by Steven Henry
Trevor glanced at Webb, then turned his eyes toward Erin. There was sudden warmth in his gaze. It looked so genuine that it almost fooled her.
Webb grabbed the back of one of the empty chairs and deliberately scraped it across the floor with a grating shriek of metal. Trevor flinched a little but didn't otherwise react or take his eyes off Erin. Webb sat down and leaned forward, getting into Trevor's personal space.
“You're in deep shit, Fairfax,” Webb growled. “No, don't look at her. Look at me!” He shifted sideways, blocking Trevor's line of sight. “Worry about me. Because your ass is mine, pencil-dick.”
Trevor looked at Webb like he was a minor annoyance. “I'm sorry... who are you?”
“Lieutenant Webb, NYPD.”
“Ah,” Trevor said. “You'd be Erin's boss, then?”
“Detective O'Reilly to you,” Webb snapped.
“You seem a little protective of her,” Trevor said mildly. “Older man, getting a little out of shape... I notice you don't wear a wedding ring, but you used to. There's an indent in your ring finger.”
Webb, despite himself, put his right hand over his left, unconsciously feeling his ring finger.
“Divorced, I suppose,” Trevor went on. “Long hours on the job, no time for the family? Maybe bringing the job home with you, into your house... into your bedroom?”
“Screw you,” Webb snarled. “I'm going to personally see to it that you go into Gen Pop with the worst batch of offenders I can find. They'll be cornholing you seven days a week, twice on Saturdays.”
Trevor smiled slightly. He was making Webb lose his cool. That was putting him more in control of the situation.
“Trevor,” Erin said, moving forward, getting back into his field of view. “Don't.” She spoke quietly, deliberately contrasting with her commanding officer. “Please.”
Trevor turned immediately away from Webb, looking straight into Erin's eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said. “You shouldn't have to listen to filthy talk like that. This man has no idea of the proper way to talk in the presence of a lady.”
“I'm used to it,” Erin said.
“You shouldn't have to be,” Trevor said earnestly. “You're better than that, Erin.”
“Detective O'Reilly,” Webb interjected.
“It's okay, sir,” Erin said, holding up a hand. There was a science to two-officer interrogations. When trying to break two suspects, the police tried to drive a wedge between them, make them turn on each other. When dealing with one suspect, especially a smart one like this, the reverse could work. If they could make Trevor think he was dividing his captors, he'd keep talking. The worst thing that could happen in an interrogation was for a suspect to ask for a lawyer. The second worst was that he'd simply keep his mouth shut. A talking prisoner was a valuable prisoner.
Webb opened his mouth, then closed it and quietly fumed, hamming up his role.
“Trevor,” she said. “I've been thinking about what you said, in my apartment. You said you appreciated me more than any other man could.” She turned half away, feigning embarrassment.
He nodded. “It's true. You can't expect someone like the Lieutenant here, with his crude physicality, to really appreciate you. The way our society glorifies crass obscenity... it makes me sick. You're better than that. More pure.”
She slowly looked back at him. “But I thought you wanted to... to touch me,” she said. “Maybe even... rape me.”
“Rape?” he echoed, looking genuinely horrified. “I could never do that to you, Erin.” He shook his head violently. “I'm no rapist! How could you think that?”
“I'm sorry, Trevor,” she said. “Help me understand. I'm used to men who only want one thing.”
“Of course,” he said. “Spending all your time among the filth of this city, you probably have to deal with all sorts of crude propositions, vile jokes, harassment. But I'm not like that. I love you, Erin. I... I worship you.” His eyes were shining. He seemed to have completely forgotten Webb was even in the room.
Erin leaned closer to him, making her own eyes as bright and earnest as she could. “You want me,” she said in a low, husky voice.
“Yes,” Trevor whispered.
“You want to look at me,” she went on, shifting her shoulder back slightly to call attention to her body.
“Yes,” he said again. He licked his lips and stared hungrily at her.
“You want to dress me up in something beautiful.”
