Fifth Victim

by Zoe Sharp

‘No! No way! Listen, that wasn’t anything to do with us. You gotta believe me.’ His tone had turned wheedling. I wondered if he knew it did nothing for his cause.

  I squared up to him, glanced at the phone still in my hand, as if in warning. ‘Who’s “us”, exactly?’

  The emotions that crossed his face might have been comical in other circumstances. On the one hand, he wanted desperately to confess to the crimes he saw as his own, but he must have known he was hopelessly compromised if he did.

  ‘I’m not the police,’ I added, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the fact I hadn’t promised not to call them regardless.

  ‘Me and Lennon,’ he said at last, unwillingly convinced.

  ‘So, does that make you McCartney?’

  The Beatles reference was lost on him. He gave me a puzzled frown.

  I sighed. ‘OK, Ross, so you admit you and your pal were behind the attempt on Dina at the riding club—’

  ‘No!’ he said again. ‘We just carried it out, OK? But the brains behind the whole thing? No way.’

  ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’ I murmured. ‘Who was giving you your orders?’

  He flushed at that, but gave me a shrug that seemed as frustrated as it was reflexive.

  ‘Lennon was the one who dealt with them, man. He just used to get text messages. Instructions, directions. That’s how we knew where to find Dina and that she had a bodyguard. Lennon showed me the texts, but I never knew who sent them. He just asked me to help him out, so I did, y’know? We’re buds.’

  I remembered the old saying about a friend is someone who will help you move, but a real friend will help you move a body. Looked like Ross was a real friend …

  ‘Helping out your “bud” probably just earned you life with no possibility of parole,’ I said coldly, going for the phone again.

  ‘Wait!’ he cried, the desperation sending his voice climbing. ‘Look, I’ll tell you everything, but you’ve gotta help me. Lennon asked me to give him a hand to take the other three, sure, and we had a go for the kid you were with – at the riding stables. But it was all, like, play-acting, not for real! Jesus, what d’you take me for?’

  ‘From where I’m standing? A kidnapper and murderer.’

  ‘Murder?’ he demanded, almost a squawk. ‘Hey, I tell you, someone’s trying to frame us for killing the Eisenberg kid.’ He shook his head vigorously, shivered in the mild air. ‘That was nothing to do with me. I never signed on for that.’

  ‘So, where do I find your buddy Lennon?’ I asked, grim. ‘Sounds like he and I really need to talk.’

  ‘That’s just it, man, I don’t know,’ he muttered, sour and defiant in equal measure. ‘You not been listening? Why d’you think I’m here? He’s gone. All I know is he got a message a couple days ago. He went out, saying he’d be back real soon, and how they’d promised him something big, and I ain’t seen him since!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ‘Lennon got me into this whole thing,’ Ross said dully. ‘We were on the same basketball team in college.’

  ‘College kids?’ I murmured. It didn’t quite have the ring of the ghetto about it. ‘So, what went wrong?’

  ‘My dad lost his job, and his medical benefits, so when my mom got sick …’ He gave an expressive twitch of his shoulders. ‘I was bussing tables, parking cars, anything to earn a dime. Only trouble was, I had no time to study. I flunked out. This was like a gift, y’know? Man, I needed that money.’

  ‘Spare me,’ I said shortly. ‘Not everyone who’s having a hard time of it turns to kidnapping to make ends meet.’

  His gaze flashed out, sharp and angry. ‘Yeah? Look around you!’

  We were sitting in a grubby little bar about a mile away from the site of our collision. I’d called the breakdown recovery service Armstrong-Meyer used, given them directions, and told them to collect the wrecked Accord and wait for further instructions.

  Ross left the keys tucked above the sun visor – not that they would do anyone much good. What was left of the car’s engine was proving quietly incontinent on the cracked asphalt, and both front wheels currently sat at odd angles where the whole of the suspension had collapsed.

  Nevertheless, the Navigator had made light work of dragging the carcass to the side of the road. A sturdy tow rope was standard equipment for all Parker’s company vehicles.

