‘What happened? Line of duty?’
She shook her head. ‘Eric killed himself. Took his gun and put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.’
‘Hell, I’m sorry.’
She shrugged. ‘Yeah. Me too.’ She shrugged again. ‘I met Eric through Andy. Andy was partnered with me when he first moved to homicide. He introduced me to Eric one night in a bar after work.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Andy always said it was the biggest mistake he ever made.’
‘In what way?’
‘You’re going to make me spell it out? Andy always wished he’d asked me out first. But Eric beat him to the punch and Andy was too good a guy to do anything after that.’
‘You okay to talk about it?’
‘Why?’
‘Just wondered why he’d kill himself, that’s all. I dealt with a few suicides during my time with the Met.’
‘You said you were a negotiator.’
‘In the UK negotiators deal with any person whose in a crisis. Hostage negotiation is a very small part of it, generally it’s domestic disputes or people who want to hurt themselves.’
‘Eric didn’t want to hurt himself. He wanted to die, period.’
‘Did he leave a note?’
She shook her head. ‘He just sat down, drank half a bottle of bourbon, stuck his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I found the body. No note, no nothing.’
‘And he never said anything?’
‘What, like “honey I’m going to blow my head off, catch you later?” No, he never said anything. Not a word.’
‘Genuine suicides often don’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘The ones that talk about it are generally the ones that don’t do it. Did he have money problems?’
‘No more than any other cops. He played poker for a while, mainly on-line, and he ran up a few grand on his credit card, but he came to his senses and stopped.’ She sipped her drink. ‘He had flashbacks, to what he saw in Iraq. Night sweats sometimes. I’d wake up and the sheets would be soaked, and he’d be mumbling to himself. But I never imagined he was so troubled that he’d…’ She shuddered.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t keep saying that,’ she said.
Nightingale nodded. ‘Okay.’
She picked up her muffin, held it to her mouth, then seemed to change her mind and put it back on the plate. ‘You dealt with many suicides?’
‘Not many. If by suicide you mean someone who actually went through with it. As a general rule, if they hang around long enough for the negotiators to arrive, then they’re not really committed.’
‘But some died in front of you?’
‘A few.’
‘Why would they do it?”
‘Kill themselves, or kill themselves while someone is watching?’
‘Both.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘People kill themselves because they’re in pain and they think that ending their lives will end their pain. As a negotiator, your job is to point out the alternatives. To show them that life is worth living. That their life is worth living. Sometimes you can’t convince them. Sometimes there are no arguments. Then they do it. And they do it with someone watching because they’re scared of dying alone, I guess.’
Perez sipped her coffee. ‘Eric made sure I was at work when he did it.’
‘He’d decided to go through with it and didn’t want you to try to stop him.’
‘I just wish I knew why. We were planning to have a baby. We’d talked about it. And then he just…’ She gritted her teeth. ‘It makes me so fucking angry sometimes. How the fuck could he do that to me? If he’d just left a note, if he’d just told me why he did it. It’s the not knowing that hurts, you know?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I know.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Yeah.’ He raised his mug. ‘Cheers.’
She forced a smile. ‘Cheers,’ she said, and clinked her mug against his.
‘Are you up for taking me to see the girl’s parents?’ he asked.
‘What on earth for? Can you imagine what they’re going through?’
‘I don’t buy that this was a stranger killing. I’m pretty sure that Kate knew her killer. She probably even took him to the apartment.’
‘Like Andy said, there’s nothing to suggest that.’
‘No evidence, no. But she had the key, so she must have taken that from her dad. That must have been planned. She removed her clothes. If she was expecting violence she’d probably have resisted at that point and the killer would have cut her then. There was no blood on the clothes so she removed them before the attack.’
‘The killer could have forced her to do that.’
‘Could have, would have, should have,’ said Nightingale. ‘What’s more likely, then? She decided to visit one of her father’s properties on her own? For what? There was no furniture there, no TV to watch, why would she bother?’
