by Jason Dean
‘To figure out what it is you really want and then settle for nothing less. I now know exactly the kind of man I want, Bish. I just haven’t met him yet. But I will. See, that’s one quality we both share: tunnel vision. Mom had it, I’ve got it, and so do you. Once we make a decision, nothing on this earth can divert us from our goal. When you made your choice to enlist, I bet your friends tried to talk you out of it, right?’
He nodded. ‘Most of them tried, yeah.’
‘Yet you ignored them all and did what you set out to do. I totally understand because I would have done exactly the same.’ She gave him a gleaming smile and said, ‘I’m proud as hell of you, Bish. I really am. You’re so damn handsome, it’s like the uniform was made for you. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to date any of your buddies, so put that idea out your mind right now.’
And he had. Like him, she was comfortable with her own company. She didn’t need another half. She was already a complete person. Until Gerry came along and swept her off her feet a few years later. Bishop still couldn’t figure out how he’d done it when so many others had failed.
But you couldn’t ever really know a person’s thoughts. To Bishop, Amy had always seemed perfectly happy with Gerry, but maybe there had been something missing in their marriage. Something that caused her to look elsewhere.
It was possible. Unlikely, but possible.
Halfway along Nagle Avenue, Bishop paused at the major intersection from which Dyckman Street, Hillside Avenue and Fort George Hill all led off. Above, his eyes followed the elevated tracks he’d been walking alongside as they disappeared into the Dyckman Street Station on the south corner.
He knew this station only served the 1 train. Did Amy get off here rather than at the previous stop? After which she might have then walked up Fort George Hill just up ahead in order to get home. Again, possible. No way of knowing for sure. Not yet.
Bishop crossed the intersection and began walking up the hill.
On any other day it could have been a pleasant walk, but not today. Bishop focused on the surroundings. Traffic was minimal on the one-way street, and there were already plenty of south-facing vehicles parked along the sides. Considering it was still rush hour, there weren’t many pedestrians. Just a few smartly dressed men and women making for the station down below. Trees lined both sides of the street, getting heavier and thicker the further he went. There was a high chain link fence that continued all along the right-hand side, and a low guard rail on the left. About halfway along, the guardrail came to an end, allowing free access into the park above. On the right, a single twenty-storey apartment block was set back behind the trees. But no entrance from this side.
He kept walking. After a couple of hundred yards, he could see he was nearing the intersection that marked the end of the street. Apartment blocks on both sides quickly replaced the greenery. So Bishop turned back and stopped at the street’s midway point. He looked over to his left at the apartment block on its own. Only the uppermost floors were visible behind the trees, but the building wasn’t set too far back. Maybe twenty or thirty yards.
‘A local resident’, Medrano had said. And this was the only apartment block along Fort George Hill that directly overlooked the park. It would be interesting to know the name of the building to see if it matched the one he’d seen written down in Medrano’s notebook. The cop’s handwriting had been pretty bad, but legible. Maybe it was the witness, or maybe somebody totally unrelated to the case. Either way, he’d go and check for himself shortly.
First, though, there was the matter of Amy’s alarm to consider. Bishop had tested a wide range of personal alarms in his old career, so he knew most were able to emit around a hundred and twenty decibels. That was equal to an ambulance siren, or a small jet taking off. Which meant a tenant on an upper floor could easily have heard it from the park.
But there was also a time discrepancy there, wasn’t there?
Bishop studied the trees leading up to the park above and thought it all through. All kinds of scenarios were running through his mind, but the clearest one was of Amy on this street. Possibly alone. Since Fort George Hill was pretty quiet at this time of day, he had to assume it was even more so at night. And then she notices the three men.
Medrano had to be right about that part. Amy wasn’t dragged to the park. She ran there herself. If the suspects were in a car, or even if they weren’t, she’d have known she couldn’t outrun all of them. She would have considered the chain link fence over there and discounted it almost immediately, figuring one of them would catch her before she got to the top. Which just left the trees leading into the woods right here.
