Next of Kin

by James Tucker

  Buddy couldn’t see the computer screen, but he waited patiently. He saw the thin man click the mouse a few more times, and then the printer on the desk whirred and spit out two pages. The man stood and handed them across the desk to Buddy.

  Vidas moved next to Buddy as they looked at the information on the sheets. Date of purchase, names of institutions, quantity purchased, and dollar amount of sale were displayed in neat columns.

  Buddy scanned down the list of names until one name, in particular, struck him. In October of the previous year, Blu Chemicals had sold a large quantity of cyanide to someone having an address that Buddy recognized.

  He stared at the name: C. Brook Inc.

  Vidas drove them by One Police Plaza just north of the exit off the Brooklyn Bridge in Manhattan, on their way back to the Nineteenth Precinct farther uptown. They’d been summoned, without explanation, by Chief Malone. When they were waiting outside his office, a technician in a white lab coat took a chair opposite them. He kept his eyes from theirs, focusing instead on his mobile phone. Under the phone he held a slim brown folder.

  Buddy thought he was about to be ambushed. He turned to Vidas and raised an eyebrow. Vidas only shrugged.

  Chief Malone opened his office door and waved them in, making no apology for keeping them waiting. The technician followed, having dropped his phone into one of his lab coat’s pockets.

  Malone went around his desk but remained standing. None of them sat down.

  Malone said, “This is Chris Donohue from ballistics. Tell the detectives what you found, Chris.”

  Chris Donohue turned to them. He said, “Carl Brook’s Walther PPK doesn’t match the bullet you found in the wall behind the painting in Bruno Brook’s foyer. But Carl Brook’s other gun, the .22-caliber Gaston, is an exact match to the bullet and shell casing. The pin in the antique gun leaves a star-shaped groove on the bottom of the casing. Which CSU found, by the way, under a chair in the living room off the foyer. The gun was fired recently and not cleaned. Plenty of GSR—gunshot residue—on the grip, stock, and trigger. And a clear set of prints.”

  Malone looked at Buddy.

  Buddy kept his expression calm.

  Vidas said, “We just got back from College Point.” He held up the computer printout from Blu Chemicals. “Back in October, Carl Brook bought a shitload of cyanide, the main ingredient in Zyklon B.”

  Buddy sensed he was about to be railroaded into doing something he wasn’t ready to do. Not yet, anyway. He prepared to dig in his heels as he said, “So the idea is that on New Year’s Eve, Carl kills Alton and family—except for Ben—and then Bruno and family here in Manhattan, all so he and Dietrich can sell Brook Instruments to GE?”

  Malone put his giant hands on his hips and nodded. “Smells like motive, doesn’t it?”

  Vidas said, “Yeah, Chief.”

  Buddy said, “Carl is already rich. Why would he do it? Especially when he knows he’d be our prime suspect, along with his brother Dietrich?”

  Malone widened his eyes. “We’re dealing with a serial killer. He wants more money and he’s a fucking psychopath. He thinks he can outsmart us and get away with it.”

  “He has money,” Buddy repeated, aware that his reasoning sounded weak. Yet when he recalled Carl Brook, a privileged billionaire who flew on private jets and had a huge condo in Time Warner Center, he didn’t see him taking the extreme risks inherent in wiping out much of his extended family. Or even having the stomach for murdering with a hatchet. But he’d been wrong before and might be wrong now. He said, “What are you suggesting, Chief?”

  Malone’s skin reddened. “Today I’m suggesting you focus on this guy and move toward an arrest. We’ve got motive and we can tie him physically to the crime scene.”

  “His gun to the crime scene,” Buddy said. “We don’t know who fired it.”

  Malone’s face tightened. He stared at Buddy for a moment, then growled, “Today it’s a suggestion. Soon it will be an order. So get out of here and go to work.”

  Buddy didn’t move. He kept his eyes on Malone’s. He said, “It feels too easy, Chief. The gun, the cyanide, all of it.”

  Malone shook his head angrily but didn’t respond. Just pointed at the door.

