Kerri was heading upstairs with Alex on her heels.
“Wait, help me re-interview Taz,” he said as they reached the landing. “You’re right, she’s got business waiting. Keep her longer and she’ll spill more.”
“I’ve revised that thought.” Kerri entered the locker room, walked its length past bunk beds with dark gray blankets. They had the shadowy room to themselves. “Taz wants outta here so bad she would have already spilled what she had. Keep her longer, she’ll just make up stuff, have you chasing your tail.”
Alex exhaled, watching Kerri jiggle his locker handle and give him an expectant look. He gave a huge shrug and got out his key. “Stay just half an hour,” he pleaded. “I want you to psyche her out under worse stress. You’re so good at that.”
“So why are you giving me your key?”
“Because – oh hell, you’re right again, Taz would make up stuff to get out. Do you have to do this now?”
“I’ll be back, I just want to get this squared away before that basement gets too late and creepy.” Kerri pulled open his locker door, crouched, and got out his Nike duffel. It was black and bulged.
“Taz Curry’s a dead end,” she said, pulling out Alex’s jammed-in dark sweater and gym clothes. She folded them; stood to place them on the high metal shelf. “People like that really know nothing – zip - about each other. They’re selfish and hidden. Or Frank might have feared some acquaintance clueing us in, and found some new hole to crawl into.”
She looked sorry for a moment. “Really, I’ll be back in ninety minutes. Help with files and reports, beat Taz senseless if she’s still here.”
Alex gave an uneasy laugh and stepped back. “Okay. Tell Rachel to keep the duffel as long as she needs it.”
“She’ll appreciate that.”
“Your heart’s too big. That makes you vulnerable. What about Rachel’s friend Terry? She can’t do this?”
“She’s out of town.”
Kerri started back down the stairs. Over her shoulder, holding the duffel and trying unsuccessfully to zip her parka she said, “Terry Mercer’s too shook anyway to go back to that basement. She probably doesn’t ever want to go back to Greenwich Street.”
He followed her down and out to the line of police cars. The night was moonless, damp, and freezing. Her Tahoe was parked at the far end, mostly in shadow.
“Hey…” He reached to pull her parka zipper up higher, feeling the soft swell of her breasts underneath. “Stay safe,” he said nervously.
Kerri checked – nobody around – then raised her face and kissed his lips. They were warm despite the chill. She rubbed his two-day stubble and kissed him again.
“Safe?” she smiled. “Where could be safer? There are radio cars in front and back of Frank’s building. Armed cops all around. Last place Wheat would come back to is his own building.”
Alex wasn’t placated.
She got in and started the engine. In a swift move she zoomed down the window and waved her Glock for him. “Besides, you know what a careful girl I am.”
She started backing into the street and he moved with her. An Audi sped past. “Check your safety?” he called.
“Of course. Watch the traffic.” A cab and a truck sped by.
His features looked troubled in the shadows. “Why do I have a bad feeling?”
“Because you’re out in the street about to get run over! Watch it!” A Honda swerved at the last second, blasting them with its horn.
Alex gave a mighty shrug and stepped back to the sidewalk. Just stood there, an almost-silhouette giving a forlorn wave.
Kerri blinked her high-beams on-off at him, and turned into traffic.
65
She stopped to talk to the first surveillance car, an unmarked Ford parked diagonally across from Wheat’s building.
“Nothing,” said Roy Biggs, curled up behind the wheel. He was a young detective, starting to put on weight and munching on Doritos. “Want some?” He held the bag to the window.
Kerri declined with thanks.
In the dimness, Roy’s reddish hair looked messed and his eyes sagged prematurely. “This sitting on places is bad for your health and I’m bored,” he scowled. “I’ve watched people on booze, dope, you name it straggle in and out, but no Frank Wheat. Now I’d be almost happy to see him.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice.” Kerri had been watching the building while she distracted Biggs. “What about Murray, he see anything?” Her eyes moved across the street to a Chevy parked near the building’s service alley.
“Same nada. He just called, wants to order out for pizza and we can’t. We’re invisible. I hate this.”
