“Let's meet for coffee and we can talk about it.”
“The fact that you won't answer me tells me all I need to know,” said Messina in a harsh whisper. “All I wanted was for you to cover a few calls for me while I dealt with my wife! I thought I was doing you a favor and now you've got me mixed up in some murder investigation!” Messina took a deep breath. “I'm calling the cops.”
He hung up the phone and fished the detective’s card from his wallet. He dialed and the call went to voicemail. He tried to calm himself, waiting for the tone. “Detective Eldridge, this is Chris Messina, from NerdTech, we spoke the other day.” Messina trembled. “I need to talk to you about the hospital. I think I may know who did it. Please call me as soon as you get this message.” He took a deep breath, then added, “I'm scared he might do something to me or my family.”
Messina hung up the phone and sat on the step leading to the mudroom. What am I going to do? He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself before returning to the dinner table, not sure how he would explain the situation to his wife. A knock at the garage door startled him, setting his heart racing again. Who could that be? Again the knock, gentle but persistent. Messina rose and pressed the garage door opener on the wall. The door rose, revealing a pair of feet followed by the rest of the body. When he saw the face he nearly fainted.
“Greedo, we need to talk.”
EIGHT
Aynslee knocked on the apartment door, glancing at her surroundings. The one light not stolen or broken, dimly lit the far end of the hallway, the rest swallowed in near darkness, thankfully hiding most of the filth the squalid building had an overabundance of. She nodded to her sound engineer Mike, and her cameraman, Steve, who flicked the light on his camera, bathing the entire area in a bright, white. “Ugh.” Aynslee couldn’t help it. She was pretty sure the dark mass near the door was feces. Garbage, needles and empty liquor bottles were strewn about the hall, the door she now faced, its chipped paint covered in grime and graffiti, sadly representing the home of a hardworking family man. A hardworking family man who would never cross its threshold again.
It had taken a fair amount of sleuthing to piece together Ibrahim Jamar’s story. And a lot of charm tossed around the hospital. A little flirting with a file clerk and she had the wife’s name and address, and a friend at the Transit Authority confirmed both Rafi and Ibrahim Jamar were cab drivers. She knocked on the door again, preparing herself for a rough experience. She never liked ambushing someone like this, but she had no other way to reach Fatima Jamar as they appeared to have no phone. They heard a scraping sound then something bump against the door. The sound of a chain being unhooked was followed again by the scraping sound. When the door opened, a little black girl, maybe eight years old, stood there, a chair she had used to reach the lock, beside her. Aynslee, caught off guard, didn't know what to say at first but quickly recovered. “Hello, what's your name?”
“Amina.”
“Well hello, Amina. My name is Aynslee. Is your mother home?”
The little girl nodded but didn't move.
“Can I come in and speak to her?”
Again she nodded, but this time opened the door and stepped back into the apartment. “Amina, is someone at the door?” a voice called from the back of the apartment. Steve directed the camera toward the voice while Mike held out the boom. Aynslee stepped deeper into the apartment toward the room where the voice originated.
When Fatima Jamar entered the apartment hallway, she grabbed at her chest with one hand, the door frame with the other, steadying herself after the shock of discovering three strangers with a camera standing in her entranceway. Aynslee decided to press her advantage now that they were in the apartment. “Ma'am, my name is Aynslee Kai, WACX News. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband, Ibrahim Jamar.”
It took only a moment for Fatima to recover. “Get out of my house!” She stormed toward them, shooing at them with her hands. “Get out!”
Steve and Mike backed away but Aynslee stood her ground, accustomed to irate celebrities facing her down. “Ma'am, I just want to know about the DVD player, what was on it?”
This stopped Fatima. “The DVD, how did you know about that?”
“Your cousin, Rafi, told me.”
“Rafi, that dog, he is always trying to get my Ibrahim in trouble!”
“Why would Ibrahim get in trouble, ma'am? What was on the DVD?”
