by Oliver Stark
‘Get me a coffee.’
‘Coffee is not good for you, a man needs to eat. I get you a waiting plate.’
‘Okay.’
‘One waiting plate for the cop.’
Harper looked around.
‘What? You think you look like you write novels in Greenwich Village? You got that cop look, always checking out all the things. Cops have the wandering eye.’
‘You always like this?’
‘Like what? Like noticing things?’
Harper sidled into a tight space in a corner. A cop seat. No one behind him, a good view of the whole deli. He was only just in his seat when a teenager with dark hair put a coffee cup in front of him.
‘Taste it. Best coffee in the world.’
Harper nodded. She was obviously trained by Mosha himself. He took out his cell and checked the bird news. There were reports of Snow Geese upstate, flying high and honking through the night. It was enough to take him away for a moment.
The door opened and in walked a small woman dressed up with several bangles on each arm. She jangled to the counter.
‘Erin, my beautiful bride. We get married soon — you promise?’ said Jake.
‘Oh, yeah, Mosh, very soon. Just after I’ve tried every other man in New York.’
‘I will wait. My wife understands. She was only ever a stand-in.’
Erin was wearing a party dress. Black and silver. Hair done up high on her head. Not the weasel in jeans that Harper had got to know standing outside the precinct. She was looking pretty and elegant.
Erin turned and looked. ‘See my friend took the seat.’
‘I knew he would.’
‘The test always works.’
‘I didn’t know he was yours.’
‘He’s not mine yet. He’s a cop.’
‘I know he’s a cop. Who else wears cologne like that these days?’
Erin Nash walked across and sat opposite Harper. ‘Mosh tells me you’re wearing cologne.’
‘I shaved.’
‘For me?’
‘To avoid being picked up for vagrancy.’
‘Nice and smooth.’
‘This guy, Mosh, he’s a talker.’
‘Yeah, he talks. He’ll shoot you too if you don’t buy something.’
‘I got a waiting plate.’
‘Then you’re in trouble.’
‘You eating?’
‘Mosh will bring me something I like.’
Harper looked at her arms. Thin. Four small tattoos on the under-side of each arm. Possibly Celtic, possibly Chinese. He couldn’t quite see, but that was the gist — origins. Usually someone else’s.
‘You look different.’
‘Are you flattered that I put on a dress?’
‘It doesn’t take much.’
‘Don’t be, I’ve got a launch party. Friend wrote a terrible book and we’ve all got to turn up and smile about it.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. You know why? He’s a liberal with too much free time.’
‘A friend.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let’s cut to the chase, Erin. I don’t want to ruin your evening.’
‘You won’t. I might take you with me. You don’t look so bad.’
A moment later, two waitresses appeared from the side. One carried a small bowl of soup and placed it before Erin. The next moved beside Harper and placed an enormous platter in front of him. It contained everything. Herring, chopped liver, gherkins, a salt-beef sandwich.
‘Jesus.’
‘Not in here, Tom. It’s David and Abraham all the way.’
Harper smiled. He needed someone to bounce ideas off. Someone outside of the NYPD. Erin was not Denise Levene, but she was smart and cynical and she could get his story the angle he needed.
‘Tell me about your family,’ said Erin. ‘I guess you came from a stable little well-meaning unit out in Brooklyn.’
‘You been reading up on me?’
‘Couldn’t get much.’
‘Not much to get. Parents separated. Mother’s English, she took off back to the UK some years back. Father’s a drunk, he took off to Chicago. My sister still lives in the city. She’s a lawyer. Two kids. Great kids. Me and my sister have never been close, though. Hardly speak now. I’ve lost touch.’
‘She’s older, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Always bossing you around?’
‘Yeah, she’s the one in command.’
‘Smart too?’
‘She was always smarter than me. Went to college. Got a degree. Law firm. Worked hard. She’s bringing up the two kids well. I wish I could get to see them more.’
‘Such a tender story. Why you both in law?’
‘Do I need to tell you?’
‘Why? You think I should be able to work it out?’
‘No. I know you will have already found out. Erin Nash wouldn’t come unprepared now, would she?’
‘Okay, I did a little research. I was interested.’
‘I’m flattered. What about you, Erin, what’s your background?’
‘God, we’re like some soap opera. My story is simple. I was born like this. I was spoiled by my old man and hated by Mom. I learned to enjoy annoying her. It became an art. I now use the same tactics to get under other people’s skin.’
‘What tactics are those?’
‘All people like flattery, right? You work your way in, be real nice, make them feel that you’re in need of them until they let down their guard. Then when they’ve revealed an itsy-bitsy bit of weakness, you snap their hand off.’
‘I guess, in telling me this, you’re not trying to impress me.’
‘I like you. I’m not playing games with you. You know the score. You do the same with interrogations, I bet. Soft soap followed by sudden attack. So, I’m just being honest.’
‘For a change.’
Tom pushed a gherkin around his plate. He thought of Denise, then looked up at Erin. He didn’t know what he was feeling at the moment. Hurt, mainly. The boxing match plus a couple of hits from Lukanov had left him with a few wounds. But beneath that, he was pleased to be working again, working with Denise.
