The Accursed_A Dark Psychological Thriller Novel

by J. Koratzanis

  Chase stalled the engine next to the service entrance of the building. It seemed like the safest place, out of sight from the main street, and the crash pipes that protected the FDNY standpipe made it easy to chain to. What were the chances of a building fire where the bike would be in the way of the firemen from hooking up in case there was an emergency? Besides, he would only be an hour or three. The phone call he received earlier from his latest employer sounded serious but not urgent, and he estimated he had more than enough time to be with her before he needed to get to work.

  The electronic click of the security door opened the lock as Chase raised his finger to the sixth-floor apartment buzzer. He perked up his head and gripped the door handle, which opened without effort.

  Walking past the elevator, he thrust his middle finger at the OUT OF SERVICE — SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE sign. That fucking sign had been up longer than he could remember, and he wondered if anyone had complained to the Buildings’ Department. If so, was the inspector swayed with a thick envelope and a suggestion to look at the Surf Gardens Building. Unfortunately, Stephanie hadn’t been accessible for the last decade to tempt the inspector to try somewhere else.

  Down the hall, he entered the emergency stairwell that concluded next to this destination’s door. Six flights of thigh engorging exercise he never cared for. Maybe if he kicked the habit, his lungs wouldn’t run ablaze by the third-floor landing. Curiosity claimed him when he stepped through to the sixth floor when he heard voices coming from Heather’s slightly open door. It wasn’t the television. She was part of a conversation. No, not a conversation. She was being asked questions.

  He paused at the doorway and shifted his good ear towards the gap. “I really don’t know. He should be here any second. Why don’t you ask—”

  He tore away as endless possibilities halted his breath.

  The door opened to the immense, open-floor loft. The ancient brick walls seemed further, the wide plank patchwork floors rolled in turbulent waves, and the halogen bulbs that illuminated the kitchen burned like miniature infernos and reflected off the stainless-steel countertops.

  Heather stood next to the sink, her arms folded over her chest, her face painted with a countenance he hadn’t recognized. The two men, dressed identical in black slacks and dress shirts, slowly turned towards Chase. Their features lost when the gleam of the gold badges that hung from their necks caught Chase’s eye.

  “Here he is. Baby where have you—” Heather started.

  “What’s going on,” Chase interrupted. A knot clenched his gut.

  One of the men strode past the sectional couch to Chase. He was short, stout, with a neck like a tree trunk. Chase couldn’t explain whether the man was completely bald, or freshly shaved for the occasion. The man’s stretched lips over his Chicklet-like veneers contradicted his intense eyes.

  “Mr. Romano. How are you doing tonight? I’m Detective Lynch. My partner here is Detective Villalobos.” His pronunciation hinted at Hispanic ignorance, or bias.

  The partner was considerably taller, lank and hunched over. He didn’t feign a smile. Chase remained hushed as Heather interlaced her fingers with his.

  “Chase.” She sounded inquisitive. “These officers came looking for you. Something about a junkyard.”

  Lynch stepped between Heather and Chase, craned his head up as his pythons for arms bowed outwards.

  “We just have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Romano, if you don’t mind. If we like what we hear, we’ll show ourselves out. No harm, no foul. Is that Okay with you, Mr. Romano?”

  Fingers twitched, and jaw muscles flexed. No, it wasn’t Okay. Butterflies became hornets in his stomach every time Lynch called him by his last name.

  “I guess. But please, call me Chase,” he said without expression.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Romano. Sure thing. Why don’t you have a seat on the couch? We’ll only be a minute.”

  Chase leaned back. “That’s alright. I’m—”

  Lynch put his hand on Chase’s shoulder and pressed in.

  “Sit. Please. I insist,” Lynch glowered. Heather strolled towards the dry bar at the far end of the loft. Chase watched her as she slipped her hand over her cell phone and draw it away. Chase obeyed and stepped around the couch. Lynch stood before him.

  “Heather, babe? Think you can get me something to drink?”

  Villalobos raised his hand and shook his head. “Hold off on the drink, Ms. Andreasen. He’s Okay for now,” he commanded. Chase looked at him and held his breath.