And if he knew his sister, she wouldn’t have thought about it for long. Like him, Amy thought fast, then acted. So she would have run into the trees and up the slope while she still had some lead time. Hoping to get to Dyckman Street on the other side of the park.
And then they overtake her. Or one of them does. Could be she doesn’t even get the chance to use the stun gun, but that keychain alarm’s another matter. As soon as she felt cornered she’d use it. As Medrano had said, the best thing would be to throw it into some bushes and play for time. Then maybe just keep running until they caught up with her.
But one of them would surely have found it and turned it off. Or destroyed it. And then they’d be free to have their fun. Beating Amy. Playing with her. After which they’d really get down to business. But that would all take time, wouldn’t it? At the very least, Bishop figured between fifteen or twenty minutes.
So why the long delay between the sound of the alarm and the call to the police?
SEVEN
Bishop walked along Hillside Avenue, the road that ran parallel to Fort George Hill, and slowed when he came to the apartment building he’d seen behind the trees. It was the only twenty-storey building in this area. It was probably a co-op, like most of the apartment blocks in Upper Manhattan. There was a long, narrow grassy area just in front of it. The main entrance was a square block protruding from the centre of the building, with access via a set of glass double doors. Bishop got closer and gave a thin smile when he saw a plaque with the words Ellwood Terrace on it affixed to the wall next to the doors.
Exactly what he’d seen written in Medrano’s notebook. Ellwood Terrace. Along with a name, Charles Everson. And a number. 1607. There’d also been another number which Bishop assumed was a phone number, but he hadn’t had time to memorize it. It didn’t matter. He was here now.
Bishop briefly checked himself over. His black sports jacket, black pants and grey shirt were all looking a little worse for wear. Which was probably a good thing. If a person kind of squinted, they might mistake him for a cop. Possibly.
He walked up to the building entrance, pulled open the left-hand door and went inside. He strode along the entrance hall, passing a wall of mailboxes, and stopped at a second set of doors. There was an intercom to the side, with about two hundred numbered buzzers arranged in three columns. No names. Bishop pressed the one marked 1607 and waited, hoping there was somebody home during the day. If not, he’d just have to come back this evening.
Thirty seconds passed with no response. He pressed the buzzer again, and almost immediately an out-of-breath female voice said, ‘Hello? Who is it?’
Bishop pressed the talkback button. ‘Mrs Everson?’
‘That’s right. Who is this?’
‘Police, ma’am. I’ve just come by with a few follow-up questions for Mr Everson about last night’s incident in the park.’
‘Oh, you again. Well, Chuck’s at work now. You’ll need to go and talk to him there, unless you want to come back later tonight.’
‘Now would be better,’ Bishop said. ‘Can you give me his work address? I don’t think I’ve got it written down here.’
‘Sure. You’ll find him at the end of East 3rd Street, number 322B. Runhome Couriers. He’s got one of the big offices upstairs. There’s a sign on the door.’
‘Got it. Maybe you can call
him and tell him I’m on my way? That way I won’t miss him if he goes out for lunch.’
‘Well, he usually takes his lunch with him, but I’ll call him anyway.’
‘Appreciate it. Thanks.’
Bishop released the button and walked back to the double doors. He pushed one open, stepped outside and stopped.
Gerry Philmore was standing there on the sidewalk, looking straight at him. He was wearing a dark raincoat over the same dishevelled shirt as before, and looked as surprised as Bishop.
Bishop walked over and said, ‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Lisa and Pat?’
‘My folks arrived an hour ago,’ Gerry said, ‘so they’re looking after them for the moment. I just needed to come out here. To see . . . To see if I could . . .’ He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Christ, I don’t know what I thought. I just felt I had to come.’
‘How’d you find me?’
‘By chance. I was standing at the south corner back there when I felt sure I saw you walking into this building so I came over to check. I was just about to leave when you came back out. What were you doing in there?’
‘Just tracking down somebody.’
‘Who?’
‘The witness who heard the alarm.’
‘And did you find him? Or her?’
