by R.J. Ellory
Leycross hesitated, and in that moment everything that he wanted to say was left unspoken. He gave up the package from beneath the passenger seat.
Eight DVDs, home-made, burned on a computer. No label, no nothing. He dropped them into the baggie and Irving slid the top closed.
′How old?′ Irving asked.
Leycross frowned.
′The kids on these movies?′
Leycross shook his head.
′Any of them older than twelve, Tim?′
Leycross looked away, out through the windshield to the other side of the street.
′Tell you the truth, Tim, I don′t even wanna know.′
Leycross looked back at Irving, his expression defiant.
′The party Friday night,′ Irving said. ′You going?′
′What fucking party?′
′Careful about your choice of expletive there, Tim.′
′I don′t know what you′re talking about.′
′Party that your friend George is throwing over at the Bedford Park.′
Leycross′s expression changed. A split-second′s panic crossed his eyes. Had he not been looking directly at Irving, Irving might have missed it.
′Big night Friday night, my friend,′ Irving said. His tone was throw-away, nonchalant. He spoke as if this was something that was old news for the entire NYPD.
′I don′t know about any party,′ Leycross said. ′I don′t know what the fuck you′re talking about.′
′Well, you either start knowing exactly what the fuck I′m talking about, or we′re taking a drive down to the precinct house and I′m gonna book you on your traffic tickets, and then we′re gonna go put these DVDs on the TV in the commissary and half a dozen or so weatherworn and cynical Vice detectives, all of whom have kids by the way, are gonna check out your pirate copies of Jurassic Park and Star Wars . . . because that′s what I assume we have here, Tim. Am I right?′
Leycross lowered his head. He sighed deeply, and when he turned back to Irving there was something so resigned and pathetic in his eyes it was hard for Irving not to laugh.
′What is it that you want?′ Leycross asked.
′I want you to take me along.′
′What?′
′To the Bedford Park Hotel, Friday night. I want you to take me as your guest.′
′You′re outta your fuckin′ mind, man!′
Irving leaned closer. He could smell Leycross′s body odor through the open window. ′Either that, or we go down to the Fourth and talk about your long-overdue return to Attica.′
′Aah Jesus, man, what the fuck is this? You have any idea what′ll happen to me if I take you down there and you start busting people—′
′I′m not gonna to bust anyone, Timothy. I′m a visitor, a potential buyer of whatever the hell your friends are selling down there—′
′They′re not my friends.′
′All the better then. Better that they don′t know you. Means they won′t question you about who I am.′
′You know so much about it, you know where it is, go there yourself.′
′I know how this shit works, Tim, believe me. These are places you don′t go without an invite or a personal reference. Friday night, my friend, I am gonna be your date. Dress nice, okay?′
′Fucking bullshit—′
Irving slammed his hand on the roof of the car. Leycross jumped suddenly.
′Enough already,′ Irving said. He held out the baggie. ′You take me to the Bedford or I take you to the Fourth.′
′Okay, okay, okay . . . Jesus Christ, man, this is just fucking bullshit scare tactics. This is fucking harassment! ′
′And this?′ Irving said, jabbing Leycross in the shoulder with the bag of DVDs. ′This is a little harmless home entertainment? You′re a fucking animal, my friend, a fucking animal. Don′t even talk to me about harassment, okay?′
Leycross raised his hands in a placatory fashion. ′Seven,′ he said. ′You know St Vincent′s?′
′The hospital?′
′Meet me in the parking lot there Friday . . . seven o′clock.′
′Do I need to tell you about speaking to anyone?′
Leycross shook his head. He glanced at the DVDs in Irving′s hand.
′Oh no, my friend, I′m keeping these. These are my collateral. You don′t show, or I go there and the meeting′s been cancelled - I get even the slightest idea that they know who I am - then we′re gonna be sharing your viewing choices with the rest of the fucking world, okay?′
Leycross didn′t speak.
′Okay, Tim?′
′Okay, okay,′ he snapped exasperatedly.
′Good. St Vincent′s parking lot at seven.′
As Irving watched Leycross drive away, he wondered what kind of God could create such people, and then he smiled to himself: He′d stopped believing in any kind of God so many years before.
TWENTY-FOUR
There were holes. Too many to count. Incident reports with names omitted, counter-signatures on circumstantial eyewitness statements. Irving knew for a fact that the parents of the fourteen-year-old twins who had found the body of Mia Grant had signed a minors′ statement disclosure agreement, yet neither Kayleigh nor Whittaker had been able to find it. Irving paged the female police officer who′d been at the house, got a call back from a colleague to say she was away for the rest of the week. Irving went through each of the folders himself and came back with more omissions. Crime scene photographs had been incorrectly dated. A sheet of names - all those who had been questioned in the vicinity of the Burch/Briley murders - was reported on the file summary, but again had taken a walk. A statement from the man who′d found the girls - Max Webster, a salesman - had his business card logged, on it his cell and landline numbers, but Irving couldn′t find it. No doubt it had fallen from one of the files in transit. Right now it could be anywhere, on a stairwell, the back of someone′s car, under a desk someplace. The guy could be found easily enough, but that was not the point. The fact that anything at all was missing suggested that other things might be missing. And if he didn′t know what they were, he wouldn′t know to look for them.
