Revenant- a Jake Crowley Adventure

by David Wood

  “You said that before, but I still maintain I’m right. Just a minute.” Rose tapped up the details for the Poe house and rang the number. She held up a hand to stay Crowley’s questions while it rang, then a woman answered. “Hi there,” Rose said. “My name is Claire Cowans and I’m a reporter for the New York Herald. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the break-in last night for a write-up we’re doing.”

  “Okay, sure. But there’s really not much to tell.”

  “Well, we have most of the police report details, I just wanted to ask what items in particular were stolen.”

  The woman made a thoughtful noise and then said, “Well, there’s a register here and that was broken open but no cash was in it. They also broke into a couple of display cabinets, and they pried open the drawers of the writing desk that was on display. We’re still trying to figure out all that was stolen, but definitely a couple of old books.”

  “Old books, really? Was one the journal that was recently put on display? The one they found in the basement walls not long ago?”

  “Oh, you know about that?”

  “Yes,” Rose said, thinking quickly. “I visited there quite recently, which is why I’ve been put on this story. I just remember that as one of the exhibits.”

  “Well, interestingly, one case that was broken into was the one that held the journal you’re asking about,” the woman said. “But it wasn’t in there. It’s on temporary loan to the Grolier Club for an exhibit they have starting tomorrow evening.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s fortunate, at least,” Rose said. “Say, while I have you on, did anyone read that journal? When I was visiting I was wondering what it was about.”

  “All I know is it was a writing journal for one of his stories, but I don’t recall which one, I’m sorry. Mind you, the people at the Grolier Club were very excited about it.”

  Rose smiled. “Thank you so much for your time.”

  Chapter 20

  Despite his suggestion that Rose was drawing a long bow by connecting all the strange things they had encountered since arriving in New York, Crowley had to admit his own curiosity was piqued. He couldn’t deny that Rose was onto something, but at the same time he couldn’t put his finger on what that something was. So they had decided to snoop a little further. Rose went off to the offices of the New York Sentinel to ask around there, and Crowley found himself outside Jazz’s apartment door. He was nervous, knowing that if he was caught here it would put him and Rose deeper in the frame for whatever had happened to Jazz. Right now they were safely distanced from it. But it wasn’t in his nature, or Rose’s, to walk away.

  Marks on the top right of the doorframe and the floor on the bottom left, showed where a single strip of black and yellow plastic crime scene tape had been. Now that it was taken away, Crowley assumed the police were done with the place. Perhaps they were done with the case too, if they’d written it off as a botched robbery. The file would stay open, they’d be happy to catch the killer, but probably wouldn’t waste a lot of resources on it. Or maybe he was doing the NYPD a disservice by assuming that. He didn’t know. Either way, he hoped there was something left here that the police had missed. Something to give him a chance of learning more.

  He slipped on a pair of surgical gloves he’d picked up at a pharmacy on the way over and tried the doorknob, but it was locked. There was a deep gouge in the wood beside the door handle where the door had been forced open and Crowley wondered if that was after the killing or before. It would make sense for a killer to do this and back up the robbery story, to draw the attention away from the possibility of a deliberate, premeditated murder. The police had either repaired or replaced the fixture as the door was locked again now, despite the remaining damage to the frame.

  Crowley looked furtively left and right to ensure he was alone in the hallway, then crouched in front of the door and set to work with his new customized lock picks. It was startling the kind of thing you could pick up an at Army Surplus store if you knew how do co-opt one tool’s use for a more nefarious purpose. It took a couple of minutes and a high heart rate, but thankfully no one appeared to catch him until a soft click inside the door told him he was in. Crowley turned the handle, slipped inside, and quickly closed the door behind him.

