by S. J. Rozan
“Call right away and don’t let him see me. Something like that?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Something like that.”
Linus took his phone off speaker, brought Trella up to speed on what had happened to us. I drove, thought, came up with nothing. Linus was animated, a lot of “Dudess!” and “It was awesome!” I wove through traffic, listening to the clock ticking in my head. Hearing Kevin sneer. Seeing the wasted face of Hal Ross, that stupid, stupid son of a bitch. A cab cut me off and I smashed the horn, slammed on the brakes. Linus, thrown forward in his seatbelt, looked at me, said to Trella, “Gotta go,” and lowered the phone. He said, “Dude. Do not flip out.”
“Goddamn son of a bitch!” I pounded the steering wheel. “All I want is to kill that bastard. Get my hands on him—”
“Dude? Here.” From the bag Linus pulled a second Coke. “Drink this.”
“I still have this.”
“Coffee’s terrible when it’s cold. And this has sugar in it. Caffeine works a lot better with sugar. Caffeine and sugar. Two of the essential food groups.”
He was trying to distract me, jolly me along. I wanted to punch him. I also wanted him to stop breaking my heart.
He popped the can and I took it. I drank, a long swallow. He watched warily. I must not have looked quite ready to be human yet, because he chattered on. “See, what they need to do, they need to invent one with pizza in it.”
“Sounds revolting.” I was trying.
“No, for real, then it could take care of all your needs, right in that one can.”
A bell. A faint bell, in my mind.
“And maybe another one with fries. What else would you need? Well, maybe if it kept you warm, too. Then you could—”
It was all I could do not to slam the brake, pile up traffic behind us. “Son of a bitch!”
“Dude! I’m telling you, you gotta not—”
“Say it again.”
“Say what?”
“Pizza in the Coke. Everything you need. Linus! Goddamn, that’s it! That’s Kevin’s pattern!”
A stare. “Um, what?”
“How he chooses how to kill. And where.” Poisoned, frozen. Frozen, poisoned. Drowned. Goddamn, Smith, how stupid are you? “The necessities of life. Water. Food. Clothing. He said, in prison you have no life. Cons are the living dead. You get no choice, have to do what they tell you. You get food that’s not food, clothes that aren’t clothes. He’s killing people with what he was deprived of. Jim, water in his fancy lap pool, in the house Kevin should’ve had. Lei-lei, poisoned food. In a bar he used to go to. Angelique, clothing—or, lack of—at his tailor shop.”
“Oh, dude, wow! Oh, awesome, yeah!” Linus bounced in excitement. Woof, in the back, felt the crackle in the air, sat up and whined. “So,” Linus said, confidently waiting. “What’s next?”
How the hell did I know? “Shelter. Air.” Oh, goddamn! “Shelter! Linus, the apartment!”
“Um, what apartment? The one he didn’t buy for Megan?”
“No! The one Jim rented.”
“Oh!” he breathed. “Oh! You think? Dude! But …”
“He used a real estate agent. Remember, Nicole said the agent called her?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Linus was nodding, poking at the iPhone. “So we think, downtown, we think, the last few months, we think, Jim White on the lease.”
“And we think, loft. If it’s not the same building as the one Kevin was going to buy in, it’s a building like it. Call Trella. Both of you work on it. Find real estate agents who handle downtown. High end.”
“Damn, dude. There’s gonna be a lot of those. And a lot of Jim Whites. Take forever. Be better if Kevin did buy it. Then we could just look up the real estate records.”
“Yeah, it would be nice if it were easy, wouldn’t it? But he didn’t!”
“Dude?” Linus shot me a cautious glance. “You remembering not to flip out?”
I pulled out a cigarette. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. You just need to not flip out.”
I looked over at him. “You know that’s exactly what Lydia would’ve said?”
He shrugged. “Seriously, dude. I’m doing what I can here but Robin doesn’t save the day. Batman does.”
I took a long pull on the smoke, wishing wildly, suddenly, that I’d just wake up. I’d promise to learn all the lessons that could be learned from this nightmare, to be the man I should’ve always been, if this could just end.
