The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

  “What about you, Brit?” I say. “Eventually, you need to sleep, too.”

  “I’m personally and professionally responsible for your mom,” she says.

  “So am I,” I’m quick to respond. “Personally, anyway.”

  “But it’s different for me,” she says. “I’m a nurse. Besides—”

  She lets the thought dangle.

  “Besides what?” I press.

  She grins slyly.

  “I’m younger than you.”

  Her comment makes me laugh, despite the vision of my mother fighting for her life.

  “Just so you know,” she says, “when things calm down, I still intend to go out with you.”

  “You must have a thing for older men,” I say.

  “It’s not a daddy complex, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she says. “But I do prefer maturity to college dorm immaturity, if you know what I mean.”

  Steve Jobz, mature man. Has a nice ring to it.

  “Oh, I do know what you mean, Brit.”

  Leaning into me, she doesn’t just give me a little kiss on the cheek, she kisses me on the mouth. I nearly fall over from dizziness. I’ve now been drugged twice today. Once by a psycho pretending to be a sweet old lady, and another time by love. Love for a beautiful woman who is helping my mother as if she were her own.

  “I’ll be seeing you, kid,” I say in my best Bogart.

  “I’ll call if anything changes tonight. If not, I’ll call you with an update in the morning.”

  Turning to leave, it dawns on me that Brit might be too young to know who Bogart was.

  Driving back to my houseboat at one in the morning and parking the car just a few feet away from the dock, I feel the exhaustion wash over me like a wave. I’m reaching for the glove box when I feel a forearm wrap around my head and face and a knife press hard against my Adam’s apple.

  “Scream like a girl,” says the voice, “and I will slice you open like a fattened pig.”

  I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. The voice is almost like a machine. A manufactured voice.

  It presses the knife harder until I feel like the skin is breaking.

  “What do you want?” I utter. “Money? Because I don’t have any.”

  I should have known this would happen one day. Living in such an isolated place in the middle of nowhere. Sure, it’s still the city, but the port is an empty, abandoned space filled with old metal sided warehouses and empty docks. Someone wanted to kill me here and dump my body in the river, they could easily get away with it. My gun comes to mind. It’s only a couple of feet away from me inside the glove box where I’d stored it before heading into the hospital. Might as well be a mile away.

  “I don’t want money,” It says.

  “Then what the fuck do you want? You wanna kill me? Just get it over with.”

  Now I’m getting pissed off. My heart is about to burst out of my chest and my mouth couldn’t be drier if I swallowed a fistful of sand. She—or he—presses harder.

  “That would be too easy,” the voice says. “When the time comes to kill you, it won’t be fast, and it won’t be easy. Trust me. I’m an expert with this knife.”

  My mind shifts to the image of Principal Simon lying in a pool of her own dark blood. Is this the same person who killed her? Is this the same knife used in the murder?

  “If you’re not going to kill me,” I say, “what are you going to do to me?”

  “It’s not a question of what I’m going to do,” It says. “It’s more a matter of what you’re going to do.”

  “And what am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to end your involvement in the cafeteria extortion case,” It says. “Do you understand me?”

  I hesitate for a beat. It presses the knife even harder. I feel the trickle of warm blood running down my neck.

  “Who are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” It says. “You don’t know me. Nor will you ever know me.”

  “Did you kill Principal Simon?”

  The knife is suddenly removed from my neck. I don’t even think about what to do next. The move is instinctual. I go for the glove box and the gun it houses. I’m opening the box, when a freight train slams into the side of my head.

  When I wake up, I’m lying on the passenger seat of the Mustang. Dried blood stains my neck. My head hurts. Resting on the seat beside me is a brick. It’s still dark out, but the light from a spotlight mounted to a wood poll on a nearby dock makes enough shadow light for me to see without needing a flashlight. Sitting up, I check my watch.

  “Five in the fucking morning,” I whisper.

