By the time he reached the beach access road where the bar was, he worried he had blown everything by walking instead of trying to cop a ride into town. Connolly’s was housed on the bottom floor of a pale blue-and-white Cape Cod structure and Timothy could see through the bay window that it was empty.
He let out a regretful sigh. The offer was too good to be true; or the reporter had second thoughts. Perhaps the guy feared Timothy had acquired an AK-47 and was going to pick up where he left off years before.
But violence wasn’t on his mind. He barely remembered that night in Cedarhurst or even Marian’s last name (the girl he wanted to take to Die Hard in his father’s Ferrari). It was all lost in a Tangerine Dream–like haze, the band whose album he’d been listening to when the cops found him sitting between his shotgun-blasted folks.
It was probably a good thing that the reporter pulled a no-show. Timothy was pretty certain he didn’t have a grand’s worth of memories for the man.
A horn tooted behind him.
He turned to find a midnight blue Hyundai Sonata pulling up. The car braked to a halt and the passenger window slid down. “Mr. Leeds?” It was the same English accent he’d heard on the phone. “Sorry, I got stuck getting out of the blasted city.”
“I thought I was getting stood up. So, is this happening or not?”
“I’m ready if you are—as you can see.”
Timothy approached the passenger side and leaned inside the window.
Colorful bills were spread on the console between the two seats.
Timothy’s eyes flickered. “What the hell is that? Monopoly money?”
“It’s eight hundred and fifty British pounds. You’d do well on the exchange rate—probably make an extra hundred. I’m sure your bank will convert it for you.”
“I don’t have a bank. I just got out of prison after thirty years.” Timothy was getting cold feet and not just because the wind was picking up and the temperature dropping. “Maybe we should just forget the whole thing.”
Timothy straightened up and started to turn away from the Sonata.
“Mr. Leeds, wait,” came the plea. “I’m sorry. I just got to the States and arrived ill-prepared. My bad, as you would say. Why don’t we go to a bank together, get the money exchanged, and then go about the interview as planned?”
Timothy hovered by the window. It wasn’t like he had many options.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
He opened the passenger door and climbed inside. As Timothy buckled himself in, the other man pointed to the money on the console.
“If it’ll make you feel any better, hang on to that until we get to the bank.”
Timothy reached for the money, then shook his head. “Not necessary.”
Timothy looked up just in time to see an elbow come flying at his face.
There were very few things Chet Wilson couldn’t break in to. Be it a private home, an auto parts store, a bank vault, or a neighborhood bar’s till, finding a way to gain entry had rarely posed a problem for the petty thief.
Sticking around afterward was usually Chet’s downfall. It had resulted in three prison terms, the last a ten-year stint that ended with his release six months ago and led to him occupying a small room in the Far Rockaway halfway house.
If pressed, he’d say things were easier behind bars. It was pointless trying to break a jail cell lock with cameras watching one’s every move. Three square meals a day and no worries where his next dollar came from; prison had its advantages.
Edwards told this to Grant and Frankel as he walked them through the place. They found Chet in the community room watching The Talk . “One thing I’ll say about Chet—he’s quite forthcoming. Not good at keeping things to himself. He would have been a much more successful thief otherwise. I’d go with whatever he tells you.”
When looking at Chet Wilson, he reminded Grant of the men in Liverpool who trudged along with his father to the munitions factory. Chet wore an old denim work shirt and khakis; all that was missing was the black lunch pail and dour expression of a man who day-in, day-out, dutifully provided for his lower-middle class family. The former thief was content getting three hot meals every day at the halfway house and watching the roundtable discussions on the all-female talk show. Today’s topic was “My Favorite Christmas Party” with their very special guest, Sarah Michelle Gellar. Chet was glued to the set because he’d spent the past five holiday seasons locked up where Christmas was crap eggnog and the men’s chorus singing off-key carols.
The two cops apologized for dragging Chet away from his program to question him about Timothy Leeds.
“No problem—I’ll catch the rest later.” He muted the program and indicated the remote control. “The DVR’s an incredible thing.”
“Tell us about your discussion with the man on the phone,” said Frankel.
“Ain’t much to say. He asked if Timothy Leeds was around and I said I’d check. I hadn’t met the guy yet, but we all knew who he was because he arrived last night with all that fuss on the news.”
Grant stepped forward. “You said the caller had a British accent?”
“He talked like you, if that’s what you mean,” Chet replied.
“Do you think you’d recognize his voice again?”
“Probably not. Don’t take this wrong, but you all sound alike. It could’ve been you I was talking to.”
“Did you happen to overhear Leeds’s end of the conversation?” asked Frankel.
“I gave him his privacy. Most of us round here came from some place where we were on top of everyone else.”
“Then how’d you find out he was meeting a reporter?” wondered Frankel.
Chet indicated the door leading out to the main hallway. “He ducked his head in here and asked me how far Connolly’s was.”
“Connolly’s?”
“A dive bar down on Ninety-Fifth Street,” explained Edwards.
