by Unknown
The two police officers recognized the importance of the moment. They’d just discovered how, when and roughly where Cristina Barbuggiani had spent the last moments of her life before meeting her killer. It was a breakthrough that would allow them to filter their witness statements and start seriously focusing their enquiry on anyone seen within a short radius of Cristina’s apartment on the night of the ninth.
Only one thing still preyed on Orsetta’s mind as she left the landlord to lock up – Jack King. And if Jack himself wouldn’t help her uncover the link between him and Cristina’s killer, then maybe a visit to his wife would.
74
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
Terry McLeod took his equipment back to his hotel room and packed his suitcase. If his face-to-face with Nancy King went badly, then she’d no doubt have him thrown out of the hotel within the hour.
He checked the bathroom, wardrobes and bedside cabinets to make sure he hadn’t left anything important behind, then locked his case and put it down by the door.
The veteran photo-journalist knew his main strength was his pictures rather than his editorials, so he took time to rehearse his questions before setting off again in search of Mrs King. He decided he would start by pretending he was doing a feature on hotels and restaurants for a new magazine and that, like the Michelin Guide inspectors, he had to keep his identity secret until after he’d tested the cooking and hotel facilities. He’d promise her a page, or maybe two, of free publicity, and then he’d say he just needed some background details on the family, stuff such as: when had they moved in, what had they needed to do to the place to make it into what it was today, how was life in Italy? All that non-controversial stuff. After that he’d get down to the nitty-gritty: where was her husband at the moment, what exactly was he helping the Italian police with, was he now officially back with the FBI or was he working on his own as a consultant? And, of course, how were things between the two of them?
McLeod checked that the micro-cassette in his pocket dictaphone was fully rewound and tucked it up his sleeve, so he could secretly record everything she said.
Sunday lunch had been incredibly busy and Nancy was enjoying a well earned rest in the cool shade of the patio, when she dozed off for five minutes. She woke with a start, and immediately looked around for Zack. When she’d shut her eyes, he’d been playing happily on his trike.
‘Zack, where are you, sweetheart?’ she called, as she trekked across the garden. She was in no mood for hide-and-seek. She’d played it a dozen times already and she’d promised Paolo she would review the Specials menu for tonight, while he and Gio made a quick trip into Pienza.
‘Come on, sweetheart, Mommy’s very busy. Let’s go inside and get some chocolate.’ Bribery usually worked. But this time Zack was obviously standing his ground and making her hunt some more. The handle on the kitchen door was too high for him to reach, so she knew that he had to be in the garden somewhere.
She searched among the apple, orange and peach trees, looking for evidence of his red sandals hiding behind some trunk or other. But she could see nothing. If he was lying down in the vegetable garden, she was going to be cross. He’d been told about that before. And if he was sitting in the herbs, stuffing them in his mouth again, then there really would be trouble.
Nancy strode over to the areas she’d told her son were out of bounds and shouted sternly, ‘Zack! Come out right now.’
There was no answer.
‘The game’s over now, Zack; come on, please.’
Nancy’s maternal instinct prickled. Her eyes darted around the gardens, across the pathways, among the trees.
No Zack.
And then she saw it.
At the edge of the terrace, where the ground had collapsed and where Vincenzo the landscaper had moved the temporary fencing to survey the subsidence, there was Zack’s overturned trike.
75
FBI Field Office, Brooklyn, New York
Jack and Howie cleared an office of furniture and spread a variety of maps on the floor. They had everything from military maps to Brooklyn bus and cycle routes and there wasn’t room enough or time enough to pin them to the walls. They both agreed that they had to take chances. There was no way they could canvas all of Brooklyn, so they had to send out teams to highly prioritized areas.
Jack’s eyes ran down the Westside. Hunters Point – down where the ferries ran to Manhattan – this was a place that would have old isolated housing. Coming north down the East River – Williamsburg, near the Bridge area looked promising. Fulton Ferry and Brooklyn Heights – they were good too.
