Chapter Thirty-One
Three in the morning at the 73rd precinct was a sight to behold. For his first five years as a cop, Nick drove the streets at the witching hour, witnessing some of the strangest shit known to mankind. One time, a guy had walked around wearing a red turd cutter and an albino snake wrapped around his body in the middle of the damned winter. Another night, he’d broken up a fight between two drunk people, each only three feet tall. One was deaf and the other refused to speak anything but Pig Latin. Ahhh yes, home sweet home…
He moseyed about, people asking what the hell he was doing there at that hour as the damn phone rang off the hook. He only offered a friendly grin and acted as if he’d showed up to finish up some more work. Waltzing inside with blue jeans and a t-shirt on, he tried to blend in and not bring too much damn attention to himself. He slung his black leather jacket over his chair, shuffled some papers around, then stole glances towards the back room… where the little girls lived…
Back room, dark room, deep and hidden…
Hide-and-seek…
Where are you, ‘Doll Collector’?
Where is your Doll House?
My time is running out, isn’t it? Tick Tock… Tick Tock.
He casually got to his feet, grasped his coffee mug, and headed to the break room. While filling the thing up until it almost ran over, he fell into a well of ideas, lost himself in murky thought. He cracked the break room door open, his eyes shifting from one side to the other as he stayed close to the wall, not daring to look anyone in the eye. He spied the discussion area, taking note that the lights were off within. Setting his coffee mug down on a nearby desk, he took a few cautious steps.
He drew closer until he had his hand on the knob and turned it, the steel cool against his palm.
“Uh.” He winced when the door made a slight cracking noise as it broke away from the frame. Taking a deep breath, he slipped inside faster than melted grease down the crack of an oiled ass. Once inside the dark room, he slicked his phone out of his pocket and used it as a light to guide him to the other side.
I can’t take a chance on someone seeing a light on in here… They may come over to try ’nd shut it off.
The scent of stale coffee perfumed the place and a chill remained in the air, as if heat were not allowed in the quarters, be it morning, noon or night. He was certain he’d soon be able to see his own breath. Once he’d reached the other end of the room, he flipped the switch on a small desk lamp that provided minimum light and set his cell phone down.
Do I need to light a fire in here? Damn it!
He brought his hands up to his mouth, blew in hot air, and proceeded. He scanned from left to right, taking notice of every single photo, the new maps, the circles and Xs marking possible suspects—all leads had come up empty, day after day, week after week. He stepped back and grabbed his phone. Taking a quick glance over his shoulder, he looked back at the board and began to snap shot after shot after shot in fast succession. The scribbled notes, the names of the missing girls, the whole shebang. As he wrapped up his information collection, he heard voices approaching.
Fuck!
He quickly dove to the floor and slapped the lamp button, rendering the room pitch black once more. As the door opened, he wiggled backwards into a corner, partially hidden beside a file cabinet.
“You sure you left it in here?” he heard someone ask as they flicked on the light.
“Yeah, had to have been. I looked everywhere else.”
Feet hobbled about, papers shuffled.
He pressed his body as much as he could to the ground, trying desperately to simply blend in. The odds were against him; he was in the lion’s den, and they were trained to smell freshly drawn blood. So, he prayed they’d experienced tremendous lethargy, the punishing kind that only a graveyard shift cop in Crown Heights, Brownsville or East Flatbush could have after breaking up several bar fights that had bled out onto the crime-streaked streets.
Don’t. Fucking. Breathe.
He swallowed his nervousness as rivulets of sweat collected around his brow. He’d never lose his cool on a call, but suddenly, being busted in an area he had no business being in sent his anxiety up into the rafters. He pushed himself further onto the ground.
Yeah… try explaining to them why the fuck you’re in here in the damn dark!
