Mr Grimm

by Gary Winston Brown

  “It worked!” Melinda yelled. She wrenched the chisel free of the top rail.

  “Good,” Lacey said. “Keep working the rest of the screws the same way, then pass the box and tools through to Victoria. Vicky, break the screws loose from your side. Then we’ll bring it down.”

  “Will do,” Victoria replied.

  Melinda slid the toolbox along the floor from one screw location to the next. Within a few minutes she had severed all the ceiling screws in her cell and passed the box and implements to Victoria.

  “Your turn, Vicky,” Lacey said. Victoria followed Melinda’s lead and broke through each of the heavy screws which secured the top rail of her cell to the wooden ceiling.

  “Done,” she said.

  “All right,” Lacey said. “Moment of truth. You ready?”

  “Ready,” the women replied.

  “On three, push,” Lacey instructed. “One… two… three!”

  Weak of energy but mighty with a desire to be free from captivity, Melinda and Victoria pushed hard against the cage’s steel bars. The cell wall swayed. It bent forward a few inches from the top rail. The bottom rail, anchored to the concrete floor with heavy duty bolts, refused to budge.

  Victoria sat on the floor of her cell. “It’s not enough,” she said. “It won’t come down.” She was on the verge of tears.

  “It’s coming down one way or the other,” Lacey said. “Bonnie, are you strong enough to help me?”

  “I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” Bonnie replied.

  “All right. We’re going to pull this thing down,” Lacey said. She untied the rope from the strappado and secured it to the fatigued top rail.

  “Here’s the plan,” Lacey said. “Both of you lean against the cell bars at the same time as we pull down on the rope. When you have enough room, shimmy through the gap and get out.”

  “Got it,” Melinda said.

  Victoria remained seated on the floor, refused to move. “You’re wasting your time,” she said. “It’s no use. We’re never getting out of here.”

  Lacey walked over to her. “Stand up, Vicky,” she said.

  Vicky looked up at her, eyes glistening, said nothing, didn’t move.

  Lacey knelt down. “Come over here,” she said.

  Vicky dropped her head.

  “Come on, scoot. Over here. Right now.”

  Slowly, Victoria slid over. Lacey took her hand through the bars. “Now, repeat after me: ‘He’ll never hurt me again.’”

  Victoria shook her head. Her voice quivered. “But he will.”

  “No, he won’t,” Lacey said firmly. “You know how close you are right now to being free of him and this place? Twelve inches. One measly foot. Because that’s how far down Bonnie and I will pull these damn bars. Then you and Melinda will crawl through the top gap and slip out on this side. And you know what happens then?”

  “We get out of here?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But the door is locked.”

  “Leave that to me,” Lacey said. “The first thing Bonnie and I need is you two out of those cells. Now, are you ready?”

  “I think so.”

  “I know so,” Lacey said confidently. “C’mon on, baby. Up on your feet.”

  As instructed, the two women positioned themselves against the bars of their cell.

  “Ready?” Lacey asked.

  “Ready,” the women replied.

  “Now!” Lacey pulled down as hard as she could on the rope as Melinda and Victoria rocked their bodies against the bars. The cell wall slowly gave way. Fatigued and weakened, it leaned forward by several more inches, then fell forward.

  Lacey and Bonnie waited until both women had freed themselves from their cells and fell over the top rail to the ground at their feet. Elated at their escape, physically spent, emotionally drained, Melinda and Victoria wept. Lacey and Bonnie held them in their arms, comforted them.

  Bonnie turned to Lacey. “Now what?” She pointed to the door at the top of the stairs. “We’re still locked in here.”

  Lacey smiled. “Piece of cake.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “Blow the door.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ANTON RAN AFTER THE SILVER CAR, aiming his gun at the vehicle, ready to fire again at the fleeing Bentley, then watched it disappear around the corner. He lowered the weapon and shoved it in his pocket. A cacophony of sirens echoed off the walls of the surrounding low-rises, apartment buildings and retail shops. The 9-1-1 response had been swift and immediate. A fire truck and ambulance sped past followed by two NYPD squad cars. Down the street, a city bus was approaching. Anton jogged across the road, waited for the transit vehicle to stop, hopped on, took a seat at the back and called Mike Degario.