  Taking his time, Buddy turned and walked out.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Two hours later, Buddy stood with Mei and Ben at the cologne counter at the Bergdorf Goodman men’s store, Fifth Avenue and East Fifty-Eighth Street.

  Buddy looked down at Ben and said, “You told Ray Sawyer you noticed an unusual scent at Camp Kateri. I’m sorry for asking you to remember that night, but I need your help.”

  Ben said, “I want to help. But I don’t know what I smelled.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Buddy explained. “And you weren’t imagining things. Your cousin Ariel told me she smelled vetiver on New Year’s Eve.”

  Ben asked, “What’s vetiver?”

  Mei said, “It’s an ingredient in perfumes and colognes.”

  “This is a long shot,” Buddy admitted, “finding a particular cologne or perfume and tying it to the killer, but I’d like to try. Ben, will you help me?”

  Ben nodded. “Yes.”

  Buddy took his hand as they faced the display case. Bottles of cologne stood on a silver tray atop the glass counter. Behind the counter stood a well-dressed sales clerk with perfectly cut brown hair, a dark suit, white shirt, and solid navy-blue tie.

  Buddy badged the clerk and said, “As part of an NYPD investigation, I need this young man to sample all of your colognes. Okay?”

  “Yes,” said the clerk, then pressed his lips together to show he wasn’t happy but would do it. “Some are here on this tray,” he explained, waving his hand over the tray, “and some are under the counter. I’ll set all of them on the counter so that you can go through them quickly and efficiently.”

  And be on your way, Buddy thought.

  Ben said, “Do I have to put all the cologne on me?”

  The clerk smiled and looked across the counter and down at Ben. “Not at all. I’ll spray or dab one of these cards”—he picked up a small white card printed with the words Bergdorf Goodman—“and then hand it to you. Will that be all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Allow me to set out the bottles.”

  They watched as the clerk bent down and pulled bottles from shelves in the glass case and lined them up in a neat row on the counter. When he’d finished, he pointed to each bottle and counted aloud. “Seventeen,” he said, looked up, and smiled at Ben and then at Buddy. “All right? Let’s begin on your left, my right, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he took up one of the cards, held the test bottle a few inches from the card, and sprayed. Then he waved the card in the air, back and forth, to reduce the concentration of the scent, and offered it to Ben.

  Ben took it and smelled. He shook his head. “That isn’t it.” He handed the card to the clerk, who dropped it in a wastepaper bin they couldn’t see. The clerk bent to return the corresponding bottle to one of the glass shelves below the counter.

  “Scent number two,” said the clerk, holding up another card and spraying atomized liquid on it. He waved the card back and forth and handed it to Ben.

  Ben held it up to his nose and inhaled. He moved the card away and held it up again.

  Buddy leaned toward him but said nothing.

  Ben inhaled a second time. Slowly he shook his head. “No.”

  The clerk removed the bottle, set it on one of the glass shelves below the counter, picked up another card, and sprayed it with the third bottle in the row. He handed it over to Ben.

  After inhaling, Ben thought for a moment and then shook his head.

  This is hopeless, Buddy thought. He won’t remember. He could get it wrong. Or he could make it up to please me, so I won’t send him to live with another family when this is all over.

  The clerk and Ben repeated the process, over and over and over again. Mei put an arm around Ben’s sho
ulder and kissed the top of his head.

  He looked up at her, his eyes fearful and sad.

  Mei smiled. “Don’t worry. If the scent you remember isn’t one of these, Buddy has other ways of getting the killer.”

  “That’s right,” Buddy said. “This won’t make or break my investigation. And when we’re done here, we’ll go to Starbucks and get you a hot chocolate. But you might as well finish.”

  Ben nodded and turned to face the counter. The clerk handed Ben another card.

  He sniffed and shook his head.

  Again.

  And again.

  Ben’s shoulders dropped. Buddy’s spirits dropped.

  Ben took another card and inhaled. He hesitated a moment, then shook his head and returned the card to the clerk.

  Buddy clenched his fists. Why had he subjected Ben to this wild goose chase? This exercise was traumatizing the boy, forcing him to recall the most awful moment of his life.

  Ben inhaled while holding up another card. He waited a moment. He inhaled again. He brought the card down and set it on the counter.