Captain O’Sullivan was no fool. If it got back to his boss he’d been drifting about at that time of night and discovered hiding away, down on his belly like a damn snake, not only would a series of drug tests be thrown his way, he’d be called into the man’s office, asked a bunch of invasive questions, and the shadow of doubt would once again hang over him. Hell, he wasn’t quite convinced it had ever completely left.
Clutching his phone so damn tight, the flesh over his knuckles strained, he danced with his own pulse, nestled in such a tight position, he was certain his ribs would be bruised when it was all said and done. Finally, one of the cops motioned towards the door to leave.
“Hey, it isn’t in here, man. Let’s check the break room.”
They exited, leaving the door partially ajar as they turned the light off. A sliver of light crept through, a beacon like the Statue of Liberty; its torch of brightness guided the way as he crawled across the slick floor on his damn knees, sliding about like some dying desert sidewinder. He felt like a damn fool…and then he paused, flirted with bursting out laughing.
This is so fucking ridiculous! I work here, goddamn it! Shhh! Don’t laugh. God, don’t laugh! Hold it in…
Peering out the door, he witnessed people going back and forth, to and fro. Some cursed under their breath while others talked in loud voices about the mundane. Finally, he saw a clearing. Jumping to his feet, he slid out the door and pressed his shoulder against the wall, dodging the many eyes, just as he’d done in rehab when sneaking off to his girlfriend’s room for a bit of late evening delight…
His pace fast and furious, he returned to the break room and took a few deep breaths, gained his composure. He smiled down at his phone, then slipped it back into his pocket, leaving out the place so fast it was a mystery how a blaze of smoke didn’t form in his wake…
The two computers were positioned side by side like news teleprompters.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, brows dipped, nostrils flared, and a biteful of three-layer leftover lasagna in his mouth. Every day after work for the past three nights, he’d heated up a frozen meal and studied the photos, notes and all shreds of evidence he could muster. The suspect list looked promising, but then any given one would have an ironclad alibi when another abduction would take place. Frustration began with the letter ‘F’ but it wasn’t the only F word floating about on the tip of his tongue. He sighed, fell back onto the bed and ran his hand over his bare chest. His head throbbed as if tiny men were inside, rocking about with jackhammers and drilling to the beat of, ‘We Will Rock You.’ Gingerly sitting back up, he swallowed the rest of his meal, hating the flavor of defeat.
“Goddamn it!” he screamed out, shifting amongst the sheets, feeling the slight strain of his muscles from walking around town, where he’d asked questions and observed… That’s what he did—always observing. Taryn moved next to him; a muffled moan escaped her lips and then, back she drifted in slumber land.
The streets never lied; no, they were notorious for telling God’s honest truth, then laughing about their gruesome confessions. A single blood droplet in the cracks of uneven concrete told an entire tale, as well as a vibrant, white carpet fiber from a rare, imported rug discovered in a cluster of hair of a fresh D.O.A. Life and death were one in the same on the streets, and their stories overlapped, treated like mirror images.
Taryn had set her luggage, still packed, against the wall. He looked at it occasionally, feeling sorry for the woman, who now slept long and hard after she’d arrived on the red eye. He hadn’t had the heart to wake her… but he did have the heart to undress her, spread her legs, eat her pussy, and give a few eager, much nee
ded pumps until he came. She’d cursed at him, laughing, but angry all the same as he didn’t show two fucks of concern—he was out to get his, desperate for the sexual encounter in the worst of ways.
Hell, she’d been gone so long. She should have been thankful he didn’t expect much more in her time of exhaustion.
And now, he was back to square one with this case…
He stared at the computer screens, the photos of the victims’ faces staring back in full resolution. He hated the camera… what had it missed? What was there that he couldn’t see?
Plucking a half full, dented, plastic water bottle from his nightstand, he uncapped the thing and took a long, hard swig. He clicked on another folder; pulled up the notes he’d taken photos of.
