Should Have Looked Away

by Philip Cox

  ‘Sorry, Detective. I didn’t hear. I went to the drinks machine to give her some privacy.’

  ‘What about the father?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘There isn’t one. What I mean is, when I asked her whether she wanted me to get hold of his father, she said he walked out on them years ago.’

  Roberts said, ‘We need to speak with her about any friends he has. There were two of them.’

  The officer nodded and stepped aside. Roberts walked over to Mrs Breed and sat on the chair next to her.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she asked her.

  Mrs Breed looked at her. ‘You’re the policewoman who came to my apartment. You were asking about my Mitchell.’

  ‘That’s right. Mrs Breed, I’m very sorry about all this, but the truth is your son fell from the building where he works when we went to talk to him. Have you any idea why he would run when he saw us?’

  ‘He hasn’t done anything bad. He’s a good boy; he has a very responsible job.’

  ‘He has no record, that’s true. We only wanted to talk to him, so why do you think he would run?’

  ‘I don’t know, Officer.’

  Roberts shifted in her chair and tried another approach.

  ‘Does Mitchell have any particular friends?’

  Mrs Breed looked up. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Nobody at all?’

  ‘Well, there is that Walter Ackerman, but I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.’

  ‘Walter Ackerman,’ Roberts repeated, looking up at Alvarez. ‘And where does he live?’

  Mrs Breed shook her head. ‘Don’t rightly know. Not far from us, I guess, but I don’t know his address.’ She looked up at Alvarez. ‘Can I see my boy now?’

  Alvarez turned to the uniformed officer. ‘Can you go check?’

  Roberts waited until the officer had left, then asked, ‘Do you know where Mitchell was Sunday last?’

  Mrs Breed pulled out a Kleenex and blew her nose. ‘Not sure. He wouldn’t have been at work. Seeing Walter maybe. I don’t recall.’

  ‘With a girlfriend maybe?’ suggested Alvarez.

  Mrs Breed puffed up her chest slightly. ‘My Mitchell’s far too busy to have time for girls. He has a very responsible job. He’s only young, though; plenty of time to find a nice girl, settle down and have kids.’

  Roberts asked, ‘So, where do you think we can find Walter? Where do they hang out? Any special place? A bar, maybe?’

  Mrs Breed blew her nose again and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know.’

  The uniformed officer returned, this time with the doctor they had seen earlier.

  ‘Well?’ Roberts asked the officer, but the doctor replied before the officer could answer.

  ‘Mr Breed hasn’t woken yet. There’s no change in his condition. I told you earlier we’re going to carry out an MRI scan this afternoon, but Mrs Breed, as his next of kin, I need your consent.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s like an x-ray,’ the doctor explained. ‘Mitchell hit his head when he fell, and we want to make sure there’s no damage.’ As he said damage, the doctor put his hand on the back of his head to indicate where he meant.

  ‘Whatever you think best, Doctor,’ Mrs Breed said weakly. ‘Do I need to sign anything?’

  The doctor held out a clipboard containing some documents. He pointed out to Mrs Breed where to sign. She took the board and signed, not reading the document.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ll keep you up to date with what’s going on. Is there anything you need?’

  She shook her head.

  Roberts spoke to the officer. ‘Can you call in; request a female officer to come and sit with Mrs Breed. That might be better if it’s going to be a while.’

  The officer picked up his radio; Roberts got up and followed the doctor, who was now leaving the lounge area.

  ‘Doctor,’ she said as she caught up with him, ‘I know I’ve asked this before, but have you any idea when he’ll be able to talk to us?’

  The doctor looked at Roberts then turned his gaze back to Mrs Breed. ‘As I’ve said before: we can’t tell yet. But if and when he is in a position to talk, it’ll be to his mother first.’

  FORTY

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ Roberts snapped as she and Alvarez stood outside the main hospital doors. Alvarez’s eyes squinted in the strong sunshine as she pulled out a packet of Marlboro and her lighter.