Fatima’s jaw set, her glare, like daggers, signaled the end of the interview. “Out! I won't let you ruin his reputation! He couldn’t have helped that girl, no one could have. Out!” This time she physically pushed Aynslee, sending her stumbling backward. Steve caught her by the arm before she fell, and the three backed out of the apartment, the door slamming behind them.
“What the hell was on that DVD?” asked Mike.
“I don't know, but definitely something she doesn't want anyone to know about.” Aynslee removed the wireless mike from her collar and handed it to Steve. “But I know who would know.” Pulling out her BlackBerry, she began to dial when Mike stopped her.
“Aynslee, we've got to get back to the studio, now. You go on in less than an hour.” Aynslee looked at her watch and nodded.
“Fine, I'll call him later. We've got enough to go on for now.”
Eldridge ran to his desk and grabbed the phone. Trace sat in Shakespeare's chair, looking frustrated. She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a finger and cut her off.
“Eldridge.”
“Detective, it's Vinny, I've got those results you wanted.”
Eldridge hoped for a break, but Vinny’s tone already told him everything he needed to know. “Go ahead.”
“I'm afraid I've come up with nothing. No usable prints or fibers, it's a common font on common paper printed by a common printer.”
Eldridge sighed. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. Thanks anyway, Vin.”
“No problem. Oh, and tell that no good—”
Eldridge hung up and eyed the pulsing red light on his phone. He looked at Trace. She scowled. Better not. “What's up, Amber?”
Trace tossed a folder over to him. “Yet another one of my cases ends up being yours.”
“You're kidding me!” He flipped through the file on the murder of Abigail Teague. When he reached the crime scene photos he nodded, immediately recognizing the woman as not only the latest victim, but also the latest witness emailed to his phone. “Yup, this is definitely the victim from the last video. Any leads?”
“One, but it's thin right now.” Trace stood and leaned over the desk, flipping the file to a page near the back containing a witness statement. “Just before the shot was heard by a neighbor, she was at her Karate class. I interviewed some of her classmates and instructors and they said they saw her leaving with a new student.”
“But?” Eldridge knew from her voice there was going to be a but. This case seemed to always have a but.
“But, he was a walk-in for a free introductory lesson. The name and address on the sign-up sheet were bogus. A Bruce Samson.”
“Samson?”
“Yeah, mean anything?”
“And Samson said to them, 'Since you've acted like this, I won't stop until I get my revenge on you.’”
“Huh?”
“The bible, Book of Judges. Might mean nothing, might mean everything.”
“A religious nut-bar?”
“Perhaps. There hasn't been any type of religious element to any of the killings that we've seen, but some threats we found against Logan Rochester were all quotes from the bible. Vengeance and judgment type stuff.”
“Maybe he thinks they're all sinners?”
“Could be. Right now my best lead is this Messina character from NerdTech. I'm positive he's hiding something.”
Trace stood and yawned. “I’ve got a missing persons case I'm working on so I'll see you later. Good luck!”
Eldridge nodded and dialed into the voicemail system, listening to the message from Messina. H
e snatched the NerdTech personnel record and ran to his car, determined not to give Messina a chance to change his mind.
Trace sat at her desk, the first file from a large stack opened in front of her, all missing persons over the past ten years, a photo at Chelsie's apartment having tweaked a vague memory. She was acting on a hunch, a hunch she hoped would be proven wrong. Brunette. She flipped the file closed and moved it aside, taking the next one off the stack. Red head. It wasn’t until the sixth file she found what she was looking for. A young woman with long, blonde hair, missing for six months. Merissa Gordon. She set the file aside and continued through the stack, half an hour later finding another blonde with long hair, mid-twenties. Kara McPhee. Her sense of foreboding grew as she searched the files, finding more and more women matching many older photos of Chelsie, but not the most recent. According to her mother, Chelsie had changed her hair, but if she was a stalking victim, the initial attraction might be to the older style—long, straight blonde hair, teased up in the front.