Chet nodded. “I said it was a ten-minute walk. That’s when he told me he was going to meet this reporter who wanted to pay him for his story.”
“I know Miles, who works the day shift at the bar,” Edwards said. “I texted him a photo of Leeds. He said he hasn’t been in there today and Miles would know. The place is pretty much dead until happy hour.”
“Did Leeds mention the reporter’s name?” asked Grant. “Monte Ferguson?”
He had tried Ferguson’s cell the second Edwards had mentioned the phone call Leeds had received. It had gone directly to voice mail.
“Nope. I just told him how to get there, then wished him good luck. Figure he had it coming after doing his thirty in Sing Sing.”
Frankel’s expression tightened. “The man murdered his folks in cold blood.”
“And served his time,” said Chet. The ex-con’s voice had turned serious. “Everyone deserves a second chance,” said the thrice-convicted thief. “Hell. I’m working on my fourth.”
Timothy opened his eyes, then immediately shut them again.
Sand was pouring inside his eyeballs.
He tried to open his mouth to scream but it was covered in duct tape. Trying to move his arms produced a similar result—they had been pulled behind his back and tied together with a tightly-knotted rope.
He was being dragged across a stretch of white sand. Ironically, it might have been the same piece of shoreline he’d been admiring just a short time before.
“Ah, you’re back with us,” came the now-familiar British voice that Timothy finally understood he never should have trusted.
The man pulled Timothy to his feet. Totally immobilized and still hurting from the sucker punch to the face, Timothy had no choice but to yield to his captor.
The man was a whole lot stronger than he looked.
Not that Timothy had gotten a good bead on him. His brain was really scrambled.
As the sand blew away and his eyes cleared, Timothy saw the massive building he was being shoved toward. It resembled a beached gray whale crossbred with one of those al
ien ships in that movie Independence Day someone with a warped sense of humor showed every Fourth of July back in the joint.
As if the broken-out widows and dead landscaping surrounding a structure that looked ready to topple any second weren’t enough, a sign near the rickety building entrance sealed the deal.
Condemned! Stay Out! This Means You!
It might as well have read “Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here.”
Though Timothy’s screams were muffled by the duct tape, it didn’t stop him from continuing to try and be heard.
Until his captor punched him in the head again.
Miles, the thirtyish bartender at Connolly’s, was blond and looked like he belonged permanently atop the surfboard he took out at dawn and dusk. There had only been three customers that morning—a young couple looking to wet their whistles shortly before noon that Miles carded and sent thirstily on their way, and an older woman who had gotten lost looking for Coney Island.
“Definitely not this guy,” Miles said, holding the photo that Edwards had sent over. Frankel gave Miles his card and told him to call if he saw any sign of Leeds.
Minutes later, the two cops stood outside the bar, equally frustrated.
“We’re getting a line on the calls coming into that phone back at the halfway house to see if one lines up with Ferguson,” Frankel told the commander.
It wasn’t like Grant had another bright idea. He had tried Ferguson again and once again it had gone directly to voice mail.
They began canvassing the shops and streets near Connolly’s to see if anyone had spotted Leeds. Being the peak of winter, this part of Far Rockaway resembled a ghost town. Most shops were shuttered for the season, and the few yearlong denizens they spoke to had been cooped up all morning, not brave enough to confront the close-to-freezing temperatures.
Grant was in a tiny corner grocery ordering hot tea when his cell rang.
Monte Ferguson’s name appeared on the mobile screen.
Grant took the call immediately. “Where have you been all morning?”
“Talking to the press. Print. Television. Online bloggers,” answered the Mail man. “What did you think I’d be doing? Or haven’t you seen the news today?”
“Oh, I’ve seen it.”
“Sorry if it’s caused you any inconvenience,” Ferguson said.
That’s one big fat lie.
“Are you on your way to Far Rockaway to talk to Timothy Alan Leeds?”
“Far Rockaway? I don’t even know what or where that is,” responded Ferguson. “And who the hell is Timothy Alan Leeds?”
This time, it was excruciating pain that woke Timothy.
Worse than any he had experienced in his forty-seven years, emanating from the center of his forehead. Blood dripped into both of his eyes.
He tried to bring his hands up and wipe it away, but they were still tied behind his back. And his mouth continued to be sealed tight with the duct tape.
Timothy violently shook his head, clearing enough blood from his eyes to make out the hideous shape of his captor standing inches away from his face.
The man was wearing plastic gloves and held a knife dripping with blood.
Timothy’s blood.
“Figured that might bring you around,” the man said. He made a grandiose motion with the knife. “Bring back old memories?”
The first thing Timothy noticed were the stone walls and metal door. He started to shake uncontrollably.
“They don’t have actual cells here,” explained his captor. “I think they’re more like holding rooms for their ‘problem children.’ Seemed appropriate.”
Suddenly, the man spun Timothy around 180 degrees in a swivel chair.
Timothy saw the wall behind him for the first time.