  Alvarez pointed over to a sign on the wall. ‘You can’t do that here. I saw a group of white coats go down to the street earlier.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she replied. Clearly pissed off, she strode across the parking lot to the street. Once on the sidewalk, she lit up and took a long drag. ‘“It’ll be to his mother first.” Pompous asshole.’ She took another long drag, lifting her head up and blowing a long jet of smoke into the air.

  ‘Better for that?’ he asked facetiously.

  Grinning, she nodded, and perched herself on the edge of the small hedged wall bordering the parking lot.

  He put both hands in his pockets and leaned on the nearby streetlight. ‘While he’s sleeping and we can’t talk to him, we need to get a hold of what was his name? Walter Ackerman.’

  Roberts took one more drag and tossed the butt into the street. ‘Can you call the Desk, and get them to run Ackerman through NCIC. Then call us back.’

  ‘Sure.’

  While he made the call, Roberts pulled out the pack of Marlboros, opened it, and stared at the five unused sticks. Deciding against smoking another, she put the pack away. ‘Well?’ she asked, looking up at Alvarez.

  He still had the phone to his ear. ‘They’re doing it now,’ he mouthed.

  Nodding, she stood up and stretched. Walked twenty or thirty feet down the street and back again, just to stretch her legs. She had been sitting in the car for hours. Normally, last night she would have made one of her four times a week visits to the gym near home, but it was too late after she had finished all the damned paperwork she had to do.

  She was walking down the street a third time when she heard Alvarez speak. She swung round and walked back. ‘Well?’

  ‘That’s perfect. Thanks.’ Alvarez hung up. ‘We got a result.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Walter Ackerman has a record. He did eighteen months for a liquor store hold up a few years back.’

  ‘Only eighteen months?’

  ‘He was just the lookout, apparently. Stayed in the car outside. And he turned State’s Evidence to get a reduction in sentence.’

  ‘The loyal type, then?’

  ‘U-huh. But we got an address. It’s coming through now.’ He looked at his phone as a text message came through. ‘Decatur Avenue.’

  ‘Decatur Avenue? Where the hell’s that?’

  ‘I’ll check the GPS, but I’ll take book it’s not far from where Breed lives.’

  They climbed over the low hedge and walked back across the parking lot. As they neared the car Roberts said, ‘If we can get a hold of Ackerman, then Mitchell Breed staying hospitalized won’t be so much of a problem.’

  ‘Especially,’ added Alvarez, ‘if he’s got form in grassing up his friends.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Once back in the car, Alvarez typed in the address and zip code. ‘I know where it is,’ he said.

  Roberts settled down in the passenger seat. ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  The address was 11400 Decatur. Apartment 326. It was a five floor red brick building, sandwiched between a dry cleaners and a closed, boarded up jewellers. They walked up the stairs to the third floor. On the third floor landing, they looked along the corridor. Apartment 320 was the first door, painted dark brown, matching the other doors and skirting board. The corridor was carpeted with a worn, dirty, even darker brown covering. The ceiling was stained yellow from years of smoke; two light bulbs hung down, one by the landing, and one halfway down the corridor. The walls were covered with old wallpaper, which
seemed to have once had a floral design, but this had faded with the years and the grime. They could hear a variety of sounds: a pair of voices talking; another arguing; a baby crying, and the sound of a television at full volume. Walking down to door 326, they could tell the sound of the baby crying was coming from here. Roberts knocked loudly on the door.

  After a few moments, the door opened slowly, and a young, black face peered through.

  Roberts held up her badge. Before she could introduce them, the door closed again. They heard the sound of the chain being released, and then the door opened again. She was in her early twenties, and was clutching a young baby, who was crying.

  ‘Detectives Roberts and Alvarez, Midtown North. I’m sorry to bother you. Does Walter Ackerman live here?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t know anybody of that name.’

  Roberts looked up and down the corridor. ‘Do you mind if we come in? There’s nothing to worry about.’

