by R.J. Ellory
′Never mind,′ Irving replied. He left the room, closed the door firmly behind him.
TEN
′She didn′t say anything else about the want-ad?′ Farraday asked. ′What else was there to say? They took a shot in the dark and hit something . . . I don′t think they know that they hit something.′
Farraday leaned forward and picked up the draft article. ′There is a strong possibility that she was responding to a Murray Hill want-ad for part-time domestic work in the local free newspaper, colloquially referred to as the freep. That′s what Karen Langley wrote.′ He tossed the newspaper onto the desk. ′And she took a stab at the phone call on the double gun killing, the two girls off the Expressway.′
′She′s unreasonable,′ Irving said. ′She′s not as tough as she sounds, but she′s hard enough to argue the case on this. If she knew about the Betsy phone call, she′d be a nightmare to deal with.′
′And now she has this statement she showed you on another triple killing, a killing that wasn′t even included in their article . . .′ Farraday′s voice trailed away.
Silence, then, ′We won′t get a court order,′ he said matter-of-factly.
′I know,′ Irving replied.
′Isn′t even worth asking.′
′What about the Fifth and the Ninth?′
′What about them?′
′Well, they have Lucas heading up the investigation on the two girls, and then Lavelle and Hayes are on this triple homicide, the boys in the trunk and the girl that was strangled, right? Get them over here, let′s collaborate on this thing. We′ve got a pattern of some sort. I know it′s different MOs, different victims, different jurisdictions, but at least we have something—′
Farraday smiled sardonically. ′And what we have comes courtesy of the fucking New York City Herald. Thing I don′t get is how they put these things together so damned fast. They take three murder cases, and within a space of days they have them connected to earlier murders going back forty years, and now they′ve got a couple more with this girl and the boys in the car.′
Irving shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
′Doesn′t make sense,′ Farraday said. He looked up at Irving as if Irving would say something contributive, but the detective was silent, expressionless.
′I′ll speak to the Chief,′ Farraday said after some moments. ′See how long his favor is gonna last with the Herald′s editor. I′ll tell him what we′ve got, see what he says about you working with these other guys.′
′And now?′
′Go back and see this Langley again. Find out what they′ve got on the want-ad - where did this thing about the freep come from? How did they get that? She′s gotta have someone with an inside line somewhere . . . want to see if there′s a leak we need to plug.′
Irving nodded, rose from his chair, turned to the door.
′And Ray?′
Irving looked back at Farraday. ′If you get word that someone at this precinct is on their payroll, come tell me first, okay?′
′Now who the hell else would I go tell? he replied.
An hour later Ray Irving was back in the lobby of the City Herald. The girl from the morning was not there, perhaps she′d taken an early lunch, and the guy who′d replaced her was brusque and unhelpful. He merely told Irving to wait until Karen Langley could be found.
By the time word came it was close to one. Langley would be back within a quarter hour. She knew Irving was waiting, was willing to speak with him but had very little time.
′I am very, very busy,′ she announced as she flew through the lobby. Her arms were laden with files, back of her a second man with a camera, a shoulder bag, a tripod. Karen Langley stopped in front of Irving. Irving did not get up.
′Later, Karen,′ the camera guy said.
′Put all the pictures on back-up,′ she said. ′E-mail them down to me and I′ll try and go through them later.′
The man nodded and disappeared through a door to the right of the stairwell.
′So what d′you want?′ Langley asked.
′Fifteen minutes,′ Irving replied.
′I don′t have fifteen minutes.′
Ray Irving reached across the chair and picked up his overcoat. He stood slowly, faced her for a moment, and said, ′Another day then.′
He stepped by Karen Langley and started toward the door. Slowed up as he heard her laughing.
′You are so full of shit,′ she said.
He turned.
′Come on,′ she said. ′But seriously . . . only fifteen minutes, okay?′
Irving shrugged noncommittally.
′What the hell was that?′ she asked.
′What?′
′That thing there . . . what you did just then, like it doesn′t matter. Jesus, Detective, you′ve been waiting for me for more than an hour.′
′That′s nothing,′ Irving replied. ′I′ve been known to sit still for more than two hours on occasion.′
Langley smiled. A real smile. The second Irving had seen from her. It was the kind of smile that made it obvious she did in fact possess a heart.
He walked toward her. She unloaded the files she was carrying into his arms.
′Carry these, would you?′ she said.
′Least I can do, Ms Langley.′
′Karen,′ she said. ′We′re gonna spend time bullshitting one another we might as well be on first name terms.′
′I′m Ray.′
′I know. You told me already.′
They sat at the same desk, same office. She offered him coffee; he declined.
′The connections,′ Irving said. ′I′m intrigued how you made the connections between now and then. These murders go back as much as forty years.′
She shook her head. ′I can′t tell you that.′
′The want-ad,′ Irving went on. ′How did you figure that into it? Without the want-ad it was nothing more than a dead girl.′
′She was wrapped in black plastic,′ Langley said. ′That was the similarity. All it took then was looking at where she lived, where she was found, drawing a line and seeing which districts were on that route. We go through the freep, we find a want-ad—′
′No way,′ Irving said. ′Couldn′t be that simple. You found a want-ad?′
Langley nodded.