  “Relax, Mr. Romano. Like I said, just a few questions and we’ll be on our way. You know, you’re a tough one to find? We’ve been to your apartment, how many times was it, Villa?”

  “Three times, sir.”

  “Three times. Yeah, that’s right. Various times too. What’s the matter? You don’t seem to like Bay Ridge. You’re never there,” Lynch said.

  Chase leaned forward in his seat. “What do you guys want?” he said.

  “What do we want, Villa?” He turned to his partner. “You hear that? Alright. Let’s cut to the chase. Ha, chase. Get it?” His mockery shot acrid bile to the back of Chase’s throat.

  “You used to work for a guy a few years back. What was his name?”

  “Tony Greco,” Chase said coldly.

  “That’s right. Mr. Greco. The machine shop, right?” Chase nodded.

  “You worked for him for how long?” Lynch said.

  “Six years. Give or take. Why?”

  Lynch turned to Villalobos who made his way to Chase. “Six years, Villa. That’s impressive, don’t you think?” Villalobos nodded.

  “Okay, Chase, another question. In the six years you were employed there, did you happen to meet any colleagues, associates or friends of Mr. Greco?”

  “A few,” Chase agreed. Lynch placed one hand on a hip.

  “Okay, Okay. That’s good. And by the way, I appreciate your honesty. Another question. Did you ever happen to meet a gentleman called Mr. Eugene Cora? Tony might’ve referred to him as Mean Gene.”

  Chase froze and remained silent. His eyes darted to Heather.

  “Mr. Romano, I’m over here,” Lynch started. “I asked the question. Not Ms. Andreasen,” he swiveled around to her.

  “No. Not that I remember,” Chase answered. Villalobos stepped closer and clutched the Glock in his holster.

  “No? Are you sure? Take a moment to think about it,” Lynch insisted. Chase adjusted himself in his seat and considered the badge on Lynch’s broad chest and shook his head.

  “Last time, Mr. Romano. You’re telling me you don’t remember Mr. Greco mentioning Mr. Cora or you don’t remember meeting him?”

  “I don’t remember, period,” Chase snapped and folded his arms. Lynch looked to Villalobos and nodded.

  Villalobos put a hand on Chase’s shoulder while his other remained on his firearm. “Mr. Romano, you—”

  Heather leaped out from behind the bar and dashed towards the couch. “You’re arresting him? What did he do?”

  Lynch turned to her and put his arms out.

  “I understand you’re upset, but we’re not arresting anybody. We would appreciate it if he would come down to the station for a few more questions,” he said. Chase slowly took to his feet.

  “You see, the information we have doesn’t necessarily match up to your boyfriend’s recollections.”

  Villalobos grabbed Chase’s wrist and pulled it behind his back. The click of the handcuffed startled Heather.

  “Why the handcuffs if he’s not being arrested?” she said.

  “It’s for our safety, Ma’am. Standard procedure,” Villalobos said.

  The detectives led Chase to the door in silence. Chase repeatedly shook his head.

  “Chase? What did you do? Tell me,” Heather pleaded. “Does he need an attorney?”

  Lynch turned back and smiled.

  “Not yet. Hopefully, the information we have will help to jar his memory a little. Thank you for your understan
ding, Ms. Andreasen,” he finished and closed the door.

  XI

  The clatter of handcuffs against the steel bar fell flat in the stained tile room. The stainless-steel table, marred and dented from years of interrogations, felt cold against Chase’s forearm. The clock ticked on and on, blatant, obnoxious, suffocating, in its slow-motion chug along the linear path of time. The steel chair across from him, empty, remote, reeked with dime-store aftershave and coercion, and the two-way mirror gleamed with scrutinizing eyes and hypocrisy. The wooden armchair in which he sat creaked with age and disinterest with every shift of his butt.

  The cuffs were for their safety.

  Bullshit.

  Safe from what? What the fuck was he going to do against two cops. Two cops with guns. Even if he were so audacious, he knew he would be choked out, knocked out or shot before his brain would command another punch.

