The Russian - SETTING

by Patterson, James

  As the report ended and the news moved on to the weather, Ott found himself a foot away from the librarian—only a waist-high metal rail between them.

  She turned and looked directly at him.

  Daniel Ott was caught between excitement and fear. This was the moment of truth. He decided to meet her gaze.

  She looked directly at him, then turned back to the menu plastered high on the wall behind the cashier.

  Ott stood there for a moment. She’d shown no recognition whatsoever. He had been invisible to her.

  That has to stop.

  Chapter 26

  The following morning, I stepped out of my bedroom dressed for work. Even though I’d slept a little during the night, I could feel the stress and pace of the investigation catching up to me. At least the sight of my children getting ready for school gave me some energy and made me smile.

  Eddie was scribbling some sort of notes about a computer program he was working on. Fiona was reading a book about a kid in middle school. Brian was already dressed, but Jane and Juliana, the two older girls, were still getting ready. Everyone else was chatting as they ate breakfast around the long table.

  I grabbed a bagel breakfast sandwich. No one made these as well as Mary Catherine. She mixed garlic and a splash of hot sauce into the eggs, which struck me as more Latin than Irish, but regardless, it was the best way to start the morning.

  I slid into the chair between Mary Catherine and Brian. Brian had a small duffel bag at his side, another habit I knew he’d picked up from prison: always keeping the things you need most with you at all times.

  I asked casually, “What’s in the bag, Brian?”

  Brian slid his chair to the side and reached for the duffel to open it.

  I said, “You don’t have to show it to me. I was just curious.”

  Brian shrugged and set the duffel bag back down. “Just a change of clothes.”

  A few minutes later, everyone was in the final stages of getting ready for their day. Brian and Juliana had already left. Mary Catherine and I had a quiet moment alone at the breakfast table.

  She gave me one of her classic looks for a beat, then said, “I’d have opened the bag and looked in it.”

  I nodded and said, “Yes, I know.”

  About thirty minutes later, as I was pulling into a parking spot outside my office, I got a call that there’d been a homicide on Staten Island. When the dispatcher told me the detective at the scene thought I should come, I knew exactly why—and it gave me a knot in my stomach.

  I turned the car around and headed for Staten Island.

  Staten Island has a special status among the five boroughs of New York. Some joke it’s actually part of New Jersey. City workers are well represented in the borough’s population, especially NYPD and FDNY. Many cops and firefighters rejoice if they’re assigned to Staten Island.

  The crime scene was in an apartment building in Emerson Hill, just off Interstate 278. Almost as soon as I stepped out of my car, I saw a familiar face and knew she must be the lead detective who’d called me in. I waited while she directed a couple of patrol officers to push the media back. I couldn’t believe the number of TV trucks, until I remembered this murderer was starting to attract a lot of attention.

  Detective Raina Rayesh turned to me and smiled. She was a little older than me and preferred lifting weights to running. Her dark hair had streaks of gray in it now, and I noticed more laugh lines on her face. She’d probably say the same about me. But she was the same funny, smart Rayesh, among the sharpest minds in the NYPD.

  She gave me a giant hug and said, “I really hope I can find a reason to dump this on you.”

  I laughed and held up my hands. “I have two homicide cases of my own.”

  “That’s why I want you to take a look at this one.” Rayesh reviewed some notes. “Marilyn Shaw, twenty-six. Worked at a hedge fund in Midtown. No known current boyfriend. No one can think of anyone she ever upset.”

  “Elaine Anastas’s mom said the same about her daughter. A young woman enjoying life in the city. No enemies. No boyfriend.”

  Other than Billy Van Fleet, we hadn’t heard about anyone with even a whisper of motive for wanting to hurt Chloe Tumber either.

  Rayesh pressed on. “This one looks similar. Like your guy.”

  I groaned. “First of all, please don’t call this sicko my guy. Second, we don’t know if he selects his victims at random. I have no third point, but it always sounds better if there are three things to bring up.”

  Rayesh laughed at my tired old joke. She said, “I’d still like you to take a look at this crime scene and give me your thoughts.”

  “Is it bad?”

  Rayesh shrugged. “There’s a dead girl inside. That’s always bad. But I’ve seen worse.”

  That surprised me. The murder cases we were investigating all had shocking crime scenes, all the same kind of blood-soaked mess, which was part of why they all pointed to being the work of a single killer. But after I followed Rayesh through the checkpoints to Marilyn Shaw’s second-floor apartment, I agreed that this one could have been worse. Yet she was also right about the similarities.

  The body of a young woman with blond hair lay on the floor near the front door. She’d been stabbed in the chest. The entire front of her white blouse was stained a rust color.

  “Looking at the body, it appears the killer stabbed her as soon as she opened the door. Then he stabbed her again in the eye,” Rayesh said, pointing to the woman’s right eye. “It has to be the same guy.” A small pool of blood and fluid had dried on the hardwood floor where the victim’s disfigured face rested.

  I looked around the apartment. The murderer’s MO ticked the same boxes, but the scene seemed…off. It was too clean, too undisturbed. It was clear that the killer had spent a lot of time at all the other scenes—this one felt more perfunctory. Had he been interrupted?