  The place was tiny, a true city studio apartment. Immediately on his left was a small kitchenette, with a bar fridge, microwave and two-burner stove top, all clean and well-kept. Next to that a tiny metal sink, one coffee-stained mug sitting in it waiting for rinse it would now never receive. On his right was a bathroom with toilet, tiny sink, and shower stall. He thought perhaps he’d have trouble turning around in there, let alone washing comfortably. The rest of the room in front of him was filled with a bed at one end under the window, a desk against one wall and a bookcase against the opposite wall. Next to the bookcase was a clothes rack overloaded with outfits in a kind of barely-managed jumble. But otherwise the place was neat. Not much space remained in the center between these few items of furniture.

  The desk hand two drawers in it, side-by-side above where a person’s knees would be. Both were broken, forced open with a crowbar or something similar. Crowley pulled them out again and saw they were empty. There was some mail on the desktop, bills and coupons, but nothing else. He’d hoped to find some evidence of what Jazz had been working on, but nothing seemed apparent. He thought the place was too clean. He supposed he could put that down to a robbery, they would have taken any laptops or tablets or anything else of value, but working on the assumption it wasn’t a robbery and only made to look like one, he’d hoped to find something, even if the perpetrators had taken electronic items to back up the robbery story. But there were no calendars or diaries either, no notebooks, post-its, nothing. Maybe Jazz kept all that stuff on her phone like so many people did these days. The crooks would have taken her phone too, after killing her, he didn’t doubt that.

  He turned and looked at the bookcase and noticed for the first time a dark stain on the thin, dark carpeting by the bed. Dark brown now, about two feet in diameter, it was clearly dried blood. He let out a slow breath and swallowed. Poor Jazz.

  He went to the bookcase and started rifling through the books, checking inside the covers of the dozen or so hardbacks, shaking out the paperbacks, checking behind the books themselves. Jazz had quite a diverse and eclectic library, including a variety of thrillers kept in among non-fiction books covering everything from autobiographies to flight mechanics. But despite Crowley’s rigorous searching he found nothing.

  Under the clothes rack, overhung by several pairs of jeans, he noticed a small, three-drawer cabinet and checked that. Underwear, activewear, the usual. Nothing of interest. The same in the bathroom, just a normal selection of make-up and day-to-day medications.

  Crowley sighed, returning the center of the room. He was becoming tired of missions turning out to be total busts. Then again, they’d found that sub-basement on Bannerman Island, so there was something going on. Or there had been, a long time ago. He was beginning to share Rose’s view that there was definitely more to uncover here, he simply needed to start looking in the right places.

  He spotted a wastepaper basket tucked into a corner at the end of the bed and went to it. Nothing but a few packets, a shopping list, some tissues. A small, red, plastic basket stood in the narrow space between the foot of the bed and the wall. It held a bunch of crumpled up clothes, no doubt Jazz’s laundry ready to be taken downstairs and washed. He had a quick look, checked the pockets of a pair of jeans in there. Tucked into the back pocket was a crumpled scrap of paper with names and notes scribbled on it. Crowley smiled. The police had missed something after all. Ironic, given they found Rose’s number in the back pocket of the jeans Jazz had been wearing, but hadn’t checked these ones too.

  The list didn’t make too much sense at first glance, but could be something to follow up. He really hoped it was, because it was their last chance for a lead. He smoothed it out and was about to read it mor
e carefully when someone rapped sharply on the apartment door. Crowley started, looked quickly around. There was no other way out of the apartment except a fire escape through the window above the bed. As soon as he saw that, he also saw the window had a lock on it and he had no way of knowing where the key might be. He was trapped.

  Chapter 21

  Rose took the elevator to the fourteenth floor and the offices of the New York Sentinel. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, maybe rows of wooden desks and typewriters with green-glass shaded desk lamps. Of course, that might have been the case decades ago, but the reception she stepped out into was clean and bright. The reception desk itself was a simple curve of silver-topped white wood, bearing nothing but a computer monitor and a complicated-looking landline phone. A receptionist was tapping animatedly on her cell phone and barely gave Rose a glance as she walked in. Through the open door behind the desk was a large open plan office full of more modern desks and desktop computers, several people in casual office attire, some working, others milling around.