- Missing Person: Denise Austin – Age: 9 Race: African American
- Missing Person: Veronica Davis – Age: 10 Race: African American
- Missing Peron: Casey Greene – Age: 10 Race: Caucasian
- Missing Person: Niecee Pierce – Age: 11 Race: African American
And so it continued.
Deciding to go back to the maps, he looked closely at the locations of the abductions.
Okay, right here we’ve got Linden Boulevard… three disappearances. That’s smack dab between Brownsville and East Flatbush… Over here we’ve got Livonia Street; here we’ve got Lott Avenue… Right here we’ve got… Liberty Avenue… ‘L’…. not every street he’s done abductions in starts with an L, though… but a lot of them do… he collects. Like Oliver said, he likes order, pretty things… all of these streets, minus a couple, are border streets to larger mainlines…
Oliver was right; he probably shops right outside the… dollhouse. Yeah, let’s call it the dollhouse, for sure. He shops right outside of it, keeps his menagerie clean and neat, on display. So, if Oliver’s theory is true, where would a collector stay? Not far from his collection… He holds it too dear. He would be close, but somewhat removed… like a God… a Creator, right? He is not poor, but far from rich. He is comfortable around minorities… people know him. He is trustworthy…
I bet his ass stays on a street that begins with a damn ‘L’!
He pulled out a street map from his drawer, unfolded the damn thing, and spread it out across the bed.
He’s between the ages of thirty and forty, right? Yeah… he’s established, but strong. L…L… Linden Boulevard!
He stabbed the damn map, as if needing to draw blood from the thing.
Linden Boulevard is a main drag. It crosses through two boroughs—Brooklyn and Queens. This is perfect… he can shop for his dolls at various locations, but have an easy way in and out…
Dolls… I bet he is on the Queens side… He has a thing for order and categorization—got that. He steals from Brooklyn, but resides in Queens… His majesty takes his collection to Queens… He is on the Queens side!
Nick continued to scour the map, his brain moving a mile a minute. He knew the area like the back of his hand, after spending too much time loitering and hanging out there with his buddies as an adolescent, year after year.
Hide- and- go -seek… Time is running out… Tick Tock… Tick Tock…
He watches along Kings Highway… Yes! He lives in Queens, steals from Brownsville—Brownsville, brown girls… brown girl collection… Watches over the area like a King… Jesus Christ! That’s it!
He grabbed the map, hopped off the bed, and raced to his closet. His hangers swung frantically as he ripped off a shirt from one and his jacket from the other.
“Whu… what are you doing?” Taryn sat up, the black spaghetti strap of her silky gown sliding down her arm. She sluggishly rubbed her eyes, barely able to keep them open.
“Go back to sleep, baby… Gotta take care of something.” He huffed as he struggled to get his damn pants on.
“Where are you…” She yawned. “Where are you going?”
“Not sure yet, but I’ll call you.” He ran to her, kissed the top of her head, then raced out the bedroom.
Tick…Tock… The clock was moving…
The flames too high to douse…
Little brown dolls—he wants to collect them all…
And place them in his dollhouse.
Tick… Tock… who’s there?
Tiptoeing and re-routing his vector,
Tick tock, tick tock
It’s the King, in Queens, Collector…
Nick sat in his parked car near Aqueduct Racetrack in Queens, scoping the damn place. He’d pulled his black scull cap down on his forehead, almost covering his eyebrows. A few renegade strands of hair stuck out along the sides, tickling his ear every now and again. Arms crossed, he sat, observed, and contemplated. His intuition was a hell of a drug, a thing of beauty if he said so himself. He’d already accessed the police database and received stats on all single, white male residents living within the radius. The number was unsurprisingly small. Armed with only home addresses, he made his rounds until he ended up right there, by the racetracks, sorting through his thoughts. There had been an increase in abductions as of late, and this sent Nick into high gear. He reached for the handle, got out of his car, and locked it. The area looked rather desolate at six in the morning, though a good show of school buses moved about.