‘I found out where he works.’ Bishop paused and looked at Gerry. The guy looked totally worn out. Bishop actually felt sorry for him, which was a first. ‘When was the last time you ate?’
‘I don’t know. Yesterday evening, I guess. I’m not all that hungry anyway.’
‘Well, I am.’ Bishop looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. ‘I’m gonna walk back to the intersection and see if I can find somewhere. Come along if you want.’
Gerry shrugged and said nothing. But he walked with Bishop.
At the intersection, they crossed to the other side of Dyckman and Bishop entered the first deli he saw. It was pretty cramped inside, but not too busy yet. He spotted a counter at the rear with a couple of small tables and chairs set against the opposite wall. A row of customers already sat at the counter, eating and talking, but one of the tables was still free. Bishop told Gerry to sit down, then went to the counter and ordered a couple of ready-made hero sandwiches and Cokes.
Two minutes later, he came back with the orders and placed them on the table. He took the chair across from Gerry and said, ‘Salami, pastrami and turkey. They looked the freshest out of all the choices.’
‘Okay.’ Gerry peeled off the cellophane, picked up half and took an uninterested bite. Bishop dug into his and both men chewed in silence for a while. Despite what he’d said, Bishop wasn’t particularly hungry either. But he hadn’t slept in a while and he knew he needed to eat something if he was going to keep going.
After a long drink of his Coke, Gerry said, ‘Wherever you’re going next, I want to come along.’
‘That so?’
Gerry put down the sandwich. ‘Look, Bishop, I need this.’
‘Need what, exactly?’
‘Look, the only woman I’ve ever loved is in a hospital room, a hair’s breadth away from . . .’ He closed his eyes and took a breath. Opened them again. ‘And I couldn’t protect her. Don’t you get it? Those bastards used her like a piece of meat while I was sitting at home less than a mile away. How do you think that makes me feel? You were hundreds of miles away, like you usually are, yet you’re here now and actually doing something about finding them. I know you are.’
‘I’m just making sure all the boxes are checked, that’s all. Cops have heavy workloads. They can miss things. I’ve trained myself not to. It’s just the way I am.’
‘Yeah, Amy once said you took after your dad in that. She said he was very methodical, too.’
Bishop frowned. She was probably right. He wouldn’t know. At six years his senior, Amy had gotten to know Mom and Dad a lot better than Bishop ever could. He took another bite of his food and chewed in silence.
‘Just let me help,’ Gerry said. ‘So I can feel I’m doing something useful.’
‘You’re the father of two great kids. If you think being there for them at a time like this isn’t important, then you’re not thinking clearly.’
‘My folks can take care of Pat and Lisa for a few hours,’ Gerry said, ‘and they won’t let us see Amy for a while yet anyway. Just let me come with you now to see this witness. See what he’s got to say. Then take it from there.’
Bishop polished off the last piece of his sandwich and sat back in the chair, studying Gerry. He tried to put himself in the other man’s shoes. Not being a family man, it was difficult. But he knew he’d feel pretty much the same way if the roles were reversed, and not just because of the way he was made. He appraised Gerry’s physical appearance. It looked as if he’d slept in that shirt. If he’d slept at all, that was. And his tired, haggard expression couldn’t be ignored either. Gerry was a major pain in the ass, but having him along right now might actually work in Bishop’s favour. But only temporarily.
He took a swallow of his Coke and said, ‘Okay, Gerry. I usually work better alone, but it just so happens that right now you could probably pass for a cop better than I could. So just say as little as possible and act the way you feel, tired and short-tempered.’
‘I can do that,’ Gerry said, and took another bite of his sandwich.
EIGHT
322B East 3rd Street was actually a grey door, sandwiched between a Korean laundromat and a Spanish grocery store. Attached to the door were three signs, one for a photographic studio, one for a fitness equipment supplier, and one for Runhome Couriers.
Bishop said, ‘Remember, say nothing. I’ll do all the talking.’
Gerry nodded. ‘You won’t even know I’m here.’
