“He’s a complete horror movie. What’s with ‘Ms. Lauria’? He’s a feminist too?”
“Interesting touch of the modern there. One shrink will probably spend chapters on that alone.”
Most of Breslin’s own writing in the column featured interviews with the parents of Donna Lauria, Son of Sam’s first victim. The murder had taken place almost a year ago on July 29, though it took six months for anyone to figure out she’d been targeted by a serial killer.
Breslin did spend a fair few column inches playing ace crime fighter. “The only way for the killer to leave this special torment is to give himself up to me, if he trusts me, to the police, and receive both help and safety,” the columnist wrote. “If he wants any further contact, all he has to do is call or write me at the Daily News.”
Taylor pointed to the words. “So there is another way for Son of Sam to end things.”
He phoned in his stitched-together piece on the News’ big scoop, what was called in the news business a follow. It was never fun to follow.
Cramly, in on Sunday duty, finished typing the dictated story. “How are we going to get anything if he’s writing directly to Breslin?”
“Good question. Make sure you ask Novak.”
Taylor and Samantha started the walk to their apartment.
A psychopath with his own brand name/nickname/sobriquet/whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it hunting young people and writing letters to cops and famous newspaper columnists. A year ago, during the Bicentennial, with the city seemingly bailed out, Taylor had thought New York was making a comeback. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe they weren’t in the middle of a three-ring circus, but banished to an outer circle of Dante’s hell, with New York moving ever inward.
Dante was the sort of reference his father would have made. He couldn’t escape the man, hard as he tried.
Existential crisis was another of the Professor’s references. Taylor wasn’t having one of those; he was suffering a deep-in-the-center-of-his-chest panic, like a lump of black lead squeezed his heart. He knew none of his skill, experience, or ability could be brought to bear on the Son of Sam story. He could interview scared citizens or bankrupt disco owners driven out of business because kids were staying home. That would get him jack shit on the real story here. Logic said he’d taken the right path. Nights like this—with that lump of lead, doubt—plagued him miserably.
If he sat in the office all day and wrote up whatever little scraps of Son of Sam info he could get, no one would blame him. Novak and Cramly would probably cheer him on.
He couldn’t do it.
The Gibson story was his to chase. Now he had the lead on the DeVries investment advisor Denny Connell. He didn’t know if it would lead to Martha Gibson’s killer, but it could get him a story no one else had.
Taylor and Samantha turned onto their street.
Work wasn’t the only thing dragging on him. Memories of Billy ghosted into his mind at least once a day now, as if they were his price for refusing to attend to the death of his father. He wasn’t sure what kind of crisis to call this, but images, scenes, and bits of conversations he hadn’t thought about for years had come back to him. He was fatigued. Missing things. Cramly had to yell at him twice to answer a phone in the office Friday. He should welcome memories he thought were lost. He couldn’t. They were pushing him down a dark hole, with the weight of his job anxieties making it hard to resist the drop.
They were halfway down the block, and Samantha checked behind them for the third time since they left Lex. She had one hand on Taylor’s arm, the other held to her side, most assuredly on the grip of her Colt Detective.
“He hasn’t attacked in Manhattan,” Taylor said.
“You read the note. He’s a nut. Who knows what he’ll do? I’ve got long hair and it looks dark enough at night.”
“Yet I know judo.”
An exasperated laugh. “I’m scared. Don’t you think this is how the whole city feels?”
“Probably everyone under thirty. Anyone with a daughter or son under thirty. Probably everyone else, including seventy-year-old mothers of chauffeurs. Same time, we’re far more likely to get murdered by one of thousands of other killers, none of whom will send a Boris Karloff note.”
The temperature had cooled off from the humid eighties of midday—hot for early June. The weather forecasters, scaremongers by trade, had been warning that the record cold winter didn’t mean a mild summer. The way things were going, Taylor wouldn’t bet against the meteorologists. Not this time.
Inside the apartment, Mason—still unaware, always unaware he should be nervous—said hello to both of them. He’d already had his evening walk, though this wasn’t something he believed until Taylor sat on the couch.
Samantha brought in a Rolling Rock and a glass of red wine.
Taylor turned on the TV, flipped between the local news to hear their take on the Son of Sam letter. Somehow, they made it sound more frightening than when he’d read it to himself. After Eyewitless News anchor Bill Beutel finished the story and co-anchor Roger Grimsby made a joke, the station cut to a commercial. An angler in a rushing river, with a serious New England accent, spoke to the camera, “I live in New Hampshire, but I love New York.”
“Not seen this before,” Taylor said.
A song started up, first low in the background, a chorus singing, “I Love New York.” A woman came on next, holding a horse by the bridle. She spoke with a Southern accent. “I live in North Carolina, but I love New York.” An announcer offered an 800 number for a 100-page New York vacation guide. The spot finished with a line on the screen: I, a red heart, and New York.
“I heart New York?” Samantha said.
“Think it means, I love New York.”
“I know, but what the hell is that about? The song? Who’s going to love New York? Homicidal maniac. Bankrupt. Frightening murder rate. Who are they trying to fool?”
“Most of the pictures were of upstate.”