Irving locked Leycross′s bag of DVDs in the lower drawer of his desk. Once Leycross had gotten him into the Bedford Park Hotel meeting, those DVDs would find their way into the hands of Vice. As far as individuals such as Leycross were concerned, Irving had no compunction whatsoever about breaking his word. The scumbag would go back to Attica, no doubt about it.
Irving noted on the whiteboard those things that needed to be found. Beneath this he wrote Winterbourne Group, beneath that John Costello. To the left of the board he wrote Bedford Park Hotel, Friday 9/15/06 Timothy Walter Leycross, beneath Leycross′s name that of George Delaney, aka Dietz.
A meeting of serial-killer victims in one hotel on the second Monday of each month, members unknown. Another meeting of child pornographers, pedophiles and assorted lowlifes in another hotel. Did they connect? Were there dots that joined these people together, and was there something that would direct him toward the perpetrator he was now assigned to identify and locate?
Irving spent an hour typing up his initial report, forwarded a copy to Bill Farraday, and then searched the internet for the names and dates of the confirmed and suspected Zodiac victims dated between Tuesday, September 12th and Christmas. Thoughts of Christmas brought thoughts of Deborah Wiltshire, the fact that this would be the second one since her death. He directed his attention back to the Zodiac names before him, noted them on another whiteboard - five attacks, five victims, one survivor. Thought of Costello, how he′d survived the Hammer of God, realized that Robert Clare had done the same degree of damage in three attacks. Once again, just like the Zodiac, it had been five dead, one survivor.
He wrote down their names, the dates of their murders - September 26th, 27th and 29th, October 11th and 16th. Five dates, the closest now two weeks away. Could he find the Anniversary Man in fourteen days?
Irving had to face f
acts. Irrespective of the number of dead teenagers, if this case was not generating headlines and press conferences then, in essence, it was no different from any other case.
The Times and the City Herald had been advised that the NYPD and the Mayor′s office wanted a moratorium on coverage until further notice. Such a request would only hold out so long. True, the greater the lapse of time between the last murder and today′s news, the less the press would be interested. If it happened today, yesterday, then okay, they could work with it. Last week′s news was good for lining bird cages and wrapping fish. The best indication of current support and resources was the two hours he′d been allocated from Kayleigh and Whittaker. What did that tell him? That Farraday was on his side, of course. But even Farraday′s hands were tied with keeping uniforms on the streets, demonstrating a good police presence in light of the Mayor′s office statements that crime figures were down because the police were visible. And then there was Chief Ellmann, establishing his own camp for the election battle. A new mayor could mean a new chief of police. Ellmann wanted the current administration to maintain its position. Ellmann was a good chief, one of the best Irving had seen, but he sure wouldn′t be willing to sacrifice his job because of one case. Assigning twenty-five uniforms and four detectives to one case was just not going to happen. And that left what? Irving smiled grimly to himself. It left John Costello - crazy though he was and himself a suspect for want of anyone better - now helping Irving in small ways that Irving didn′t really understand. This was the short straw, the hand with no pair, no three-of-a-kind. It was now Tuesday, three days before the Bedford Park meeting, and even that might give him nothing. It was a long shot at best. He needed more leads, more lines to follow. He had to go back through everything, rearrange, reorganize. He had to sift through every detail and find the loose threads. And he wanted to know who Costello really was and why he seemed so eager to involve himself in something that did not concern him . . . apparently did not concern him.
Ray Irving sat back and closed his eyes for just a moment. What he was facing came at him like a slow-motion nightmare. The better part of everything was right there in front of him - every image, every report, every eyewitness statement that they possessed - and somewhere there was a single fact, a narrow line, and if he found it he knew it could be followed. At the end of it was the man who was doing this. It was simply a matter of finding that one thread.
Irving opened his eyes, lifted the first stack of files from the floor and started reading.
TWENTY-FIVE
Wednesday morning, September 13th. Irving had slept for no time at all, had spent many hours wading through every page of every case to date, had not found the thread. He had looked, and grown fatigued with looking. After a while the bad handwriting and endless typographical errors had merely served to irritate him. No-one had called while he′d been there, not even Farraday. During those early hours, the world outside the incident room had been quiet, quieter than normal, almost as if there was a vacuum within which only Irving could make a sound. The world was waiting for what he had to say.
I have it . . . I′ve got who this guy is . . . I know where he lives . . . Black-and-whites are on the way . . .
Irving had left at two-thirty a.m., perhaps a little later, crawled home and lain on the bed until four. He then showered, went back to bed, tossed and turned restlessly until six. He tried to watch some TV, but couldn′t focus.
Quarter past eight he drove to Carnegie′s. He ordered Virginia ham, ate a couple of mouthfuls, drank a cup and a half of coffee, forgot to leave a tip. He wanted to smoke cigarettes, a carton, maybe two. He was stressed, recognized the all-too-familiar route he would now travel if he failed to maintain his objectivity. In this line of work it was always life or death. Not his own, but someone else′s.