  “Mike, me again.”

  “Nice of you to hang up on me, buddy,” Degario said.

  “Sorry,” Anton replied. “I wasn’t in much of a position to talk. I need a favor.”

  “You always need a favor. Five minutes ago that favor was picking you up in Brooklyn. What is it now? Bailing your ass out of jail?”

  “Nothing like that. That P.I. you know, Ray Jensen, you two still in touch?”

  “Yeah. He owes me nearly as many favors as you do. Why?”

  “I need him to run a plate for me.”

  “That’s something only the cops can do.”

  “Come on, Mikey. You and I both know that’s bullshit. There isn’t a self-respecting private investigator on the planet that doesn’t have the police contacts to run a license plate. And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “This about Lacey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anton, what the hell is going on? Let me help you.”

  Anton felt the lump on the back of his head. “Forget it, Mike. It’s too dangerous. Just do me that favor. Tell him anything… that it’s a matter of life and death if you have too. Write this down: ABN 2431. Belongs to a silver Bentley sedan. I think it’s the same car that picked Lacey up at the club last night. It’s got to be. I need that plate. It could be my only connection to finding her. I don’t have time to waste, Mike. Can you help me or not?

  Degario sighed. “Jesus, you should have been in sales, not security. All right, all right. I’ll make the call. I can’t give you any guarantees Jensen will come through, but at least I can say I tried. You good with that?”

  “Absolutely. Couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Yeah, you could. And knowing you, before the day’s out, you probably will.”

  “Thanks, Mikey. I owe you one.”

  “No, you owe me a dozen.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “All right. Wait for my call. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Where are you now?”

  “On a bus.”

  “A bus?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “It’s sounding like one.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  “To pick you up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You still in Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  Anton stared out the window. The bus slowed as it passed Nostrand Avenue. The street was cordoned off as police interviewed the residents standing outside Lacey’s building. The brakes shuddered. The bus jerked ahead and resumed its route. Anton looked out the window. “Flushing Avenue,” he said. “Coming up on Graham.”

  “I know it,” Degario said. “You’ll hit Woodhull Hospital in a couple of stops. Get off. I’ll meet you there. Give me an hour.”

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  “You got it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  JORDAN, CHRIS AND AGENT MAX PENNER presented their credentials to the doorman at the Odyssey Gentlemen’s Club. The man spoke into the walkie-talkie microphone clipped to his shirt collar and directed them inside. Shona Lee-Cairns met them at the bar. “Follow me upstairs to the VIP lounge,” she said. “It’s soundproof and at th
is time of the morning it’s empty. We still have a couple of hours before the lunch crowd rolls in.”

  Upstairs, the pounding rock music accompanying the current dancer’s performance was hardly audible. Here in the VIP lounge the music in the room was upscale; the sexy, sultry sound of jazz, intended to create a high-brow environment for the club’s more affluent patrons and highest tippers.

  Shona looked at Chris. “Have we met before?” she asked.

  “No ma’am,” Chris replied. “Can’t say as I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “You look familiar to me. Have you been here before?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Too bad. You should stop by sometime. I’ll arrange a private dance for you if you like.”

  Penner and Jordan glanced at Chris. The agent blushed. “Thank you, ma’am. But the bureau has rules.”

  “Rules, shmooles,” Shona said. She winked. “Tell you what. You play by your rules, I’ll play by mine.”

  Although he was enjoying listening to the inherent sexual innuendo being directed at his colleague, Agent Penner elected to save Chris from further embarrassment. “Ms. Cairns,” he began. “It’s our understanding you believe one of your colleagues is missing?”

  Shona nodded. “That’s right. Lacey Chastain. She’s a featured dancer here at the club.”

  “When did you last speak with her?”

  “Last night.”

  Penner leaned forward in his chair. “Last night?” he repeated. “Ma’am, with all due respect, why did you call the police to report your friend missing? It’s been less than twelve hours.”

  “Because I know something is wrong. I feel it.”

