by R.J. Ellory
'Suggests that she got away, maybe?'
'No. I think she was filmed in Danny's apartment, and they strangled her there. Laking put the apartment as primary. We're not dealing with Stanley Kubrick here. The quality of the cinematic experience is not first on their list of priorities. We're dealing with real lowlifes, scumbags extraordinaire. I think they made the film there, they strangled her, Danny comes back, sees what's happened, does a runner. They chase him down, shoot him, and it's all over.'
'And you think McKee could have done this?'
'I think McKee could be our supplier. He's the one inside Family Welfare. He knows what the girls look like. He has a picture. He can even visit with them, for fuck's sake. Sometimes adoptive parents and children in care are seen so many times by so many people they don't remember who the fuck they've spoken to. Even if he didn't see them in person he knew where they were, he knew where they lived. He could have followed them, taken more pictures, filmed them on his cell phone, for God's sake. Then he passes them over to whoever, and they do the abduction, the film, the killing. He gets a finder's fee, he's not directly implicated in anything but a circumstantial way, and no-one's the wiser. The only connection between them is the red nail varnish, the change of clothes, the fact that they were adopted, and welfare. It's a thin link, and thus it has gone on for at least two years without anyone being aware of it.'
'Maybe,' Radick said.
Parrish smiled sardonically. 'Like I said, it's always a maybe until it's not.'
'So we need to get into his house.'
'Which we're not going to do without substantive, probative, probable cause-type evidence. Like you said, all we have right now is a maybe.'
'We get Lavelle to give us the names of the cases McKee is working on currently—'
'He's too smart. He's not going to go for anyone that he's directly connected to, that's for sure. I think where he has had some direct connection to any of these girls - meeting with theprospective parents, reviewing a case file for a colleague - all of those have been coincidental. I think he stays well away from the cases he's assigned.'
'So where?'
'To tell you the truth, I don't know right now, but I'm working on it, Jimmy, I'm working on it.'
'Never seem to be investigating the death of a rich guy's daughter, do we? All victims are not created equal, right?'
Parrish frowned. 'Where do you hear that?'
'I don't know . . . heard it somewhere along the line. Why?'
'No reason. It was something my father used to say. Fire Department says the same thing. They never seem to be putting out fires in rich folks' houses.'
'We made the society—'
'Made a fucking mess of it is what we did.'
'No argument there, Frank, no argument there.'
SIXTY-ONE
Seven o'clock and Parrish was frayed at the edges, torn at the corners. He'd sent Radick home an hour or so before. He called Eve from the office. Her voicemail spoke to him once more. He had not spoken back for two weeks. He wondered whether she'd finally had enough of his shit and was screening out his calls. Going over there was out of the question. She was working, that was all. She was hard at work, doing what she did, saving her money for the time she'd move out to Tuscarora and grow phloxes behind a white picket fence. Parrish smiled to himself. As if.
He stopped at Clay's en route home. He had a couple of shots, a single glass of beer. He walked to a pizza place and ordered a pepperoni, Monterey Jack, jalapeno. He ate half of it in the kitchen at home without even removing his jacket. By eight- thirty he knew where he was going. It had never really been in question; it had simply been a matter of how long he would wait before he did it. He called the precinct, got a message from the desk. The priest had called again. Third time. What the fuck was his problem? Parrish got a uniform to find McKee's address for him. He lived down on Sackett Street, maybe eight or nine blocks from Kelly. The fact that McKee was half that distance from Caitlin raised the hairs on the nape of Parrish's neck, and it was that reaction - the definite feeling that he seemed to be looking at something with substance - that gave him the motivation to look further.
