New York Night

by Stephen Leather

  Flames pointed off to the right. ‘Warehouse two blocks down. Used for long-term storage. He’d been dead two days before anyone found him.’

  ‘Cut to pieces, they said,’ said one of the guys standing next to Flames.

  ‘Not literally, though, right?’ said Nightingale.

  The boy frowned, not understanding.

  ‘I mean he was cut, but not chopped up.’

  ‘I heard he was chopped into little bits,’ said the boy.

  ‘Nah, said Flames, he’s right. He was cut. Lots of cuts. But the body was in one piece.’

  ‘Any thoughts on who might do that?’ asked Perez.

  Flames threw the ball from hand to hand. ‘I dunno, you hear about the Colombians doing shit like that, but around here drug dealers use guns. Everyone uses guns. Who the fuck uses a knife? You bring a knife to a gun fight and you’re fucked.’

  ‘The place where Leon died, he was familiar with it?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Sure, I guess so.’

  ‘So he could have gone there willingly?’ Flames frowned, not following what Nightingale was getting at. ‘I mean someone wouldn’t have had to point a gun at him to get him there.’

  ‘He’d have had to have broken in, but he wouldn’t have had a problem with that.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Back in the day Leon was a housebreaker. He was a small kid so he could crawl in through open windows, shit like that. When he got older he moved up to locks and stuff but he got caught when he was what, thirteen or fourteen and they put him on a scared straight program where they take kids into prisons and show them what life is like inside. It worked, he’s been on the straight and narrow ever since.’

  A police cruiser prowled by, a white car with a blue and a yellow stripe across the doors. The occupants, both male and wearing dark glasses, looked over at them and Flames and his friends scattered.

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘Do you want to tell me what just happened?’ asked Nightingale as they walked back to her car. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Whup his arse at netball.’

  ‘Three older brothers and a hoop in the driveway,’ she said. ‘The deal with my brothers was that they’d only do their share of their chores if I beat them at hoops. And we don’t call it netball. It’s basketball.’

  ‘It was…impressive.’

  She grinned over at him. ‘My detective skills you ignore, I shoot a few hoops and you get a hard on. You’re such a guy.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be.’

  They got into the car and Perez started the engine. ‘You think these cases are connected, don’t you?’ she asked,

  ‘They’re similar.’

  ‘How are they similar?’ asked Perez. ‘Leon Budd was a black male from the Philadelphia streets, Kate Walker was a white girl from Forest Hills.’

  ‘Similar because of the way they died. Cut to pieces.’

  ‘But if you’re looking for a connection, usually the connection comes via the victim. I don’t see that the same killer would kill a black male in Philadelphia and a white female in Queens. Geographically it doesn’t make sense, victim profile-wise it doesn’t make sense either.’ She sighed and threw up her hands. ‘None of this makes any sense.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘You know as much as I do.’

  She flashed him a sarcastic smile. ‘I doubt that.’

  Nightingale shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  ‘What aren’t you telling me, Jack? If I knew, maybe I could help.’

  ‘I’m just sure the two cases are connected.’

  ‘I know. You said. That’s why we’re here. But I don’t see any connection. Other than the fact that the bodies were both stabbed and mutilated. You tell me there’s a connection but I don’t see it. Which means either there isn’t a connection or you’re not telling me something. That’s your right, of course. You call him Joshua and to me he’s Mr Wainwright so I’m guessing he tells you more than he tells me. Which is fine.’

  ‘I need a drink,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘I didn’t say you needed a drink. I said I did.’

  ‘Okay, but not here, the valet parking is extortionate.’ She put the car in gear and drove to a more upmarket area with quaint shops and bustling restaurants. She found a free parking space and they walked to a bar in a side street that offered craft beers and a Happy Hour for cocktails. They went inside, slid onto stools and ordered drinks from a matronly waitress,

  ‘So what aren’t you telling me, Jack?’ said Perez.

  ‘I don’t know much more than you, cross my heart.’

  ‘You keep telling me that the two cases are connected, but I don’t see it. Two different cities, completely different victims who can’t possibly have known each other.’

  ‘It’s the way they were killed that ties them together,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I had figured that out for myself,’ said Perez. ‘It’s the only thing the two deaths have in common. But there are close to two thousand knife murders a year in the US and they’re not all connected.’

  ‘The mutilations,’ said Nightingale. ‘They are quite specific, some of them. Not random.’

  The waitress returned with a bottled beer for Nightingale and a glass of red wine for Perez. They stayed silent as she placed the drinks down in front of them and then gave them a bowl of peanuts.

  ‘Excessive,’ said Perez as the waitress walked away to deal with another customer. ‘Brutal. Over the top. Yes, I get that.’

  Nightingale took a long pull on his beer. ‘It’s more than that, Cheryl. The cuts were done to conceal something else. A sigil.’

  Perez frowned. ‘A what?’

  ‘A mark. A devil’s mark. A calling card.’