Reaching into his pocket, he removed a piece of sugarless gum, unwrapped the thing, and popped it into his mouth. Chewing briskly, he turned from side to side, thinking… thinking…thinking…
Silver car… Impala…
None fitting that description were registered to any of the white men in the area.
Maybe it was a rental…
He pulled his cell phone out, shuddering from the unseasonably cool morning.
“Yeah, Mike, hey, how are you?”
“I’m good, Nick. You bringing donuts in this morning? It’s your turn, you know.”
Nick chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll bring some donuts. Hey, need a favor.”
“What’s up?”
“I need a list of all the rental car areas in Queens and Brownsville that have rented out any white or silver Chevrolet Impalas in the last six months.”
“You think I got nothing better else to do, huh? You think I’m just sitting here waiting on your beck and call?” The guy laughed.
“I thought we had a good thing going, so yeah, I figured you were sitting there thinking, ‘I wonder what favors I can do for my main man, Vitale!’”
“You rat bastard… you owe me. I’ll give you the information when you get in this morning.”
“Need it faster than that… Need it in, like, ten minutes, so get some other guys to help you, too.”
“What? Are you serious?! What are you doing, huh? What’s going on?”
“Can’t say just yet, just tryna figure it out and oh, do me another favor?”
“You’re pushin’ your luck, Vitale.”
“I know, I know… Keep this under your hat, okay? Don’t say it’s for me.”
“We’re friends and you helped me a few times over the years so I’ll do you a solid this one time! Where are you going to get the pastries? I have a request.”
“Name it.” Nick smirked.
“Go to Tit-For-Tat, okay? They’ve got real good apple fritters.”
“I thought you were on a diet? Don’t you want some bagels and lox? Maybe an egg white omelet… some shit like that,” Nick teased.
“No, you son of a bitch, I want the shit packed with calories and sugar and then I want a big ass cup of Starbucks coffee, too… I’ve been up all night!”
“I don’t have time to stop at Starbucks, man! Drink the fuckin’ Folgers! What? You think you’re special or something? Folgers too good for you?”
“Do you want these rental car records or not?”
“You got me over a fuckin’ barrel…” He grimaced. “Alright, deal, you greedy bastard.”
“And get four coffees, not just one ’cause I gotta pull three other guys to help me. You owe us all… this will be damn near impossible.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m calling back in fifteen minutes exactly and if you don’t have the information, all you’re getting is a kick in the teeth.” And then he disconnected the call…
Nick stood outside the single-family home at Ozone Park in Queens, New York. The white house with wine-colored awnings looked inconspicuous, the kind of residence no one would give a second glance to. There was nothing particularly interesting or off-putting about the place. Rather, it appeared nondescript and mundane with the white fence surrounding the house, protecting it from the outside world. The faded green lawn had been cut evenly, flat topped, as if done with a magical pair of sheers. The scene didn’t look much like a showcase area, a place to create a display.
…But I bet he likes to stay low-key…
A Mr. Christopher Allen lived there…
The suspect had rented a silver Impala several times in the last few months, as well as other cars he switched between. His license was valid, his record squeaky clean like a damn rubber ducky. The man now rented a white Nissan, which was parked in the skinny serving of driveway leading to his place.
Nick sniffed the air; the scent of car exhaust imbued the area. He moved an arm instinctively to his leg, feeling the slight pressure from his .40 caliber. A television satellite dish was mounted onto the roof, and the white shingles appeared worn from harsh weather. As he stepped a bit closer, he took note of the window treatments. Snow white, bulky, possibly costly. All curtains were drawn shut, with the exception of two that were open enough to afford a glance within—as if just beyond them lay a display worthy of being peeked at, and inviting a person close enough to see… Still, he stood too far away to make it all out.
Outside is nothing magical, right? The outside is where all the filth stays. Inside is where the party happens, huh? Chris, are you the King, baby? Collecting brown dolls from my stomping grounds? Are you stealing from my hood?
In the Nick of Time Page 60
