Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  “What’s her name?”

  “She went back to her maiden name, Hunter. I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything else. We’ve had wonderful years here. There isn’t anything I can think of that would suggest a thing like this might happen to us.”

  “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll keep in touch with you,” Blake said. He nodded at Fish, and they both stood. “Thanks for the coffee.” He paused and then asked, “Why isn’t anyone here with you?”

  “I have friends. I don’t want to make it sound like I don’t. Plenty of them offered, but I just needed to be alone for a while.”

  “Understood,” Blake said.

  “Sure,” Fish added.

  She followed them to the front door. “None of this makes any sense,” she said. “I keep expecting to wake up and find it was all just a nightmare.”

  Blake looked at her and nodded. “It will never end,” he said. “It will just fade under the weight of time.”

  Fish felt his mouth fall open. Why the hell would he say something like that to a woman in terrible mourning? But she didn’t look upset. She looked as if he had confirmed what she had always believed.

  And then Blake hugged her, nodded at Fish, and walked out. Fish pressed her hand softly, tried to smile, and followed Blake. Hell, this was sad. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He just followed Blake to the elevator.

  “I don’t know what to make of any of that,” Fish said when the door opened for them. “Some deliveryman suddenly appears. A judge’s sister lives in the building. Her husband was a convicted pedophile. The judge didn’t like Warner Murphy and then was proud of him. And the stuff about Bivens? Her daughter didn’t like him, and he didn’t like children? So?”

  “It’s helpful,” Blake said.

  “How?”

  “There has to be a portal,” Blake said.

  “A portal? What’s a portal?”

  “An entry. A way he can get in.”

  “Oh. You’re thinking basement, a window, what?”

  Blake looked at him but didn’t respond.

  “What am I missing?” Fish asked.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, Detective.”

  The door opened on the lobby. Bivens looked up at them.

  Fish paused, expecting Blake to say something else to the receptionist or ask another question, but he didn’t stop to say anything to Bivens. He didn’t even look at him.

  Before they had reached their vehicle, which did, in fact, have a parking ticket on it, Blake’s cell phone rang. He stopped while Fish went over and ripped the ticket off the windshield, tearing it up and cursing under his breath. He looked back when Blake ended his call. He could see from the expression on his face that something was wrong.

  “What?” he asked.

  Blake walked slowly to the car. Fish stood there waiting, the shreds of the ticket in his hands. Blake seemed to suddenly remember he was with him.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “I’m going to disappoint someone, I’m afraid.”

  “Who?”

  “Assistant DA.”

  “Why?”

  “I was putting the pressure on someone, expecting to break him today when I confronted him. ”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone confronted him and broke him ahead of me last night, broke him for good,” he said.

  11

  “I don’t understand about the pictures in the envelope he was holding,” Michele said.

  Blake looked as if he wasn’t listening to her. He was looking intently out the front window of the café. She turned to look, too. All she saw was ordinary traffic and pedestrians, none of whom looked particularly interesting.

  “What?” she practically shouted, and he took a sip of his coffee and sat forward, turning those fascinating eyes into her, rather than on her. She felt as if he was reading her thoughts, and the power of that penetration actually made her face warm.

  “I was cornering Stoker Martin like a trapped rat,” he said. “The pictures were photos of his victims taken at the scenes of the murders. I knew where he hung out and had the envelope left there for him. From what the tavern owner told me, after Martin saw the contents of the envelope, he hurried out of the place. ‘Fled’ was actually the word he used.”

  “How would that—”

  “I wanted him to feel that he was being blackmailed, that he was vulnerable, and that he would take the fall for all those who had paid him to eliminate people. My expectation was that he would then go for the deal we presented and, in this particular case, lead us to Heckett.”

  “How did Heckett find him originally? What, is there a help-wanted column for hit men in New York? From what I know about him, Heckett doesn’t live in that world.”

  “He knew someone who knew someone, apparently. The someone he contacted acts like an agent. He gets a commission. His name is Barry Tyler. He had more than five in his murder agency.”

  “What do you mean, had?”

  “Someone gave him a heroin overdose.”

  “Maybe he did it to himself. Isn’t that usually the case?”

  “Yes, but not this time. He wasn’t a heroin addict,” Blake said, and drank some more coffee. “Forensics confirmed that he was held down while the needle was inserted.”

  “Well, why was he murdered, too? Coincidence?”

  “No. Nothing’s ever a coincidence,” he said. He thought a moment. “There’s something bigger going on, perhaps.”

  “Bigger? You’ve said that before. What? Terrorism? What?” She was unable to disguise her impatience.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  She sat back, nodding. “So what are you telling me, Lieutenant? It’s going to be difficult, if not impossible, to tie Heckett to a hired gun?”

  “I’m tracing some financial information on Tyler to establish at least the logical suspicion of a link, but this is all ultimately done in cash.”

  “No, I don’t imagine hit men take credit cards or personal checks,” she said, a little more irritably than she had intended, but he was telling her that this was going to be much more difficult than she had hoped.