  I’ve been out for hours. Suddenly, as the dizziness and grogginess leave me, I open the glove box and take hold of my semi-automatic. I gaze behind me. Nothing but empty, open parking lot. Whoever hit me and cut my neck, is long gone by now. Was it the person who murdered Principal Simon? Almost definitely. But just who It is, remains a mystery.

  Should I call in Miller? Also almost definitely. But being that he’ll be here in only a couple of hours, and I desperately need to fill those two hours with some sleep, I decide to drag myself out of my car, head down to my boat, climb the stairs up to the empty space that houses my Futon. The gun securely gripped in my right hand; I collapse onto it. I’m out before my throbbing head hits the pillow.

  “Jobz,” the voice says. “Jobz, you awake?”

  This voice I recognize. It’s a man. A man I know well. Miller. I lift my head off the pillow. It still hurts, but not as bad as it did a few hours ago.

  “What time is it, Miller?” I ask, my voice groggy, dry.

  “Eight,” he says.

  Rolling over onto my elbow.

  “Holy Christ,” he says, “you get hit by a truck?”

  “Close,” I say, “but no cigar.”

  “Your neck’s been cut.”

  “Oh, that,” I say. “Tis but a scratch.”

  Sitting up straight, my pistol still in hand, I give him the lowdown on the anonymous, mechanical-voiced monster who threatened me, cut me, hit me with a brick, then disappeared into the night. He approaches me, bends at the knees, gets a close-up look at my neck.

  “Barely broke the skin,” he says. “You don’t need any stitches.”

  Gently, I touch the side of my head with the tips of my fingers. The welt left behind is tender and sore.

  “Maybe I should have my head examined,” I say.

  Miller straightens himself out.

  “You should have had your head examined a long time ago, Jobz,” he says. “But tell you what. Let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll buy the coffee.”

  “Liar,” I say, standing, awkwardly and slightly out of balance. “The department picks up the coffee tab.”

  “Okay,” he says, “but who cares about technicalities.”

  “I want an egg sandwich, too,” I say. “I missed dinner. I need my strength.”

  “Anything else?” the old detective asks.

  I look into his steely gray eyes.

  “If I think of something,” I add, “I’ll let you know.”

  He turns, starts for the ladder. But then he stops.

  “By the way,” he says. “That check I did on how many Gladys Carters reside in Albany?”

  “And?”

  “Three hits came up. Only one of them living in Albany . . . in Pine Hills.”

  “That’s our Gladys Carter,” I say. “I did the same White Pages check a couple days ago.”

  “Only one problem with the White Pages results,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The White Pages have it all wrong,” he says. “Gladys Carter died six years ago.”

  Five minutes later, we’re riding in Miller’s cruiser. He’s behind the wheel. It’s warm today, so he’s sans trench coat. We don’t say much of anything while he pulls up to the Madison Avenue McDonalds window, orders two large coffees and sausage Egg McMuffin sandwiches.

  “Did you know you can get
breakfast twenty-four-seven at McDonalds nowadays, Miller?” I say as the uniformed counter girl hands him a tray with the coffees on it.

  He hands me the tray.

  “Yes,” he replies. “I have enjoyed an Egg McMuffin or two for dinner recently.”

  “How novel,” I say.

  He hands me the bag of sandwiches. He pays the girl, lets her keep the change, and then pulls ahead. We eat while he drives.

  “On a heavier note,” I say, “anything on the principal’s murder? Any suspects?”

  “We don’t have shit,” he admits between bites of egg sandwich. “Whoever did it, male or female, knew precisely what they were doing.”

  “Premeditated, as opposed to a crime of passion,” I pose.

  “To the Nth degree,” he says. “Suspect knew enough to cover his or her tracks. No blood smears or footprints, no trace evidence, not so much as a hair follicle left behind on the scene.”

  “CCTV,” I say. “The school’s security cameras had to be rolling.”

  I finish my sandwich and wish I had another. Oh well. I open the lid on the large coffee, and blow on it, as if that will help cool it down.