“So they’re giving up on the city?”
“Who knows? It won’t last. The money won’t last.”
He turned off the TV and put side B of Born to Run in the cassette player of the all-in-one stereo. He wanted the last two songs. “Meeting Across the River” and “Jungleland.” Especially “Jungleland.”
She curled into his side. “Crime I can take. I wanted to put bad guys away. This madness is … evil.”
Taylor sent seven ounces of lager toward the black lead weight. The pressure eased a little.
“Yeah, it is.”
Chapter 18
Taylor mixed up two Bloody Marys. His second rule of drinking—not imbibing breakfast—didn’t count with brunch, since brunch wasn’t breakfast, it being later. Sunday was traditionally the brunch day, but Taylor liked it better on Saturdays, coming so nicely as it did after a perhaps rough Friday night.
Mason watched Taylor stir the drinks. The dog assumed anything being prepared in the kitchen was either for him or might result in a spill that was for him. It was in these moments the dog attained his highest level of focus—his only level of focus, Taylor claimed.
Today’s Bloody was a corrective for far too many little beers last night. He’d worked his ass off the past two weeks since he’d seen DeVries and needed it. Or wanted it. Or both.
He’d come up with some details on Denny Connell, but nothing on where he or the DeVries money had disappeared. The bunco boys weren’t any help, of course. This wasn’t their kind of con. They were used to street-level stuff, Three-Card Monte and wallet switches, along with home repair rip-offs and the collection of other swindles used on the aged.
Connell’s office in a Lexington Avenue midrise had been turned over in such a way that Taylor thought someone wanted it to look thoroughly searched. Papers everywhere, sure. But why flip the desk upside down? DeVries was Connell’s only client; he acted like the head of finance for the family, so there were no other victims for Taylor to interview. The landlord was properly pissed off he’d been s
tiffed on the rent, but had no info that would point where Connell had gone. Taylor had collected all the papers scattered on the floor and gone through them with DeVries. He’d said the documents reflected the accounts as they were before the theft. Probably left intentionally.
The obvious move for Connell would have been to flee the country, assuming he was able to transfer the money somewhere he could get at it. Taylor would need the FBI or INS to help with that, which was about as easy as finding a dentist who could do a painless root canal.
Abigail Gibson was still missing. This was no surprise. Junkies often moved when their supplier moved (or, in this case, was shot dead). He had hoped the rent-controlled apartment might bring her back. It wasn’t free, but cheap as she would get aside from a shooting gallery. Instead, the need for smack had sent Abigail wandering, and she hadn’t been at the apartment the times Taylor had checked. The last and only time her parents had seen her, they had given her cash to help with the rent, which probably only helped her buy more heroin. She could be dead, an overdose, by now. The loose end was like an itch at the back of Taylor’s neck. He wanted conclusive proof the junkie and the hitman weren’t the reason Martha was murdered.
He’d visited Chris Jones, Jerome McGill’s surviving accomplice, at Rikers, but the gunman wouldn’t talk. Taylor had tried to sell him on the idea that a news profile might help Jones’ case, but Jones politely told Taylor to go the fuck away.
He delivered the Bloody Marys to the living room. Samantha was reading the Saturday Daily News.
The horseradish sent a spicy tingle up his nose. The sting of a Bloody Mary was almost as important as the vodka. Almost. He flipped the Times to a story on the Emergency Financial Control Board approving New York City’s budget and the formal request for a $750 million seasonal loan from the U.S. Treasury. He’d committed to reading this dull financial stuff because it was his city and he ought to know if and why it was going over the edge—something he’d never expected until it almost happened in 1975. New York’s near bankruptcy was tied in tangentially to the double murder that brought Samantha and him together—into collision first—in the fall of that year.
The phone rang as he tossed the thin Saturday paper on a side table.
“It’s him. All a mess. Everywhere.”
“Who’s this?”
“Carol Wheelwright. Mr. DeVries. He’s badly hurt. Here at the house. Shot.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes.”
Taylor hung up and told Samantha. They were downstairs in five minutes, hailing a cab in light Saturday traffic.
“Nothing like this in this building before,” said the elevator operator, speaking for the first time in Taylor’s presence. “Nothing. The nicest man. He never deserved anything like this.”
No one met them at the elevator. Taylor followed the sound of voices in the direction he was used to going—toward the library. Two uniformed patrolmen stood on either side of the body. Taylor showed his press pass, which these days had a 50-50 chance of keeping him at a crime scene. Press-police relations had slid from collegial to adversarial, starting in the late sixties. These cops seemed more concerned about when the detectives would get there … because DeVries wasn’t badly hurt. He was badly dead.
He’d been shot sitting in his favorite chair, a book on his stomach, The 1900 Atlas of Dutchess County, New York. Taylor counted three bullet holes, including one in the cheek and one through the book, which leaked blood from the hole like the tome itself had been injured, plus four others in the wall and a table. A broken vase and smashed lamp probably bumped up the total. Someone walked in and sprayed weapon fire at DeVries. A quick hit? An angry hit? Both?
Taylor backed out of the room, scanning the entire area for anything out of place. He knew nothing of forensics. The cops would toss him if he touched a thing. This visit was only worth what he could see and write down—and any interviews he could get.