Howie was making similar choices: Prospect Park, out near the zoo – that offered ample opportunities. ‘What about Greenwood Cemetery, close to the 278, lots of residential nearby – Perfect for getting rid of his leftovers too?’
‘That’s a good one,’ said Jack, ‘put it towards the top of the list.’
‘And maybe Dyker Heights around 72nd Street, it’s residential but isolated out there,’ added Howie, circling the areas with black markers.
Jack looked down at his map, focusing on Brighton Beach, zooming in on Beach Avenue where he’d just been. He now visualized the area as if he were in a helicopter flying over it. He could see the cars crawling down the shopping streets looking for somewhere to pull in and park. SUVs were heading up to the sands. A marching army of ant-like office workers moved out towards Manhattan. Day-trippers with sandwiches, soft drinks and excited kids migrated to Coney Island. And then, his earlier thoughts tumbled back to him: a street girl would never have agreed to drive a long distance with a stranger. The killer would not have wanted her in his car any longer than necessary. It couldn’t be far from there.
Jack’s eyes moved east on the map. A patch of isolated green caught his attention. He slid a fingertip along Belt Parkway; just four junctions away was the exit to Brooklyn Marine Park and the residential settlement of Gerritsen. Flatbush Avenue ran northwards from the other side of Marine Park, a straight road all the way down to Brooklyn Bridge. ‘Come here and look at this,’ he said.
Howie was still on his knees and stumped his way over to him.
‘Look at Marine Park,’ said Jack, jabbing a finger at the map. ‘It’s ideal. Flatbush and the Belt give fast exit routes. It’s pretty isolated and JFK is just down the road. What’s more, the Beach is less than ten minutes away and then you have the huge cover of Little Odessa in front of you. The guy is about as screened as you can get.’
Howie felt his mouth turn dry with excitement. ‘Still a friggin’ lot of homes to search, though.’
Jack stood up to stretch his legs. Blood pumped to his head and a burst of white-hot pain scorched through his temples.
‘You okay?’ said Howie, frowning up at him.
‘Sure. Just stood up too quickly,’ lied Jack. He looked down on the mess of maps and added, ‘We’ve got to go for the more isolated houses, the ones with big garages, doubles not singles. He’ll have picked a street that he can get away from quickly and that he can have good surveillance from, so he won’t be in the heart of the estates, he’ll be on an outer wing.’
‘We’ll pull together the sweep teams, right now. I’ll brief them right after we’re done.’
Jack was worried about that. Filling the area with squad cars or even Crown Vics could spook the perp. ‘They’re going to have to be careful. We know he’s got cameras in the house, so he sure as hell is going to have them outside too. If he’s in there, he’ll probably see us coming.’
Howie climbed to his feet, his knees cracking. ‘Do you think he owns the property or rents it?’
‘Good point. This guy has to be forty-plus so let’s do voting register and housing searches on people thirty-five or over. Get someone to sift mortgage and bank accounts too, focusing on that demographic. He’s certain to be using a false identity and showing himself younger or older than he actually is.’
‘And renting?’ asked Howie.
‘Unlikely,’ sai
d Jack ‘He’d never want to risk a landlord coming in and finding all his toys.’
Howie wasn’t sure it was as simple as that. ‘I just don’t see him doing this kind of whacko stuff in his own crib. Like you always say, this guy is cautious. Surely he wants to make sure he’s able to leave at a moment’s notice and that, if the house gets busted, it cannot lead to him?’
Another explosion went off in Jack’s head, but this time he poker-faced the pain. Concentrate, he told himself, get your shit together, there’s time to rest up later, just get your head in gear.
Howie fiddled with some maps and it gave Jack the breather he needed. ‘You’re right. Of course you’re right,’ said Jack. ‘Get a team on to the letting agencies. I’m willing to bet that he does own this house, but what he has done is put it in the hands of a letting agent and leased it back to himself under a false identity. In other words, he’s both landlord and tenant.’