  If it looks like an arrest, sounds like an arrest, it must be an arrest.

  He focused on the clock when he was cuffed to the table, and although the hands crept like molasses in a squall, he wondered why he had been left alone for two-and-a-half hours.

  Was this some sort of intimidation protocol? Did they fuck up their paperwork and scrambled to dot their I’s and cross their T’s? Or did they get hungry and speed away, sirens blaring, lights whirling, to the nearest Country Donuts?

  Chase folded his free arm over the table top and rested his head.

  What was Heather thinking? What was Heather doing? Did she call an attorney? Rick? Beatrice? Did she, they, assume he was guilty of something he didn’t do?

  His head jerked up as he slammed his fist on the table.

  “Fuck! Come on already!”

  The click of the lock within the steel door snapped his frustration. It drifted open and remained in place as the whisper of conversation eluded his troubled hearing. His pulse ramped up and his mouth went dry. The door whipped open and thudded against the tiled wall behind it.

  Lynch and Villalobos stepped through. Lynch smiled as he strolled towards the empty seat as Villalobos leaned against the two-way glass. His expression oozed with cynicism and malcontent.

  “Sorry for the delay, Mr. Romano, but you know how it is with us cops. We need our donuts.” His sarcasm knotted Chase’s belly.

  He slapped the folder onto the table as he swerved the chair around. The scratch of the steel legs felt like nails on a chalkboard. Throwing a leg over the seat, Lynch sat and folded his arms over the chair back.

  “What’s that?” Chase said as he eyeballed the not quite yellow, not quite white folder. Lynch grinned. The wad of gum squeezed between his veneers.

  “That? That’s what I’m hoping you can clarify for us.”

  “I told you, I don’t remember. Tony might’ve mentioned his name, but that’s it.”

  Villalobos snorted his chuckle. “Sounds like you remember a little more suddenly.”

  Chase darted between the two detectives.

  “What? What are you talking about? I told you I think the name sounded familiar,” Chase prattled.

  Lips tightened, and Lynch weaved his head. “No. I’m sorry, Mr. Romano, that’s not what you said earlier.”

  “Yeah, but that’s what I meant!”

  “Anything else come to mind,” Villalobos said.

  “No.”

  Lynch breathed hard and picked up the folder. Chase watched as the detective moved with the same procrastination of the clock.

  “I’m a nice guy, Mr. Romano. Believe me,” Lynch said. “Ask anyone. I’m trying to help you out. Are you sure you don’t remember Mean Gene? Sorry, Mr. Cora?”

  Chase shook his head.

  Lynch frowned and replaced the folder. He opened it. The first black-and-white photograph made Chase’s jaw go slack.

  “Is this you, Mr. Romano? It kind of looks like you,” Lynch said with a hint of sincere interest. Chase nodded.

  “Now, can you tell me where this is? I can’t really tell where this was taken.”

  Chase shook his head as Lynch studied him.

  “Okay, Okay. I can understand. Like I said, I can’t tell where this is either.” He flipped to the next photo.

  “How about this one? The photographer zoomed out a bit. Does the corrugated fence look familiar? It’s a high one, I’ll tell you that. Lobos? What does that look like? Ten feet?”

  “Sounds about right to me,” Villalobos said.

  “What kind of places have such high fences like that?” Lynch said.

  “I don’t know. Impound yards, junkyards. Those sorts of places, I guess.”

  “Yeah, me too. What about you Mr. Romano? This look like an impound yard or something?”

  Chase’s heart thundered in his chest and his fingers began to tap on the table.

  “You thirsty? You look like you can use a drink. Not the adult beverage kind of drink, but maybe a bottle of water?”

  Chase shook his head again.

  “You sure? Okay. Let’s take a look at the next picture. Can you tell me a little about this one? I mean, you’re clearly there. Now, that definitely looks like you, don’t you think? Kind of long hair, biker jacket. Same look on your face that you have now, like something you saw something you didn’t want to see.”

  Eyes fixed on the photograph, unaware of the cameraman, the dusty, corrugated fence scaling above, and the sign, CORA’s SALVAGE AND USED PARTS, big as life and bright as day, bolted into the fence.