‘Right back at you if she knew her attacker,’ she said. ‘Suppose it was a new boyfriend. Why choose an apartment with no furniture? Wouldn’t she have taken any boyfriend to a place with a bed at least?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe she didn’t know there wasn’t any furniture. Or maybe she didn’t care.’
‘You’re suggesting she took someone there, someone who then killed her. How could she make an error like that? If what you’re suggesting is right, it had to be someone she knew well, someone she trusted. How could she make a call so wrong that she ended up dead?’
‘I don’t know, Cheryl. I was hoping that her parents might have the answers.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling me everything, Jack?’
He flashed her his most innocent smile. ‘I don’t know much, to be honest.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘What were you looking for? On the floor? You bent down a couple of times to check out the floorboards.’
‘Anything. Something the cops might have missed.’
‘And did you see anything?’
‘Nothing useful,’ he said. He figured better not to tell her that he’d seen black candle wax on the floorboards, and traces of chalk. Someone had done a pretty good job of cleaning up after themselves, but he was fairly sure someone had constructed a magic circle in the apartment, and that the girl had been in the centre of it when she had died. Nightingale guessed that the magic circle was the reason Kate had been in the unfurnished flat. But what he didn’t know was whether it had been Kate, or her killer, who had drawn the pentagram and lit the candles.
Perez continued to stare at him for several seconds, then she nodded. ‘I’ll see if I can arrange something.’
CHAPTER 9
Dee-anne looked at the photograph and wrinkled her nose. Too young. She was looking for someone in their forties, at least. Someone with their own place. She flicked the picture to the left and another face appeared. She chuckled to herself. Too damn ugly. She flicked left. A pale-faced guy with long blonde hair. Too girlish. She flicked left. The next picture on her phone was in his fifties, wearing a suit and tie. His name was Nate. She flicked the picture to the right and smiled when she saw that he was a match. He already liked her. Cool. The next picture was a man also in his fifties but repulsively fat and Dee-anne shuddered. Even for what she was after she had standards. Reject. The next five Tinder profiles were all of teenagers, on skateboards, throwing gangster signs and generally being idiots. Reject, reject, reject, reject, reject. And still they kept coming, profile after profile. Dee-anne was sitting in a Starbucks on Broadway, south of Central Park, with a double espresso in front of her. It was her third. She had been in the coffee shop for the best part of an hour and had scanned hundreds of photographs on Tinder. Most of them had been rejections. More than a dozen of the one’s she’d accepted had been in touch already. Usually it started with a short message. ‘Hey.’ Or ‘How are you doing?’
Dee-anne’s reply was always the same. ‘I’m horny now. Where are you?’ She had posted six photographs. None of them were actually he
r – she had used photographs she’d taken off the internet of a girl who was a close match to her own looks – olive skin, dark brown eyes, full lips, shoulder-length curly chestnut hair. The girl in the photographs had longer legs and fuller breasts and was happy to show them off. Three of the pictures she’d downloaded had been bikini shots.
Most of the contacts wanted to arrange a meeting much later that evening. Dee-anne would send them a single text – WHAT PART OF NOW DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? – and then delete them. One guy was available now but was in New Jersey and she didn’t want to leave Manhattan. Another suggested meeting in a motel but she wanted it to happen in their home so he was rejected, too.
She left-flicked another six photos in quick succession. Too old. Too cheap. Too fat. Too ugly. Too young. Too short. Number seven was perfect. Forty-eight he said but looked ten years older. Tall, greying hair, wearing a blazer and a red and white striped tie. She accepted him and rejected three more.
Her phone beeped as she received a message. CUTE PICTURES. It was Nate. She sent him a text back. I’M HORNY NOW. WHERE ARE YOU?
WEST 52ND STREET.
YOU STAY ALONE?
SURE. YOU WANT TO COME ROUND?
SEND ME YOUR ADDRESS.