  I persuaded Ross into the passenger seat of the Navigator with the promise that, if we talked and I liked what he had to say, I’d lobby Parker – and through him, Brandon Eisenberg – for a good defence attorney and new set of wheels. Preferably something of considerably later vintage than his elderly Honda. Eisenberg would no doubt be willing to pay a substantial reward for information leading to an arrest, not to mention retrieval of the missing Rainbow.

  Ross was desperate enough to grab the lifeline I offered him, so I didn’t have to resort to Plan B, which was to PlastiCuff him and throw him in the back of the SUV.

  Now, we perched on a pair of cracked vinyl stools near the doorway in a small bar on one of the main drags. It had obviously been converted from some kind of store, with big front windows and a long darkening slot leading to the smokers’ haven outside at the back. The bar ran almost the full length of the room and was studded with similar stools. The varnish on the planked floor had been long since scuffed away by the stumble of many beer-clad feet.

  I sat with my back to the wall, where I could watch the doorway and the street, with Ross hunched alongside me. I’d been able to park the Navigator right outside. From this angle, I could admire the damage to the rear bumper and contemplate Bill Rendelson’s ire when he had to submit the insurance claim forms.

  Every cloud …

  The barman had managed to deliver two beers and take the money I offered without uttering a single word. The beer was cold, at least, but it seemed that glasses were not an option. Neither was change. I thought briefly of asking for a receipt for my expenses, but he was already disappearing into a ramshackle storeroom at the back, leaving us with the place to ourselves.

  ‘It didn’t seem like breaking the law – not at first,’ Ross said now, his face intent. ‘It was never supposed to be anything really, y’know, criminal. Lennon said how he’d met these rich kids at a couple of parties. They wanted some kinda big thrill, and being held to ransom was it. Some kinda role-playing thing, I guess. Easy money, he said, for letting them act out their dumb fantasy.’

  ‘Just a game,’ I murmured, recalling Dina making much the same protest.

  ‘First couple of times – those two girls – it was.’ He took a rapid sip of his beer, pulling a face at the taste or the temperature, I wasn’t sure which. I tried mine and probably gave off much the same expression. It wasn’t the most sophisticated brew, but it was effective at stripping the fur off your tongue.

  ‘So,’ I said mildly, ‘what kind of role play was it when you cut off Benedict Benelli’s finger?’

  Ross paled and put his beer down slowly, picking at the edge of the label.

  ‘He did it himself,’ he said at last, shocked and low. ‘You should have seen him – when Lennon told him his folks wouldn’t pay. That they’d laughed at the idea. He went ape-shit, man, screaming and swearing, saying how he was gonna make ’em real sorry for what they done.’ He swallowed. ‘Then he grabbed a knife and just … did it.’

  ‘Just like that?’ I sat for a moment, eyeing him. Was it as totally unbelievable as it seemed? I remembered Benedict’s permanent scowl, Caroline Willner’s statement that his classical music career was more his parents’ choice, and his defiance towards everything, from his friends to his life. It might have started out as a game, but he’d taken it onwards in a big way. ‘What kind of a knife?’

  ‘Kitchen. One of those big mothers with about a nine- or ten-inch blade.’

  ‘How the hell did he just so happen to stumble across a kitchen knife?’

  Ross heard the acidic tilt to my voice. He checked out the dark gloss ceiling, the dirt under his finger
nails, the ingredients’ list on the back of the beer bottle. Anywhere but my face.

  ‘We was in the kitchen,’ he mumbled. ‘We’d been keeping him tied up in the basement, like always. Keeping it real, y’know? Like they wanted.’ He blushed. ‘But after the Benellis said nothing doing, there didn’t seem much point in keeping him down there any longer, huh?’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, still not entirely willing to take his story at face value.

  ‘I threw up,’ he admitted, looking thoroughly ashamed. Hardened criminal, he was not. ‘It wasn’t the blood. Man, it was the noise. Like cutting through chicken bones. Right across the knuckle.’ He gave a shudder and reached for his beer again. ‘Still makes me wanna puke, thinking about it.’

  I had once witnessed someone lose both legs in a marine hydraulic door. Even now, the soggy dull crunch of splintering bone stayed with me, rising up at odd moments. Still, I’d seen worse.

  I’d done worse, for that matter.