‘Okay,’ said Nash. ‘Now let’s get down to business. Tell me about the case.’
‘Look, Erin, this isn’t official, but we’ve got unconnected Jewish deaths. Capske, you know about. I’ve got Esther Haeber from a few months back — and she’s Jewish. And South Manhattan found the body of a Jewish woman yesterday, apparently killed for no reason. Her name is Marisa Cohen. What’s more, about ten days ago, a Jewish high-school student was abducted.’
‘You’ve got links, haven’t you?’
‘I think so.’
‘What have you got?’
‘These three Jewish murders are all linked by an “88” written at the scene and by the use of iron bullets.’
‘What’s the significance?’
‘Being blunt, he’s using Nazi symbols and Nazi bullets and he’s attacking the Jewish community.’
‘You’ve just written tomorrow’s headline story. What do you want from me?’
‘We need help. We’re searching for a man called Martin Heming. If we could get some public help on this, we might be able to stop him.’
‘You need pressure put on him.’
‘I need information. He’s speeding up. The time between kills is falling rapidly.’
Erin Nash listened for another twenty minutes as Tom spoke and worked his way through his waiting plate. She nodded appropriately.
At the end she said, ‘Hell of a story, that, Harper. I can write this, you know.’
‘I know, but you can’t say anything definite yet.’
‘I wouldn’t need to, Harper, that’s the beauty of journalism. You have to prove your case while I just have to throw my case to the public. We’re talking about the police linking the murders of Jewish people across the city.’
‘Don’t name me as the
source.’
Nash looked into Harper’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I understand. And thanks, this is another big break for me. Means I won’t have to do the story on Detective Harper’s addiction problems.’ She drank up and smiled.
‘You leaving?’ said Harper.
‘Yeah. I’ve got a party to go to.’
‘On your own?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said. ‘I like to travel light. Company gets in the way of a good story.’
Chapter Fifty-Six
North Manhattan Homicide
March 10, 11.11 p.m.
Denise met Harper outside her building. ‘I need sleep,’ she said, and looked at Harper. ‘You more than me, maybe.’
‘We can sleep when this is over. What did you get?’
‘I’ve been working all evening. First thing is that Aaron called. He found a link between the words. You know, the words Loyalty and Valiance that were printed on the card.’
‘Yeah, so what do they mean?’
‘The motto of the SS. Loyalty, Valiance, Obedience.’
‘The SS, as in the Nazi Party SS?’
‘Yeah. We think he’s playing a part. Trying to make it as authentic as possible.’
‘Anything to help find him or nail him?’
‘Not yet, but I spent some time thinking and then it came to me — where I’d seen those marks on David’s chest. My father used to show me images from the Holocaust. I think I might have another link between David and Abby.’
‘What?’
‘The tattoo on David Capske’s chest. I think it was a number.’
‘Marisa Cohen had something written on her chest too, but the water washed it away. They found some residual signs of ink. And he’d removed her blouse.’
‘He writes numbers on their bodies,’ said Denise.
Harper noticed the heavy tone in her voice. He pulled out his notebook and flicked through. Stared down at the marks. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘You got a theory for me? The guys at Forensics were trying to match letters.’
‘They look like prisoner numbers, Tom. After Aaron found the SS link, I just went with the idea. The SS ran the concentration camps. They numbered prisoners’ chests. They’re not letters,’ she said, her fingers running across the scratches in ink. ‘They’re prisoner numbers. He thinks he’s running some prison camp.’
Harper felt his breath catch. It was so obvious, but they’d missed it. He’d missed it. She leaned over his shoulder. He felt her closeness.
‘What’s the number?’ he said.
Denise stared hard at the scratches, trying to discern a pattern.
Then she smiled. ‘Well, although numbers are infinite, in fact, in our limited numerical system, there are only nine numbers and one zero.’
She took a pen and scratched a number four through the second set of dots. ‘Looks like a four.’
‘Could be a one or seven to start with,’ said Harper. He watched the numbers emerge on the paper below. ‘There’s a cross on the third. Got to be another four,’ he said quickly. They continued to stare at the marks on the page.
‘744…’ said Harper. He turned and looked at Denise.
‘Or 144,’ she said. ‘144003.’
‘That was quick. You know that number?’ Harper asked.
‘Abby Goldenberg’s kidnapper sent a letter to her father. It gave her weight and blood pressure. And it gave her a number. It was 144002.’
‘David’s the next in the sequence,’ said Harper.
‘So Esther was presumably the first kill,’ said Denise. ‘144001.’ Harper wrote down the four consecutive numbers: 144001, 144002, 144003, 144004. Would the sequence continue? Who would be number 144005?
‘What do the numbers mean?’ he asked.
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
‘Find it quick,’ said Harper. ‘We’re getting somewhere.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn
March 10, 11.51 p.m.
‘Thanks for meeting me here,’ said Denise. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is to come back here.’
Aaron Goldenberg stared out glassy-eyed. ‘What can I do? My only daughter is out there — I must do everything I can.’