Nothing, not a single thing, changed. Another long pull, then, “Okay. Call Trella. First thing, have her call Nicole White. See if Nicole remembers who the real estate agent was, maybe even where the apartment is.”
“You’re kidding me. You think she’ll tell? Instead of just scream and hang up?”
“No, but if there were a miracle and she did it would be the fastest way. If not, then between you, call every agent you can find. You’re investigating Jim White’s death, you’re looking for an apartment he rented recently.”
“We’re cops?”
“No. You say that, it’s a crime.”
Linus grinned. “Oh, as opposed to what?”
I did my best to smile back. “You’re investigators, don’t use any other word. If they push it, say you work for the insurance company.”
“Like before.”
“Right. Linus?”
“Yeah?”
“You were good. Before.”
A hissed “Yes!” A fist pump. Then a call to Trella, an explanation, and back to the iPhone.
I drove aimlessly around the Village, keeping away from Perry Street and from the Sixth Precinct. Linus made calls, got nowhere, but he was right: It would take a while. Not, I hoped, forever.
I was trying to calm down enough to call Hal Ross, burn his ass for stupidity, get Kevin’s address from him, and cut him loose. I wasn’t sure whether to go to wherever it was Kevin had been living. Chances were he really hadn’t left anything around to give a hint about where he was now. But I was thinking this: how positive are any of us of anything? Now that he knew I knew who he was, could find out where he’d been staying, might he not go back just in case? Check the place, do one last sweep? If he did, I’d have to be the world’s luckiest guy to find him there. If I were, none of this would be happening, so that was out. But even if he’d been and gone already, maybe someone saw something. Which way he went, what he was driving. What the hell else did I have?
So I took out the phone. And it rang as I did. Hal, calling me.
“Hey, buddy.”
I’d have kept my cool, maybe, except for the casualness of that. I blew up: “You stupid fucking bastard!”
“Hey! What the—”
“Kevin knows you were there! Surprise, that’s all I had, and you blasted it for me!” I knew that wasn’t true when I heard myself say it. Kevin’s webcam would have spotted me with Nicole whether or not Hal had played cowboy. In fact, the rational part of me—getting shouted down by the fury, trying to make itself heard—pointed out that Hal’s screwup might have done me a favor. If Kevin had kept quiet once he saw me, I’d have gone on thinking I was getting over on him when I wasn’t. The rational part almost scored a point, but Hal was playing to the other part.
“Oh, fuck you, Charlie! I was a cop, remember? I get info, I check it out!”
“This isn’t your case!”
“No, I got no cases anymore. I just sit on my pension all day. I used to work, but, you know, shit happens.”
“I don’t care, Hal. I don’t care, okay? Your tough life, it doesn’t mean shit to me. My partner, that’s all that matters.”
“Well, your partner’s not at Kevin’s halfway house. Nothing is. Bed, desk, closet with two shirts and a pair of pants, looked like from Goodwill. If Kevin was ever in that room, you can’t tell by looking.”
“Give me the address and go to hell.”
“I don’t think that’s what you want.”
“You’re fucking wrong.”
/> “I’m fucking right.”
“Don’t try—”
“Kevin called me.”
Briefly, I was wordless. “What?”
“Yeah. He said, as long as I was in, I might as well be in. Two assholes are better than one. Besides, he said, he owed me a favor. Since he could see I wanted to play, he put me on your team.”
“I don’t want you.”
“You do. He told me where to find something you do want.”
“What the—”
“And I found it.”
My heart stopped. “What? You found what?”
“Not your partner, if that’s what you’re thinking. A plastic bag. He said you’d know.”
16
HAL LIVED IN what was now Chelsea. Thirty years ago, when he moved in, it had been Hell’s Kitchen. The apartment was a dump; it had been that when he moved in, too. He was waiting when Linus, Woof, and I clattered up the stairs.
“What the fuck’s that?”
“It’s a dog. You have the bag?”