  Rose decided to be brazen and take a chance. She strolled casually past reception and the young woman on the phone, and through the open door. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Rose thanked the gods of social media and the inattention of the young.

  She wandered around the large space, trying to look like she belonged. Several people sat at their desks working keyboards or phones didn’t look up, or didn’t acknowledge her if they did notice. Others stood in pairs or small groups chatting. Several single offices, with large glass fronts and closed doors, stood all along one wall, windows beyond looking out over the city.

  Rose spotted a framed photo of Jazz and her mother on one desk and headed for it. Her stomach clenched as she picked up the photo for a closer look. Her friend was really dead. Jazz’s mother looked young in the photo, barely even 40. Rose remembered the stories from Jazz, how her mother had been a teenage mom. Jazz had said she almost grew up together with her mom as much friends as parent and daughter. They were close. Did her mom know what had happened? She could be barely out of her forties and Rose remembered Jazz was an only child, the poor woman would be devastated. Rose made a mental note to try to track down Mrs. Richards and offer her condolences at least.

  The computer on Jazz’s desk was on, a screensaver of tumbling neon lines rolling on forever repeat across the screen. Rose spared a quick glance over her shoulder and she was still remarkably unnoticed. Perhaps it was pretty normal for people to come and go from these offices. Either way, she would take advantage of it as much as she could. She shifted the mouse hoping to get a look at Jazz’s files. A dialog box popped up asking for a password. Rose silently cursed.

  On a whim, eyes narrowing, she tried blackrose. Black Rose had been Jazz’s somewhat tongue-in-cheek nickname for her, and perhaps her return to New York had made Jazz think of it. Who knew if she even changed her password often. It was a long shot, of course, but... The screen unlocked.

  Heart racing, barely able to believe her luck, Rose quickly opened the browser and looked at the search history. Nothing. Everything had been erased. So had all the bookmarks. That had to be a deliberate cleansing. After the murder? She opened up the Recent Documents box and there was a list of items, mostly Word documents. At the top was one file called “Price-Missing”. What might that mean?

  Rose clicked on it, but the computer informed her the file could not be found. Also deleted. This was all too convenient and more than a little worrying.

  Wondering where on the hard drive to look for other files, Rose glanced over her shoulder again and barely suppressed a startled jerk. Coming in her direction was a tall Latina with thick dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, clearly heading directly for a confrontation. Rose quickly re-evaluated, trying not to let guilt color her perception. The woman was imposing, but her face was relaxed, even kind-looking. Rose remembered Jazz talking about her boss, the editor here. LaGuerta, that was it. Jazz had a lot of respect for the woman and often talked about how lucky she was to have that kind of boss, especially in the media industry where so many places were still run by old white guys and their rusted-on prejudices.

  Rose quickly closed the file window she had opened, and picked up the photo of Jazz with her mother, as if that was what she had been looking at all along.

  “Can I help you?” the tall woman asked as she got nearer.

  Chapter 22

  The heavy knocking came at the door again and Crowley tried to think fast. No exit, no way of knowing who they were or what they wanted. One thing was certain – there was no situation where he should be inside Jazz’s apartment. Whoever it was wouldn’t be happy to see him. He ran to the kitchenette and pulled the biggest knife from a wooden block next to the microwave. It was a decent-sized carving knife, a broad eight inches of sharp steel. Then moving on soft feet, he crept up to the door and chanced a glimpse through the peephole. A large man stood outside, his face dark. Crowley ducked back, mind racing. He knew that guy. Where had he seen him before?

  “Come on, come on!” Crowley whispered to himself. “Who is that guy?” It seemed important.

  Then it came to him. The broad-shouldered and thick-limbed fellow was even still wearing the same charcoal suit, but he’d taken off the dark sunglasses. His mop of dark brown curls and pale skin were unmistakable though. It was the same man Crowley had spotted in Washington Square Park after they first discovered the mass burial site. The one who had surreptitiously snapped a photo of Rose and Jazz. And now here he was, outside Jazz’s apartment. Could he even be the killer, returning to the scene of the crime? But why?