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Maybe we should forget about the hit man. We have motive. We have opportunity. We have an eyewitness to his proximity to the event. We have the weapon used in his possession.”

  “I know he didn’t do the actual shooting, Michele. Ignoring it because we’re having trouble proving the connection to Stoker Martin worries me.”

  “Look,” she said, now leaning in on him, “you did your part of this. Now it’s up to me. I’ll run with the horses I have. It’s how the system works.”

  Blake nodded. “The ends justify the means.”

  “Never occurred to you, never played a part in what you do?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. He finished his coffee and looked out the window again, just as Fish pulled up. “My ride’s here,” he said.

  “Your ride? How did you get here? Taxi? Subway?” Michele sat back. Maybe she had made a mistake putting so much faith in him or, worse yet, letting herself become attracted to him. What did she really know about him? “Where do you live, Lieutenant?”

  “I have a pied-à-terre in the East Village.”

  “Pied- à-terre? So where is your primary residence?”

  He smiled. “You sound like my accountant. I have a small house in Sullivan County.”

  “Sullivan County. I know it well. My family lives in Orange County, but we’re not far. I’ve been to restaurants in Rock Hill, Monticello, a village called Woodbourne. On cases, of course.”

  “I’m just outside of Woodbourne. Whenever I have time off, I go up for a country holiday,” he said. “Nice place to kick back when things get a little overwhelming, which I’m sure they do for you, too.”

  His words hung in the air: a future invitation. She smiled. “You mean, overwhelming like right now?”

  “I’ll see what else I can come up with,” he said. His eyes
seemed to freeze with a thought.

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s almost like someone is watching everything I do, hearing everything I say.”

  She just stared at him. Unfortunately, she shared the feeling. Was his from understandable paranoia, or did he really believe it?

  “If anyone should know if he’s being followed or his phone’s being tapped, it’s you.”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “I’ll figure it out.”

  He glanced outside again and saw that Fish had spotted them. He nodded at him.

  “That’s my partner, Detective John Fish. He’s a bit of a fresh fish, but he’ll get there.”

  “Fish—gills?”

  Blake smiled again. He had done that only a very few times since they’d met, but she enjoyed it each time. That was for sure. She hadn’t felt this way since her first schoolgirl crush on her English teacher, Martin Andrews, when she was in the tenth grade. He had a smile that flashed like a neon billboard. All the girls were in love with him, but he floated above them like someone filled with helium, never losing that gap that kept them fantasizing but without real hope even though he was still a bachelor.

  Blake stood up.

  “Thanks for the coffee and bagel.” He started to turn but stopped. “I’m on the Murphy case.”

  “You still don’t believe it was suicide?”

  “No, I don’t believe it was. However, I don’t have anything that would cause anyone else to believe as I do.”

  “You really do have faith in your own instincts. Any other investigator I’ve met would be happy to peel it off and go on to easier cases.”

  “It’s not in my DNA to take the easy way out. I’ll be in touch if I come up with anything that will help with tying Heckett to Stoker Martin.”

  He turned and left the café. She watched him walk to the vehicle and then signaled the waitress for the bill. It was funny. He hadn’t brought her any information that would make her job easier. On the contrary, he had all but closed the door to a slam-dunk conviction. She’d have to work the jury out of any reasonable doubt, but seeing him energized her. It was as if he had an energy that nudged her in places long dormant. She was so cheerful, in fact, that the gloomy waitress, who obviously hated her job and had a difficult life, maybe supporting a couple of teenage children or something, brightened.

  It was like passing on some magic. Now the waitress would do so, and so on and so on, until the sun would come out for everyone.

  Aunt Eve would love to hear these thoughts, Michele mused as she headed back to the office, her confidence rising to the surface and boiling over like heated milk. She glanced back as if she expected Matthew Blake was still outside the restaurant, watching her disappear down the street and around a corner. But he was gone. She was disappointed.

  Already a few blocks away, Fish followed Blake’s orders and headed back to Murphy’s apartment building. As usual, Blake was quiet. Sometimes Fish felt as if he was alone. He was just imagining Blake being there. This was quite different from his last partnership. Sam Wisenberg hardly ever shut up. Fish would hear his voice in his dreams for the rest of his life. He knew Wisenberg was a nervous talker. He didn’t have the personality for the job, but if Fish hadn’t gotten promoted and away from Wisenberg, he was convinced he would be the one who’d have a nervous breakdown. He wasn’t sure, however, that he liked this dramatic contrast.

  “Was that the assistant DA?”

  “Michele Armstrong. She’s prosecuting Lester Heckett.”

  “I couldn’t see much, but she looks like she could act the role in a movie.”

  “We all act roles,” Blake said. “The only thing we don’t know for sure is how the movie ends.”

  “What, did you study philosophy or something?”

  Blake smiled. “Something,” he said.

  They drove on.

  “Maybe if we park in the same spot, the traffic officer will get it,” Fish said, pulling in. “Or maybe it’s just a role she has to play, huh?”

  “Maybe,” Blake said, and got out.

  “Who we gonna see?” Fish asked, again having to catch up. Blake walked so quickly that it gave Fish the feeling he wouldn’t notice or care if he didn’t catch up.