Bishop pulled the door open and went in first. The interior was just a narrow hallway ending in a steep stairway straight ahead. Bishop led the way up the stairs to the second-floor landing. On the wall ahead were signs giving directions. Runhome was to the right, the other two businesses to the left. Bishop and Gerry turned right. At the end of the corridor was a closed door through which Bishop could hear the sounds of female voices and people moving around. He opened it and stepped inside.
Runhome Couriers was an open-plan area with two sets of windows at the far end and a number of computer-laden desks in the centre. Bishop counted four middle-aged women there with headsets, talking to either customers or couriers. A fifth was frowning at her monitor. In the far corner was a glass-partitioned office. Inside, Bishop saw a black guy in shirt and tie, talking on the phone.
The woman who wasn’t talking looked up at the visitors with a question in her eyes. Bishop simply nodded at the office and walked towards it, Gerry at his side. As they got closer, Bishop saw the legend C. Everson, Supervisor on the wooden door. He knocked once, then opened it and entered.
Everson looked up at them both without pausing in his conversation. Something about compensation for a package Everson insisted had been delivered on time. Bishop tuned it out and looked around the office. There wasn’t much. Just Everson behind his busy desk, a visitor’s chair in front of it, and two more lined up against a wall. There was a metal filing cabinet in the corner. The wall behind Everson was covered with various charts and notices.
Bishop sat in the chair and watched Gerry go over and lean against a wall with his hands in his pockets. Perfect. Exactly how a cop would act. Bishop turned back and studied Everson, who he guessed was in his early to mid-fifties. He had short greying hair cut close to the skull, a heavily lined forehead and a moustache that was too black to be true.
‘Listen, Ramon,’ he said, ‘we can keep going over this until I die of malnutrition, but I’ve got a copy of the signed receipt right in front of me so I know for a fact you’re trying to pull one over on me. I’ve told you I’ll give you a discount next time to prove I’m a nice guy, but if that ain’t good enough I’ll give you the number of my lawyer right now. What’s it gonna be?’ He paused
for a moment, listening, then said, ‘Fine. You do that.’
He replaced the phone and sighed at his guests. ‘And what can I do for you?’
Bishop said, ‘Didn’t your wife tell you we were coming?’
‘Oh, yeah. Police, right? Look, I don’t know what more I can tell you guys. I already told you what I saw. Or rather, what I heard.’
‘It’s just routine, Mr Everson. Just making sure we got all the facts straight.’
So far, so good, Bishop thought, pulling a small notebook and pen from his inside pocket. This wasn’t the first time he’d pretended to be something he wasn’t in order to get the answers he needed. He’d learned a while back that as long as you looked and sounded the part, people generally believed you were who you claimed to be. You just had to stay in character, that’s all. And getting Everson’s wife to call ahead had also legitimized them to a certain extent. If the guy hadn’t asked for identification by now, chances were good he wasn’t going to. Opening the notebook, he clicked the pen and said, ‘Okay, so you called 911 when, exactly?’
Everson pinched the skin between his eyes. ‘Just after eleven thirty, like I said. Sheila was in bed. I was on the balcony finishing my cigar and about to go in to watch Letterman. Then I heard that alarm go off. Sounded like it was coming from the park. Sheila’s got one of those personal alarm things too, so I had a pretty good idea of what it was. It went on for about a minute and then stopped. So I called 911 and reported what I heard. End of story.’
Bishop stopped doodling and said, ‘Then what did you do? Watch Letterman?’
Everson swallowed. ‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Just asking. See, I’m a little confused here. You said you heard that alarm go off at eleven thirty?’
Everson looked at Gerry behind him. Then at Bishop again. ‘Give or take a minute.’
Bishop closed the notebook. ‘Well, here’s the thing, Mr Everson. We found somebody nearby who said she heard an emergency alarm going off about fifteen or twenty minutes earlier than that. She didn’t know the direction it came from, so she didn’t bother reporting it. But one thing she’s absolutely sure about is she didn’t hear any alarm at eleven thirty. And she lives near the park, too. So you see the problem we got here? Now, are you sure you didn’t hear that thing go off some time earlier than when you claimed?’