In the next room, Carol sat slumped in an ornate wood chair with a gold brocade cushion.
He stepped closer, stood over her, and waited.
She lifted her head, tears streaming down her face, her nose running. “Is he—”
“Yes. The cops didn’t tell you?”
“They haven’t said anything to us. They look at us like we all might be murderers.”
“Who heard the shots?”
“No one. He was alone.”
“In this place? How is that possible?”
“Several staff have Saturdays off. Cook went to shop after she made breakfast. Mrs. DeVries went down to her mother’s.”
“Down?”
“Three blocks. She goes every Saturday morning. Charlie hasn’t come home yet from being out last night. Some weekends, it’s not until Sunday afternoon. Audrey is staying with a friend. There’s a group of them, friends since childhood.”
“Is she close by, too?”
“Fifth Avenue. About ten blocks.”
Samantha went down on one knee in front of Carol. “There was a window when he was alone. Who would know this?”
“The whole family, I guess. No one ever said it outright, but he’s usually alone for a couple of hours on Saturday morning reading. I think it was one of his favorite times. Oh God ….” The tears started again. They waited. “Sorry. It was longer today because I got here late. The subway.”
“Careful what you say to the detectives. You gave the killer more time.”
“I would never …. I don’t.”
“I know. Be careful.”
“Careful of what?” A short, bald man approached in the kind of trench coat Taylor associated with a peeping tom. The man held out his gold detective’s badge as if it might have some magical power over them.
“We’re being careful around the whole apartment,” Taylor said. “It’s a crime scene.”
“You are …?”
“Taylor of the City News Bureau.” He showed his credentials.
“One thing I like my crime scenes clean of is reporters. Out.”
“It’s okay. We’re finished. Your name, Detective?”
“You’ll hear it when I make an arrest.”
“I can call the squad and find out.”
“Knock yourself out.”
The detective’s partner, a younger, taller man who slouched in a dark blue coat, laughed at the empty toughness.
Taylor called the elevator. When the door slid open, he asked, “When did you start today?”
“Six. Saw no one strange my whole shift.”
“Other ways into the building?”
“There’s the utility elevator just inside that door.” He pointed at a corner of the foyer where the wood paneling had seams—a doorway. “The hallway also leads to the fire stairs. The door out of the building downstairs is locked on the outside. Doormen, janitors, and elevator men have keys.”
“What’s outside?”
“Dumpsters. Loading area. Little courtyard-like space. But not nice. Used for the business of the building.”
“Thanks, man.”
“You going to write up the old man’s death.”
“That’s only the start.”
A gray metal elevator door—nothing like the ornate brass and wood of the guest elevator—was recessed into the wall on the other side of the doorway made to look like it wasn’t there.
Wouldn’t want anyone to know there’s a backstage. Or garbage.
Samantha pressed the button and the lift arrived quickly. The inside walls were covered with the padded canvas used in all of New York’s best service elevators. On the ride down, they both looked around for anything interesting, really anything at all. Samantha knew more about evidence, but the descending box was empty.
Out in the hallway, laundry bins, a couple bags of concrete powder, and five appliance-sized boxes lined a breezeblock wall painted the same gray as the elevator door. As was the floor, though shinier. Taylor went left and slowly eased open the door to confirm what he’d guessed: this was th
e backstage entry into the lobby. They walked the other way to a rust-colored steel door that stood out from all the gray like a golden portal. It was open about two inches. Taylor pushed.
“This is the one the staff has the key to, right?” Samantha asked.
“To get in from the outside.” He stepped down. “The lock’s smashed off. So … not an inside job.”
“Or someone wants people to think not an inside job.”
“You’re smart detective.”
“Yet only a private one.”
“Bet ya brunch you’ll figure any of this out quicker than those two upstairs.”
“A man who compliments with a bet. What more could I want?”
“I could want something obvious down here. That’s not my luck on this damn story. Nothing obvious about any of it.”
Taylor and Samantha went back to the lobby and questioned the doorman at the desk, who was more broken up than the elevator operator. The forensics and medical examiner staffers showed, along with the pointless yet obligatory ambulance. The doorman confirmed nobody but residents and staff had come through all morning—three in, five out. He showed Taylor the book.
The last two people to show up with an interest in the murder were a reporter from the News and his trailing photographer. Taylor checked his watch. It had been an hour and a half since Carol had called him at home. Must have gone out on the police radio minutes earlier. Major name on Park Avenue shot in his Park Avenue apartment, and it merited one reporter and one photographer.
Son of Sam.
The reporter, an old-timer named Coogan, asked Taylor what was going on. Taylor gave the guy all the obvious stuff, everything the police would know. He warned Coogan the detective wasn’t much for visits, but Coogan moved toward the elevator. “I’m tight with this precinct. That’s why they sent me. I handle all the Uptown stuff.”
“Lucky you.”
Taylor and Samantha stood to the side in the lobby. The body came out. Coogan came out. The detective came out and smirked. His partner followed, still slouching like he was trying not to look taller than his boss.
Lights Out Summer Page 12