  The clerk made to reach for the card.

  Ben shook his head. “No.”

  “I’ll throw it away for you,” the clerk said.

  “No! ” Ben raised his voice and took up the card. A third time he brought it up to his nose and sniffed.

  Mei looked at Buddy.

  Buddy held his breath.

  Ben turned around. He was smiling. And then he started to cry. He held the card out to Buddy.

  Buddy took the card and smelled it. He recognized lime and some other things, maybe leather. He looked at the clerk. “What’s in this stuff?”

  The clerk nearly blanched at “stuff,” an inelegant word. He said, “It’s a masculine scent, sir, with lemon and lime and bergamot at the top, but it’s anchored by vetiver.”

  “Vetiver?”

  “That’s right, Detective. More in this cologne than most of the others. Vetiver gives it the earthy undertone that forms a nice contrast with the lemon and lime.”

  Mei stood behind Ben and put her arms around him, her hands on his chest.

  The clerk said, “Is everything all right?”

  Buddy ignored the question and asked, “What is this?”

  The clerk picked up the bottle and held it out to Buddy. “It’s called Zizan and made by Ormonde Jayne of London. A wonderful scent, don’t you agree?”

  Buddy studied the bottle. The cologne’s color was similar to bourbon. “Can I buy this anywhere?”

  The clerk knit his brow. “Not just anywhere, but other places besides Bergdorf’s.”

  Buddy asked, “How much for this small bottle?”

  “One hundred fifty dollars.”

  Mei touched Buddy’s arm. “Do you need it for your investigation?”

  He knew she was offering to buy it for him, yet he shook his head. He took out his notebook and wrote down the brand of cologne. He set the card on the counter. “Thanks, man.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Sure, Detective. Can I interest you in a scent?”

  “Not today.”

  Buddy crouched down until his face was near Ben’s. He looked carefully into Ben’s light-brown eyes. For the first time he noticed hazel flecks in the irises. He said, “Thank you for going through that. I know it was hard, and I’m sorry for asking you to do it. Now I’ve got to get back to work, but I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  Ben didn’t move. “But did I help?” he asked. “Did I help you?”

  Buddy touched the boy’s shoulder. “You damned . . . you sure did. You helped me a heck of a lot.”

  “Will you be able to get the person now?”

  “I’ll get him soon. I swear to you, I’ll get him soon.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Early evening as Buddy walked into the Nineteenth Precinct’s bull pen, Vidas rolled back his chair and said, “I found Carl Brook and his family.”

  Buddy stood between their cubes and remembered the alibis claimed by Carl and John. “The night of the Bruno and family killings and the attack at the Carlyle?” he asked.

  Not answering directly, Vidas stood as well, and pointed at his computer screen. “You want to see the video?”

  Buddy moved closer to the screen. “Show me.”

  Vidas sat down and rolled his chair near his computer. Using the mouse, he moved the images on the screen forward and backward. They seemed to show a street corner, with a section of Park Avenue’s mall in the background.

  Buddy said, “What am I looking at?”

  “The intersection of Park and Eighty-Ninth, from the DOT’s camera on the traffic light. The date and time are running on the lower right.” Vidas pointed. “So this is the night Bruno and his family were killed, about an hour before their deaths. Here’s the canvas canopy for 1095 Park. See this guy about to go into the building?”

  Buddy leaned forward and squinted. He knew the city’s Department of Transportation had installed cameras at many busy intersections around the city. They monitored traffic flow and accidents, but the cameras also had become an important tool used by the NYPD, if the crime occurred within camera range. Recognizing the handsome figure with the square jaw, he said, “John Brook.”

  Vidas nodded. “Right. He’s carrying an oversized backpack, probably a change of clothes. I’ve scanned the tape, and he doesn’t leave the building until about twelve hours later.”

  Here, Vidas forwarded the tape until it was seven the next morning, then slowed the tape to regular speed. A few minutes later Buddy watched John Brook walk out from under the canopy, accompanied by a girl with long dark hair. John kissed the girl on the side of the head, and they held hands as they walked north.

