The video returned to Hudson and Steven, half-choked by the straps and clasps of the underwear wrenched around their necks. Hudson gasped, “Muh-my name is Clifford Hudson and I’m, I’m sorry… I wish to confess… Please. Let us down, goddamit…” He squinted at something being held in front of his face. “I confess to being a…a total jerk. I confess that I have used women as my playthings. I treated them like they were dog shit on my shoe. I’ve been… For God’s sake, let us down…”
Steven said, “Oh shit. Whaddar we…? Oh shit, I’m sorry. My name is Steven Ainsworth and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Whaddar we gonna do, Hud? Oh shit. I, I, I’ve lived a disgusting, empty, worthless life. The world would be better off without…”
Back to Wilde, shaking his head. “Tut, tut. Not good enough, I’m afraid. Not nearly good enough. Anyway, this is where we’re going to have to leave you, folks. Thanks for watching and, ah, sorry we couldn’t have the sort of happy ending that I just know everyone out there wants to see. For Steve and Hud, I fear, the way is going to be a long and arduous one.”
The picture cut to the two dangling men, terrified and pissstained, swinging in the freezing night. Wilde said in voiceover, “But with our devoted help, and their newfound penitence for the revolting shit-heels they once were, I’m positive that redemption is near at hand. One way or another, none of us will be hanging around here for too long more.”
Finally, the fade-out to a blank screen with flashing words: “Karma TV—coming to YOUR location. SOON.”
Patrick exhaled heavily and leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Bailey dabbed at his forehead with a tissue, soaked through with sweat and discolored by the studio make-up melting from his face. George Oliver, who was stocky, balding, and incongruously good-looking, stood up and flicked on the main light.
He said, “Okay. First things first. A hoax? Or no? If no, are those two guys still alive someplace? When was this shot? Where? Was it in Manhattan? Will we be able to find them?” Facts and verities and what could be done; George was nothing if not a practical man, and besides this was an incurable optimist with a big heart.
“Holy shit. That was odd,” Patrick said.
George handed his cell phone to a pretty young woman in combat trousers, her hair loosely bunched up. “Kyra—get the police over here. Pronto. Phone from in there.” He turned to Cathy. “So whadda we do now, Cath? We can’t use this shit, can we?”
“I don’t… I don’t know, George. Just…gimme a minute.”
Bailey looked close to coronary arrest by now, his fingers splayed on his chest as he leaned forward in a plastic chair, staring vacantly into space. “Was I exaggerating? Did I exaggerate here? This is crazy stuff, crazy. It reminds me of all those goddamn militant groups in the seventies. Videotaped messages. Masked terrorists. Vague threats of more to come. Christ. And they send it to me. To me, for God’s sake.”
Patrick said, “So is that it? Terrorism? Is that what you guys think?”
“I don’t know what to think about this, Patrick,” Cathy replied. “Look, let’s, ah… Everyone just clear out of here until the police arrive. Okay? Everyone clear out and leave the tape in the machine. Exactly the way it is. Who’s handled it, anyway? Jonathon, it was delivered to you, right?”
“Yeah,” Bailey said. “I took it out of the envelope. And then there was the kid I gave it to in here…”
He looked questioningly at George, who said, “Kyra. One of my team here. She’s gone to call the cops.”
“Right, Kyra. And that was it except for the goddamned courier… Wait a minute. Find the envelope. It might have a courier’s stamp on it or something. We might…”
Cathy nodded, clapped her hands together twice, enthused now. “Yes. Good. They might have a record of whoever sent the tape in the first place. Could be something we can use there.”
“Uh…I don’t think so, Cathy.” Patrick held up the padded envelope—scuffed and dirtied from where it had lain on the floor—between his thumb and index finger, careful not to touch too much of it. “The couriers… They, ah, they won’t be much help.”
“You don’t think so,” Bailey said. “And why is that?”
“Because they don’t exist.”
He flipped the envelope around to reveal an ink stamp near the corner: “3W Courier Services: we help what goes around to come around.”
Cathy whispered, “Three W’s. Wilde, Waters, and Whitman. Isn’t that what he said?”