  It would take time and forensics to compare all of the evidence, but my gut was telling me something was wrong here. “I don’t know, Raina. Something about the scene as a whole feels different,” I told her. “I’m not sensing the method behind the murder. There’s no blood spread on the walls. I don’t see anything else disturbed. This killer I’m tracking, he’s deliberately messy. He’s into grotesque displays, throwing around a lot of blood, the dramatic way he always stabs all his victims in the left eye, and so on. This seems almost tidy by comparison,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Back up a second,” Rayesh said. “Which eye?”

  “The left one. Always the left eye.”

  “Well, Marilyn Shaw’s right eye is the one he stabbed this time.”

  Why had the killer made a change? Was he trying to taunt us?

  What was it about the Staten Island case that made me so uneasy?

  Chapter 27

  It was after lunch by the time I got back to the office. The Staten Island crime scene still bothered me. Not the way Elaine Anastas’s had, with the blood and gore, but because of the subtle changes in the killer’s procedure.

  The blotter on my desk was bloodstained. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. All the bloody crime scenes I had visited were finally messing with my head.

  I used the end of a pen to touch a droplet of blood. It was fresh. I looked at the floor and saw another drop a few feet away. I followed the drops like an old tracker and was not the least bit surprised when they led me to Brett Hollis.

  I stood next to my young partner’s desk, staring at his bandaged nose. It looked a little worse today, even though it was healing, since now he had two black eyes to go with it.

  I said, “What were you doing at my desk?”

  “What makes you think I was at your desk?”

  I gave him a look and pointed at his own desk, which was speckled with a design of tiny red drops that looked like the solar system.

  Hollis quickly touched his nose, then looked down at the blood on the end of his finger. He mumbled, “Shit.” Then he looked at me and sai
d, “I was reading some of the reports that came in to you from San Francisco. I’ve also been searching the internet for similar cases, like the ones we found in Atlanta.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Just that there may have been an uptick in unsolved, brutal homicides in major cities. The kind of homicides that aren’t obviously related to the drug business or classified as crimes of passion. It doesn’t take a whole lot of murders like that to raise the average in the whole country. That’s why I think it’s significant. But I can’t say for sure the homicides are related to our cases.”

  I nodded. This kid was showing some real signs of creativity and intelligence. I could work with that.

  Before I could even make it back to my desk, I noticed Dr. Jill St. Pierre barreling through the office at the only speed she knew: fast. The Haitian-born forensic scientist had been profiled by New York magazine for her brilliance in the lab. I’d worked with her—I didn’t need to read an article to know how smart she was.

  She smiled as she approached and said, “Being engaged agrees with you, Bennett.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, but any benefit I’ve gotten from being engaged has been negated by these homicides. Please tell me you have something for us, that you didn’t come all the way uptown to compliment me.”

  “Eh, I wasn’t really complimenting you. It just seemed like the socially acceptable thing to say.” St. Pierre let out her signature laugh. Her acerbic wit rivaled that of any detective I’d ever met.

  She plopped down in the wooden chair next to my desk.

  I leaned in close and said, “What’s up? The look on your face tells me it’s not good news.”

  “I deal with death and sorrow every day. I never have good news. Only news that can help an investigation or slow it down. Which some detectives view as bad.”

  I nodded. “So which kind of news are you bringing me?”

  “I can almost guarantee this will be…confusing news.”

  “Let me have it.”

  First, she gave me a physical profile of our killer. “Forensics says he’s probably a male about five foot ten, right-handed, and fairly strong based on the wounds on each of the victims. Statistics would indicate we can assume he’s probably Caucasian if we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

  I could see her hesitate, as if there was no way I was going to like what she was about to say next.

  “An initial analysis of the blood found at the Elaine Anastas crime scene on 30th Street has come back.”

  I had to break the suspense routine. “C’mon, Jill, you’re killing me. What did you find?”

  “There are two different sources of blood in the apartment.”

  “So you agree with theories that there was a second victim?”

  St. Pierre shook her head. “Not necessarily. We didn’t find much blood from the second sample.” She paused. “I also think that blood may have been deliberately placed rather than spilled.”

  Another bizarre piece of the puzzle? “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Because of where that blood was located—we only found the second sample on some baseball figurines.”

  I remembered the bobbleheads that had caught my attention at the scene, and she confirmed that was what she was talking about. Could the killer have cut himself? Was he marking his crime scene in some way?

  “Were there multiple blood sources found at any of the other crime scenes?”

  “Not that we’ve located so far, but now that we know there might be, we’ll be going back over the evidence we’ve collected to see if anything was missed.”

  “Any chance you can figure out where the blood from this scene came from?” I asked the forensic scientist.

  “Once we have the full DNA profile, I assure you we’ll run it through every database we can. If there’s an existing profile related to our sample, we’ll find it.”

  Even as I thanked her, my mind was starting to drift off to the endless possibilities. None of them were good.