  Vidas added, “I looked at other cameras around the building, in case John sneaked out through a fire exit or something, but he didn’t. He was in the building all night, probably having a good time.”

  Buddy ignored the comment and said, “What about Carl? Was he home like he told me?”

  Vidas chuckled. “Not exactly.”

  Buddy looked at his partner. “What was he doing?”

  Vidas clicked a few icons, and then more video ran. “This is another DOT camera, the intersection of Riverside and Ninety-Fifth on the Upper West Side. I used a different camera to watch the entrance of Time Warner Center that night from four p.m. until the next day. A few minutes after six p.m., Carl Brook leaves. He walks up Columbus. I followed him on the various cameras all the way to here. The time stamp says 7:04. And . . . you see him?”

  Buddy recognized Carl Brook walking east through the intersection. “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” Vidas said. “He goes up Riverside about thirty yards and stands for a second outside this building. See?”

  Buddy watched the tape of Carl Brook traveling up the West Side as Vidas had described. Saw Carl’s hand go up and ring a buzzer to the side of a door. Saw the door open and Carl disappear inside.

  “He’s there until one thirty a.m. Then he takes a cab down to his condo at Time Warner Center.”

  Buddy said, “You’re sure he didn’t leave?”

  Vidas turned and looked at him. “There’s a dead spot, without a camera view of the side of the building, where there’s another door. So I checked the streets around the building for Carl Brook walking. I didn’t think he left, but I couldn’t be sure. He could have gone out the side entrance and jumped in a cab. So I thought he was with his mistress or something. But when I searched for the ownership of the units in the building, I got stuck with a bunch of companies with bullshit names. So I called up a guy I know in Vice, and asked him about the address. Does he know of anything happening there? Turns out he does. It’s a brothel, run by a friend of the governor’s. And off-limits, at least for now. I asked if he could verify that Carl Brook was there from seven p.m. until one a.m. He hung up on me, and I thought he’d blown me off. But he called back an hour later and confirmed. Didn’t tell me how, but he confirmed.”

  Budd
y said, “You trust the guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about the hooker—or the madam—who confirmed? Trust her, too?”

  Vidas waited a moment, and frowned. “Not really.”

  Buddy said, “Exactly. ‘Not really’ means not at all.” Buddy straightened. “Maybe Carl is innocent. I have a hunch he is, but we can’t alibi him to my satisfaction. But let’s say he was at the brothel. So he didn’t shoot the antique French Gaston at the painting in Bruno’s foyer. Didn’t kill Bruno and family. Couldn’t have attacked Mei’s place at the Carlyle. He’s innocent, and Malone should stop busting our balls.”

  Vidas shook his head. “Not for New Year’s Eve he’s not innocent. Not necessarily. Carl has no alibi other than his wife. And not for the attack at Ward’s house in Greenwich. On that night they say they were at home, but once again Carl’s alibi is his wife. There’s no video of Carl leaving his place at Time Warner Center, but he might not have been home at all that night.”

  Buddy recalled Carl’s movie-star looks and strong physique, and the way Carl had benefited from the deaths of his brothers. Buddy thought Carl might have been involved behind the scenes in those deaths, might have coordinated with someone else. Maybe with Dietrich Brook, who’d given no alibi for any of the murders.

  Buddy checked his watch. It was already half an hour later than when he’d promised to be home. He wanted to stay and think about Dietrich Brook, but he needed to go.

  He patted Vidas on the shoulder. “Nice work. But don’t stay too late.”

  “No worries, boss.”

  As Buddy left the bull pen and passed the desk by the entrance, the receptionist held up a manila envelope for him. “Package for you, Detective.”

  Buddy took it and looked for a return address, but there wasn’t one. He stopped, ripped open the flap, and pulled out a short stack of letter-sized paper.

  They were photocopies of documents of differing sizes, all written in a language he couldn’t read but guessed was German.

  He knew what they were. Bills of sale for the paintings Carl’s grandfather had bought from desperate Jews who were sent to Auschwitz. He held the papers carefully, as if they were a sacred trust he had to find a way to honor. They were from another world, but he knew that world had turned into this one and left all kinds of monuments and ruins. And signposts.