Patrick nodded. George started shaking his head and chuckling softly.
“What is it, George?” Cathy asked. “What are you laughing at?”
He smiled wryly, shook his head again. “Karma TV. Goddamn it. That’s pretty funny. If this whole thing wasn’t so weird, I’d almost pitch it to the network myself.”
Chapter 3
The freaks are getting more inventive
THE heartbeat pulse of the cursor, the blurry, radioactive glow of the monitor, his fingers poised above the keys. He sighed heavily; the words weren’t coming easily. He typed, “…and I said I was sorry and I meant it. I AM SORRY, GODDAMMIT. I don’t know why I said all that stuff and you know I didn’t mean it.” He paused, reread, deleted the last six words, and typed, “I know how much it hurt you.”
Detective Sergeant Danny Everard screwed his eyes shut. That old child’s trick: shut out the world for a few seconds in the quixotic hope that everything will be right by the time you open them. He looked at the screen again. It still didn’t read quite the way he wanted, but it might have to do. Jesus—37 years old and getting tongue-tied yet by matters of the heart. He ran a hand down his lean face, then hesitantly grasped the mouse and directed it over the “Send” icon. He was about to click when his superior officer, Captain James Harte, opened the door of the small, tidy office in the Midtown South Precinct station and took a step inside.
“Danny? Excuse me. Are you in the middle of something?”
Danny whirled around, surprised. “Wha-? No, no. Just, ah… Nothing at all. Just sending an e-mail. What’s up, Captain?”
“What’s up? Ah, the usual. The days are getting shorter and the freaks are getting more inventive. They’re not satisfied with just your average, common-or-garden crime any more. It’s gotta say something now. Gotta look good for the cameras, right?”
Danny smiled. “I know this is leading somewhere, James.”
Harte came into the center of the room. He cut an imposing figure, his broad shoulders and dark blue suit, his shaven head and trim moustache, skin like black silk over the characteristically elegant features of one of East African ancestry. Danny had always thought it very beautiful, that ebony-black skin; almost unreal, too perfect for the human animal. He sometimes compared it to his own wan complexion and jagged, blond hair, standing beside Harte before the expansive mirror of the men’s room; he paled, literally, by comparison.
Harte said, “It certainly is. To be specific, it’s leading you down to West 33rd. Network 4 studios. To talk with a…” He checked a piece of paper. “…Cathy Morrissey and a Jonathon Bailey. You know? The guy reads the headlines?”
“Talk about…?”
“A kidnapping. Some funny boys in balaclavas nabbed two yuppies and hung them from a high-rise apartment window. We don’t know where yet. Balaclavas and evening dress, no less.” Harte rubbed his eyes with his hand, rubbed his hand over his head. “Christ. What did I say about the freaks getting creative?”
“Actually, you called them ‘inventive.’ But what’s all this got to do with a TV studio? What, did they offer Network 4 exclusive interview rights?”
Harte smiled, a big toothy grin. “Better. They sent them a tape of the whole thing. Videotape, old school.”
Danny frowned in puzzlement, then shrugged and stood, lifting his jacket from the chair.
“Okay. I’ll go check it out. This Bailey character and…?”
Harte handed him the paper with all the relevant information. “Morrissey. Cathy Morrissey. Head of the newsroom. T
he tape was sent to Bailey this morning. Three or four others watched it, but the two of them should be able to answer any questions about it.”
“Right. Like, was it VHS or Betamax format?”
“Don’t kid around with this, Danny. The whole thing smells like a college prank, but as far as I know, the people involved seemed genuinely scared. We might have a real abduction on our hands here. Alright? So don’t kid around.”
Danny wafted his hands up and down, a placating motion. “Don’t kid around. I got it.”
He moved toward the door, then spun around and returned to his desk. He clicked on “Send” and looked at the Captain. “Sorry. Some other serious business.”