  Initially Crowley had hoped that whoever was knocking would go away, but now he thought maybe he needed to have a chat with this guy. But a big, angry dude like that? It wouldn’t be easy.

  Crowley moved to take another look out the peephole and saw the man back up a couple of steps and drop his right shoulder. He was about to barge the door and ram it in. Subtlety was clearly not this guy’s style.

  Crowley quickly reached out and turned the doorknob just as the big man ran, then whipped the door open. He stuck his foot out as the poor fellow barreled at full speed into nothing and over he went, crashing hard into the floor and sliding up against Jazz’s bed. The crash was enough to shake the entire studio and Crowley winced at the thought of how that impact must have felt. The man deserved credit, he was rolling and almost up onto his knees before he’d stopped sliding, but Crowley was quicker. He dropped to one knee, cracked an elbow into the man’s temple to stun him, then grabbed him from behind, one arm across his chest, the other holding the knife blade against the thick meat of the man’s neck.

  “Don’t move, or you’ll slit your throat!”

  “What the hell?” the guy asked in a tight voice, frozen still against the blade. “Who are you?”

  Crowley laughed. “I’ll ask the questions. First of all, hands behind your back.”

  Grudgingly, the man complied. Crowley grabbed a bedside lamp, cut the lamp from the cord with the sharp knife, and used it to tie the man’s hands together securely at the wrist. He pulled it painfully tight, but he wasn’t about to take any chances.

  “Back against the bed.”

  “You’ll get nothing out of me!”

  “We’ll see.” Crowley remembered a pair of pantyhose were in the laundry basket, so he grabbed those and tied the man’s feet together, again pulling the knot as tight as he could. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The man used a colorful word that certainly wasn’t a name.

  Crowley smiled. “Fair enough. I’m going to call you Jerkwad. Feel free to correct me any time. So, Jerkwad, what are you doing here?”

  Jerkwad kept his mouth closed, tipped his head and kept a disdainful expression in his face. His eyes betrayed the speed of this thoughts as he seemed to be sizing up his options for escape.

  Crowley wasn’t about to give him time or opportunity. “Silent type, eh? I saw you in Washington Square Park, and
I saw you take a picture.” The man’s cheeks twitched as he ground his teeth. “Why are you following Jasmine Richards?”

  The man’s eyebrows twitched slightly this time, relaying an altogether different emotion. First it had been anger, now it was surprise.

  “Did you not know her name? Or were you not following her? Were you following me, Jerkwad? Or my friend?” He was careful not to mention his or Rose’s name. He could hope this guy and whoever he worked for didn’t know yet who they were, though maybe that was naïve. And he was sure this fool worked for someone else. He had the look of a minion, not the brains of an operation.

  “Okay, Jerkwad, let’s see what your pockets tell me.”

  Crowley reached forward and the big man thrashed, tries to head-butt forward. But he was big and slow and tied up, and Crowley was no mug. He sent a pair of knuckles in a swift clip across the point of Jerkwad’s chin and the big man grunted and went partially limp, eyes crossing. Not out cold, but disoriented. He dragged in breath, getting his equilibrium back as Crowley rifled through his suit pockets. He found a set of car keys and a phone.

  He put the keys aside and held up the phone. “What have we here?”

  “I ain’t giving you the passcode.” The man sneered, one side of his mouth curving up, pleased with himself.

  “I probably won’t need it. The facial recognition feature on these new gadgets was a big mistake, don’t you think?” He held the phone in front of the man’s face, but nothing happened.

  Jerkwad grinned, but Crowley wasn’t finished. He stood up and drove a knee into the big man’s shoulder, tipping him over sideways. Then he grabbed the meaty tied hands and pressed one thumb pad to the home button on the phone. This time it opened right up.