There were seven messages at the desk - three from Jeff Turner, one from Farraday acknowledging the report he′d filed, one from the dry cleaners, one from the phone company, and the last from Karen Langley at the City Herald. He called Turner first, learned that it was merely to say a photograph from the Mia Grant autopsy had been left behind and Turner was sending it over with a courier.
At nine-twenty Irving called Karen Langley, waited on hold for a minute or two, and then she came on the line and started in with a question out of left field.
′How you holding up, Detective?′
Irving was caught blindside. ′Sorry?′
′You. How are you holding up now that this thing is your baby, you know? Now that your people have pulled my story.′
′You heard that?′
′I have big ears,′ she replied, and he could hear the edge of bitterness in her voice.
′Hope you don′t have a mouth to match,′ Irving replied.
′Meaning?′
′Don′t act stupid, Ms Langley, you′re a newspaper reporter. You people are a breed all your own.′
′As are police detectives.′
′Yanking my chain is not, I′m sure, the reason you took my call, Ms Langley.′
Langley hesitated, and when she spoke the bluff tone had vanished from her voice. ′You know we got silenced, right?′
′That′s a little melodramatic, don′t you think?′
′Whatever you want to call it,′ she replied. ′The fact remains that the story got pulled.′
′You appreciate why, of course.′
′I appreciate why someone thinks it should be pulled, but what I don′t understand is why they feel it is necessary to do such a thing.′
′Because we′re not in the business of satisfying some psychopath′s ego by telling the world what a smart son-of-a-bitch he is—′
′You hold to that view?′
′What view?′
′That the people who do this kind of thing are looking for nothing more than attention?′
′I don′t know, Ms Langley, I really don′t, and to tell you the truth I′m always a lot less interested in why someone does something rather than how and when.′
For a moment she didn′t speak, and then she changed direction unexpectedly. ′John . . . he was a help to you?′
′Mr Costello?′ Irving asked. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, one hand on his forehead, the other holding the receiver. A frown creased his brow. ′Mr Costello is . . . he′s—′
′An enigma?′ Langley ventured.
′To say the least. I have had a couple of conversations with Mr Costello—′
′And the thought has crossed your mind that he could very well be the man you′re looking for?′
′Until ruled out, everyone is a suspect—′
′But you′re wondering if he′s for real?′
′Is this just a bad habit of yours, Ms Langley?′
′What?′
′Finishing every sentence for someone?′
She laughed. ′I′m sorry, Detective Irving, I′ve just got—′
′No manners?′ Irving interjected.
′Touché.′
′So I have a question for you, Ms Langley.′
′Karen.′
Irving smiled wryly. ′Ms Langley,′ he repeated. ′We have a purely professional, and might I say very limited working relationship here . . . we′re not on first name terms, and I actually don′t think we should be.′
′You are a tough guy, Detective Irving.′
′Tougher than I look.′
′So what′s your question?′
′About John Costello . . . I′ve done some background, but not deep. What is your relationship with him?′
′He′s my researcher. Worked for my predecessor, came with the job. Been here about twenty years.′
′And would you say he was a friend?′
′Yes . . . he is a friend, but you don′t have a friendship with John Costello that′s anything like a friendship you′d have with someone else.′
′How so?′
′I don′t know, Detective. You′re asking me to be objective about som
ething that′s very subjective. I know without any hesitation that he′s not your man. I know he wants to help you, but he finds dealing with people somewhat difficult.′
′You know about the group he belongs to, right?′
′The survivors?′
′Is that what they call themselves?′
′No, I don′t think they have a name as such. They′re just a bunch of people who meet each month and talk about things that only they could understand.′
′At the Winterbourne Hotel.′
′I don′t know where they meet. John goes to his meeting on the second Monday of every month. Nothing gets in the way, nothing takes priority. Even if we have to work late we don′t. Know what I mean?′
′Sure, yes. So what′s your take on him? Honestly.′
′Jesus, I wouldn′t know where to start. He′s smart . . . uncomfortably so if you know what I mean.′
′That′s an odd expression to use . . . uncomfortably.′
′You ever meet someone, and within five minutes you just know that they are so far beyond you in intellect that you think it might be better to just say nothing?′
Irving thought for a moment. He recalled a childhood neighbor. ′Yes,′ he said.
′John′s like that. He has the most remarkable memory, can recall a conversation we had five years ago . . . remembers names, dates, places, phone numbers . . . remembers things that there doesn′t seem to be any reason or purpose to remember, and then you need it and you ask him and he′s answered the question before you′re even through asking.′
′With anything? He can remember anything?′
′Seems that way, you know? Like, I thought he might be autistic or something . . . one of those people who are just ridiculously smart, but when it comes to actually dealing with real life - speaking to people, or keeping things together - they′re just fucking useless, can′t make a piece of toast kind of thing, but he′s not like that . . . But he does have his moments.′