Less than a minute later his address arrived. Then another message. I WILL FUCK YOU SO HARD YOU WILL SCREAM.
Dee-anne smiled and sipped her coffee before texting him back. LET’S SEE WHO SCREAMS LOUDEST. She added a smiley face. She put her phone away, finished her coffee, and went off in search of a taxi.
CHAPTER 10
The yellow cab driver was from Sierra Leone originally and during the drive he told Dee-anne how his family had been hacked to death by teenagers with machetes and that he had been lucky to escape with his life. Dee-anne had listened to the man’s story and had nodded and made encouraging noises at the right places but there was something definitely off about what the man was saying. It sounded too rehearsed as if he’d gone over it time and time again to make sure it had the ring of authenticity. Her fingers touched his as she handed over the fare and she instantly knew the truth. The man had been one of the attackers, he had killed and mutilated hundreds of men, women and children and had used the money he had stolen from his victims to pay for his passage to the United States.
‘I know what you did, Emmanuel,’ she said as she took her change. ‘You should keep up the good work here in America, Get yourself a big knife and have some fun.’
His mouth opened and he nodded slowly. ‘I will, mistress’ he said.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ said Dee-anne. She climbed out of the taxi and slammed the door. Dee-anne had told the taxi to stop a block away from where Nate lived and she walked the rest of the way. It was a modern block of condominiums with a glass-fronted reception area. There was a door entry system that meant she had to tap in the number of the condo and the hash key. There was no CCTV covering the door but there was a small black lens staring down at her above the keypad.
‘Hello,’ said a voice.
‘Nate?’
‘Dee-anne?’
‘Sure.’
‘Come on up. Fourth floor.’
The door buzzed and she pushed it open. There was a CCTV camera covering the elevator lobby but it was a simple matter to keep her face turned away as she stepped into the nearest one. She looked down at the floor as she pressed the button. There were another two cameras covering the hallway on the fourth floor, one left and one right. She kept her head down as she walked towards Nate’s apartment. She pressed the doorbell with the knuckle of her index finger. The door opened and Nate smiled at her. His face was a bit more wrinkled than his Tinder picture and she figured he had probably Photoshopped it. Or more likely paid someone to Photoshop it for him. He didn’t look computer savvy. ‘Welcome,’ he said, and held the door open. She stepped inside. Music was playing. Something classical. ‘Can I take your coat?’
‘Thank you.’ She took off her coat and he took it from her. She walked down a narrow hallway which opened out into a large sitting room. The blinds were drawn and the lights had been turned down and there was an ice bucket with a bottle of wine in it and two glasses on the coffee table. There were also two bowls, one with olives, the other containing nachos.
‘Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable,’ said Nate.
There was a low grey sofa and two matching armchairs with black cushions. She sat on the sofa and he joined her. He was wearing grey trousers that looked as if they belonged to a suit and a white shirt with large gold cufflinks in the shape of mini golfballs. There was a smear of shaving foam under his left ear.
‘Tinder’s fun, isn’t it?’ he asked, pouring her glass of wine.
‘It certainly speeds things up,’ said Dee-anne. ‘But you have to go through an awful lot of chaff.’
‘Chaff?’
‘Chaff. As in separating wheat from.’ She took the glass from him and raised it in salute. ‘Or in other words, you have to work your way through a hell of a lot of frogs to find a prince.’
‘Is that what I am?’ he asked. ‘A prince?’
‘We’ll see,’ she said, and they clinked glasses.
‘Your profile says you’re twenty-one,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘You look younger.’
‘That’s good to know.’ She giggled and sipped her wine. ‘I love your condo.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And you live alone?’
‘I’m divorced. The children flew the nest years ago, so, yes…’ He sipped his wine. ‘You really don’t look twenty-one,’ he said. ‘My youngest boy is twenty-two and you look much younger than him.’
