Psycho ebook EPUB

by John Griffin

  “I’d like to buy you a coffee and make you an offer. I just need a name. And I’m willing to pay for it.”

  “Fuck you,” Gyp said. “I’m not a rat.”

  “Hopefully you’re a businessman. Let me ask you a question. What do you sell girls for?”

  Gyp moved toward Solomon. “That’s not cool, man,” Gyp said. “Don’t talk like that here.”

  “Then take me to a fucking Starbucks and let’s talk,” Solomon said. “That sounds like the right place to sell young girls into slavery?”

  Two men came up to Gyp and Solomon. “Police business.”

  “They know. They’re with me,” Gyp said.

  “So you want to talk, or you want to fight with the NYPD?” Solomon said.

  “Let’s talk,” Gyp said. He started walking away from his associates, with Solomon following. Two blocks south of the lamppost where Solomon found Gyp was a doughnut shop. Gyp held the door open for Solomon.

  “You being funny?” Solomon asked.

  “I thought you’d appreciate it,” Gyp said.

  They sat at a table near the door. “You want anything to eat?” Gyp asked.

  “This won’t take long,” Solomon said. “I want to buy a name from you. That’s it.”

  “I’m not in the business of selling the names of business partners,” Gyp said. He nodded at someone behind the counter, and she brought over two coffees.

  Solomon took two sugars and two milks from the bowl on the table and put it in his coffee. “There’s no reason he can’t be a business partner for a long time to come.”

  “You going to take him off the street? You going to take him down? And then what, he rats me out? Not worth it.”

  “I’m not that kind of cop,” Solomon said, blowing on his coffee and then taking a sip.

  “What kind of cop are you?” Gyp asked.

  “The kind that does business,” Solomon said. “I’m going to buy a name from you, and buy a girl from him. So, what do you sell them for? Five hundred? Seven-fifty? A thousand? I get it. You’re just a middleman. You just sell them. Probably don’t kidnap them. Probably just walk them right over and then collect your money and go, never see them again. I want one girl. I need one name. Just need to know where you sent her, and I just want to pay you for it. And then I’m going to buy her from the man who took her. This can be easy.”

  “Why this girl?” Gyp asked. “I don’t like men on missions. They’re dangerous.”

  “I sure as fuck am,” Solomon said. “Let’s say I owe the mother a favor. Let’s say her dad saved my ass in Desert Storm. Let’s say I plan to marry her myself. Say whatever you want to keep yourself happy at night, just say your price, too.”

  “I need a new track suit,” Gyp said.

  “You going to run a marathon?” Solomon said. Gyp said nothing. “I’ll pay for your fucking track suit.”

  “It was three hundred dollars,” Gyp said.

  “The girl?”

  “The track suit.”

  “You paid three hundred fucking dollars for a track suit?” Solomon said, reaching into his right pocket and taking out his wallet. “Three hundred dollars for a track suit,” he said, quietly, mostly to himself. “I can’t. I mean, three hundred dollars for a track suit. It is a fucking track suit.” He took four hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. “Here. Four hundred dollars. Buy a nicer suit. The girl?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen hundred?” Solomon repeated, counting off the hundred-dollar bills and handing them over. He held onto them when Gyp reached out and tried to pull the bills from Solomon’s hand. “Amber.”

  “Vitaly Schevchenko,” Gyp said. He pulled the money from Solomon’s hand.

  Solomon pulled out his phone and sent a text, standing and leaving.

  Lisa gave Solomon the address, and thirty minutes later Solomon stood in front of a storefront with faded signage that read Fresh Dry Cleaners. He had a plastic bag with him. He knocked on the door. Someone on the other side knocked in response. Solomon asked to see Vitaly, and there was another knock. “Sponge,” he said, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into the mail slot. After four clicks, the door opened. Solomon left the bag at the door outside.