  Chapter 28

  I was still processing the information about there being two sources of blood at Elaine Anastas’s apartment.

  I must’ve been staring off into space as I considered what this new forensic discovery meant for my case when I heard “Nice to see NYPD so hard at work.”

  I turned to see a man about my age, dressed in a sharp Armani suit, standing next to my desk. He had Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses perched on an otherwise shiny, bald head. Just another guy trying to project that he was younger than he looked. It wasn’t working.

  He stuck out his hand and said, “John Macy, advisor to the mayor.”

  I took his hand and mumbled, “Michael Bennett.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I just drove all the way uptown and waded through your maze of security.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Macy? I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  He sat down, uninvited. “Yes, I could see you were tearing it up as I walked through the office. You looked more like a poet dreaming about the beauty of a waterfall than a detective hunting for a serial killer.”

  I bristled at his tone. If he was laughing or joking, I didn’t mind the comment. But this guy seemed pretty serious.

  I had to say, “Looks can be deceiving. I would’ve guessed you were a model. Maybe the before picture in a Rogaine ad.”

  He let out a forced laugh. “I love cop humor. You know I was with the NYPD.”

  “Sure. Remind me in what capacity?”

  “I was a beat cop.” He paused and smiled. “For about five minutes. Then I got smart and went to law school.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect to law enforcement,” Macy continued. “On the bright side, no one’s trying to kill me these days.”

  “It’s still early.” This guy wasn’t taking the hint. I cleared my throat and said, “Look, despite whatever impression you got, I really am swamped. Just tell me what it is you’re hoping I can do for you.”

  Macy pulled a Moleskine notebook and a blue Montblanc pen from a leather satchel and brushed aside some papers from the corner of my desk to create a writing area. Then he looked up at me and said, “All I need is for you to bring me up to speed on the case.”

  “You mean our active homicide investigation?”

  “You know exactly which case I’m talking about. Now give me the details.”

  I assessed the man. He was in pretty good shape, with only a little bit of a belly. I idly wondered if he’d be a handful if I punched him in the face. Instead, I tried to be mature. I simply said, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of time. I have more important things on my plate.”

  The mayor’s aide straightened in his chair. “Nothing is more important than keeping the mayor informed. This newest murder on Staten Island marks a turn in the case.”

  I almost wanted to share my doubts about the scene on Staten Island. How I didn’t think it was connected to the other homicides. But I decided to keep my mouth shut.

  Macy was undaunted. He said, “Jesus Christ, we can’t let this go on much longer. There was a shooting in Brooklyn. A woman was spooked by the murders, accidentally shot her brother coming in late. She said she thought he was the killer coming to attack her. Things are spinning out of control.”

  I said, “Will the young man live?”

  “Probably. You know how these Brooklyn Italians are. Through evolution they’re virtually immune to gunfire.”

  Prick.

  He had the nerve to open his mouth again. “That’s why you need to wrap up this case and put cuffs on this mope.”

  I knew he was intentionally using police slang to remind me he had once been a cop, even if it was only for five minutes. I said, “We’re on it. That’s the best I can tell you.”

  Macy said, “Maybe you’re the wrong cop to be leading this investigation.”

  “Maybe the mayor has the wrong lackey asking questions.” That one got a
good flash of red across Macy’s face.

  Instead, he quickly stood up from my desk, glared at me, and said, “I’ll be back.” Then he turned on his heel and started to march out of the office.

  I called after him, “Bring pizza. I’m starving.”

  Chapter 29

  Daniel Ott had followed the young librarian home from the Subway sandwich shop to her apartment in a run-down, five-story walk-up in the diverse neighborhood of East Harlem.

  Overnight, he had made a simple plan.

  Now he sat on the steps across the street from the librarian’s building. He was dressed in a gray shirt with the name tag MITCH over the left side of his chest. He’d snagged the uniform from an unattended delivery van in Midtown. No one paid any attention to him at all.

  It was early evening. From his vantage point, the street was fairly quiet. The local foot traffic seemed to have rerouted to a block party about two blocks away.

  Ott was happy to sit quietly and watch the street, planning his first-ever elimination of a witness. He would forgo the rituals he loved so much. This would not be a big spectacle.

  As soon as Ott saw the librarian, his loose end, walking by herself on the other side of the street, he stood up slowly and stretched. He slipped a surgical glove over each hand. He forced himself to casually walk across the empty street.

  Once he reached the sidewalk, he turned and headed for the librarian. She was walking slowly, looking in her bag. Probably trying to find her keys. The opportunity was lining up nicely for Ott.

  He quickly glanced around in every direction. There were kids playing on some steps a few buildings down. A woman facing away from where he was walking pushed a stroller across the street. This looked like a good window for him to act.

  He reached into his pouch and pulled out his Gerber folding knife. He flicked it open with his thumb and looked up at the librarian.

  Ott timed his strike perfectly. Just as he passed her, he raised his right hand and made a single, simple slash across the young woman’s throat. Smooth and fast. In that instant, he caught her expression of total shock as the blade cut through the flesh and sinew of her lovely throat. She didn’t make a sound.