‘He probably used a false name even when he approached the agent, purporting to be the owner,’ said Howie.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Jack, feeling his eye twitch again. ‘Letting the house back to himself is a really clever trick. The first thing it does is generate false paperwork. From false tenancy agreements and household bills you can set up bank accounts, apply for credit cards and start to build up a series of false identities for yourself.’
‘I’m on to it,’ said Howie, heading off for a phone.
‘Another thing,’ called Jack. ‘You’ll also probably find the tenancy has changed names a few times. Those name changes will roughly coincide with the dates of our victims’ deaths. He’ll shed an old identity, and adopt an entirely new one, after each of our known murders.’
‘Back in a minute,’ said Howie, leaving the room to brief Fernandez.
Jack was glad to be alone.
He felt himself break into an oily sweat. The strength in his legs seemed to run into a puddle around his feet and his vision blurred.
Breathe slow, breathe deep, he told himself, and then grabbed for a chair just before a tide of blackness and nausea washed over him.
76
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
Nancy ran to the edge of the terrace where Zack’s trike lay abandoned and the garden fell away by more than twelve feet.
She could see nothing.
Panic set in.
Without even thinking about her own safety, she scrambled down the loose soil and into the deep crater. Surely to God he hadn’t come down here on his own? And then she remembered how she’d once found him dancing on top of her dressing table after she’d left him in the bedroom for just a moment while she went to the toilet in the en-suite bathroom.
With three-year-olds, anything was possible.
‘Zack! Zack, are you down here, honey?’ she shouted.
Nancy peered into the darkness of the old workings that they’d discovered beneath the garden, the narrow opening to the cave-like area that she had hoped might contain an underground well or spa, the area she now hoped was shallow and bereft of anything that might endanger her son.
‘Zack!’ she shouted again.
Nancy squeezed her way into the narrow opening. She squinted and stared as hard as she could.
Finally, in the fetid darkness, she could see him. She could just distinguish the outline of her child’s face.
He looked terrified.
She moved slowly towards him. ‘It’s all right, darling, Mommy’s here,’ she said. But, as she inched forward, the blood froze in her veins.
Zack’s hands were bound in front of him. Around his neck was a noose.
77
Brooklyn, New York
By the time Howie returned, Jack had managed something of a recovery.
‘You look white as a sheet, buddy, you okay?’ asked Howie.
‘Maybe a bit too warm in here, place lacks fresh air,’ said Jack, keen to brush away the moment and get on with things. ‘You got some keys for me?’
Howie fished in his jacket and threw over his car keys. ‘Take it easy, eh?’
Jack nodded and headed out to the parking lot.
The clock was ticking.
They both knew they were in a critical race against time, in which the prize was a young woman’s life.
Forty-eight hours max – that’s what the doctor who’d seen the tapes had said that she had.
Just forty-eight hours.
Jack had no status in the Bureau any more, no shield and no gun; Howie would have to pull together the briefings and assemble the teams on his own. He would be updating Marsh, and they’d be making a call to the NYPD to bring their top brass up to speed. They in turn would assign officers from the ESU, their equivalent of a SWAT team, and ultimately there’d be an FBI-led joint Strike Team. Jack had also suggested bringing in Josh Benson and Lou Chester, two instructors who ran Rodman’s Neck, the force’s specialist training base in the Bronx. Chester was about the best sniper in the world and Benson ran the most gruelling of urban-training scenarios; when it came to storming buildings and saving hostages he didn’t just have the T-shirt, he was the T-shirt. Officers would be canvassing all the areas that Jack and Howie had pinpointed as likely to afford BRK the kind of cover he needed. Jack, meanwhile, was on his way to Marine Park. It was a vast area that lay between Mill Basin and Gerritsen Beach, straddling NYPD’s 61st and 63rd Precincts, and was pretty low on the crime stats. The place had originally been a Dutch settlement and was home to the first tidal mill in America. Since then, the huge tract of marshland, parkland, bog, swamp and agricultural fields had been shaped beyond recognition. The area had also become home for many of New York’s Italians and Jews, who lived in housing that had been mainly built sixty or seventy years ago.