She looked at the stack of files in front of her and shook her head. Almost a dozen young, blonde women, with the same hairstyle, all missing and never found, stretching back for years. If this is a serial killer, then the L.T. will want to bring in the FBI and I'll lose another case. She was damned if she was going to lose this one, and besides, no one had ever suggested a serial killer was targeting young blondes in the city. If she had looked through the pile for old brunettes she probably would have found just as many.
But her gut was telling her different.
And she always went with her gut.
Eldridge turned on to Messina’s street on Staten Island, almost two hours after the message had been originally left. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised when he saw the flashing lights. Dammit! He slammed his fist into the steering wheel then parked behind one of several squad cars already on the scene. Two paramedics nearby packed their gear, their leaving empty handed speaking volumes. He headed toward the garage where most of the action appeared to be taking place when someone called his name. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Vinny pulling up in the crime scene van, waving to him out the window. Eldridge raised his hand in acknowledgement and entered the garage. Two uniforms watched over the scene, making sure nothing was disturbed. The Patrol Supervisor nodded, waving him through as he recorded his name in the scene log.
Messina lay in a pool of his own blood, a look of shock frozen on his face. Kneeling down, Eldridge examined the body. A small hole in the forehead indicated where the bullet had entered, the source of blood the larger exit wound at the back of his head. Eldridge had seen enough bullet wounds to know this was probably going to be a match to the other shootings. Another life, and another lead, dead.
“Detective, we've gotta stop meeting like this.”
Eldridge didn't look up. “Then we'd be out of jobs, my friend.”
“The day I can hang up my hat due to lack of business is the day I'd be happy to be unemployed.”
“Amen to that.” Eldridge leaned in over Messina's pants and pointed at his knees. “What do you make of that?”
Vinny looked. “Dirt?”
“Looks like it, maybe he was on his knees when he was shot?”
“Could be,” agreed Vinny. “I'll be able to tell you for sure when I examine the angle of the wound, but judging from that spray pattern, I'd say he was definitely shot from a downward trajectory.”
“Executed.”
“Yup.”
“Not like the others. The others were always tied up, made to suffer in some way. This guy was executed, not humiliated or tortured.”
“Others? This linked to that case of yours?”
“Yeah, he was basically my only lead.” Eldridge stood and examined the garage. The standard items most garages had, bikes, rakes, garbage cans and the other sundries required to maintain a home, were fairly well organized, most on hooks or racks. Careful not to disturb anything, he made his way around the garage. He reached the entrance and looked up, something catching his eye. What the hell is that? He stepped closer, and, realizing what it was, kept walking under it and past, as if to look at something else. Once past the object, he motioned to Vinny to join him. Vinny was about to say something when Eldridge raised a finger over his mouth then pointed up.
Nestled on top of a rafter in the garage sat a small round object, a red light blinking on it. “It's a fucking webcam!” hissed Vinny. “The son-of-a-bitch is watching us right now!” Eldridge nodded and motioned to Vinny to follow him into the yard and around to the side of the garage, out of the camera’s sight.
“He must be transmitting the signal wirelessly,” whispered Eldridge.
Vinny nodded. “That means he's probably close.” They both looked around. Dozens of vehicles lined the street in each direction. “The range is probably a few hundred feet. He must be in one of the parked vehicles.”
Eldridge whipped out his cell phone and called the tech lab. Frank answered. “Frank, it's Eldridge. Can you track somebody receiving a wireless webcam signal?”
“Huh? You mean a Wi-Fi cam?”
“I haven't a clue. I've got what looks like a wireless webcam broadcasting my crime scene.”
“Holy shit, Detective! He must be close, the range on those is like nothing, maybe a thousand feet on a good day!”
“Exactly! I've got a multiple murderer probably within a few hundred feet of me but I've also got a dozen houses and even more cars. Now, can you track him?”
“I'm on my way!”
Eldridge flipped his phone closed and turned back to Vinny. “Okay, we need to let everybody know, we don't want somebody discovering it by accident.”