‘I’ve always looked young for my age,’ she said. ‘Does that worry you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Do you want me to call you daddy while you’re fucking me?’
He looked startled, then slowly smiled. ‘Maybe.’
She sipped her wine. ‘I do worry about the screaming,’ she said.
‘The what?’
‘The screaming. Your text. You said you’d make me scream.’
‘It was a joke.’
‘But what about the neighbours? What if there’s a lot of noise.’
Nate chuckled. ‘Mrs Gonzales below me is as deaf as a post. The guy above me is a divorced dentist and he’s out at work all day. I never hear the guy who lives next door, I don’t think he’s home much. Plus the soundproofing is as good as it gets.’
‘So you can play your music as loud as you want?’
‘Sure,’ he said. He stood up and went over to a Bang and Olufsen sound system. ‘What do you like?’
‘You choose,’ she said.
‘I’m a jazz fan.’
‘Jazz is cool.’
‘You like jazz?’
‘I didn’t say I like it. I said it’s cool. Rock would also be cool.’
There were several shelves of LPs on the wall above the sound system. He went over and ran fingers along the covers. ‘I’ve got Springsteen. The Stones. U2.’
‘I hate U2,’ she said. ‘That Bono, how pretentious is he? An audience with the Pope, what was that about?’
Nate laughed. ‘No U2, then.’ He pulled out an album. ‘Linkin Park?’
‘Sure.’
He opened the Perspex cover of his record player and took the vinyl disc from its sleeve. Dee-anne smiled to herself as she saw how his hands were shaking. She figured that Nate didn’t get too many pretty young girls in his condo. From the look of it he’d Photoshopped out his gut, too. Not that it mattered. Looks weren’t that important. Soundproofing, and no witnesses, that was what mattered. He put the record on the turntable and a few seconds later music filled the condo. He came back and sat on the sofa again, closer to her this time. He smiled and she smelled toothpaste on his breath. He ran his fingers through her hair. ‘How old are you?’ he asked. ‘Tell me the truth. I’m going to fuck you anyway.’
‘Even if I’m under age?’ His jaw dropped and
she laughed at his reaction. She ran her hand down his chest and played with the buckle of his belt. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not.’
He kissed her on her the lips and she tasted something sour, underneath the mint of the toothpaste. ‘So tell me,’ he said, pulling away. ‘How old are you?’
Her hand slipped between his legs and she smiled at how easily he got hard. She figured he’d probably taken a Viagra tablet or two in anticipation of her arrival. ‘I’m a lot older than you think, Nate,’ she said. ‘A lot older.’ She gave him a soft squeeze and he gasped.
‘How old?’ he asked.
She grinned at him. ‘I’ve been around since the beginning of time, pretty much,’ she said.
He frowned, confused. ‘I don’t understand.’
She squeezed his testicles hard and he yelped. His erection vanished. She grinned at his discomfort and squeezed again.
‘What the fuck!’ he shouted and pushed himself away. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘I wanted to hear you scream,’ she said quietly. She sipped her wine.
He stood up and pointed at the door. ‘Get the fuck out!’ he shouted.
‘Make me,’ she said.
He frowned. ‘What?’
‘Make me,’ she repeated. ‘You’re a big strong man and I’m a poor weak defenceless girl. Make me.’
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
Dee-anne shrugged and took another sip of wine.
Nate jabbed his finger at the door. ‘Get the fuck out or I’ll call the police!’
She smiled sweetly at him. ‘And tell them what exactly, Nate? That you’ve got an underage girl in your apartment and you’re plying her with wine.’ She raised her glass.
‘You said you were twenty-one.’
‘I lied.’
His eyes widened and he looked flustered, then he pulled out his wallet. ‘Look, if it’s money you want, I’ll pay you to go…’ He took out a handful of banknotes and offered them to her. She ignored the money and her smile widened. Eventually he dropped the bills on the coffee table next to the ice bucket. ‘Just take it and go,’ he said.
New York Night Page 4