He took the subway through Pacific and down to Union Street. He walked Union and took a right on Bond, a left onto Sackett, and found McKee's house. What he had expected to see, he did not know. What he actually saw was a plain and unremarkable building - red brick up to the lower window frames, wood beyond that to the roof. Three steps up to a wooden canopy-type porch and the front door. There were drapes in both lower windows, the single upper window too, and Parrish presumed that there were two bedrooms, one of them looking out over the rear of the property. There was no sign of a car, no incorporated garage, no front yard to speak of. This was not a man with money; or it was a man with money but very conservative and unimaginative tastes. This was the house of someone who did not believe his home should make a statement, at least not to the outside world. The feeling it gave Parrish was of a man who wanted to remain anonymous, even invisible. Had Parrish not been looking for the property he never would have noticed it.
Now he believed he was creating all manner of things when there was nothing there. He walked back to the end of the street. He buried his hands in his pockets and looked back the way he'd come. All the houses were innocuous. In all truth, there was no single building that stood out from the rest. Richard McKee was nothing more than someone with a mild curiosity for younger girls, not so uncommon for a man in his early forties who did not appear to have an ongoing relationship. This was another assumption: neither he nor Radick had asked McKee whether or not he was in a relationship. They had asked if he was married, and he had said he was not, that he had been but was now divorced. He had implied that he was single, but not directly said so. Yet Parrish had assumed it to the point where he had written it in the notes. A simple mistake. Simple, because McKee had not said what everyone says when asked such a question. No, I'm not married, but I'm in a relationship . . . have been for a while. We talk about getting married, but I don't think either of us has the courage!
But he hadn't said that. Hadn't said anything like it.
Parrish walked back and looked at the house again. There were lights on in all three front windows of McKee's house, two on the ground, one above, the light beneath the porch canopy also. There was a storefront set back from the sidewalk thirty yards or so away, and here he waited for a while. He didn't know why he was there, he didn't see what good it would serve, but the mere fact that he was in the vicinity of Richard McKee gave him some sense of purpose. What would he otherwise do? Sit home, watch TV, drink? It struck him then that he had not been drunk for a while - a couple of days perhaps? A couple of shots at Clay's, that was all he'd had. He hadn't bought a fifth en route home, emptied it within the hour, gone out for another. Progress? Maybe. Progress towards what? He hadn't a clue. Marie Griffin would be pleased, but he wasn't in it to please Marie Griffin. Aside from the drinking there was the other thing. The thing he'd felt, the thing he'd not expected, and that was something he would speak to her about in the morning. Whatever she was doing to him . . . well, it wasn't therapeutic from any perspective, except possibly the simple benefit of talking to someone who listened. Sure, she asked too many questions. Sure, she answered every answer with another damned question. But when he spoke she was quiet. She didn't interrupt. She didn't seem to have an agenda. She was perhaps the closest to a friend he had. Sad, really fucking sad, but the truth.
When the door opened and McKee came down the steps from the porch Parrish froze. He hesitated for a second, and then he backed up and pressed himself into the shadows. McKee was unaware of anything save where he was headed. No jacket, just jeans and a sweater. Going out? Parrish didn't think so.
Parrish waited until McKee was fifteen yards from the house, and then he went after him. They walked for no more than a minute, and then McKee turned right into a side street. Parrish crossed over. He looked back the way he'd come. Why, he didn't know
, but he did. He entered the side street slowly, tentatively. McKee was out of sight. Parrish hurried down and reached the end. The alleyway opened out into a complex of small garages. The SUV. This must be where McKee kept his car. The light wasn't good, but Parrish heard the metallic sound of a door being raised, the squeak of un-oiled hinges as it was slid back. Parrish moved carefully. He caught sight of the open garage. He counted down. Right-hand side of the block, fourth garage from the end.
McKee backed out, reached up to pull the door down again. Parrish quickly retraced his steps and was soon out on the street - breathless, anxious, even a little frightened. He hadn't felt scared for a good while. But he did feel scared, for real. He was still on pay-hold, he was still unable to drive, he was still being watched every step of the way as he worked. Maybe even Radick was keeping tabs on what he was doing and reporting up the lines.
