drowning out all else in the bar with her sad stories. She’d just started an old song, ‘I Don’t Wanna’.

  Tom sipped his beer. He didn’t need memories now. He listened to Patsy Cline singing about love and the lack of it. The beer and music were doing all the work his heart needed.

  Love felt like a hollow echo of some once perfect time and place. Perhaps it was just a fantasy
that kept emerging from the deep to ruin your life. He felt so mad at Lisa, his teeth clenched. It wouldn’t happen again. He’d keep things tight and impersonal. His eyes lifted. A couple danced in the gloom. He watched their hands clasp and their hips touch.

  Sometimes it was hard to admit that it wasn’t anger eating him up, but something else entirely. Levene had it right. It was plain old loneliness. It was never easy to open the door to need, but the beer was helping and Harper knew that what he wanted was nothing more than to hug up close to someone and let the world drift away. He drained his glass and listened.

  As the song finished, an attractive brunette who’d been catching his glances sidled up to him at the bar and pulled up a stool. She was mid-thirties, wore tight denims and a top with a deep neckline.

  ‘You mind if I join you for a conversation?’

  ‘I never mind a conversation,’ Harper said.

  She sat. For a moment, Harper wondered where she was from and what she did. He took in the heavy perfume, the lack of a ring on her wedding finger and the tired look in her eyes.

  ‘What you thinking about tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘Why love passes us by.’

  ‘My, that’s a big topic.’

  ‘How about you? Love pass you by?’

  She smiled. It was nice. ‘Well, it stopped in the station a day or two.’

  ‘Same here,’ Harper said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Samantha. You?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘What do you do, Tom?’

  ‘Me, I don’t know. I really don’t know any more.’

  She laughed. ‘Me neither.’

  They talked for an hour — he told her all about Lisa; he heard all about her Frank. Then Tammy Wynette came on the jukebox, singing ‘Help me make it through the night’, and Samantha took his hand and led him out from the seat. She came up close to him on the dance floor and they slow-danced to the sentimental old song, her warm body comfortable against his.

  It’d been years since Harper had felt another’s skin next to his own apart from Lisa’s. He felt strange, like a man doing something he shouldn’t. He was moving like a wooden marionette, and Samantha felt it.