“I’ve done it, too, Roy.” Kerri hefted her duffel. “Think, someday soon you’ll graduate to all-nighters going blind over hair and fiber files.”
“Aw, you’ve gladdened my heart. Sure you don’t want some Doritos? Or Fritos, I’ve got them too,” he grinned, gesturing to a bag on his passenger seat.
Kerri moved from the deeper dark where Biggs was parked, crossed the street fast and entered the building. The foyer was empty, ill-lit as usual. She headed across to the sign reading LAUNDRY STORAGE BOILER ROOM, and took the stairs down.
The basement was creepier than she remembered, an eerie place of once-whitewashed brick passageways under dim bulbs in wire cages. Overhead, pipes zig-zagged in low, cobwebby shadows.
It felt worse, being alone. Kerri stopped suddenly, peered around. Had she just heard some unseen door thud closed? Possible, she thought, breathing in. People lived here. Sound carried…
She passed the castoff refrigerator facing the wall, went under the arch, and looked.
Ahead, the room containing the boiler and the column of old, whitewashed bricks Frank Wheat had stepped out from. The column looked ghostly. Kerri’s mind flashed Wheat’s image, face long and hostile, disappointed eyes, dark hair to his collar.
She blinked it away; decided to do what she had to and get out fast.
To the right of the boiler stretched the line of trunks stacked against the wall. She went to them. There wasn’t enough light to read their labels, so she flicked on her flashlight.
There, easy. At the end of the line, in a two-trunk short stack sat a smaller blue one on top of a larger black one. Kerri beamed her light on them. No dust like on the others; hence, recently placed…or dragged. Dust tracks and scrapes on the floor said the latter. Still, Kerri checked their labels. Sparkes, both read, in neat block handwriting.
She slid the smaller blue trunk onto the floor. It was unlocked and heavy. Mostly books, she saw, pulling up the lid. A depressing sight of ruined Chekhov to “Caring for Baby” smeared with fingerprint dust, plus framed photos and summer clothes. Rachel would deal with them later.
Kerri closed that trunk. The boiler behind her suddenly boomed on with a huge whoosh. “God!” she jumped.
Work faster. Her heart started thudding.
The black trunk was also unlocked. Joy, right on top was a child’s red winter jacket. Kerri crouched and bundled it into the duffel. Next came two child-size sweaters, a little boy’s jeans, larger-size jeans, and a woman’s sneakers and jacket. The duffel was almost full. Kerri squeezed in Charlie’s underwear, socks rolled into neat little balls, and new-looking red sneakers.
Done. She leaned back on her heels and realized she was sweating. Tension, or the nearness to the boiler? At least it finished its thundering, and switched off. The room plunged back into silence.
The duffel was now heavy. She carried it about ten feet, feeling more sweat spring to her brow and torso. She pulled off her jacket, switched her phone to her pants pocket, and resumed carrying.
Then stopped.
Heard again a thud, a footfall whisper somewhere.
Imagination, she scolded herself but hurried, feeling a rising urge to get out of there. She was ready to draw her gun at shadows.
Then another feeling pulled. In her haste she’d pushed down Gina’s mention that somewhere down here Frank had
a hidden room. A former place to see his women - now maybe to hide in…
Where? Those sounds she heard – had he been behind his door the whole time she was here? He’d started out drunk, was now maybe sober. He could have brought in food and more the night before the stakeout…
A controlling impulse took over.
Kerri turned. Swept her light across the three once-whitewashed brick walls. One door on the far side was ajar, propped open by a wide broom. Next to it was another door, closed, painted fading white and too obvious. Then came a brick passageway leading off…but Kerri’s gaze went back to the boiler. Junk shelves, Gina had said. Behind the boiler with a door built in, you can’t see it.
Her light swept unpainted, upright struts with shallow, unpainted shelves built into them. Small junk of every description crammed them – wire, shingles, jars of nails – and there, on the right and built in, a door of the same color wood with a knob painted brown. Practically invisible behind drooping, castoff curtains.