  The woman stepped back and let them in. Alvarez closed the door behind them.

  ‘I’m sorry about him,’ she said, bouncing the baby up and down in her arms. ‘He’s due a feed.’

  Roberts glanced around the apartment. The décor matched that of the corridor outside. It was really just one room, with a door leading to a bathroom. There were a couple of chairs, a single bed next to a cot in one corner, a small cupboard. In front of the small window with grubby net curtains were a small sink and draining board, a two ring gas stove, and a small white refrigerator. A gas fire was fitted in the wall opposite the bed and cot. A small television was standing on the cupboard, playing a children’s show. On the floor between the two chairs was a deep red rug on which were scattered a few children’s toys.

  Roberts half smiled. ‘Don’t mind us. We only need to ask you a couple of things.’

  The girl picked up a small feeding bottle of milk and offered it to the baby, who started feeding hungrily.

  Roberts asked, ‘So you don’t know anybody by the name of Walter Ackerman.’

  ‘No. Never heard the name, on my life.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘About six months. Just after he was born.’

  ‘Do you know where the people before went?’

  She shook her head.

  Alvarez asked, ‘Who owns the place? Who do you pay rent to?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I think they’re called Bronx Estates.’

  ‘Do you know where they’re based?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How do you pay your rent?’

  ‘A guy comes to collect it every Monday morning.’

  Roberts nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘Hold on a minute. I got a letter from them a couple of weeks back. When the rent went up.’ Still carrying the feeding baby, she walked over to the cupboard, rummaged around in the drawer, and fished out a sheet of paper. ‘Here; this is it,’ she said, passing it to Roberts.

  Roberts held the letter out so they could both read it. ‘This is addressed to Hazelle Soremekun: that you?’ she asked.

  The girl nodded.

  They both scanned the letter. It merely advised that the rent was to go up to $350 a week. The name of the company was Bronx Estates Corporation. The address was a post box number.

  ‘Look at the zip code,’ Roberts muttered. ‘10036: that’s Lower Manhattan, isn’t it?’

  ‘I believe it is, yes,’ Alvarez replied.

  ‘At least we have a phone number.’ Roberts asked Hazelle, ‘Do you mind if we keep this letter?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ replied Hazelle, adjusting the baby’s bottle.

  Roberts passed the letter to Alvarez, who folded it up and slipped it into his inside pocket. ‘That’s all we need, Hazelle; thank you for your help.’

  ‘No problem.’ Still carrying the feeding baby, she showed them to the door. The two detectives said their goodbyes and left. Just before Hazelle could close the door, Roberts turned round, fishing into her back pocket.

  ‘That’s for him,’ she said, dropping two $20 bills on to the cupboard. She stared at Alvarez who mumbled something, got out his wallet and did the same.

  ‘Oh, no; I can’t,’ Hazelle spluttered.

  ‘Yes you can,’ Roberts said. ‘Remember to put the chain back on.’

  As they walked back down to the car Roberts said, ‘We’ll call them, see if they have an address for Ackerman. Most likely they don’t, so then we’ll try to track him through social security. They might know where he lives, where he works.’

  ‘I’ll call them right now,’ Alvarez said.

  ‘Let’s go over there,’ said Roberts, pointing to a small park across the street. ‘I’m hungry.’

  In the park, they both bought a hot dog, Roberts’ with mustard, Alvarez’s with ketchup. As they sat down on a wall eating, Roberts asked, ‘How’s Elena?’

  ‘She’s okay, thanks. Has good days, has bad days.’

  ‘And recently?’

  ‘Good, mainly.’

  Roberts nodded. ‘Good,’ she said contemplatively. She quickly finished her hot dog then held out her hand. ‘Give me the letter. I’ll call them back at the station. You go home; I’ll finish off.’

  Surprised, Alvarez asked, ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. Sure.’

  ‘What’s the plan tomorrow?’

  ‘Not sure yet. I’ll send you a text.’

  ‘Okay. I appreciate it, Jules.’