  I took a pull of my beer and didn’t wince this time. Either it was mellowing, or I was getting used to it. ‘So, you sent the finger to Benedict’s parents.’

  ‘Lennon did.’ Ross nodded miserably. ‘I never thought anything like that would happen.’

  I recalled a comment Manda Dempsey had made, the night of Torquil’s birthday party – his last birthday party – about her supposed ordeal. About how they’d beaten her and photographed the bruises. ‘Not averse to getting physical with your hostages, though, are you, Ross?’

  ‘Manda, you mean?’ he said bitterly, not needing to be prompted. He shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool. ‘That is one crazy bitch. Lennon said that was all part of it – the fantasy. Some chicks get off on that kinda thing, y’know? And she had a safe-word, for if’n we went too far, but she never used it. I swear!’

  ‘Did Torquil have a safe-word he never used as well? Is that what happened?’

  ‘Look, man, how many more times? I didn’t have nothing to do with the Eisenberg kid! I swear on my mom’s grave, OK?’

  But I heard the doubt and the fear in his voice. He genuinely might not have been involved, I realised, but I was willing to bet that his old school pal was in it up to his ears, and Ross must have known that, too.

  ‘Dina told me she’d changed her mind,’ I said. ‘That true?’

  He nodded. ‘We got that she’d called the whole thing off. I was kinda glad, to be honest.’ His shoulders slumped, and he asked in a small voice, ‘What … um, what happens now?’

  I put my beer down again. It was a good question. By rights, I should have dialled the cops as soon as I recognised Ross for who he was, and let them handle the whole thing from there. But if Lennon had gone into hiding, hauling in his co-conspirator would do little to make him break cover. If anything, it would push him deeper underground.

  Ross was denying that he and Lennon were involved with Torquil Eisenberg’s abduction, but it seemed too much of a coincidence that there should be two gangs of kidnappers preying on the same group of kids. Lennon had recruited Ross, but he’d discovered at the riding club that they’d taken on more than they could handle.

  So, it was entirely possible that Lennon had gone out and recruited somebody else in Ross’s place. Somebody like the man who’d Taser’d Torquil on the beach, and beaten him into delivering his own ransom demand to camera.

  Somebody like the driver of the Dodge, the one who’d coolly and calmly shot me in the chest as I lay helpless under his front wheels. A professional. That was who I wanted, so badly I could taste it.

  ‘What happens next depends entirely on you, Ross. It sounds to me like you’ve been somewhat dragged into this against your better judgement by your mate, Lennon.’ I kept my tone casual, conciliatory, but that still earned me a quick hard glare. He was bright enough to know where this was heading, and didn’t like it. But he didn’t stop me going any further even so.

  ‘Torquil Eisenberg was beaten to death,’ I said bluntly. We hadn’t had any official reports yet, but Ross didn’t know that. ‘Ever since the Lindbergh baby, kidnappers have been reviled in this country, you should know that. Like I said, somebody’s going down for this, and they’re going down for keeps.’ I paused. His face, in profile, chin sunken, was tormented. ‘With your boyish charms, you’re going to be popular as hell in prison.’ That jerked him out of his stupor a little. ‘You still got all your own teeth?’

  ‘What? Of course I have, man!’

  I shook my head again. ‘Not for long, you won’t,’ I told him cheerfully. ‘First thing they do is break the new guy’s teeth so he can’t bite down on anything that’s put in his mouth—’

  ‘OK, OK! Jesus Christ, man. What do I have to do? Tell me!’

  ‘Give us Lennon,’ I said, and saw him waver. ‘You think – if the positions were reversed – he’d hesitate?’

  He picked up his beer, but the bottle was empty. He cast a mournful glance towards the storeroom, but the shopkeeper did not appear, by magic or anything else.

  ‘No,’ Ross said at last, so low I almost missed it. ‘I guess not.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ‘If you really weren’t in on Torquil Eisenberg’s murder,’ I said, ‘the only way you’re going to prove it is to help lead us to the people who were.’

  ‘Jesus, man, I only followed you today because I wanted you to know I didn’t kill the Eisenberg kid, but what you’re asking …’

  Ross sat for a long time with his head down, staring at a puddle of condensation that had formed around the edge of the bottle, drawing his finger through it so it spread and dried to his design.