The air resistance outside the car audibly changed in pitch as Danny gained speed. He lit a cigarette and punched a number into his car phone. The muted burr of the dial tone rang out from the speaker, and then an impersonation of Christopher Lee, the venerable old movie star, on a comedy answering service: “Hellooo. This…is Christopher Lee. My good friend can’t come to the phone right now—I have other plans for him—but leave a message…and he may get back to you… Ah ha ha ha haaa…”
Danny muttered, “Jesus Christ”, then spoke more distinctly: “Look—it’s me. Um…I don’t really know what to say here. I’ve sent you an e-mail; maybe explains it better. God, I hate these fucking answering services. Feels like I’m talking into space. Which I am, right? Anyway… Listen. Read my mail, and have a think, and get back to me, okay? Please. We have to talk. I’m sorry, and I need to talk to you. …Call me later. ’Bye.”
He killed the connection and drove on, chewing on his lower lip and sucking hard on the cigarette.
The stench of Bailey’s cigars had finally left the screening room, after heroic efforts by cleaning staff to freshen the air somewhat for the arrival of the NYPD. Danny was ushered inside by an obviously star-struck member of the security team, who had insisted on accompanying him the whole way there. Bailey sat at the wall farthest from the tape player, crossing and uncrossing his legs nervously, as Cathy stood, stretching her back. Her eyes were closed; she hadn’t heard the soft click of the door opening. Danny leaned forward and cleared his throat.
Cathy opened her eyes, startled, staring at Danny for a moment. Then she smiled and said, “Oh. Hello. Sorry, I was just… Hi, how are you? Cathy Morrissey.” She took his hand and shook it. “Detective Everard, isn’t it?”
Danny felt for his badge. “Yeah, Danny Everard. Here’s my, uh, my badge.” He smiled. “You can check my credentials.”
“Aw, there won’t be any need for that.”
Danny moved toward Bailey. “And this must be…Mr. Bailey, right?”
Bailey rose to meet him, shaking hands slowly, making a ceremony out of it. “Yes, that is I. Jonathon Bailey. You recognize me from television?”
“No, sir. I usually watch another channel.”
Bailey pouted, a ludicrous expression for a man in late middle age. Cathy stifled a laugh.
“Alright, that’s the introductions: why am I here?” Danny asked.
Bailey said, “You tell him. I just find the whole thing so…” He waved a hand, an oddly camp flutter.
Cathy sighed, like this was a story she knew would have to be told again and again. “Right. We got a package, okay—Jonathon, he got a package delivered this morning. Couriered. It’s a videotape. It…appears to be footage of an abduction. As in, the aftermath of an abduction. There are two guys hung out of a window by these…what were the names again, Jonathon?”
“Ainsworth. Something Ainsworth and…I forget the other one.”
“Steven. It was Steven Ainsworth. I’m not sure if we actually hear the second guy’s name.”
Danny said, “We might get it from the tape. So these two men had been abducted by person or persons unknown, hung outside a window and…what? Beaten? Tortured?”
“Um…I don’t know. They didn’t really look beat-up, although one of them had a bruise on his face. Like he’d been slapped, but maybe not punched. Or not hard anyway. They just sort of…hang there, you know? Oh, and I dunno if it’s important, but they’re wrapped up in lingerie.”
Danny raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Cathy nodded and said, “Yep. Tied at the neck and wrists in Victoria’s finest secret. And then Wilde comes on and starts talking about how he wants them to…”
He reached inside his jacket for a pen and notebook. “Hold on—what was that name?”
“Wilde. That’s what he calls himself. The ring-leader. There’s three of them: Wilde, Waters, and Whitman.” She held up the courier package stamp to his face. “See? The 3Ws.”
Danny frowned, thinking for a moment. “Okay. Maybe… I think I should probably look at this tape first.”
Cathy nodded in agreement and moved off to ready the video recorder. He keyed a number into his cell phone.
“Kurt? Hi, Danny Everard here. Yeah, I’m okay, I’m good… Network 4 studios. What’s that? Yeah, I wish… Listen, Kurt, I need a trace on a Steven Ainsworth.” He turned to Cathy. “White?” She nodded again. “A young white male. We think lives in an apartment block—probably one of the better ones. Get back to me with a list of addresses, would you? The swankier the better. Okay? Thanks, man.”
Danny crouched before the console as the video began to play, speaking softly into a Dictaphone, recording his first, intuitive impressions as the images popped up on screen.
