The Screaming Room

by Thomas O'Callaghan

  “So what’s your point?”

  “You know how far Mexico is from where the pope lives? The guy reaches clear across the planet after sixty years? That says nobody’s safe. Think about it. The feds take down an astronaut for trawlin’ the Web and the Vatican’s main man calls for a replay on one of his own. No. Body. Is. Safe. That Driscoll guy tracked us down to Carbondale, for Chrissake!”

  “We got outta there just in time. How’d you know?”

  “’Cause Big Brother is everywhere.”

  “Carbondale?”

  “Everywhere. And it’s only gonna get worse. We’re on the run now with a million-dollar bull’s-eye painted on our asses. We gotta hurry and set up a new Web si—”

  Holy shit! He froze in the middle of a freaking word. “Angus, are you okay? Angus?” He’d never done that before. Cassie thought he’d passed out with his eyes open. Until a smile said otherwise.

  “I know that look. What is it? Whad’ya come up with?”

  His smile broadened.

  “Ya gonna tell me? C’mon, I’m bustin’!”

  “We’re not gonna need a Web site, Cass.”

  “No?”

  “Not even a phone.”

  Chapter 61

  The Mayor held the handset away from his ear and let Shewster rant. When it stopped reverberating, he returned to the line. “May I speak now?”

  “Go ahead,” Shewster barked. “But I’d better like what you’re going to tell me.”

  “Rest assured the city of New York is not about to bargain with murderers. What the Lieutenant will get out of this is an intricately carved Native American trinket. Nothing more. I doubt very much that the kids themselves believed their peace-pipe gambit would garner absolution. They’re good at playing games. Our belief, the Lieutenant and I, is that both the pipe and the e-mail were meant as distractions. Give them a chance to regroup. We also don’t think they have any intention of stopping. They’re nuts, for Chrissake!”

  “Look, Reirdon. I want to make this point crystal clear. I don’t want to ever read in the papers that you’ve collared these bastards. What I want to read is that they’re dead. Dead. You got that?”

  “I can’t promise you that. C’mon. This isn’t Dodge City. Vigilante violence is a crime.”

  “Not where I come from!”

  “Mr. Shewster, you have to let…Mr. Shewster? Malcolm? Hello? Hello? Are you there?”

  Chapter 62

  It was nearing 6:00 A.M. Driscoll had just arrived, early for the morning shift. He put on a fresh pot of coffee, adjusted the blinds, and took a seat behind his desk. Pushing an assortment of the paperwork to the side, along with three messages from the chief of detectives marked “Update,” he reached for the folder Margaret had left for him. It was labeled: INTERPOL. Opening it, he discovered she had highlighted the important information in yellow. He wasn’t surprised to learn the pair from Germany and Yen Chan of Japan had contacted the twins on their disposable phone. What he was hoping the report contained he found on page three. Not only had Margaret highlighted it but also it was underlined in red. He smiled as he read the editorial she had penciled next to the twins’ cyber link: “TwoNaughtyFreaks. Some name for a Web site. I’m sure they had the old man to thank for that one.—M.”

  His phone rang.

  “Driscoll, here.”

  “You get it?” Margaret asked.

  “Just opened it. Where are you?”

  “Ten minutes out.”

  “Good. Thomlinson’s on his way in, too. It’s time for the three of us to discuss strategy. There’s been a new development.”

  Margaret was already seated inside the Lieutenant’s office when Thomlinson appeared at the door.

  “Come in, Cedric.”

  Thomlinson did and sidled up next to Margaret.

  “You may have already seen or heard about this.” Driscoll passed them a copy of the morning’s Daily News. Its headline read: JUSTICE SEEKER RAISES BOUNTY TO THREE MILLION. “I’ve read the article. It doesn’t shed any light as to why an anonymous justice seeker has raised the ante. Shewster obviously wants them found in a hurry. But not necessarily alive.”

  Thomlinson raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s likely New York has its own vigilante in Shewster seeking revenge-seeking twins. That, according to the Honorable William “Sully” Reirdon, who called me last night, a tad concerned. Seems he got a call from the man. Shewster doesn’t want them caught. He wants them dead.”