To be caught harassing a potential witness, a suspect in a murder case; to be seen hanging around the guy's house, following him down to his lock-up . . . End of story. He'd be looking for another job by the end of the month.
Parrish left hurriedly. He was a block and a half away by the time McKee emerged onto Sackett Street. Parrish took the subway home. It was only when he reached his apartment that he realized what he had to do, why he had to do it, and what would happen if he did. More to the point, what would happen if he didn't. He wouldn't be able to live with himself. And considering that he lived alone, well that would mean he was really fucked.
He was wired. He knew he wouldn't sleep. He walked to the liquor store and bought a bottle of Bushmills. He drank a third of it and lay on the couch watching The West Wing.
SIXTY-TWO
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2008
'Well, just describe it as best you can.'
'It's real simple. It was like . . . well, it was like the feeling that someone was relying on me.'
'But people rely on you all the time, Frank.'
'Yes, I know that, but they rely on me in a professional capacity. You're a police officer. You're a detective. They see you arrive somewhere and they think you know all the answers to all the questions. This was different.'
'How so?'
'Well, she lives alone. With her kids, of course, but she doesn't have a guy there as far as I can work out. We went through her place with a fine-toothed comb and I didn't see any evidence of another guy. She divorced McKee back in 2005. That's three years ago. Maybe there's been boyfriends or whatever, but I kind of get the idea that she's concentrated on the kids. Two of them. One of them's fifteen, the other's a year or so younger. She worries about them. She sees him take them away every other weekend, and I can imagine she's anxious until she gets them back. She knows he's a creep. I think she stayed with him for all the same reasons that so many people stay together. Routine, predictability, financial security, the fact he - whoever he might be - is the father of her children. Some of the same reasons me and Clare stayed together, you know? Anyways, I think she was relieved to get him out of her life, but he's not out of her life, and whatever fears she might have had for the safety of her own kids has resurfaced due to our involvement.'
'And you feel responsible for her state of mind?'
'I feel a little responsible for her worry, yes, but at the same time I feel like she is making me responsible for resolving it.'
'But you are responsible for resolving it, Frank.'
'Yes, I am, but only if he is the guy. Only if McKee is the guy can I do anything to resolve her worries. If he's not the guy then she's left with him, and there's nothing she can do about it. And then worst case scenario, he is the guy but we miss the boat on him and he goes after the daughter at some point.'
'You're certain he's the guy now?'
'Certain as I can be. Certain as you ever get in this job. I think he's either the perp or . . . actually, I think it's more likely that he's involved in the supply line.'
'And you have confirmed that one of these girls was filmed in some kind of SM thing?'
'Yes.'
'And the others?'
'I don't know. Maybe they went the same way. I think this is snuff movies. I think they are killed on camera. This movie that Jennifer was in -1 think there's an edited version which went on the open market, and then there's a rumor that the full version, the version where she is actually killed, is out and about there somewhere.'
'Let's go back to his ex-wife. What's her name?'
'Carole. Carole Paretski.'
'Are you attracted to her?'
'Jesus no. What the hell do you ask me that for?'
'Frank, don't react. Just think for a moment. Are you attracted to her?'
'Attracted? Let's not even go there, eh? I have a job to do, that's all. I am concerned for her state of mind. I don't like to think that she is carrying all that worry for the welfare of her kids.'
'Are you attracted to her vulnerability?'
'Hell, that's a bit fucking deep for this time in the morning, isn't it?'
'Listen to me, Frank. I believe that we've made a little progress. I don't know if you feel that way and I'm not asking you to tell me, but from what I see you are a little less wound-up. You seem a little less tense. You don't talk about your father anymore. You don't talk about your ex-wife or your own kids. You're talkingabout things that are now outside your immediate personal sphere. The cases you're working on, the way this particular case is progressing, and now you bring up your concern for someone who you consider is a victim of this terrible, terrible situation. This tells me something, Frank.'
'And what would that be, Doctor Marie?'