It was covered with old newspapers and photos. All featured either Timothy, his parents, or their dead bodies. The headlines practically screamed at him—Teen Brutally Murders Parents and Leeds Gets Fifty Years—Is It Enough?
Timothy screamed—in spite of the duct tape.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” the man said. “But I get the gist.”
The man pointed with a bloody glove at the collage.
“I understand. You think you did your time after being tried and convicted in criminal court.”
His captor turned back to look directly at Timothy.
“But now you’re in mine .”
The man reached in to his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Then he punched a couple of buttons with a gloved finger and placed the cell on a table behind him.
He gave a slight nod of satisfaction. Then turned his attention back to Timothy.
“So, do you want to begin praying—or should I?”
9
Grant couldn’t get Ferguson off the phone quickly enough.
Unfortunately, the man from the Mail wasn’t interested in ending the call so fast. A barrage of questions followed, and as much as Grant wanted to hang up, he knew Ferguson could drip enough poison from his pen to worsen the situation.
“You’re thinking this bloke Leeds will be victim number five?”
Grant considered his options. Leeds was all over the news and, having already given Monte his name, it wouldn’t take long for him to learn everything about the released convict. Grant realized a denial would only come back to haunt him, especially if Leeds ended up with a Roman numeral V etched in his forehead.
“It’s looking that way,” Grant admitted. He begged Ferguson not to go public with the information. By letting the killer know the authorities were casting their net over him, they risked the man fleeing. As for Leeds, if he saw his name listed as an intended victim, there was an equal chance he might head for parts unknown instead of coming directly to the cops for protection.
Monte agreed to keep quiet for the moment but Grant knew the reporter would try to find Leeds himself, so he asked Ferguson to contact him or Frankel if he got a line on the man.
“If Leeds is in the killer’s sights, you might be putting yourself at risk, Monte.”
“Duly noted, Commander.”
The call ended with a click. Grant put the odds at fifty-fifty that Ferguson would honor any of his requests. He turned to find Frankel on his cell as well.
The NYPD detective looked impatient. “On hold,” he murmured.
Grant brought Frankel up to speed on his conversation with Ferguson.
Frankel shook his head. “Doesn’t matter where they’re from. Here, England, wherever. Reporters hide behind that freedom of the press crap and tell you they’re only interested in the truth but all they want to do is promote themselves.”
Grant didn’t disagree.
“So, if Ferguson wasn’t the one who contacted Leeds, how likely is it a second British reporter called wanting an interview with the guy?” asked Frankel.
“You know as well as I do who that was on the other end of the phone.”
“Shit.” Frankel suddenly held up his hand; his call had resumed. “Yes, I’m here. Gimme one second.”
Frankel dug into his pocket for a pad and pen. Grant noticed his expression darken the more he scribbled. Frankel finally mumbled thanks, disconnected, and held up the notepad.
“Looks like there were only three calls to the house phone this morning. One was from the cook’s mother who had locked herself out and needed a spare key. They tracked another to a resident’s girlfriend.”
“And the third?”
“Traces to a burner phone. Prepaid for thirty minutes of use; not registered to anyone.”
But both Grant and Frankel knew who had bought it.
“The phone’s on and working,” said Frankel. “They pinged it to an address less than two miles from here.”
Within seconds they were back in the sedan. “More than likely another dead end. I bet the asshole just dumped it near this place and took off,” Frankel said as he started the engine.
“Why would you say that?”
“The building’s been abandoned for
thirty years,” Frankel replied. “It used to be an mental hospital.”
The Neponsit Health Care Center.
That was still the officially designated name, even though it hadn’t been operational for a couple decades. Originally, it had been called the Neponsit Beach Hospital for Children, a facility treating youngsters suffering from tuberculosis in the early twentieth century. In its day, it was among the most prominent pediatric hospitals in the country, offering top-notch treatments like Alpine sun lamp usage and supervised bathing in the adjacent Atlantic.
During World War II, it had been taken over by the Department of Public Health to treat merchant marines who had contracted TB. After the war, it had resumed tending children until its doors closed in 1955. It reopened in 1961 as a nursing home renamed the Neponsit Home for the Aged.
For the next few decades, it looked after elderly people and thus took on its current name. Few of its residents appreciated the white sand beaches below and the majestic Atlantic beyond, as many were mentally ill, some in the late stages of Alzheimer’s, and may not have noticed the difference from living out their days in a windowless building in Queens.
Then, in September 1998, ten years after Timothy Alan Leeds’s life had changed forever, a vicious storm pounded Far Rockaway, forcing everyone in the hospital to be evacuated to the aforementioned Queens property. It happened so fast that two patients died during the transfer and another went missing for weeks.
The hospital survived the brutal assault of the storm but the powers that be didn’t let the patients return, citing health hazards. Naysayers believed the late-night emergency evacuation was a ploy to take advantage of the property’s beachfront location so the owners could turn it into a luxury resort hotel. But no such renovation ever took place. One reporter unearthed a copy of the original deed to the hospital stating the land could only be used for a medical facility or public park.
The Last Commandment Page 8