  Eventually, he turned and looked right at me, defeat in his eyes. ‘OK, yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it.’ And shook his head afterwards like he couldn’t believe the scope of his own treachery.

  I nodded carefully, not wanting to spook him into changing his mind. I closed my mind to the fact I was probably committing all kinds of offences to do with not handing him straight over to the Feds. He might have acted dumb, but he wasn’t stupid, and if he’d any sense he’d lawyer up so fast they’d get nothing useful out of him for weeks. By which time, who knew where Lennon and his new playmate might be?

  ‘Where’s the place you were using to hold the others?’ It seemed best to start with something easy.

  ‘Over in Elizabeth,’ he mumbled, and I realised he’d been foolish enough – or Lennon had been cunning enough – to use Ross’s own house for this. Maybe Lennon had him pegged as a scapegoat from the outset. Even so, Ross still clung to the thought of his mate’s comparative innocence. ‘Lennon can’t have had the Eisenberg kid, though, man. Not there, anyways, ’cause I hardly left the place myself the last few days, y’know?’

  Damn! Still, worth a try …

  ‘When you last saw Lennon – just before he went out – who called him?’ I asked. ‘You ever see the guy?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, man. I picked up the phone, that’s all. He asked for Lennon and I don’t ask no questions.’

  ‘What did he sound like?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just … ordinary, y’know?’

  This was heading nowhere. I tried a different tack. ‘And you haven’t heard from Lennon since?’ I asked, and saw the quick but honest denial in his face. ‘How does he normally get in touch?’

  Ross shrugged. ‘He calls me, but he changes his cell, like, every week. The last number I have for him is dead. I have to wait for him to call me.’

  I paused, considering. For what it was worth, I believed him, and I’d become pretty good at spotting when people’s body language was not aligned with what came out of their mouths. My instincts told me Ross was scared enough to grasp at the possible way out I was offering, but not so scared he’d promise anything, just to get rid of me.

  That part, if necessary, would come later.

  The hard part now was that, to make best use of him, I was going to have to turn him loose. That rankled. For all his apparent innocence when it came to Torquil’s de
ath, he’d still attacked Dina at the riding club. He’d been the one who’d swung the bat that had broken Raleigh’s arm. And if it had connected with the man’s head, as had clearly been intended, it could easily have broken his skull.

  My fingers itched to dial 911 and have done with it. I remembered the carcass of the Buell being dragged onto a breaker’s yard truck. I remembered opening the makeshift coffin and finding Torquil already dead inside.

  ‘Give me your cellphone.’

  He frowned, as if I wasn’t intending to give it back. The phone he handed over was old and scratched to the point where it didn’t look worth stealing. All I did was punch in my own cell number and dial just long enough for the number to register on my device. An easier, and safer, way to make sure he could get in touch with me and – more importantly – I could get in touch with him.

  ‘OK,’ I said as I handed it back. ‘I think we can help you, if you help us. When Lennon next gets in touch, you need to stay calm, arrange a meet, and call me, yeah?’

  I saw the compulsive swallow as he nodded. ‘OK, man,’ he said, almost eager. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘You better.’ I slid off my bar stool, leaving half my beer untouched on the sticky counter, and straightened my jacket over the SIG, making sure Ross knew the gesture for what it was. His eyes, a blue-grey with pale lashes, were wary, but I read no deceit in them. I leant in, saw his gaze flick to my mouth, as if I were about to kiss him.

  ‘I know who you are, and where you live, Ross,’ I promised in a husky murmur. ‘You try to screw me, and it won’t just be your car that gets crushed. I will find you, and I will hurt you in ways you cannot imagine. Just remember that I keep my promises, good and bad. Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he gabbled. ‘I hear you, man.’

  ‘One last thing, Ross,’ I said. ‘Don’t call me “man”, OK?’

  I walked out of the bar, across the dirty sidewalk, and popped the locks on the Navigator. Before I pulled out into traffic, I glanced back, expecting to see Ross still sitting on his stool. The window of the little bar was empty.