  “And we know why,” said Thomlinson. “He doesn’t want Abigail’s fondness for kinky sex revealed by the twins.”

  “Kinky doesn’t quite cut it,” said Margaret. “It’s perverse.”

  “Whatever you wanna call it, Shewster’s got one foot on Gweneth’s grave, the other foot on Abigail’s grave, and he’s looking to get the twins in his crosshairs,” said Driscoll.

  “Does Reirdon know that Shewster has both feet on one grave?” asked Thomlinson. “Or is it just us civil servants who know Gwen and Abie are one and the same?”

  “I doubt the Mayor’s aware. Just to play it safe, I left him out of the loop. He is a politician.”

  “That puts a sniper between us and the twins,” said Margaret. “With no way of predicting which way he’ll shoot.”

  “Nor do we know who that shooter might be,” said Driscoll. “Shewster will have an infantry of yes-men to choose from. Now, although our new initiative falls under the heading of prevention, I’m not enlisting anyone from the department’s Crime Prevention Section. The fewer people we involve, the better. We’ll be shadowing a man who’s got the home phone number of a horde of political honchos and he’ll go to any length to keep his secret buried. When I met with the Greyhound bus operator who ID’d the kids as coming down from Carbondale, he told me someone other than NYPD had returned the call he placed to the Tip Line. Who that was will likely remain a mystery. But on whose behalf had he placed the call? Three million fingers point to Shewster. It could have been the man, himself, but I doubt it. When it comes to selecting someone to take down the twins, he may not use a phone. The likelihood is he’ll call him at some point along the way, so we’ll trace his calls.”

  “You’ll need a warrant, no?”

  “Why? The president didn’t need one to eavesdrop on millions of Americans. Besides, this is a crime prevention measure. We’re not likely to have to use it in court.”

  “It amazes me what these guys in the White House get away with. George Bush listens in on unsuspecting citizens, across the nation, and Bill Clinton gives new significance to the O in Oval office. Then claims it doesn’t constitute sex.” Margaret shook her head.

  “Let’s not forget JFK,” said Thomlinson.

  “Kennedy was lucky. Back in those days reporters kept their noses out of the bedroom.”

  “Too bad. Marilyn Monroe coulda used a paparazzi aiming a lens or two on her boudoir. Coulda prevented her suicide, or homicide if you think like a Republican.”

  “You guys finished?” asked Driscoll.

  They both nodded.

  “Good. I just got off the horn with Danny O’Brien over at TARU.” Driscoll was referring to NYPD’s Technical Assistance Response Unit. “He’ll get someone inside the hotel to tap the room’s land phone wires. He’s got a triangulater for his cell phone and a Global Positioning System for his Lincoln with your name on them. I’ll leave it to you, Cedric, to get it attached to his limo, set up the parallel tails, and coordinate the tracking through encrypted radio communication with TARU. Any new players show up on his ‘let’s go visit’ list, Danny will supply us with a GPS to tag onto them.” Driscoll turned his attention to Margaret. “I want you to get back to everyone we’ve spoken to. Your friends at the circus. The night watchman from that halfway house on Staten Island. Father what’s-his-name who introduced us to that halfwit Luxworth. Speak to the girl at the photo shop on Montague and our contacts in Carbondale. Touch base with the bus operator again. It couldn’t hurt. We wanna know if any of t
hem had anyone asking questions about the twins or their involvement. If they did, get all there is to know on who did the asking. And let’s not forget Kyle Ramsey. You’ll wanna meet with him in person. Let him know his photos are ready and, when this is all over, he can expect a visit from me.”

  “You know what’s the best part of an operation like this?” said Thomlinson, his eyebrows doing a dance reminiscent of Groucho Marx.

  “This I wanna hear,” said Margaret.