Complete silence from there now.
It had to be empty. Gina sober would be too likely to describe it to the police.
So be still, heart. It was probably just another storage room, with a mattress for Frank’s infrequent couplings which had seen their last. Pretty dismal. Most paid women weren’t too picky.
But Kerri wanted to see it.
She dropped the duffel, kept her hand near her gun and headed that way.
66
She opened the door a crack. Inside on the right, dimly lit by a shaft from a sidewalk-level half-window, stretched towers of old paint cans, bricks, stacked drywall sheets, and shelves of castoff debris: curtain rods, extension cords, lamp shades.
She waited, holding her breath, feeling her heart knock. No sound, no one jumped out at her.
She opened the door further and reached in, feeling for a light switch. She found none and flicked her police light back on. On the wall directly across, her beam found another old refrigerator, a tall, decrepit armoire, and a table. On the table was a small lamp. Next to it was a metal-frame bed, thin mattress, rumpled blanket. One of the table’s wobbly legs was propped up by bricks.
And the lamp was on, casting faint light on the cracked cement floor. It was battery-operated. No wires stretched from it.
Movement sounded behind. Kerri wheeled.
“Hi.”
Gina stood there, looking hung over. She was pallid, oily-haired, makeup-free in barely zipped jeans and a brown hoody, mostly open.
“Er, hi.” Kerri’s heart clenched. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Saw you come.” Gina gave a miserable little laugh. “Only good thing about old buildings is, the windows open. Cold air helped. I’d been laying my head on the sill.”
Memory filled in the layout of Gina’s apartment. Her bedroom was in the rear. “So…you must have been in the front room.”
“’Cause I could. Daddy Dearest never came home. Why would he, even without those cops around the house. I saw you cross the street.” Gina reached behind her to flick on a dim overhead light. Surprise: its switch was on the outside. Kerri had felt around there, too, but an old cabinet had been pushed next to the door. That meant the switch was behind the cabinet.
Gina turned, glanced droopily back to the boiler room. “Why the duffel?”
“Rachel’s things.”
A saddened shrug. “She’s really leaving.” The weak overhead and small battery lamp still left the room in shadows.
“You knew that,” Kerri said stiffly. “It’s too upsetting here.”
“Upsetting for me too…” Gina’s eyes rounded and filled. A tear glistened down her cheek. “God, everyone and everything’s left me. I lost my job too.”
“I’m sorry. Gina, why is that lamp on?”
“I was here. Thinking he might be here sleeping it off and I’d tell you. Be a hero.”
“Provided he didn’t kill you. Why didn’t you use the overhead?”
“Didn’t want to wake him. Just tiptoed across in the dark, turned the lamp on when I didn’t hear any breathing.” Her pallid face twisted, looked older. “I’m so out of it. Forgot to turn it off.”
She was still standing behind Kerri in the doorway, blocking her exit. It was more than awkward…
Wiping her wet cheek, Gina peered over Kerri’s shoulder into the room. “So you found this place.”
“You described it, made it easy.” Kerri stepped further into the room; quick-glanced up at the sidewalk-level window with her hand near her gun. “Gina, that bed looks recently slept in. Why didn’t you tell other police? Call the station, tell those stakeout guys you’ve been watching?”
The oily hair shook, fell over an eye. “’Cause he wasn’t here. I looked, stumbled back up and passed out again on the window sill.” A tragic smile. “I opened my eyes and you were crossing the street. Made me feel safe.”
Gina moved in and shut the door. “I still need to snoop. There’s something in here, I’m sure of it,” she said in a soft, excited voice, suddenly less droopy as she crossed to the room’s darker side. “I saw him carry his address book down once. It may help you find where he’s hiding-”
“You looked first, knowing Frank was dangerous?”
“His kind of drunk would be a six month hangover. He practically couldn’t walk when he stormed out. The address book - ah, I’ll bet he put it here.”
She reached the armoire and opened one of its two vertical doors. Inside, shelves piled with clothes. She rummaged, flung scarves and sequined sweaters onto the lamp; covered, too, a small dark stain Kerri had just noticed below the armoire.