“The black velvet,” he said softly.
“The one in my closet?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” he said. “You would be stunning.”
“You could watch me sleep,” she murmured, “for hours if you wanted to. And when you couldn't stand it any longer, you'd take that needle and push it gently into my arm.”
Trevor was trembling. “It's amazing,” he said hoarsely. “There's no pain. You shiver, shudder, and then you go deep, under the surface. Your face goes quiet and calm, all the worry and tiredness of the world falls away. And I capture you that way, forever.”
“You'd take my picture?” she asked, lowering her head and looking up under her eyelashes at him. “And keep it? Forever?”
“Forever,” he promised.
“With the others?”
“You'd be the best of them all.”
“That ought to be good enough,” Erin said, returning suddenly to her normal tone of voice. She stood up abruptly and pushed herself away from the table. She couldn't stand it any longer.
Trevor blinked, seeming to remember where he was. “What—” he began.
“Fuck you, Trevor Fairfax,” Erin spat. “You're not even human. You're a monster. And a moron.”
Webb stood up and smiled fiercely at the prisoner. “I thought it'd take a couple hours to crack you,” he said. “A pretty detective bats her eyes at you, and you give it all up. She's right. You're dumber than I thought. You've given us plenty. When CSU searches your place, they'll know exactly what to look for. Come on, O'Reilly. We're done with this garbage.”
They went to the door. As Webb opened it, Trevor stood up.
“Wait!” he shouted. “Erin! Don't listen to him! To them! I love you! I love—”
Erin slammed the door, cutting him off mid-sentence. Then she leaned her back against it and let out a long, shuddering breath.
She became aware of a sound. It was hands clapping. She looked up and saw Vic and half a dozen other officers who'd been watching from the observation room. They were applauding her.
Webb extended his hand. “Good work, Detective,” he said. “You almost fooled me.”
“That's an Oscar,” Vic said. “Goddamn Academy Award.”
“Thanks, guys,” she said, shaking Webb's hand. “But Vic, I could really use that drink right now.” And after that, she thought, a very long shower.
Chapter 20
Trevor Fairfax lived in a very ordinary apartment in Brooklyn Heights, just south of the East River. According to all their information, he lived alone. But under the circumstances, Webb was taking no chances. The detectives went in with guns drawn, clearing the apartment as carefully as if it'd been a drug den full of desperate gangsters.
It was anticlimactic. The one-bedroom third-floor walkup was neat, tidy, and deserted.
“Not much furniture,” Vic observed, stepping out of the bathroom and looking around the living room. The furnishings were strictly of the IKEA sort, very plain. Trevor had a big-screen TV on one wall, but that was the only expensive piece.
“He likes photography,” Kira said. She was looking at a bookcase full of books about cameras and photo technique. A table in the corner had a whole array of cameras and lenses neatly laid out.
“There's some nice stuff here,” Webb said, bending to examine the equipment. “Good surveillance gear. We've got infrared.”
Erin went into the bedroom, not without a shudder. She was expecting something terrifying. Stalker shrines weren't as common in police work as Hollywood wanted them to be, but they still happened.
She was almost disappointed by what she found. All Trevor had was a bed with simple white sheets and comforter, a computer desk with a laptop, and a single photograph on the wall. It was a black-framed still life of a bouquet of red roses.
“Got a computer here,” she called, flipping it open and powering it up with a gloved fingertip. It prompted her for a password, of course. She cursed under her breath. The NYPD had tech guys who could probably break in, but it'd take time. She turned it off again.
“Hey, Erin,” Vic called. “You wanna come out here for a second?”
“What's up?” she asked, sticking her head through the doorway.
“We got some pics on the cameras,” he replied. “And our boy's got a pretty sweet setup here. We can plug the camera right into the TV. We're gonna take a look, see what he's been taking pictures of lately.”
“Okay,” she said without much enthusiasm. Her skin was crawling. “Let's see what we've got.”