  Penner stood. He returned the pad and pen he had removed to take notes to his pocket. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cairns. We can’t help you. I can arrange for a uniformed officer to drop by Ms. Chastain’s place and do a wellness check if you like. But other than that…”

  Jordan interrupted. “You said Ms. Chastain is a featured dancer here at the club?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Then she has a private change room.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course,” Shona said. She seemed puzzled by the request. “It’s downstairs. Come with me.”

  The change room was small but brightly decorated. It was comprised of Lacey’s make-up desk and chair, both of which were upholstered in faux-leopard skin. The room smelled of lavender and expensive perfume. Signed head shots and promotional pictures of actors and professional athletes covered the walls. A collection of stuffed animals, gifts from fans according to Shona, sat in a guest chair in the corner. Lacey’s personal locker stood beside the chair. The padlock hung open, unlocked.

  “That’s weird,” Shona said. “Lacey’s very particular about her privacy. It’s not like her to leave her locker open like that.”

  Jordan opened the metal door. Among Lacey’s belongings were a pair of jeans and sneakers, street clothes, three satin nightclub dresses, two pairs of high heels, a riding crop, several pairs of lace body stockings, massage oil, a bottle of Chanel perfume, makeup and an open envelope. Jordan touched the envelope and received a flood of images: the invitation it had contained; the pretty blonde herself; the two-thousand dollars in cash someone had paid her to attend the affair, and the dark energy of the man they had dubbed the Scroll Killer. The ornate handwriting on the envelope, written in calligraphy, read Ms. Lacey Chastain–Private and Confidential.

  “That’s why I called you,” Shona-Lee said. “Lacey received that invitation two days ago asking her to attend a private function.”

  “Meaning she’s a pro,” Agent Penner said.

  “Only part-time,” Shona-Lee said.

  Jordan turned to Chris and handed him the envelope. “It’s him,” she said. “It’s Scroll.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m certain,” Jordan said. “Check out the handwriting, the stylization.” From her purse she removed the scroll she recovered from the construction site and showed it to the two agents. “It’s a match.”

  “Are you saying this complaint is legit?” Penner asked. “Scroll has this woman?”

  “I am.”

  Penner’s questions came fast and furious. “Is she alive? Where can we find her? What about the others?”

  Jordan took back the envelope from her partner, closed her eyes and concentrated. She saw Lacey going about her day, attending class at NYU, the delivery of the envelope to the bartender at the Odyssey.

  She addressed Shona-Lee. “The envelope was hand-delivered, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But not by courier.”

  “No.”

  “You know this person. Or at least they’re known to the club.”

  “Yes. Father Frank dropped it off.”

  “A priest dropped off the envelope?” Penner asked.

  Shona-Lee shook her head. “Father Frank Who Lives Under the Bridge.’ At least that’s what we call him.”

  “That’s one you’re going to have to explain,” Penner said.

  “Father Frank is homeless. He lives under the overpass around the corner. He’s a veteran. Used to be a military chaplain overseas until he lost an eye in Iraq. That wasn’t all he lost either. He lost himself over there, too. Russ, the Odyssey’s owner, is his brother. He’s tried to help him get off the streets countless times, but Father Frank is happy right where he is. Russ lets him stay downstairs when it gets too cold or the weather gets terrible outside, feeds him and Biscuit, cleans him up, that sort of thing.”

  “Biscuit?” Chris asked.

  “Frank’s dog. The most beautiful German Shepherd you’ve ever seen. Biscuit’s an absolute baby but crazy protective of Frank. Get too close without Frank’s permission and Biscuit will have your hand down his throat before you know what happened. Trust me, anyone who knows what’s good for them knows better than to mess with Frank and Biscuit.”

  “And you said Frank lives nearby?”

  “Yes. Under the overpass.”

  “How will we find him?”

  “He tagged the entrance to his place. You can’t miss it.”

  “What does it say?” Chris asked.

  “Semper Fi, followed by the sign of the Cross.”

  CHAPTER 18

  OTTO SCHREIBER KNEW driving the bullet-riddled Bentley with the blown out back window and shattered side mirror for much longer would be impossible. One thing for which New York could be counted on was a significant police presence. One glance at the vehicle by a passing cop and he would be pulled over. The damaged car would be deemed unsafe to drive in its present condition. Questions would follow: how did the vehicle come to receive the bullet holes? Had he reported the incident to police? The unsatisfactory answers he would provide the authorities would immediately raise suspicion about him and lead to unwanted scrutiny. The last thing he wanted to do was give the police any reason to look closely at him over what amounted to little more than motor vehicle infractions.