  Perez screwed up her face. ‘Jack, I’ve seen both sets of crime scenes. There were marks on the bodies but they were different. There was no similarity other than that there were a lot of cuts and stabs. And in Kate’s case Donaldson left the knife, in Leon’s case the killer took the knife with him.’

  ‘Or her,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What?’ said Perez. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean we don’t know if Leon’s killer was a man or a woman.’

  ‘So you don’t think Matthew Donaldson killed Leon?’

  Nightingale shook his head.

  ‘Then you are confusing the hell out of me because if there’s no connection between the victims and two different killers in different cities – how are they connected?’ She drained her glass and put it down in front of her.

  ‘I told you. The sigils. The marks.’

  ‘The marks are different.’

  ‘Yes, they are different. But they’re both sigils. Different sigils, but sigils nonetheless.’ He took another pull on his beer. ‘Say you found a body with the letter A carved into it. And a few weeks later found another body with the letter C. Wouldn’t you start looking for a victim with a B?’

  Perez cursed and waved at the waitress. She came over and Perez ordered another glass of red wine.

  ‘You’re driving, remember,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, and if you don’t open up to me I’ll be driving back to Manhattan on my own,’ she said. ‘You’re telling me that both Kate and Leon had these sign things carved into the bodies, and that the rest of the cuts were to cover them up.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And who would do that?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘That’s the $64,000 question, isn’t it? I think Leon must have known his killer. He took off his clothes, same as Kate did. And he was a tough kid, grew up on some mean streets and wasn’t afraid of standing up to drug dealers, so I’m guessing if he had the chance to fight back he would have. I think like Kate he went willingly. He knew whoever it was who killed him and right up until the last
minute he had no idea what was happening.’

  ‘So we’ve got two similar murders – similar in the way the victims were killed – happening a hundred miles apart and with different killers?’

  ‘I know it sounds unlikely, but yes.’

  ‘And these marks you say are there, they’re what? Signals?’

  ‘Sigils.’

  The waitress brought over Perez’s fresh glass of wine and asked Nightingale if he was ready for another beer. He shook his head and she smiled and left them in peace.

  Perez took a gulp of wine. ‘Devil marks, you said.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Satanists believe that every devil has a mark. A special mark that can be used to summon them.’

  ‘Satanists? You mean devil-worshipers?’

  Nightingale nodded.

  ‘But that’s nonsense, right? The only cases of Satanism I’ve come across are when perps use it as an excuse. “The devil made me do it” and all that crap.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter whether it’s true or not,’ said Nightingale. ‘What matters is whether or not the killers believe it.’

  ‘Okay, but if two killers a hundred miles apart are killing in the same way, there has to be a connection right?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘So if the victims didn’t know each other, maybe the killers did?’

  ‘That’s a possibility.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  Nightingale shrugged and drank his beer.

  ‘And what’s the Charlie Charlie connection?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t seem surprised when Flames mentioned it.’

  ‘It’s a thing among schoolkids.’

  ‘Is it part of this devil worship thing?’

  ‘Charlie Charlie is a game. You can’t summon devils with it.’

  ‘How do you know so much about it?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘I know bits and pieces. And one thing I know is that Charlie Charlie is a game, nothing more.’

  She took another gulp of wine. ‘I thought you might be going to tell me that Charlie Charlie is the link. That it’s Charlie doing the killings. How crazy is that?’

  ‘There is no Charlie Charlie. It’s a game.’

  ‘So it’s just a coincidence that Katy and Leon were involved in it?’

  Nightingale screwed up his face. ‘That’s where it gets complicated,’ he said.

  ‘So it is a connection?’

  ‘I don’t think for one minute that a being called Charlie Charlie is behind the killings. That would be ridiculous, obviously. But it suggests there’s something going on, doesn’t it? Both victims have sigils carved on the bodies. Both were involved in the Charlie Charlie game. Both found inside, in places where they probably went voluntarily.’

  ‘And both victims lost someone close to them recently.’ She sipped her wine thoughtfully. ‘So they were both grieving. Could they have gone to the same grief councillor? Been consoled by the same priest?’

  ‘I don’t get the feeling that either of them were religious,’ said Nightingale. ‘And again, they were a hundred miles apart.’

  ‘So what next?’ asked Perez.

  ‘Hand on heart, I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let me sleep on it.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Nightingale waited until he had showered in the executive bathroom before phoning Joshua Wainwright. He had no idea where in the world Wainwright was, but the Texan answered on the fifth ring and sounded bright and breezy. Nightingale quickly brought him up to speed about the two murders.

  ‘So it’s definitely about the sigils?’ said Wainwright.

  ‘Yes. Kate Walker was using a Ouija board and I’m pretty sure that was how she got involved. And Leon Budd was using Charlie Charlie. Kate Walker was killed by a teenager called Matthew Donaldson and he was taken to a priest because his parents thought he was possessed.’

  ‘Have you identified the sigils yet?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘You know what you have to do, Jack. You need to talk to Proserpine. She’s the only one who can tell us what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘I’m on it, Joshua.’