“Okay, I'll go back in there and take my time, give him a real good show. You spread the word.”
“Detective.” Vinny’s whisper barely registered. Eldridge looked at him without moving his head. Vinny pointed out the garage door with his eyes, all the while continuing to dust for prints. Eldridge followed his gaze and saw Frank walking up the driveway and past the garage, heading toward the front entrance.
“I think it’s time to talk to the victim’s wife,” announced Eldridge, full volume.
“I’ll come with you,” said Vinny. “I need to get her prints for elimination purposes.”
Vinny and Eldridge entered the house through the garage entrance and found Frank slowly turning in a circle, a handheld computer and a small device with two antennas connected to it held out in front of him. Vinny and Eldridge waited for him to complete his slow spin.
“Jesus Christ, kid, I coulda searched each car myself by now!” exclaimed Vinny, exasperated. Eldridge placed his hand on Vinny's arm and gave him a look. Patience! Vinny frowned but didn't say a word.
“Okay, I have sixteen distinct Wi-Fi signals in the area,” Frank said.
“Can that thing tell where they're coming from?”
“Not really, but I can tell you when one gets stronger.”
Eldridge jumped in before Vinny could say something. “Will you be able to tell if there's one in a car parked outside?”
Frank nodded. “If I walk down the street, one of the signals should spike near the car receiving the webcam feed.”
“Well then let's go!” Vinny headed for the door with Eldridge and Frank following. “And try to not make it too obvious!” he said, looking at Frank as he held out the device, waving it about. Frank shot him a look but lowered the device and brought it closer to his chest. The three men exited the house, Eldridge and Vinny walking shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Frank as they strode down the walkway toward the street.
“I've got a strong signal to our right,” whispered Frank.
“So, when is that bag of excess flesh retiring?” asked Vinny, turning right, onto the sidewalk.
Eldridge laughed with a little more drama than he intended. “Not too long from now I understand.”
“Won't come soon enough. The less deadbeats like him on the force the better. My Granddaddy always said if you
're good for nothin', you're nothin' good.”
“It's getting stronger!” Frank's excited whisper wasn’t acknowledged.
“Sounds like you had a wise Grandfather.”
“Old stock, came across the ocean and landed right here in this city and never left his entire life.”
“I think we're close, Detective. Maybe fifty feet.” Frank’s voice revealed his excitement.
Settle down, kid! “I'm sixth generation myself,” said Eldridge as he casually looked about.
“Sixth?”
“Yup. Family came over from England, settled in Maine then my grandparents on my father's side moved here. I still live in the family house as a matter of fact.”
“Really?”
Eldridge watched Frank gesture with his chin out of the corner of his eye. Don’t blow it!
“It has to be one of these cars just ahead.”
“Yeah, inherited from my folks after they died.”
“How'd they—look!” Vinny yelled. A van three cars down pulled out into the street and sped off. Vinny gave chase on foot as Eldridge raced back toward his car, yelling at the officers, “Stop that van!” One, leaning on his squad car, immediately took off in pursuit. Another sprinted to his cruiser and jumped in at the same time Eldridge leapt into the passenger seat. The officer jammed the accelerator to the floor and the car surged out into the street after the other cruiser. As they sped by Frank, Eldridge noticed him still looking intently at his computer. It took only seconds to catch up to the other squad car that had cut in front of the van, blocking its path. The other officer, already out of his cruiser, pointed his weapon at the van. Eldridge's car squealed to a halt and both he and the officer jumped out, drawing their weapons.
Eldridge reached in and pulled the mike off the dash, flipping the knob to the public address system on the car’s roof. “Occupant of the vehicle, turn off your engine and drop the keys out the window.” The van idled for a few seconds then the engine stopped. The window inched down and a set of keys dropped onto the road. “Now let me see both your hands out the window!” A pair of hands dutifully appeared. What the hell? Eldridge looked at the hands. Then the arms. Arms covered in a pink blouse. He slowly circled around for a better angle on the driver. It was a terrified young woman.
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 19