  The man behind the door was wearing a leather jacket. He felt Solomon down for weapons and found none. Inside it was hot and humid. As they walked down the hall, the two men passed five rooms. Three doors were closed. He heard muffled grunting behind them. Two doors were still open, and inside, waiting on a bed in either room, was a young girl. Each of them sat facing the door with her back straight and watched Solomon as he passed. As he continued down the hall, it became darker. He entered a room at the other end.

  Inside, waiting, was a small, thin, but muscular man with a shaved head. The man in the leather jacket closed the door behind Solomon, and he was now alone with the man with the shaved head. The man had exposed tattoos on his neck and hands. On each of his fingers were Cyrillic letters that Solomon could not read. On the back of his right hand was a tiger, and on his right hand was a stone cross. The work was clear and neat.

  “Vitaly?” Solomon said, extending his hand.

  “Yes,” Vitaly responded. “I hear you’re in the market for a girl.”

  “Who did your tattoos?” Solomon asked.

  “You’re not supposed to ask,” Vitaly said. “You earn these.” He held up his fists and motioned to his neck. “I got these in jail in Russia.”

  Solomon nodded. “I’m looking for a specific type of girl. A common acquaintance told me that you might have one. Young girl, thirteen to fifteen, with brown hair, brown eyes. Crooked teeth. “

  “I’ve got one.”

  “Can I see her?” Solomon asked.

  “Anton!” Vitaly yelled. “Bring in Yasmine!”

  Solomon and Vitaly sat staring at each other and waiting. Solomon scanned the room. There was no furniture except the two chairs the men occupied, the desk that Vitaly sat behind, itself empty except for a laptop, and a cot in a corner with a mattress that had no sheets. There were no windows. The walls were gray. The room was lit by a single light bulb in a naked pole lamp in a corner.

  Anton returned, opening the door and pushing Amber into the room. She kept her gaze down. She was wearing a purple skirt and a black crop top. Her hair was held back in a pony tail. “Smile, Yas,” Vitaly said. She smiled. “See? Not many with those around,” Vitaly said.

  “Where did you find her?” Solomon asked.

  “Saved her from her druggie mom and her live-in druggie boyfriend. Gave her a good life here,” Vitaly said, standing from his chair and walking over to Amber. She stopped smiling. “So, want a room? The room costs two hundred an hour. The girl? She is free.” Vitaly smiled, brushing hair from Amber’s face.

  “I’m looking for a more permanent arrangement,” Solomon said, standing and moving toward Amber, looking her up and down.

  Vitaly stood in front of him, shaking his head. “Maybe you buy a couple nights in advance? I could do one-eighty a night for ten nights? Eighteen hundred.”

  Solomon shook his head. “I want to buy her from you.” Amber flinched.

  “Buy her from me?” Vitaly said. “I don’t know if I can do that. She is not cattle. She is employee.”

  “Everything has a price,” Solomon said. “She’s perfect for me.”

  “What are you willing to pay? She cost me an arm and a leg,” Vitaly said, smiling broadly.

  “I’m willing to pay a leg,” Solomon said, himself smiling now.

  Vitaly snorted laughter, looking back at Solomon and then at the girl. “Ten thousand.”

  “No,” Solomon said. “Your right leg. You’ll need it.”

  “Why?” Vitaly said, taking a step away from Solomon and reaching into his waistband for his gun.

  “Because she cost you your left leg and
your right arm,” Solomon said, pulling a switchblade from a padded pocket in his coat. Vitaly raised his gun, but Solomon had already swept it away, stabbing his knife into Vitaly’s right elbow. He pulled the knife out and pressed downward onto Vitaly’s knee, cutting inward, the knife coming out the back.

  Vitaly screamed, and Anton came running into the room. Solomon picked up Vitaly’s gun and shot Anton in the right knee. Anton had pulled his gun, and it dropped from his hand. Solomon grabbed it.

  Amber had run from the room. Solomon could see down the straight hall that she was trapped by the locked front door. The three other men and all four other young girls had spilled into the hallway and were cowering at locked door.

  Solomon turned Vitaly onto his back and leaned in close. “You’re a dead man,” Vitaly said. “I’m going to have you killed.”