Denise felt the rise of tears but pushed them away. It wouldn’t help to be emotional. ‘The police won’t give you the whole story,’ she said, ‘because everyone’s afraid to speak.’
‘What about?’
‘A serial killer attacking Jewish victims.’
She saw something move behind Aaron Goldenberg’s eyes. ‘Killer? But my daughter was kidnapped.’
‘I can’t tell you a lie,’ said Denise. ‘We now think your daughter’s kidnapping is linked to three other murders. David Capske, Esther Haeber and Marisa Cohen.’
Aaron Goldenberg shook his head as if it was the only thing keeping him from being swallowed alive by the yawning abyss. ‘My only daughter.’
Denise watched him fall forward on to the glass case. Beneath his outstretched arms and tearful eyes, were photographs from Auschwitz and Belsen. Naked Jewish men, women and children, lining up for execution, modestly covering themselves although they were moments from death. The look of agony and uncertainty in their faces.
‘What do you know?’ he said.
‘Not enough. Your daughter and David Capske had consecutive numbers used to label them. Abby had the number 144002 on her report, David had 144003 scratched on his chest. Do you have any idea what the number 144004 means?’
‘No. I can look for you.’
‘Please,’ said Denise.
Aaron Goldenberg thought for a moment then let out a sigh. ‘The number of Jews who will be saved.’
‘What is?’
‘Maybe the 144 refers to 144,000. It is in Revelation. It is a contested number. It may refer to many things or nothing at all, but it is said that it related to 144,000 Jews converted to Christianity.’ Goldenberg walked to the side of the room and entered his office. He came out with a copy of the New Testament. He spent a minute flicking through it, then showed it to Denise:
Then I looked, and behold, on Mount Zion stood the Lamb, and with Him 144,000 who had His name and His Father’s name written on their foreheads.
Denise read the passage. She looked up. ‘The 88 Killer is trying to save Jews?’
‘There are some who see the number like that, to mean that 144,000 Jews will be redeemed.’
‘Our killer’s a delusional fanatic. The bullets they found in three of the bodies were original Nazi bullets.’ Denise lowered her head. In the museum, they were surrounded by examples of the horrors of the Holocaust, the mindless and ruthlessly inhuman destruction of millions of people. It was hard to imagine that the lessons of history had been lost so quickly.
‘What do you want from me?’ said Goldenberg.
Denise put out a hand. It rested on his shoulder. ‘You need to help me profile this killer. If he’s delusional, then I need to profile the projection as well as the man. I need to know what he’s doing.’
‘Committing crimes against Jews!’ said Goldenberg. ‘Playing God. Perhaps he thinks he is working in a concentration camp or a ghetto.’
‘The ghettos were just holding compounds for the camps,’ said Denise.
‘That’s right, Dr Levene. And it was happening all across Eastern Europe. When the Nazis invaded and took over areas, they created walled cities within cities. Policed by vicious soldiers, sometimes Jewish police. People were crammed into these ghettos, disease spread — but you knew this. The Nazis liked to associate the Jews with disease. Infected bodies were kept behind barbed wire. There were outbreaks of typhoid and cholera. They starved the populations, feeding them so little that they had to burrow out through the walls to find some food. You once said that one of the victims was found without a coat.’
‘Esther Haeber.’
‘In the bitter winter, they outlawed winter coats and fur coats.’ Dr Goldenberg sighed heavily. ‘In the Wa
rsaw Ghetto, the Nazis outlawed the owning and wearing of winter coats upon pain of death.’
Denise listened. The full horror of what she was hearing opening inside her mind.
‘He’s doing the same.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Goldenberg. ‘It doesn’t end.’
An hour later, Denise dropped Aaron Goldenberg back at his house and called Harper.
When Harper answered, his voice was strained and tired. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Good,’ said Denise.’ ‘He’s not just a Nazi.’
‘So what is he?’ said Harper.
‘He’s living like a Nazi. I think he’s a copycat.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of Nazi crimes, Nazi murders.’
‘A copycat. These are real historical crimes?’
‘I think so. They echo what happened in the ghettos. I think he’s delusional. I think he even thinks he’s policing the ghettos and punishing crimes. The number 144 might be a Biblical reference to 144,000 Jews who would be saved.’
‘He thinks he’s saving them? What about Abby?’
‘Starvation. It’s how they killed great numbers in the ghetto. But there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘Aaron Goldenberg told me something he feared. They sometimes used Jewish women for prostitutes. They kept these women in brothels.’
‘You think that’s why he took Abby?’
Denise paused and then whispered her answer.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
March 11, 7.55 a.m.
Harper and Eddie spent the night in the car, searching around the various locations that Jack Carney had given them for Heming’s whereabouts. Conducting surveillance was never easy and the night had been cold and long. There wasn’t much hope of finding anything, either, but they needed to keep busy and keep the team active. The interviews had revealed nothing. The killer seemed to come and go without ever being seen.
Harper pulled over at a news-stand. ‘We’re going to see some reaction now,’ he said. He handed across a dollar bill and took a copy of the Daily Echo.
Eddie looked and sighed. ‘There’ll be protests and marches. This is going to cause real outrage.’