  ‘You deserve it. You’re owed hours anyway. Drive us back to the station house, then go kiss your wife.’

  Shortly, they were parked outside the station.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ Alvarez said. ‘You know: this... and the cash you gave that girl: you’re quite a good one, really; in spite of what everyone says.’

  ‘Well, keep that to yourself,’ Roberts said, climbing the steps. ‘Night.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Even though he owned half of the business, Will still felt uneasy about leaving the office unless he was on genuine company business.

  Dan Gleave had a totally different attitude. ‘It’s your freakin’ business,’ he would say. ‘You - we - can do what we like.’

  Will had no doubt his friend and business partner practised what he preached: for a long time now, Will was certain the frequent absences from his desk were not all for looking at properties and visiting clients.

  Will wanted to get up to the hotel as soon as possible. He knew he could not check in until 2pm, so planned to leave the office by one.

  He would normally provide everybody with a reason why he was going out: not today. ‘I’ll be out all afternoon,’ he announced. To his surprise, nobody questioned this.

  He had cleared his diary for the afternoon, and made sure all his messages had been dealt with.

  Dan Gleave was interviewing two clients when he left; May had popped out for her lunch, so he just mumbled a goodbye to Eddie, and left.

  As he scurried down the street to the subway station, he hoped he would get Room 205: in fact, the whole time would be wasted if they had given him a different room. But he had requested 205, and they had confirmed that would not be a problem.

  He actually arrived at the hotel at 1:45. Unexpectedly, he was nervous about this whole venture: having firstly considering waiting the last fifteen minutes, he went straight to the reception desk, where he was told that he did have 205, and that it was ready.

  His only luggage was an empty backpack, so he declined the offer of a bellhop, and made his way to the second floor. As he waited for the elevator, he looked down at the white and green key card, and recalled how Carmine DiMucci held an identical card slumped on the toilet seat in the men’s room.

  He let himself in, and leaned back on the door to close it, then stepped into the room and looked around.

  It was tastefully decorated: the walls were cream; the wooden features a medium light colour. The bed had white sheets and pillows, with a green duvet. Adjacent to the door was a small shelf
for suitcases, and an open closet with four hangers on a rail. Then there was a long table come desk with a reading lamp, three wide drawers underneath. A small flat screen TV was fixed to the wall, above combined power and internet points. A telephone stood next to the lamp. There was a brown two-seater sofa and a small cabinet either side of the double bed.

  Will checked out the ensuite bathroom. There was no bath, just a walk-in shower. Toilet, and hand basin. Two white towels hung on a rail. It looked basic, but clean.

  He wandered over to the window and looked out. The view was not spectacular, nothing out of the ordinary: just a view of a small park across the street.

  There was no minibar here, and no coffee making facilities, but Will was paying only $90 for the night. Can’t expect the Hilton, he thought.

  Will slumped onto the sofa. So, he thought, I’m in the famous Room 205. What’s so special about here?

  He decided to search the room. He checked the top of the open closet; he took the drawers out and checked the drawer space and the underside of the drawers. He took the cushions off the sofa, and checked underneath them, down the sides of the upholstery. He checked underneath the bed, and the underside of the bed. He pulled the bedside cabinets away from the wall and checked behind them.

  As he manoeuvred the cabinets back into place, there was a knock on the door.

  As he looked up, the door began to open.

  FORTY-TWO

  Will stood up and headed for the door, which was slowly opening. He could have kicked himself: he had forgotten to put on the safety chain.

  What was going on? Nobody knew he had booked himself in here: what would happen if something happened to him here?

  He stopped in his tracks as he saw it was the maid. The housekeeping trolley stood outside. She was as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

  ‘The room’s all done,’ he said.

  The maid muttered something in a flustered manner and began to make a point of checking the paperwork on a clipboard.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sir. I have the wrong room.’

  ‘That’s okay. Thank you,’ he replied, following her as she backed out of the room. Now he had one hand on the edge of the door.