  “That’s just it,” Miller says. “The CCTV wasn’t running. They either shut it down at night, which I find hard to believe since intruders love to break into schools, or whoever killed her knew how to stop it. Or, the coverage is spotty, with only certain portions of the school able to be filmed. I think the latter is more the case.”

  “I agree,” I say.

  He glances at me and munches down on the last of his sandwich. “That’s what I’m thinking, anyway.”

  Miller skillfully removes the plastic sippy tab on his coffee as it sits in the center console cup holder. While holding the wheel with his left hand, he takes a careful sip of the hot beverage, then sets it gently back down. The man is so precise and deliberate in his actions if he were ever to spill even a single drop, I’d say he was failing in his old age.

  “All I witnessed when I went there were women,” I say. “Nice, middle-aged ladies.”

  “There are some male teachers,” he says, “and a couple of maintenance guys. I got a team of blue uniforms doing interviews today. Let’s see what they come up with.”

  He drives us through the very green and very lush Washington Park. Lots of people, even native Albanians, don’t know that the big, somewhat hilly, park was designed by the same landscape architect that designed Manhattan’s Central Park. It’s Albany’s diamond in the rough.

  When Miller comes to Madison Avenue, he turns right and motors due west toward Pine Hills. I grew up in Pine Hills, so I feel like I’m going home again. My mother tried for years and years to get my father to move to Loudonville in North Albany where all the rich people resided. But he always refused, no matter how much money he managed to pull in from both his pork stores, Jobzcynski’s Polish Pork. “We were born and bred Pine Hillians and born and bred till we’re dead we shall remain,” he loved to say, much to my mother’s irritation. Am I saying that my dear old mom thought she was better than the people who lived in Pine Hills? Well, maybe a little. But my mother was always trying to improve her lot in life, and if that meant pulling up stakes and moving to the burbs, then so be it. But you just couldn’t convince Dad. He might have dressed smartly and drove a big black Cadillac, but he considered himself one with the people.

  Miller turns onto Fairlawn Avenue, passes a row of similar looking 1920’s era Sears “home kit” bungalows until he pulls up to number 22—Gladys Carter’s rundown home.

  “This the place?” he asks.

  “The eagle has landed,” I say. Then, “what about our coffees? I just started in on mine, and it’s too hot to chug.”

  He takes hold of his coffee. “We got a minute or two to take a few more sips.”

  I drink some more coffee. My mother comes to mind. My mother, lying in a hospital bed, Brit keeping a close watch on her.

  “My mother,” I say.

  “What about her?” Miller asks. “She okay?”

  I explain about the coma, ICU, and about how a nurse named Brit is watching over her. I also mention how Brit and I have agreed to date, despite the slight age difference.

  “Jesus, Jobz,” he says, “I’m really sorry, buddy. You’ve had a rough couple of days but sounds like your poor mom has had it worse.”

  “She might not live,” I say, feeling my throat tighten up on me.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Brit told me to expect the worse,” I say, “in not so many words.”

  He nods. “Anything you need,” he adds. “You let me know.”

  “Thanks, Miller,” I say. Then, “Visits.”

  “What?”

  “I should have visited her more. I’ve been trying to see her on Monday’s for Meatloaf Monday Night. But I gotta admit, I was partly going because Brit was there.”

  “Don’t do that shit to yourself, Jobz,” he says. “It’s not your fault Brit works there or that she’s cute and kind.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” I say. “Maybe I just wish I was a better son. Never got the chance to be a better father.”

  “Your life ain’t over yet,” he says. “You might still get the chance.” Looking at his watch. “We’d better get in there and see what Mrs. Carter has to reveal.”

  “I’m not done with my coffee yet.”

  “Suck it up, buttercup,” he says, setting his coffee in the console cup holder.

  He shuts the cruiser off, pulls the keys from the starter. Opening the door, he gets out. I place my coffee in the free cup holder behind his, open the door and get out as well.

  “You take the lead,” he says, “since you’ve already been here.”