“The gang seems to be professional; well-organized; clever; dangerous, I guess. Leader calls himself Wilde; his two accomplices are Whitman and Waters. Presumably some sort of joke reference to Oscar, Walt and…not sure about the last one. That film director? …Tape is professionally edited and sound-tracked…some effort went into this. Their voices sound disguised; can’t be sure. Not much to go on—yet.”
He stood, nodding, with the Dictaphone to his mouth, a look of deep concentration. He began to chew on his lip again and mumbled, “Making a statement. Yeah. They’re pissed about something and they want the public to know about it. Attention seekers. Definitely.”
Cathy switched off the VCR and stood with hands on hips. “So whaddya think? Some weird shit, or what?”
Danny smiled. He looked about to speak when his phone rang, a shrill, insistent tone. “Danny Everard… Kurt, thanks for getting back to me. Uh-huh… Tribeca…uh-huh… Hold on, lemme grab my pen. Alright, what’s the full address? Uh-huh… They were having a party, right… Everyone left around two… Yep, sounds like the right area for our boys. Okay, have a car sent round. Whichever station is closest. I’ll be there in less than an hour. And Kurt? Tell ’em to be careful—I don’t know exactly what they’re gonna find there.”
He turned to Cathy and Bailey. “A few quick questions before I leave. Have there been any further communications—any ransom demands, threats, anything like that?”
Cathy said, “Nope. Nothin’. Nada. And so forth.”
“Mr. Bailey—any idea why this was sent to you?”
Bailey shook his head. “No. None. I’ve never heard of this Steven Ainsworth, I don’t know who he is, I don’t know anything.”
“Alright. Well, I think we can presume that you were chosen for your high profile…despite what I might have said 20 minutes ago.”
Cathy smiled. She said, “I figured they want us to broadcast this. I mean, what other reason for making a recording in the first place? ’Cause you want people to see it.”
“To pay attention. Right. While on the subject: I’m gonna have to prohibit that material from broadcast. Depending on what we find in this apartment, it could be evidence. And I’ll need the tape.”
Cathy went to the VCR and ejected the cassette. She said, “Don’t worry. The brass already made that decision. They’re probably scared in case it proves to be a hoax. Wouldn’t wanna end up with egg on their faces, and all that.”
Bailey swallowed heavily, wiping his forehead, and said, “Yes, you’re welcome to it, Detective. And if I never see or hear of Karma g
oddamn Productions again, I’ll die a happy man.”
Danny moved toward the door, the videotape in his hand. He stopped, one leg dragged back, a mime of stalled motion. “Yeah. I wish I could say that that’s likely to be the case, Mr. Bailey, but… I dunno. We’ll see.”
Now, this was what you’d call a nice place. Danny stepped through heavy inner doors, one of which lay forlornly against the wall, its upper hinge twisted and buckled, and surveyed the scene. Apart from the door, and some upended furniture, the apartment was in surprisingly good condition, although evidence of a serious night’s partying was scattered around—spilled food, bottles lying on the floor, indeterminate stains on the expensive rugs. And it was stunning: large, spacious, all clean lines and understated touches. Architect designed and professionally decorated. He assumed Mr. Ainsworth hadn’t chosen the fabrics and furniture, anyway. This was like somewhere Peter might live—he’d have the money for it, almost, and certainly have the aesthetic sensibilities. Danny smiled to himself: on an NYPD detective’s salary, today was about the nearest he’d ever come to basking in the splendor of a place like this.
He completed his circuit of the room. A length of strong rope, tied to a piano leg, led out an open window, the one on the tape. An evidence collection team was busy at various points, bending over or crouching down, scrabbling around for evidence, for physical matter, like white-clad ants methodically going about their business. Danny admired the techs their dedication, their single-mindedness, that unlearned ability to focus on one tiny but hugely important thing. He fixed on the far corner, where the two abductees sat wrapped in blankets, sipping coffee. They were still stripped to their underpants, and looked physically and emotionally wiped-out, especially the fairer one, who babbled even more incoherently than on the video. A crescent-shaped bruise was turning dark along the length of his cheek.
Even Flow Page 4