  Two blocks down the road, a convenience store parking lot offered the solution he was looking for. He backed the Bentley into a spot between a rusted Cadillac, sitting on concrete blocks, and a grocery store delivery van, the sides of which had been freshly tagged with gang symbols. The vandalized vehicle bore four flat tires, a broken windshield and smashed out brake lights; evidence perhaps that the proprietor had refused to pay protection money to the thugs to leave his small business and family alone. In this part of town, you either cooperated with the gangs or you paid the price. Otto wondered just how tough the gang members really were. Perhaps he would abduct one of them for fun, strap him to the hospital gurney in his dungeon, and remove his skin layer by layer. Naturally, he would have to forego the use of an anesthetic. After all, this would be an exercise for both of them to learn just how much pain the street punk could tolerate. Otto’s guess was that he wouldn’t last thirty seconds before he would start screaming for his mommy. How pat
hetic, he thought. Tough guy, my ass.

  Having abandoned the car, Otto walked to the street corner and hailed a cab. The pain in his shoulder was incredible. When he got back to the bookstore Lacey would tend to his injury. Although he had never felt it, he knew her touch would be gentle. She would clean and dress the wound, perhaps even apply a few stitches if needed. He knew she would be attentive to his needs.

  He began his search for a wife three years ago. What was her name? Annie?... Amy?... Angie? It had been so long ago he had nearly forgotten. Amy. Yes, that was it. She had been a stewardess, on layover from Chicago, in town for the evening. They met at the Acola nightclub, in Miami. The city had been his home for six months. He enjoyed the hustle and bustle, wealth, beautiful women and neon-clad night life it offered. Before that he had lived in Atlanta, Raleigh, Nashville, Washington and Pittsburgh. He liked being on the move. Travel provided him with freedom. His time spent in captivity had taught him a valuable lesson: life was precious and to be lived without compromise. He had given up enough of his life in service to his country. Now it was time to live it on his terms, settle down and get married. But the latter had proven to be much more of a challenge than he had expected. The hundreds of scars, hidden from view by his clothing, were hideous. Coupled with his medical condition, he was barely able to handle the sensation of his clothing against his body, much less the intimate touch of another human being. Otto knew it was a matter of time before he found the right woman to share his life with. But constant denial had left him humiliated, embarrassed and emotionally broken. Why had Amy found it necessary to make him feel less of a man? He could have treasured her, made her the center of his world. But no, she had to laugh, to jeer, ridicule him, bring him down. The mental anguish of it all had been too much to bear. Before slitting her throat, she had called him a monster. In that moment he had thought of Mary Shelley’s classic tale of horror, Frankenstein, and how he had been created; tortured, disfigured, experimented upon and transformed. If this was to be his life, one of solitude and shame, loneliness and despair, then he would do everything in his power to exert what little control over it he had left. There had to be someone out there for him. He would simply have to sort through them, disposing of any and all who served no viable purpose. He re-experienced the event for days… the cutting of her throat, the wave of anger that had washed over him, the image of her gaping neck, the vacant look on her face, and asked himself the same question: Why. Why did he have to kill her? Why in taking her life had he seen not her face but the face of his captor? Why, in his mind, had he not been in his apartment but rather in his cell in Iraq? Why, after murdering her, did he find it necessary to lock her body in his bathroom, then barricade himself in his bedroom? Days later, when he had regained his mental balance, he put the thoughts of the event out of his mind and rationalized the situation. Lack of sleep and time to think had left him psychologically and emotionally inoculated. Her death was not his fault. He was not to blame. She made him do it. She had brought the end of her life upon herself. She had been responsible for his withdrawal from the world. He cut up the body and disposed of its parts in various locations around the city. He expected to be caught and fully expected the police would break down his door and take him into custody at any moment. But that day never came. They never sought him out. Fear soon gave way to confidence, confidence to cockiness. Now, New York City had become his killing ground. Murder had become a game, one at which he was extremely adept at playing.