′To even know to look for a want-ad you would have had to be familiar with the original case back in - when was it?′
′Nineteen seventy-three. Girl called Kathy Sue Miller.′
′So you′d have had to have known something about that case to even go looking for a want-ad. I′ve seen a good number of bodies left wrapped in plastic trash bags.′
Langley didn′t speak.
′You′re not saying anything?′
′No, Detective, I′m not.′
′And the girls? Your article was very specific about the fact that they had been shot with a .25 caliber weapon, and that the pattern of wounds was the same as the earlier murders.′
′The Sunset Slayer. Cynthia Chandler and Gina Marano. June 1980.′
′You have someone inside the lines, right?′
Karen Langley laughed. It was neither condescending nor embarrassed, just the simple reaction of someone who wanted to do something other than look back directly at Ray Irving.
′I′ll take that as a yes,′ Irving said.
′I′m saying nothing.′
′You don′t have to.′
′So we′re going nowhere, Detective Irving—′
′Ray,′ he interjected. ′We′re on first name terms, seeing as how we′re bullshitting each other, remember?′
′So we′re going nowhere, Ray. I have a lot to do—′
′How about a trade,′ Irving said.
Langley frowned.
′You ask me a question, I tell the truth. Then we turn it round.′
′If you go first,′ she said.
′You don′t trust me?′
′Hey, I don′t even know you ′cept to bulls
hit with. Of course I don′t trust you, you′re a cop.′
′I can′t believe you said that.′
Langley shrugged. ′Believe it. Deal with it.′
′So whaddya think?′
′One question.′
′One question, right.′
′And I′m asking first?′ Langley said.
′Sure, what the hell . . . we all know that newspaper hacks are more honest and reliable than police officers.′
′The phone call,′ Langley said. ′After the two teenagers got shot, did an anonymous woman call in and leave a message?′
Irving nodded in the affirmative.
′You′re kidding me?′ Langley said, genuinely surprised.
′Word-for-word. They have it on record at the Ninth.′
′Jesus,′ she said. ′That is just fucking unreal.′
′Unfortunately it′s very real,′ Irving said. ′And now it′s my turn.′
She looked at him.
′The connections. How did you really make the connections between these killings and the ones from the past?′
Langley smiled. ′I didn′t,′ she said.
Irving frowned.
′I didn′t do the research on this, Ray, someone else did. I have a researcher.′
′And his name?′
Karen Langley rose from her chair. She smiled at Irving, extended her hand as if to show him the door. ′That′s two questions,′ she said.
Irving got up. ′You are a tough bitch, aren′t you?′
′So - until tomorrow?′ She smiled again.
Irving crossed the room. ′Or later today.′
At the end of the corridor Irving took note of a name on an office door at the top of the stairs. Gary Harmon. He then glanced over his shoulder. He caught Karen Langley disappearing back into her office as if she′d been watching him but hadn′t wanted to be seen.
Down in the lobby the girl had returned.
′Back again?′ she asked.
′Can′t stay away,′ Irving said. ′Tell me something . . . Karen Langley′s researcher, that′s Gary Harmon, right?′
The girl frowned. ′Gary? No, it′s John. John Costello.′
Irving smiled, as if he′d been caught in a moment of absentmindedness. ′Of course it is,′ he said. ′Thank you very much.′
′You′re welcome,′ the girl replied, and Ray Irving looked at her pretty smile, her movie-star haircut, and thought, Some other life. Perhaps in some other life . . .
ELEVEN
Ray Irving trawled through back issues of the freep. Didn′t take long to find a Murray Hill want-ad. The number given was a cell. He called it; it was out of service. Called the exchange, spoke to three people, finally resolved that the number had been provisionally issued for a non-contracted phone. Thirty dollars, a cheap disposable unit, use up the call-time and throw it away. Untraceable.
He phoned Police Archives, got a line in with someone who wanted to help him.
′Old cases,′ Irving said. ′ ′66, ′73, ′75 and ′80.′
′Here?′
′Different places. L.A., Seattle, Chicago and Texas.′
′You′re not serious?′
′As I have ever been.′
′Then I don′t know that I can help you . . . well, I could help you, but the hours that it′d take . . . Jesus, I′d have to call each Division that dealt with the original crime, get authorization to transfer records, have someone down there find them. This is not a couple of hours work, Detective Irving, and someone somewhere has to okay the time and the expenditure.′
′So what do I gotta get?′
′You have to get something called an Inter-State Archive Requisition Transfer Mandate. Has to be signed by a captain or above, nothing less. Then, and only then, can I help you.′
′And I get one of these from where?′
′Give me your e-mail address and I′ll send one over. Print it hardcopy, fill it out, get it signed, then we′ll talk.′
Irving thanked the man and hung up.