'Don't be sarcastic, Frank, please.'
'Okay, okay ... so what does it tell you?'
'It tells me that we might be starting to turn the corner. People come here and they talk about themselves. Endlessly, for hours and hours and hours they talk about themselves. When they start to talk about other things - external situations, things that are happening now as opposed to things that happened in the past, and especially when they start to express a concern for the well- being of others, well that tells me a great deal about where their attention has turned.'
'So I'm all better now?'
'Frank! Listen to me, Frank. I'm trying to explain something to you here, something that might have a little positivity to it, and you have to come back at me with a wisecrack—'
'Look, Doc, for me it's real simple. My life is a fucking mess. Let's be straight with one another. I was thinking about this only yesterday. I wanted to come here today. Probably for the first time in all the days we've been talking, I wanted to come here and tell you about what I was feeling. It was really simple. I thought to myself "Oh jeez, how about that? That's something I can tell Marie Griffin about tomorrow". And you know what else I thought? I thought that maybe what was happening here was no more complicated than what happens when you get to talk about shit with your friends. But I don't have any, you see? I don't have any friends. I have work colleagues, I have a partner I've known for about three hours, I have a daughter who thinks I'm a pain in the ass, a son who doesn't even call to let me know he's still alive, an ex-wife who's a bitch in stilettos, and you. That's what I have. You happen to be the closest I got to a buddy. So I talk about stuff to you. I told you about my father, my mother, about this that and whatever. It's no big deal. I happen to be drinking a little less, but I believe that has more to do with the fact that this case has really got to me. I want to know who is drugging and strangling teenage girls. I want to know if there's a snuff movie out there where Jennifer Baumann gets the life choked out of her while someone's fucks her in the ass; and I want to know what kind of sick fuck thinks this is the kind of thing he wants to watch while he beats off. That's what I want, and right now that's all I want—'
'Frank, listen—'
'No, hang on there a minute. You listen to me. That's what you get paid for. I like you, Doctor Griffin, I think you're a good person. I think you care for people and your job is important
. I also believe that a great deal of happiness comes from doing something worthwhile in life, and I can clearly see that what you are doing is worthwhile, at least in your own eyes. My job is something entirely different. I get paid to find people like Richard McKee and make them feel an awful lot worse. If someone like Carole Paretski feels better because her scumbag pervert ex- husband is behind bars for the rest of his life, well that's a secondary thing. It's good, it's fine, but it's not the reason for doing the job. We're on the other side of two entirely different fences. My world isn't yours, and yours isn't mine, and I don't think there's a great deal of hope that they'll ever meet—'
'Frank, I don't understand why you're suddenly being so defensive and aggressive.'
'I'm being defensive and aggressive because I'm kind of worn out with being told what I think and what I feel, Marie. That's the truth, and whether you like it or not that's the way it is. You know the prayer we say around here? It's really simple. Lord God, just grant me one more day. That's what we say. We also know that our day starts when someone else's day ends. We also know that we cannot escape the power of small things. The truth is small, and so are the lies. Sometimes the smallest lies are the ones that kill us. You know what else I used to say to myself? It was like a little chant, a reminder of where I was at and how my life was going. I used to say that every day in every way I was not getting better. It was my attempt to remind myself that I needed to change, but you know what? I never fucking did. I also know that no-one ever got better from drinking but I still do it. Am I self-destructive? Does that make me a born loser, because I am doing something that I know is no good for me, and hell it might even kill me if I do it enough? Sure it does, but you know something else? It doesn't matter, because when I finally hit the deck, when it's all over and the lights are going out, I'll know that because of what I did there are some people out there who are still alive. People who don't even know that they came this close to a bad and unnecessary end. I sit on the subway sometimes. I sit there and look at people and I wonder who isn't going to make it to Christmas. Well, some of those people are alive now because I took some scumbag off the streets and put him in a six by ten and they threw away the key.'