  “Do you know what they use to make tattoos at a Russian prison?” Solomon said.

  “Fuck you,” Vitaly said.

  “No, sorry. Of course not. You wouldn’t, because you didn’t get these fake pieces of shit in Russia. And you’re not a part of any Russian gang. They’d kill an asshole like you for having fake tattoos. I’d be more scared of you if you didn’t have tattoos. I’d think maybe, just maybe, you’re with someone. But no. You’re just one fucking guy, some fake tattoos, and an asshole in a leather jacket. If you were anything else, I would have paid the ten grand.

  “You can keep your right leg,” Solomon added. “But I wouldn’t pull the knife out until the paramedics get here.” He walked over to Anton and kicked him. “Keys?” he said. Anton reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys, throwing them to Solomon.

  Solomon walked down the front hall and unlocked the door. Before he opened it, he turned to the three men there. “Don’t fucking scatter.” He opened the door, and there were twenty police cars waiting outside. Two of the men tried to run but were tackled. Solomon passed them as they lay struggling on the ground and looked at the officers. “I told them not to scatter.” Solomon took Amber by the hand and over to a waiting social worker, signaling the other girls to follow. Lisa was waiting.

  “Was it him? Was it Psycho?” Lisa asked.

  Solomon shook his head. “Was never going to be. Not here. Send in the paramedics.”

  “Dead or dying?” Lisa asked.

  “They will probably live. If you send in the paramedics,” Solomon said.

  Lisa leaned back on her car and looked at the girls. “I think I’ll wait,” she said. Amber smiled.

  Solomon pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. A woman answered. “Ms. Moore?” Solomon said.

  “Yes?” Ms. Moore answered.

  “We have found your daughter.” Ms. Moore began to cry. “She’s going to be taken over to 51st Division. She’s been through an extremely traumatizing event and a terrible couple days.”

  “Thank you!” Ms. Moore said. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “She’s going to be alright,” Solomon said. “She’s coming home. She’s lucky she can come home.”

  Solomon hung up. Lisa looked at him, shaking her head. “This is going to be a lot of paperwork.”

  “Off-duty cop finds kidnapped girl and cracks sex trade ring in the back of store while looking for a dry cleaner. Look, I even brought my dirty laundry.” Solomon retrieved the bag he had left at the door and took his other Oxford, which was dirty, out of the bag. “Sounds simple enough,” he finished.

  “A fuck ton of paperwork,” Lisa said. “If you were not already suspended, you would be suspended again. And it’s likely they will mandate more therapy and extend your suspension. Hell, you might be expelled for this one, Sol.”

  “Worth it,” Solomon said, looking toward the four girls being wrapped in blankets.

  Chapter Nine:

  Clive

  Clive woke at 2:00 a.m. and slapped his clock. When that did not extinguish the bright red LED shining on him with the fury, he was certain, of the sun at midday, he took his pillow and flopped it onto the clock. He heard something crash off the table, but whatever it was did not break. He turned over and looked blankly at his ceiling, his hands in his curly and unruly hair. “You better not, you fuck,” Clive said.

  He picked up his phone and called Sol. There was no answer, but Clive spoke as if this was the type of answering machine that played your voice live for someone screening calls, the way they worked in the nineties. “Sol, you fuck. Sol, are you there? If you even think about killing yourself, I’ll kill you.” Clive paused. “You know what I mean.”

  He hung up and got out of bed. He went to his computer, logged into the NYPD VPN, and went to the Psycho file. A picture of Justin Graham greeted him. It was provided by his parents when their hope he was innocent had been dashed by their child’s own detailed confession. He was the only suspect, and they only called him a suspect because he had not had his day in court. But everyone knew he was guilty. Absolutely everyone. And everyone who knew Sol knew that Justin would never have his day in court. It was their job — people like Lisa and Clive — to make sure that Sol and him shared the same air for a few minutes, and just a few minutes before the real police caught him. It would only take a few minutes, and Sol would kill Justin, and that would be the type of justice Clive could wrap his head around.