“I have a bunch of tools in the front closet,” Kira called. “And... whoa, got a uniform from the DoubleTree. Not looking good for our boy.”
Vic hooked up a camera to the main screen. Webb stood behind the living-room couch, careful not to touch any of the furniture. Erin went to stand beside him, not sure what to expect.
She saw herself, in the park outside her apartment, holding Rolf's leash.
“Jesus,” Vic muttered.
“Cycle the pics,” Webb said. “O'Reilly, if you don't want to see this...”
“It's okay,” she said through clenched teeth.
The next several pictures were all of Erin's face, gradually zooming in until she filled the whole screen. Erin tried to work out where Trevor had been standing while he took the shots. He'd been close, less than twenty yards away, probably behind one of the trees.
“What's that?” Webb asked, pointing.
“My phone,” Erin said. “He... shit, he called me. He was on the phone with me while he took this.”
“Jesus,” Vic said again. “Lucky bastard.”
“Lucky how?” Kira asked.
“Lucky we already have him in custody,” he said. “Otherwise I'd kill the son of a bitch.”
“You might have to get in line,” Webb said dryly.
Erin said nothing, but she knew in her heart that if Vic had wanted to kill Trevor, he'd have had to get up early to get ahead of her.
The next picture was so dark, it took them all a second to figure out what it was.
“That's funny,” Kira said. “This was taken indoors, without a flash, in a dark room. It looks like some sort of crowd shot.”
Erin felt her legs go weak. She couldn't tell which was stronger in her, anger or horror. “It's a movie theater,” she said in a flat, dead voice.
“Oh, right,” Kira said. “Yeah, I see you in the frame, there. Must've been taken from the front row, aimed up.”
Vic thumbed to the next shot. It was the same. So was the next.
“Who's that next to you, leaning on you?” Webb asked.
Erin's throat had a lump in it. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Anna,” she managed to get out. “Anna O'Reilly. My niece.”
No one said anything for maybe half a minute.
“Turn it off,” Webb said finally. “We've seen enough.”
Chapter 21
The Barley Corner didn't reopen right away. In addition to the usual red tape—and yellow police tape—surrounding the crime scene, there was the issue of the physical damage to the pub.
The smart thing would have been to stay away regardless. But Erin walked by the Corner six days after the shootout, as part of Rolf's after-work outing. She wasn't completely sure why she did. Curiosity, maybe. And she felt she ought to talk to Carlyle again.
CSU had cleared the building to do business, but the CLOSED sign still hung on the door. Erin stepped up close to a window and cupped her hands around her face, trying to see inside.
The door opened. Surprised, Erin stepped back.
“Erin, darling,” Carlyle said, smiling. “An Irishwoman can't simply stand outside a public house.”
“You're closed,” she said.
“My door's always open for you,” he said, extending a hand. “Come in, have a drink with me. Assuming you're off-duty, of course.”
She and Rolf went in. Erin noticed that he locked the door behind her. The bar was looking much better than the last time she'd seen it. The scorched section of floor had been scraped and re-stained, the bullet holes filled in with spackle and painted over, and Carlyle's door replaced. A pair of workmen were putting the finishing touches on the floor repairs. Besides the workers, Carlyle, and Erin, the only other person in the place was a young man she recognized from the lobby of Corky's apartment. He was about twenty-five, with reddish-brown hair in a buzz cut. He wasn't very tall or heavily built, but was obviously in excellent condition. He wore a plain, dark sport coat and slacks over a dark green button-down shirt and black tie. The way he wore it, he made it look like a military uniform. Erin would've bet a week's pay he had a gun under his coat.
She nodded to the man. He politely returned the nod, then turned his attention to the outside.
“Looks like you're about ready for business again,” she said to Carlyle.
“Aye,” he said. “In point of fact, I'll be opening the doors later this evening, having a small celebration. Danny will be here in a little while, but for now, I'll be serving you myself. I hope you're not wanting any particularly complicated beverage. I fear my skill at tending bar is no match for his.”