  “I mean, ya gotta respect a satellite-based navigation system that helped take down Scott Peterson for the murder of his wife. And I’m all in favor of a law that says we can use it at will to track the movement of a car ’cause its driver has no reasonable expectation of privacy while driving on a public thoroughfare. No. No breach of the Fourth Amendment there. And who’s not to marvel over a designer ankle bracelet with a GPS chip for the likes of Martha Stewart?” His eyebrows did their dance again as he reached for a cigar. “No, I’m in favor of the operation ’cause it means I get to spend a couple of hours alongside the vivacious Leticia Hollander over at CyberCentral.”

  “For what?”

  “To brush up on my hi-tech tracking skills.”

  “You dog. You’ve run hundreds of satellite shadows.”

  “She doesn’t know that.”

  Chapter 63

  While Buju Banton was making reggae magic with Bogle, which was blaring through Thomlinson’s four-by-four’s six Jensen speakers, the detective had his eyes fastened on the rear of Shewster’s Lincoln that sat curbside outside Angelo’s Salumeria on Mott Street in Little Italy. Thomlinson figured either Shewster or his limo driver had a yen for fresh mozzarella.

  “Purchase complete,” Thomlinson said, sitting upright, watching the regally dressed driver return to the stretch limo. “Buju, we’re on the prowl again!” Turning the key in the Jeep’s ignition, he resumed the tail.

  Installing the GPS device to the frame of Shewster’s vehicle would be a breeze. Two high-powered magnets would see to that. The challenge for Thomlinson was getting it done without being seen.

  “This should take awhile,” he said, watching the Lincoln glide in next to the Mobil gas pump. The driver got out of the car and inserted a credit card in the pump’s slot and proceeded to fill the tank. Thomlinson glanced at the foot-high numbers posted under the Mobil red, white, and blue logo.

  He shook his head. “Shewster’s not gonna like that charge. No sir. Three sixty-nine for high test is liable to break the bank!”

  He wouldn’t swear to it, sitting a hundred feet from the station, but when the driver replaced the gas nozzle, Thomlinson thought he read $73.36 as the total purchase.

  “No sir. Ol’ Shewster’s not gonna like that one bit,” he said, reengaging the starter and falling in behind the gas-guzzling limo.

  It was close to 7:15 P.M. before Thomlinson’s unwavering pursuit offered an opportunity to do the deed. He’d been figuring the Town Car would disappear behind some high-wired security gate, which he would then need to outwit to get to his target. Though he was prepared for the possibility, the limo driver’s appetite saved him the bother. He followed as the Lincoln turned right into the parking lot of a Red Lobster eatery on Sunrise Highway. He was willing to bet the vehicle didn’t end up there too often when Shewster was seated in the back.

  He watched as the driver got out from behind the wheel, closed the door, and used a key remote to activate the vehicle’s alarm. Thomlinson thought that a good sign. Had he been going in for takeout, he may not have set the alarm.

  Thomlinson loved defensive parkers. They always parked at the end of a row, away from other vehicles, in the spot furthest from the restaurant. Very often they took up two spots. That wasn’t the case for the limo, but it was parked at the end of a row and a good distance from the entrance to the lobster lover’s paradise.

  Not only was the view of the limo obscured when Thomlinson sidled the Jeep next to it, but his body going horizontal, his armed stretching under the vehicle, went unnoticed as well.

  Thomlinson looked at his watch. He hadn’t eaten since noon and was tempted to go inside for a bite, but got back in the Jeep instead. Why? Because Detective Second Grade Cedric Franz Thomlinson was allergic to shellfish.

  Chapter 64

  When his cell phone rang, Driscoll was getting out of the shower. Wrapping himself in a towel, he followed the ringing to its source, tracking wet footprints across a hardwood floor.

  “Driscoll, here.”

  “Catch you at a bad time?” It was Margaret.

  “No. Why?”

  “You sound annoyed.”

  “I’m not. Whaddya got?”

  “I spent most of yesterday afternoon and part of last night getting back to our sources. It appears Shewster got into the game only when Ted Clarkson came into the picture. I spoke to the bus driver. After you left him he got a call from a woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yup. Said she had been instructed to call him after seven P.M., which coincides with what he told you.”

  “Interesting. The call he had gotten before I arrived was from a man. Or so he thought.”