  But Sol had to find Justin before the real police, Roger and Thomas. They had come to interview Clive at length, but not until after he had already spoken to Sol and given him the note he found in the girl’s throat. They threatened him with evidence tampering. They said he could lose his license. But Clive put them off. “This kid needs to die,” he said, “and you’re not going to do it.” Neither of them said another word on the matter, and Clive’s indiscretion did not make it into their reports. They wanted the same thing everyone else wanted.

  Clive read through some of the notes and watched the videos that Kevin insisted contained coded images. He did not understand it. He did not understand the three separate psychiatric assessments. He was a doctor of the dead. If his patients spoke to him, it usually meant he was more drunk than usual.

  He pulled out a bottle of rum and drank straight from the bottle. He went back to his own notes from Vera Glenn. He checked and double-checked and triple-checked the chain of custody for her body, making notes about where she could have been exposed to Justin. If he found how the killer accessed the body, he would have a point, a node in a network of places and times Justin had been that Sol could follow. He had some ideas. But they were just ideas, and he was not convinced any of them were particularly good.

  He went back to Justin’s last known location: the truck stop in Connecticut, the day he set Greg’s car on fire and made his attack on Sol personal. Or more personal. Conjecture said that he left the country. If Kevin’s analysis of the latest video was correct, they could trace him to a dozen different spots across Europe over the last eight months. Places, but not times. Kevin did some additional analysis, testing light, weather, vistas for known locations and occurrences. It could shrink the potential times Justin visited those places. It could perhaps tell them when he was last known to be in Europe. Nearest Kevin could guess was July, but it was the end of September now, and two months is a long time for someone to be missing. That was a cold trail. But somewhere on that trail, Justin had gotten access to one of Clive’s bodies and left him a message to give to Sol.

  Clive worked until he passed out and woke up with his face buried in his arms across the keyboard. The bottle of rum was still mostly full, which made it a modest night of drinking compared to the usual. It was just after 7:00 a.m. He read the notes he had made the night before. He had forgotten writing most of them, so it was like thinking through his theories for the first time. He had drawn a timeline from May, Greg burning in the car, and July, Europe, to Vera. He had written in Kevin’s best guesses about where and when Justin had been in Europe against a much smaller timeline of about a wee
k — the total time in possession of Vera’s body. At each stage of custody of the body, he had made notes about the potential for Justin to get access to the body.

  Reading the notes and theories, in retrospect he seemed overly confident that night. He was dismissive of the idea that the security protocols, many of which he put in place, could be so lax. But Justin must have broken through, Clive thought as he reviewed his notes from the night before. Justin must have gotten access to the body. I’m not perfect, and neither is security.

  At the bottom of the page, circled dozens of times — so many times, in fact, that Clive could hardly read it — were three words in the form of a question that helped him make sense of it all. He had written: Is he alone?

  Clive went to his kitchen, still holding his pad of paper with the notes. He himself a cup of coffee. He drank the coffee black then added whisky and continued staring at the note. The question felt like a breakthrough. They were looking for Justin, but what if he was not alone? Maybe not a full accomplice but someone who could have put the note into the girl’s throat and been paid for it? Someone who maybe did not even know what they were doing or who they were doing it for? Maybe someone hired through an intermediary — hell, wasn’t Sol working for an intermediary now? These things happened. It was plausible. And when put together with Clive’s steadfast belief that security could not have been compromised, it made sense.

  So someone with access to the body put the note in, and they may not even have known what they were doing or why. Clive thought that was an idea he should take to Sol, so he called him.

  He exhaled in frustration again as Sol’s answering service chimed in, saying he was not available. “Sol, for fuck’s sake, if you’re alive, call me. If not, you better not be in Hell, because I will fucking flay you if I see you there before me.”

  Chapter Ten:

  Solomon

  Before Solomon was taken off active duty completely, they gave him a chance to switch to a new job. They said he could work on the team of negotiators. It was a month after he had found Juanita. Greg was still alive. It seemed like a good idea to get away from chasing Psycho.