“No problem,” she said. “I'll just have a Scotch. No, make it a double. On the rocks.”
“House brand?” he asked, going behind the bar.
“Glen D,” she confirmed.
“None but the finest,” he said, setting two glasses on the bar and dropping ice cubes into them. He poured two generous double whiskeys, then came back around to her side of the bar and took a seat next to her, handing her one of the glasses. Rolf had lain down at her feet.
“Here's to you, Erin,” he said, raising his glass.
She clinked her glass to his. They drank.
“From what I've seen in the papers, I understand you got your man,” Carlyle said.
“Yeah, I did,” she said. The hotel murders had made the headlines in a big way. The press had decided to call Trevor the Heartbreaker Killer, and the name seemed to have stuck. “We've got plenty of evidence. We cracked his computer. It was full of photographs.”
“How many did he kill?”
“I can't tell you that,” she said, reflecting again on the similarities between their jobs.
“Of course not. My apologies. I'm glad you've caught him.”
“When I want to get a guy, I usually do, sooner or later.”
“I don't doubt it,” Carlyle said. “Here's hoping I never find myself on your bad side.” He took another sip of Glen D.
“That's easy enough,” she said. “Don't step out of line.”
Carlyle smiled, a hint of melancholy in his eyes. “Things aren't always as simple as they're made to appear.”
“So I'm learning. You helped me catch him, you know.”
“I'm glad,” Carlyle said. “That's a lad's civic duty.”
She shook her head. “I'm still trying to figure you out. Sometimes you help me, sometimes you don't. What are we doing here?”
“We're sharing a quiet drink.”
“I mean, why are we even talking? One of my squad reminded me you could get killed just for giving the appearance of talking to the NYPD.”
“I'm not talking to the NYPD,” Carlyle said. “I'm talking to you.”
“Same thing.”
“Is it?”
“To them it is. You know that better than I do.”
“Aye, perhaps it is,” Carlyle said. “But perhaps I've decided it's worth the risk.”
“What is?”
“Being able to call you a friend.”
“So that's what we are?” Er
in said, raising her eyebrows. “Seems a little dangerous, for both of us. Come to think of it, I'm a little surprised. I've been here five whole minutes already, and nobody's tried to blow the place up yet.”
“I've made some improvements to my personal security,” Carlyle said.
Erin cocked her head toward the young man. “That the guy who tipped you off that Fairfax was following me?”
“Aye,” Carlyle said. “Ian's a good lad and quite observant. I think he'll go far.”
“So Ian's there to make sure you don't get killed for having a friend who carries a shield,” she said. “This is one crazy world you live in.”
Carlyle chuckled. “Aye. But it's my home.”
“You know,” Erin said, “they're still dragging the East River. So far the diving teams have come up with two John Does, and one Jane Doe, but no sign of Rüdel's body.”
“Are you saying he survived?”
“I dunno,” Erin said. “Vic tagged him pretty good. I don't think he made it, but until we come up with a body, that case stays open. That means I need to keep an eye on the O'Malleys.”
“Why would you draw such a conclusion?”
She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Come on, Carlyle, you know damn well it was one of your own people who sent him after you.”
“I said no such thing,” Carlyle said.
“No,” Erin said, slowly and distinctly. “You didn't.”
“You're a very fine detective. Has anyone told you that lately?”
“You wanted me to find Rüdel,” she said, still speaking quietly. “And you do know who sent him after you.”
“If what you're saying is true,” he said, “you surely understand why I'd not be giving you a name. Besides, your lads are held to a standard of evidence beyond what I'd be able to provide in such a case.”
She looked him in the eye. “You're saying this is your problem and you're going to deal with it in your own way, is that right?”
“I believe a man's duty in this world is to clean up his own messes.”
“And a woman's duty is to clean up the shit left behind by stupid men,” Erin countered.
Carlyle laughed. “I'll not disagree with you there. But why concern yourself with such things?”