“Keep it away from me.” Hal might’ve gained weight since I saw him last, or he might just be sagging more, his flesh sodden with liquor and years. He moved to his kitchen table, a grimy Formica thing on wobbling metal legs. “Here,” he grunted. “What is this shit?” On one corner of the table, an orange plastic bag. Scattered around, miscellaneous trash: paint chips, a Cub Scout badge, lengths of straw, the chopped-off front half of a Knicks jersey from some seasons back.
“Clues,” I said.
“Clues to what?”
“Kevin’s playing a game.”
“Fucking asshole never changes, huh?”
“Assholes don’t.” I fingered the jersey.
“What are we supposed to do with this shit?”
“Figure out what it means.”
“What does it mean?”
“Jesus, Hal! If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing here.”
“Dude.” Linus pointed to the jersey. “Twenty-one. You think maybe that’s an address? Or the street?”
Hal turned as though he’d just noticed Linus. “Who the hell are you?”
Linus gave me a quick glance, in case I wanted this to go one way or another. “Friend of mine,” I said.
“He got a name?”
“Linus,” said Linus.
“You’re shitting me. Like in Peanuts?”
“No,” Linus said evenly. “Like in Pauling.”
Hal scowled. Either he’d never heard of Linus Pauling, or booze had bleached the name from his memory bank.
I picked up the badge. “This has a number, too. Pack forty-one.”
“So do all these. Different colors of green. With kind of stupid names. ‘Emerald Night.’ ‘Mist o’ Morn.’ ”
“Maybe it’s the names, though.”
Hal tilted his head. “What about the straw? Each one of those got a number, maybe a little tiny name engraved on it?”
“Shut up, Hal. Where did you find these?”
“Fuck you.”
“Where?”
After a second: “On my doorknob.” He went to his fridge, pulled out a Bud.
“What are you doing?”
“Fuck is it to you? You want one?”
“Dude,” Linus said, in a transparent effort to distract me. Whether he was afraid I was about to punch Hal’s lights out, or take him up on his offer, I didn’t know. “Did Mr. Crazy used to be a Cub Scout? This was his troop or whatever?”
Hal said, “It shoulda been me.”
I looked up. “What?”
He popped the beer. “I shoulda put that mutt away. He should be coming after me.”
“Well, you didn’t.”
“Yeah. And you did, big hero.”
“Drop it, Hal.”
“She didn’t want to go with him. The Lin girl. Did you know that?”
“You said it before.”
“She told him she was saving herself for her husband. What the hell did she tell him that shit for?”
“Hal.”
“Can’t tell that shit to Kevin. Guy like that? And hammered like he was that night. He talked about it when he called just now. Like we were reminiscing. ‘Remember, old buddy? How I took that chink chick on her maiden voyage, and Smith tried to nail me to the wall but you did me a big fucking favor, Ross, old buddy?’ I did you a big fucking favor, Smith, not hanging up on the son of a bitch!”
“Hal, put a cork in it.”
“I shoulda stopped him.” He slugged down half the beer. “Fucker. Fucker!”
“Doesn’t matter now. This right here, this is important.”
“Yeah, important,” he muttered. “Because you, you’re a big hero. Me, I’m just a drunk loser. That what you mean?”
“Shut the fuck up and let us think!”
Woof barked, echoing my shout.
Linus said, “Dude.”
And Hal shut up.
But I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think anything, except I was sick of this bullshit. Women dead and dying because Kevin hated me. Lydia’s life, the prize in a game. Clues and cleverness. Hal drunk and wrecked. It was beyond insane, way past horrifying. I wanted to just leave, walk away, run, go far, far, far. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t get out.
“Dude. Dude! Your phone’s ringing.”
I started, came back. It was. What the hell was I doing, spacing out in Hal Ross’s rancid kitchen, staring at trash? The ring was Trella’s. “What’s up?”
“I found it.”
“You—Wait, you found what?”
“Six-seventy-two West Street.”
“The apartment?
“Nicole White told me.”
“Just like that?”