  ‘The sooner the better, Jack.’

  ‘I hear you. There’s something else I have to tell you. Perez knows about the sigils.’

  ‘You told her?’

  ‘I didn’t have any choice. She’s not stupid, she knew I was keeping something from her and it was going to screw up our relationship. If she doesn’t trust me she’s not going to help me.’

  ‘She’s a hired hand. She’ll do what she’s paid to do.’

  ‘I know that. But I couldn’t keep lying to her.’

  Wainwright chuckled. ‘It’s not a problem, Jack. I assumed you’d have to tell her at some point. She’s a smart cookie. I just figured that if she got the news organically she’d deal with it better, rather than springing it on her from Day One. How are you two getting on?’

  ‘She’s a good operator.’

  ‘She is that. Just don’t tell her too much, though. She was always going to have to know about the sigils, but other than that you need to keep your cards – and mine - close to your chest.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘And how close are they to catching this Donaldson kid?’

  ‘They reckon it won’t be long.’

  ‘Keep me posted, Jack. And watch your back.’ The line went dead and Nightingale stared at the cellphone. ‘I intend to, Joshua,’ he muttered.

  CHAPTER 24

  Nightingale was sitting in a diner a short walk from the office block waiting for his scrambled eggs and ham when his phone rang. It was Perez. ‘I found Dee-anne,’ she said. ‘Actually I found four Dee-annes but only one who’s the right age.’

  ‘Well done you,’ said Nightingale. ‘How many people did you have to beat at netball to get the information?’

  ‘Netball? Will you stop calling it that?’

  ‘That’s what we call it in England,’ said Nightingale. ‘Netball. It’s a girls game. Same as girls play rounders.’

  ‘Rounders?’

  ‘You call it baseball.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be trying to insult the colleague who has spent most of the morning doing your legwork.’

  The waitress returned with his order and placed it on the table in front of him. He smiled his thanks.

  ‘So do you want to go out to Philly again? I’ve got an address.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Nightingale, picking up his fork. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘Breakfast? It’s half past nine, I’ve been in the office since eight.’

  Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘I didn’t have a great night, the sofa bed isn’t that comfortable.’

  ‘You’re breaking my heart. When and where shall I pick you up?’

  ‘I’ll be outside the office in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Perfect. Get me a coffee and we’re even.’

  Nightingale was late. Perez was already sitting in her car with her flashers on when Nightingale hurried up with two coffee containers. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You Brits really can’t stop apologising, can you?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He laughed and put the coffees in the holders as she pulled away from the curb.

  The traffic was heavier than the first time they had driven to Philadelphia and this time the trip took just under three hours. Dee-anne Alexander lived in a public housing block about half a mile from Leon Budd’s home. It was a featureless brick building some twelve stories high, one of four in a row. Perez parked in a supermarket car park some distance away and Nightingale didn’t need to ask why. She handed him a computer print out. ‘Mum’s Jamaican originally, dad was white, ran off when mum was pregnant. Mum’s since had three more kids with three different fathers. The last one has hung around. Todd Sanders. Dee-anne’s enrolled at the Community College of Philadelphia. That’s the same place Leon went to. She’s st
udying part time.’

  ‘You think she’s home now?’

  ‘Thought we’d try here first then head over to the college.’

  Nightingale smoked a cigarette as they walked to the block.

  ‘How many do you smoke in a day?’ asked Perez.

  ‘It depends. A pack, maybe. Sometimes less, sometimes more. It depends on what I’m doing. The number of places you can smoke is being cut back every year so it’s more a case of lighting up when I can.’ He smiled as he recognised the hunger in her eyes. ‘You used to smoke?’

  ‘Gave up five years ago,’ she said.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to die of lung cancer like my grandpa.’

  ‘To be fair, one in six people who die of lung cancer have never smoked.’

  ‘Grandpa was a pack a day man. He rolled his own.’

  ‘But a lot of smokers do just fine. Swings and roundabouts.’

  ‘Swings and roundabouts?’ she sneered. ‘Where are the positives?’

  Nightingale grinned and held up his cigarette. ‘Smokers look so darn cool.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says teenage girls all over the world. Plus they taste good. Plus they give me a lift. Coffee and cigarettes, the breakfast of champions.’

  ‘You’re crazy, you know that?’

  Nightingale shrugged and took a long pull on his cigarette.

  There was a keypad by the side of the door to get inside the building but they only had to wait a couple of minutes before a young woman with a baby in a stroller opened the door from the inside. Nightingale held the door open for her and she smiled her thanks. They went inside where there were three elevators, all spray-painted with graffiti. ‘I really don’t want to go up in the lift,’ said Nightingale. ‘Elevator. Whatever. I’ll take the stairs.’

  ‘What is it with you and elevators?’

  ‘I just don’t like them, It’s no big deal.’

  ‘The apartment is on the tenth floor, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll meet you up there.’ He pushed open the fire door and headed up the concrete stairs. Perez shook her head in amazement and pressed the button to call the elevator.