At his own computer station he looked up John Costello. Found three Johns, one Jonathan. All of them were New York residents, two of them DUIs, one aggravated assault, one involved in some white-collar invest on a tax evasion scam back in the early eighties. Of these, two had left the state, one was dead, the only extant New York resident was close to sixty and he lived in Steinway. Unless the guy had a compulsion to commute, Irving doubted he was the man. He then accessed the City Herald website, selected About Us, found pictures of Karen Langley, Leland Winter, and the paper′s editor, a grave-looking man called Bryan Benedict. Costello wasn′t listed. He did a search on costello researcher, came back with a list of unrelated articles containing the word, statements from university lecturers, nothing of significance. So, John Costello had no criminal record. John Costello worked for the New York City Herald and had somehow made the connection between a series of current murders and those going back forty years.
Irving took the phone number, called the Herald, and asked for Costello.
′He doesn′t have an extension,′ the receptionist told him.
′I was there earlier,′ Irving said. ′Detective Irving.′
′Yes, of course. Hi there. How are you?′
′I′m fine, just fine, but I need to speak to John Costello.′
′Then I can send a message down and have him call you back, or I might see him when he finishes for the day.′
′When is that?′ Irving glanced at his watch. It was quarter past two.
′Five maybe. Perhaps five-thirty.′
′You gonna be there then?′
′Sure I am. I′m on ′til six.′
Irving paused for a moment. ′I′m sorry, but I didn′t get your name?′
′Emma,′ the receptionist said. ′Emma Scott.′
′I wanna do something, Emma. I wanna come down there about quarter of five and wait for Mr Costello to come out, and when he does I want you to tell me who he is and then I can talk to him right away.′
′Is he . . . well, is he in some kind of trouble?′
′No, not at all, quite the opposite. I think he could save me a lot of trouble. He did some research on something and I need his advice.′
′And this is all legal, right? I′m not going to get—′
′It′s completely fine, Emma. I just need you to point him out so I can speak with him.′
′Okay,′ she said hesitantly. ′Okay . . . I s′pose that′d be fine, Detective Irving. You come down here about quarter of five then and I′ll introduce you to John.′
′Appreciated, Emma . . . see you then.′
The Inter-State Archive Requisition Transfer Mandate was a nine-page document in close-type, single-space, font-size ten. He knew the names and dates of the previous victims, but only from Karen Langley′s draft newspaper article. He didn′t know divisions, departments, or names of detectives - more than likely long-since retired, or dead. He had seen the Roy Green transcript in Langley′s office, the name of the interrogator at the top, but for the life of him he could not recall it. Tempted to call Langley and ask her, he resisted. He didn′t want her help, he didn′t want her to feel that she had contributed in any way to this case. The City Herald had shown up the police department. The City Herald intended to tell New York something that the police department did not know. How? Because of John Costello, whoever the hell he was.
Of course, Irving′s first thought was for Costello as the perp. Anniversary killings. Only days after the fact, a proposed newspaper story makes the connection. Unlikely, even in the best of worlds. From what little Irving understood of serial killers, he knew many of them were in it for the publicity. I have a tiny dick, I have no social life, I cannot get laid by any other means than threat with a deadly weapon, and when I′m done I will destroy the evidence of my wrongdoing. I was abused as a child. I am a sorry motherfucker for whom everyone should feel sympathy and compassion. I had to kill them all because they were all really my m
other. I have important work to do, a business venture if you like . . . why not invest your daughter? I am a fucking nutcase.
Enough already.
Irving smiled to himself, went back to the paperwork.
TWELVE
Ray Irving was rarely caught off-guard. There were, in fact, very few people who could confound him, or so he believed.
John Costello did just that, and he did it in a way that Irving would never have expected.
′I cannot speak with you,′ were the first words that Costello said as Irving approached him in the foyer of the New York City Herald offices on 31st and Ninth.
John Costello looked no different from a hundred thousand other men in their late thirties who worked the offices and banks and computer stations of New York. His haircut, his clothes - dark pants, a pale blue open-neck shirt, a sport jacket, the dark brown attaché case he carried; the way he held open the door to let a female colleague pass ahead of him; the way he nodded and smiled when she thanked him; his seemingly relaxed manner . . . All of these things made it easy for Irving to reach out and touch John Costello′s arm, to say his name, to introduce himself: Mr Costello, my name is Detective Ray Irving, Fourth Precinct. Wondered if you had a moment—
And Costello cut him short with five words: I cannot speak with you.
Irving smiled. ′I understand you′re in a hurry to get home—′
Costello shook his head, kind of half-smiled, and said, ′A man stands in the middle of the road. He′s dressed in black from head to foot. Has on a black ski mask, wears sunglasses, black gloves. All the streetlights are broken, and yet a car traveling at eighty miles an hour with its headlights off manages to see him and swerve. How does this happen?′
′I′m sorry,′ Irving replied. ′I don′t understand—′
′It′s a riddle,′ Costello said. ′You know the answer?′
Irving shook his head. ′I wasn′t really listening—′
′It′s daylight,′ Costello said. ′You assumed it was night when I mentioned the broken streetlights, but it′s daytime. The driver of the car can see the man because it′s daytime. There is an old saw about assumption, something to do with fuck-ups.′ Costello tilted his head to one side and smiled.