“Those clothes are yours, aren’t they, Gina? Was it really Frank who used this room?”
“Moths!” she cried. “Damn moths!”
Kerri turned the door knob that glinted new on this side.
It wouldn’t open.
She looked at Gina, who spun back to her. The stolen black wig was askew on her head, and she was aiming a gun.
“Surprise,” she crowed. “Like my nice long hair?”
67
Another faint light glowed, thirty blocks away.
Mommy was asleep, with just her night light glowing. Charlie lay on his mattress behind his blanket in his fort, the pale glint from Mommy’s phone on his face as he flicked through photos. They made him happy. The zoo, the playground, the kitty he’d found and begged to take home. Sweet kitty. Mommy said she was allergic, but other people in the playground took it for their little girl. On Mommy’s phone the little girl’s daddy took a picture of her hugging the kitty, who was happy to be safe.
Charlie’s fingertip touched the kitty’s face. He could almost feel her soft warm fur. Maybe someday he could have a pet? Then, on the photo, he touched his own face, and his favorite dark blue Yankees T-shirt he’d outgrown. He looked so small in that picture. A really little kid, maybe four.
His fingers scrolled again. The phone’s screen glowed.
There was Nikki and her dogs…and the nice policeman who stopped to pat them. Another picture showed Mommy lighting the candles of his birthday cake surrounded by his school friends and people from the building, all of them beaming and singing as he sat grinning like a thrilled Halloween pumpkin. His thumb and index finger swiped: the cake in close-up had blue icing with big red balloons, and its little candles glowed. He brought the phone closer, lost in their light.
He sighed, and swiped back to the group picture. Mommy looked so happy.
Then he raised his blanket and peeked at her. She lay on her back, the blankets up to her chin, a curl of brown hair pressed to her cheek. She looked like a child herself, or the high school girl who had once babysat for him. But her face was calm. He was so glad she was resting, not crying.
He dropped his blanket again, went back to the phone, and scrolled more.
There was Mommy hugging him outside a market with red flowers. Who had taken that picture? Mommy sometimes got a little sad because she was the one taking the pictures,
not in them, but she’d give her phone to others, ask them to…
Oh.
It was Lauren who took that picture. Charlie went cold. He scrolled and there she was in the next photo, kneeling and smiling and hugging him next to the same red flowers.
His lower lip quivered. Lauren had been, after Mommy, the nicest person in the world. He shut his eyes tight, trying not to see Lauren like he’d last seen her, blood on her chest next to Mommy bleeding too-
No! Don’t go there, don’t, don’t…
The scene came hurtling back. He’d tried so hard not to let it, but it was back, all of it and that man, grabbing him up crying and screaming, pulling him away from Mommy, hurting him…
He saw the black hoody again, the black ski mask. His whole body started to shake. He saw his small frantic hands, too weak hitting and pulling at the mask, scratching, seeing…
It came to him, like the loudest, most terrifying thunder crash.
Couldn’t be.
He put the phone down and covered his eyes with his hands. His head hurt and his heart thrashed and flailed wildly like a scared little bird dying…
Don’t wake Mommy, don’t wake Mommy. He was a hero, right? Kerri said so. Heroes don’t cry and scream like babies. Do something, do something!
Shaking, his fingers grabbed the phone again and scrolled back, back, to a face he’d just seen at his birthday party, grinning and patting him, singing with the others…
He found it.
Should he tell that new policeman, Lennie, out in the hall? No! He’d have to call others who’d have to call-
With a wild, jerking motion Charlie twisted for his own phone. The kid’s phone Kerri gave him lying next to his pillow. He clutched it; his hand shook so badly that it flew away, hit the floor with a ping! and skittered under Mommy’s bed. Nooo! Don’t break!
On his tummy he scrambled out and under the bed, almost convulsively grabbed it again and found Kerri’s SOS button. Cops were up late, weren’t they? He had to tell.
His index finger shook wildly as he pressed. The connection took the longest second in the world.
Shoeless Child Page 21