  “Semantha Hunter first,” he replied.

  “The judge’s sister?”

  What the hell is Blake looking for in all this? Fish wondered.

  They entered the lobby. Bivens was watching something on his smartphone, but the moment he saw them, he shut it down and sat up. “If this keeps up, I’ll put in for a job in the police department,” he said as they approached.

  “Why didn’t you?” Blake fired back.

  “Huh?”

  “You went into security. That’s police work. Why didn’t you go whole hog and join the NYPD? You were in the military police in the army for nearly six years.”

  “And it was hard work, too. The military is full of social rejects and losers who couldn’t make tea in civilian life. I’ve probably investigated as many crimes as you two have. I had enough of that. The TSA was child’s play compared to that, and this is child’s play compared to the TSA.”

  Blake nodded. “The easier way out is often the easier way in.”

  “What?” Bivens looked at Fish to see if he was as suspicious of him as Lieutenant Blake seemed to be.

  “Where were you during that short break in the recording?” Blake asked.

  “Right here. The only time I leave this desk when I’m on duty is when I have to go to the bathroom. I didn’t miss anything or anyone. If anyone had slipped in, he would have had to go up the stairs twenty flights. There’s no one going up during that time on any of the elevator video. You guys saw that.”

  “Walking up twenty flights is not impossible,” Blake said.

  “It is for me,” Bivens replied. He looked at Fish. “How about you?”

  “Would you notify Semantha Hunter that we are here to see her? I called her earlier, so she knows,” Blake said.

  “Semantha Hunter?”

  “Number 203,” Blake said.

  “Oh, I know.” Bivens dialed and announced them.

  “What do you know about her?” Blake asked him.

  He shrugged. “She’s some judge’s sister. She’s a kook. Everything is delivered to her apartment. She’ll come down here like she’s going out and then, for no reason I can see, turn and go back up.”

  Blake and Fish headed for the elevator.

  “I see you did do some research on that guy,” Fish said.

  “I started.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me you were doing that?”

  Blake looked at him as the elevator doors opened. “I thought you’d realize from the last time that I have bad vibes about Bivens. You shouldn’t be surprised,” he said, sounding very critical.

  Fish shrugged. “I’m not surprised. I just thought I should know where you’re going and be in on it.”

  “You’re in on it,” Blake said, and pushed the button for the second floor. “Relax. You’ll be in deeply before you realize it.”

  Fish didn’t want to ask what that meant. The doors opened, and they went to 203. Semantha Hunter was a tall, thin woman in her late forties. Her chestnut-brown hair looked like Audrey Hepburn’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, in a French twist. She greeted them holding an unlit cigarette in a holder and wearing an ankle-length black dress that resembled the iconic Givenchy design Hepburn wore in the first shot of the film.

  “I’m afraid I can’t give you more than fifteen minutes, darlings,” she said. “I have a lunch at the Four Seasons today.”

  “Fifteen is all we need,” Blake said. “Thank you.”

  She stepped back, smiling, her attention focused fully on Blake. Fish felt as if she didn’t even see him. She led them to the surprisingly spartan living room containing two dark brown leather settees, a glass coffee table with an empty glass bowl on it, a bookcase, and one matching brown leather heavy-cushioned chair with a side table
on which there were some fashion magazines. The marble-tiled floor had no area rug, and the white walls had only a print of a Matisse landscape.

  “I know that Matisse,” Blake said, looking at it. “It’s Le bonheur de vivre.”

  “Really?” Semantha Hunter said, looking at it. “I failed French. What are you saying?”

  “Joy of Life. You didn’t know that?”

  “No, it was a recent gift. I thought the colors worked well with my décor,” she said. “So how can I help the New York Police Department? Does it have anything to do with the unfortunate incident involving Warner Murphy?” She sat and nodded toward the settee across from her.

  “Did you know him?” Blake asked.

  “Not really.” She glanced at her cigarette. “I play this game with myself every day,” she said, grasping the cigarette holder higher.

  “Game?” Fish asked.

  “I’ve given up smoking, but I put the cigarette in the holder and parade about with it for hours. It seems to satisfy some urge, maybe just to look chic.”

  “Cheap?” Fish said, confused.

  “Not cheap, chic . . . that’s French, too, isn’t it?” she asked Blake.

  “Yes, but there’s always an argument about etymology,” he replied, and sat.

  Fish sat beside him quickly. Something about this conversation was oddly fascinating, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

  Blake turned to him. “It means stylish.”

  “Yeah, I knew that. I just misheard,” Fish said, sounding stung. He looked at Semantha Hunter. “Sorry.”

  “No pro-blem-o,” she replied, smiling. “So how can I help you? I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink. I really am in a little bit of a frenzy. It took me all morning to get my makeup and my hair the way I wanted. You know how women compete with each other at these lunches, I’m sure. We’re all so self-absorbed.”

  “That’s fine. Have you had much to do with Mrs. Murphy?” Blake asked.

  “Nothing more than remarking about her clothes or that sweet little girl whenever I see them. How is she doing?”