“She’d do anything to catch you guys. She didn’t even ask why I wanted it.”
“Catch us?” It took me a second. “Jesus, Trella, did you say you were a cop?”
“Oops.”
“I told you—”
“He rented it under his own name. Didn’t even try to hide it. She started to cry. Okay, meet you there.”
“No. You and Joey keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Sitting here, waiting for Kevin? He’s not going to show. You know it. She hates him. You’re just trying to keep me out of trouble. I can’t just sit here. It’s driving me bananas.”
“Trella—”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“No.” I rubbed my eyes. “You’re right. But don’t come here. You and Joey head downtown, see if you can spot anywhere that might be likely based on what Lydia told us, in the area of the cell tower Kevin’s calls come through. Basement, areaway that catches some sun—”
“Baby stuff nearby. Got it. Cool.”
“Thanks.” I clicked off, said to Linus, “Let’s go.”
“She told you where?”
“West Street. Close to Jim’s.” I swept up the trash and the bag.
“I’m coming,” Hal said.
“Not a chance. Have a good life.” Linus, Woof, and I exploded out of there.
While I rocketed the car south Linus checked his iPhone. “Six-seventy-two, that’s not any of those numbers. Maybe they add up to that? ’K, anyway, I got the map. Yo, Six-seventy-two West Street, it’s right around the corner from Perry Street. If that Jim White dude was renting it for a girlfriend it sure would be convenient.”
“He wasn’t. I’m sure. He was doing what Kevin told him.”
“Lotta good it did him, huh?” Linus muttered.
I glanced over. This had been a hell of a heavy day for these kids, and it was far from over. “Linus? How’re you holding up?”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, dude. Just about Lydia.”
Silence for a few blocks.
“What about all this stuff?” Linus lifted the plastic bag.
“I don’t know. We can figure it out later.”
“Yeah, but …”
“But what?”
“Well, what if it’s to somewhere else?”
“It’s not.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Or close enough to sure. We didn’t have time for sure.
More silence, unconvinced around the edges. Then a yip from Linus, still working the iPhone: “Dude! Six-seventy-two West, right here, Jim White, nine-C. And dig: it has a name. Greenwich Gardens. All those paint chips, they’re green! You think—”
“I do. I do! Because: Straw, broom: witch.”
“Green witch! Damn! Yes! And the Cub Scout thing, maybe it’s a gardening badge? No. No, dude. It’s not.”
“Doesn’t have to be. Den. Cub Scouts hang around in dens.”
“They do?”
“You were never one?”
“You serious? Okay, but the shirt?”
“The shirt?”
“Knicks. Number twenty-one.”
“That’s Wilson Chandler’s number. No, wait—that shirt’s from years ago. Probably ten years, the season Kevin went in. That would have been … Charlie Ward! Damn, it’s Charlie Ward’s jersey.”
“Uh, so? We’re not looking for Ward-den. Are we?”
“No. Though that would be Kevin’s kind of joke. Prison, you know? But guard-den. Charlie Ward was a guard. Plus,” I added, “the Knicks play at the Garden.”
“Dude.” Linus peered into the plastic bag, closed it up. “I can see why none of you could stand this Kevin freak.”
“You got that right.”
A few blocks later I said, “We need to make a stop.” I pulled up at a hardware store, raced in, found what I needed, out. Back behind the wheel I told Linus, “When we get there, jump out, see if you can find the super’s phone number. It’s usually on a plate by the door. Be fast, I’d rather no one sees you.”
He didn’t ask why I wanted that, but he did ask, “Why am I getting out?”
“You won’t be able to see it from the street.”
“Why aren’t I checking the Web site?”
“What Web site?”
“The building Web site. Where I was on before. How I know it’s called Greenwich Gardens. Your building doesn’t have one? Or maybe it’s not big enough.” That wouldn’t be the reason, but I didn’t say so. “Mostly they do. Tenants chat, complain, hook up, check out what’s going on …” He trailed off, consulting the iPhone, leaving me to my ignorance. “Got it.” He held the phone where I could read it.