Jack headed north up Gerritsen, cruising around the corners of Cyrus, Florence and Channel. At the bottom he turned right on to Fillmore and snaked his way around East 33rd and 34th. He lost his way a little and found himself out towards the Kings Plaza Shopping Mall. He cursed a couple of times and then doubled back and went up and down Hendrickson and Coleman from where he could see golf carts trundling over the velvet greens of Marine Park’s vast golf course. Jack was frustrated. He got out of the car and looked around. Despite the warmth of the day a strong breeze blew in from somewhere out towards Jamaica Bay, and he hoped the fresh air would do him good, would prevent that nauseous feeling creeping up on him again.
The area was civilized and decent, respectable and well groomed. It wasn’t rolling in money, but it certainly wasn’t dog-rough poor either. In short, it was the kind of neighbourhood where people minded their own business and kept themselves to themselves. He’s not here, thought Jack, it’s too open, too many houses, and too many windows to be seen from.
Jack’s mind swam with thoughts; images of the naked, dying girl, suspended in the blackness of some fearful room – a room surely not far from where he was?
He sat back in the car and made notes, then started to drive back the route he’d come. He was cruising past a whole street of people out manicuring their lawns and washing their cars, when his cell rang. It was Howie.
‘Got a possible for you.’
‘Go on,’ said Jack, pulling over again and grabbing his notepad.
‘Fernandez has been through the letting agencies.’ Nultkins, a very old agency in Brooklyn, has been letting the same place for almost twenty years. The landlord is a single man, and the tenants’ records show he has only ever let it out to other single men. It fits your profile to a T.’
Jack felt a shiver of excitement run through him. ‘I’ve got a pen, shoot me the address.’
78
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
The rope suddenly pulls tight around Zack’s neck, as though it has been thrown over something in the blackness and he is about to be hanged from it.
‘Do as I say or I’ll kill him,’ says the voice of a man she can’t see.
Nancy’s eyes stay locked on her son’s face.
She is st
arting to see better in the darkness, her vision adjusting to the lack of light. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, just please don’t hurt my baby,’ she pleads.
Zack’s face is streaked with dirt because he’s been crying and Nancy can see he is in pain and frightened beyond belief. She desperately wants to run to him and hold him tightly to her.
‘Take two slow steps forward and then turn around so you’re facing towards the daylight,’ Spider tells her. ‘Then put your hands together behind your back.’
Nancy takes one last look at Zack before obeying. She thinks how brave he is, not to be screaming. As she steps forward she’s horrified to see that Zack’s mouth is plastered with thick parcel tape and he’s struggling to breathe.
‘Don’t hurt him, please. Please don’t hurt my baby,’ she begs again.
Spider doesn’t answer. Pleas for help or mercy are things he never hears. He wraps the sticky parcel tape quickly around her wrists and hands, then slips a Stanley knife from his pocket, thumbs out the razor-sharp triangular blade and slices the tape off.
Is this the kind of thing Jack talked about? Is this how rape and murder start? My God, what will happen to my child?
Spider loops his arms around her and stretches tape across her mouth. She instinctively jerks her head away, and the tape ends up stuck half across her nose and half across her mouth. Spider rips the tape away and Nancy screams.
‘Bad Sugar!’ he shouts at her and slaps her face.
Nancy cries out but the tape comes again, smothering her scream. She can barely breathe, and desperately sucks in air through her nose.
Spider uses his knife to slice away the tape. Then he holds her by her bound hands and reaches down in the darkness for something.
Suddenly Nancy feels a stabbing pain in the top of her leg as Spider jams a hypodermic needle deep into the vein and leaves it dangling there. He looks at it as a hunter would proudly savour the sight of the spear that felled his prey.