  “Guess Shewster’s an equal opportunity employer.”

  “What’d he tell her?”

  “You must of coached this guy good. He told her he had already spoken to a Lieutenant Driscoll and gave her your number. She got a little pushy. Said since a bundle of cash was riding on it, her boss required lots of paperwork, background checks, and follow-up calls.”

  “Cute. She tell him who her boss was?”

  “Being stupid must have ranked high on Shewster’s ‘Don’t You Dare’ list. Clarkson got a little pissed off by what he called, and I quote, ‘her you’d-better-buy-this-life-insurance policy-or-else attitude,’ and told her again to call you.”

  “Glad I picked up the tab for the crullers.”

  “Crullers?”

  “You had to of been there.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, his allegiance to you cut off any calls to our friends in Carbondale. No life insurance tactics applied up there.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Stop by a Dunkin’ Donuts shop, pick up a dozen crullers, and deliver them to Clarkson. Tell him there’s three million more in the oven.”

  “You have coffee yet?”

  “No.”

  “When you do, make it decaf.”

  Chapter 65

  The officer who handled incoming calls to the Twentieth Precinct West Eighty-second Street was used to receiving crank calls. The Twentieth averaged fifteen to twenty a month. Considering the advances in telephone technology and the availability of caller ID, not to mention the capabilities of the police in that regard, you would think oddballs who liked to cry wolf would smarten up.

  That’s what Officer Stephen Turley thought he had received from a very excited female. She claimed to work at PC Haven, on West Fifty-seventh near Tenth, and said he’d been to the store. When asked who she meant by “he,” she clammed up and said she didn’t want to discuss it by phone, thought maybe she should talk to a lawyer. Mucho dinero was on the line, she told him, and she didn’t want to foul up her chances of collecting the reward. When Turley asked what she meant by that, she said, “You’re kiddin’, right? Where’re ya from? Mars?” That remark angered him. Rather than making it personal or go on listening to her gibberish, he told the loon he’d have someone look into it. After hanging up, he had a chance to think more clearly, without her punctuating everything she told him with “Oh! My God!” According to his monitor, the call had come in from PC Haven. That much was legit. Roll call for the past couple of months had included a directive to be cognizant of the murderous spree of a set of homicidal twins with a huge bounty on their heads. Not that he needed to be reminded every morning—he was a native New Yorker and was well aware of the twin psychos and the reward offered for their capture. Nah. Couldn’t be, he thought. But after replaying the conversation in his h
ead, he decided better safe than sorry. She had called the right precinct for Fifty-seventh and Tenth. He called it in to Dispatch.

  He stared at the phone, lost to thought. He’d been to that PC Haven. He tried to fit a face to the caller. Nothing. No big deal, he thought, when the responding officer returned to the house, he’d find out who it was that suggested he came from Mars. He picked up the newspaper, and being a sports enthusiast, went directly to the back.

  The patrol car, empty of its two police officers, sat at the curb outside the office supply retailer.

  Inside, a crowd of employees had encircled a chubby redhead whom the two officers were questioning. Her name tag read “Rita.” Her beefy hands were clutched to a newspaper.

  “He was here! I checked him out! Oh, My God! Three million dollars! Oh, My God!”

  “Can you describe him for us?” one of the officers asked.

  She placed the newspaper on the checkout counter and smoothed it out with her palm. “Him!” she said, pointing to the hooded Angus. “Only he was wearing glasses when he came in. He’s not in the picture. But, I’m tellin’ ya, it was him! Oh, My God! Oh, my God!”

  “What’d he buy?”

  “A computer. An HP Compaq nc4200 WiFi Notebook. The PM 760 model. On sale!”

  One of the other employees ran to get the weekly flyer.

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “Nope.”

  “How’d he pay for the notebook?”

  “Cash. Funny thing, though. The bills smelled like horses.”

  “Horses?”

  “Yup. I was gonna ask him if he hit it big at the track or somethin’, but the look he gave me said NFW.”

  The officers exchanged glances.

  “No f’in’ way,” a store clerk explained.