  Chase looked at Lynch. Lynch smiled and flipped to the next picture. Chase didn’t look as it captured him climbing into the Caterpillar 953 Track Loader. Nor did he examine the succeeding image of the bucket of the enormous machine, hovering over a Bentley Flying Spur V8 that belonged to a Mr. Frankie “Fish” Mazzola, a Raguzzio mob Captain who vanished before the FBI stormed the Fulton Market with their fancy warrants and automatic rifles. Neither did he balk at the photograph of him crushing the car. Nor the Mercedes S550 that was formerly owned by Mario Cassini, a former Jersey City crime boss until his abrupt disappearance a month after Frankie Fish.

  Chase closed his eyes when Lynch turned to the final picture of a close-up of Chase moments before he lit his cigarette.

  The steel chair screeched across the concrete floor as Lynch arose.

  “We’ll be back in a bit. You know, police stuff. I’ll just leave these here for you. Sit tight,” Lynch said as he strode through the door, Villalobos behind him.

  XII

  Angry voices resounded through the massive steel door as Chase stared blankly at the clock. The little bit that Lynch promised stretched into an hour and six minutes of stomach-churning agony that forced Chase’s sphincter tighter than a vice as he held back his liquified distress. The click of the door handle nearly released it.

  A beefy, balding man tottered into the interrogation room, arms clamped tight around his corpulent, leather file case that looked like it was thirty years past its prime and twenty stitches short of maintaining its contents.

  His Just-For-Men stained comb-over drifted in black strands over his curdled milk skin. Beady eyes flashed behind oversized, gold-rimmed glasses. He caught the wrap of scotch tape around where the frame met the left arm. His no longer white dress shirt and half cinched maroon tie fit him like a Sumo wrestler wearing a soiled bed sheet.

  He dumped his bag atop the open folder of photographs and flopped into the chair.

  “Can we have a moment? Thanks. I appreciate it,” he snapped at Lynch who lingered at the doorway.

  “Now, please. Or I will file intimidation charges against the entire station.”

  Lynch snapped his gum and smirked as the door eased closed.

  “And turn off the fucking camera,” the man shouted.

  Chase examined the man rifling through a stack of papers that poured from the bag. A surge of whispered no, no no’s flowed from his heaving breath.

  “Ah, there it is. You’re Chase. Chase Romano, right?” he said.

  Brows furrowed as Chase nodded.

>   “Good, good. I’m Saul Klemanowicz, your attorney. But you can call me Klemmy,” he said. “Just need to sign a couple of things here, and off you go. You didn’t tell them anything, right?”

  Chase blinked hard and shook his head.

  “Are you sure? These cocksuckers have a flair for warping every word against their suspects.”

  Chase shook his head again. “What are you talking about? Off I go? Off I go where?”

  Saul looked up from his papers and drew his glasses to the tip of his nose.

  “Home. Where else? Here. Sign here, here, here and here,” he said as he laid out several documents in front of Chase.

  “Why do they have pictures of me at—”

  “Shut it. Shut the fuck up. Don’t say a word, don’t say anyone’s names. I don’t even want to hear you fart right now,” Klemmy said. Chase wished he could fart.

  The scratch of the pen across paper filled the deadened silence of the room as Chase signed. Saul swiped the documents in his hands and stuffed them back into his bag. He leaned in close as he motioned Chase with his stubby fingers.

  “Nod or shake your head. Don’t say a fucking word,” Klemmy whispered. “Did you know Cassini was in the trunk of the Five-Fifty?”

  All color drained from Chase as his hands trembled. Saul slapped his hand over the rattling chain of the handcuffs.

  “Nod or shake your head. It’s that fucking simple, kid.”

  “No. No! Of course—”

  Words evaporated as Klemmy’s palm slapped some color back into Chase’s countenance.

  “What the fuck did I just tell you? Nod or shake your head.”

  Chase shook his head.

  “Good. Good boy. We’re going to have some work to do, but this will all go away. My associates and I have already taken care of the preliminaries.”