  “Last time I was here,” I say, “they wheeled me out on a gurney. I thought I was gonna die.”

  “I’ll make sure not to drink the cranberry juice,” Miller says.

  “Don’t eat or drink anything,” I say. “You don’t know who we’re dealing with here.”

  We take the steps up onto the porch. I thumb the doorbell. Footsteps along the interior floorboards. Then, a pair of eyes in the glass pane. A pair of eyes that belong to a woman who claims she’s Gladys Carter. She unlocks the deadbolt, opens the heavy wood door.

  “Why, Mr. Jobz,” she says, a stunned, wide-eyed look on her face, “what a surprise. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again. I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Mrs. Carter,” I say, “this is Chief Homicide Detective, Nick Miller. He’s my superior in the department. He has a quick question or two for you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Mind if we come in, Ma’am?” Miller says, pulling out his badge and revealing the shiny gold star.

  For a beat, Mrs. Carter just stares at us. Like she wasn’t expecting us, even for a second, which is kind of the point of our visit. Nothing like the element of surprise. But then, a little voice inside my head tells me if she really is the imposter that Miller and I are believing her to be, she did indeed expect the police to show up today. Especially in light of Principal Simon’s brutal murder.

  “Please, come in,” she says, after a time. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. I’ve just gotten some tragic news. My friend was murdered last night, but I’m guessing you know that, Detective. I just cannot believe it. Anita Simon was such a lovely young woman. She had her whole life to look forward to.” She sniffles and presses her hands against her face like she’s been crying. “What kind of animal could do such a thing?”

  “That’s one of the reasons we’re here, Mrs. Carter,” Miller says. “We’re trying to find out exactly who the monster is.”

  She gestures toward the couch for us to sit down before heading into the kitchen.

  “I was just about to bake some muffins, gentlemen,” she says. “I’ll also put some fresh coffee on.”

  Miller gives me a look. I return the look. It says, don’t do it! Don’t ingest a thing!

  “We just had breakfast, Ma’am,” Miller sa
ys. “We’re stuffed at this point!”

  “I can second that, Mrs. Carter,” I say. “I couldn’t put another thing in my stomach.”

  “Well, surely you can do with some fresh coffee.”

  I grab Miller’s forearm, like I’m saying I’ll handle this.

  “We’ve already had too much, Mrs. Carter,” I insist. “We just want to talk for a moment and then leave you to your baking.”

  Slowly, almost achingly, she walks back into the living room, takes a seat on the easy chair across from the couch. She’s wearing pretty much the same outfit as yesterday afternoon. Baggy jeans, slippers, a blue blouse under an old white cardigan. Her hair is pulled up into a bun. Or should I say, her fake hair.

  “Mrs. Carter,” Miller says after a beat, “I know this must be a trying time for you what with the sudden murder of Principal Simon. But then, I’m guessing you weren’t very happy with her as of late.”

  Her eyes light up. “Why would you say that, Detective?” she says, innocently. “I’ve always found Anita to be a sweet and tender young lady.”

  “But wasn’t she the one who fired you?” he presses. “Fired you after accusing you of stealing half a million dollars of school funds over the course of five years?”

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  “Well,” she continues, “I guess Anita might have been acting strange lately. But she had to know I would never knowingly do such a thing.” She takes on a strange smile. “I’m not an extortionist. Do I look like the kind of lady who has half a million dollars in the bank, Detective?”

  Miller nods, bites down on his bottom lip. He stands suddenly.

  “Mrs. Carter,” he says, “on second thought, I think I’ll take you up on something to drink. Mind if I grab a glass of water?”

  She goes to get up.

  “No, no, no,” Mrs. Carter, he says, “I’ve got this. You relax. Police orders.”

  Maybe I’m mistaken, but her face seems to go slightly pale. It’s almost like she knows Miller is on to her, but no way in hell is she about to admit it. Miller proceeds to the kitchen. I hear him going through the cupboards searching for a glass. Carter nervously rubs her hands together in her lap.