After a brief interlude of sunshine, the train descended underground again, delivering her to the Slope at Ninth Street, where brilliant early evening sunshine greeted her. Her brownstone sat a mere three blocks away.
After her trek, which included a quick stop to purchase a small bouquet of fresh-cut irises, she turned the corner and headed south, hoping to be home in time to catch her favorite show on Food Network.
But because someone had other plans, she never got to see what went into the shepherd’s pie.
Chapter 85
Police chatter continued to emanate from the cruiser’s radio as Driscoll and company continued tailing Shewster. After sailing through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, the limo continued east. When it buzzed past Kennedy Airport, Margaret looked up from the laptop. “In another five minutes, he’ll be crossing into Nassau County. You want me to let the chief of detectives know we’re heading out of the city?”
Their crime prevention effort wasn’t exactly in sync with department regulations. “We’d better run silent,” said Driscoll.
“You got it.”
“How’s a guy from California know his way around New York? We haven’t hit one traffic tie-up or construction bottleneck yet!” said Thomlinson.
“The day is young, my friend.”
At the five-mile marker on the Southern State Parkway, Driscoll brought the Chevy to a complete stop behind a procession of red brake lights.
Margaret believed that if anyone, passenger or driver, raved about the good fortune of hitting no traffic, an immediate tie-up would materialize. “You had to make a remark about no traffic problems, didn’t you?” She shot Thomlinson a glare.
Though tempted, Thomlinson figured now wouldn’t be the best time to light a cigar, certain Margaret would have some superstition about that as well.
“Where’s our friend?” Driscoll asked.
“About a half-mile up. He appears to be moving slowly. Let’s hope that means we’ll also be rolling soon.”
It didn’t.
As Driscoll’s cruiser crept along at a snail’s pace, Margaret charted the course of the now free-rolling limo.
“How’d he get through?” asked Thomlinson, taking note of flickering red and yellow lights in the distance.
“He probably passed the crash site before the emergency vehicles arrived to restrict access to lanes.”
Twenty frustrating minutes later they, too, were rolling. What Driscoll had lost in distance, he hoped to make up for in speed. With siren blaring and emergency lights ablaze, he rocketed past cars clearing the middle lane.
“The limo stopped,” said Aligante.
“Where?”
“He exited the parkway a mile into Suffolk County near the intersection of Bosley Road and Anderson.”
“Anderson what?”
She tilted the laptop, seeking a better view. “It just says Anderson.”
“Get Suffolk PD on the line. Find out what’s there.”
Fifteen minutes later, Driscoll, Aligante, and Thomlinson exited a garden supply center at 2276 Anderson Drive. None of them looked happy. After a brief conversation with the owner, it had been determined that a man matching Shewster’s description had pulled up in a stretch limo, came into the center, and had purchased a cemetery blanket. The owner, Carl Phillips, had helped him with his selection, which was intended for the grave of his sister, Muriel, who, according to Shewster, had died three years ago while a resident at a nearby assisted-living center. All indications were that Shewster was headed for Saint Thomas’s Cemetery, four miles east. The laptop had him coming to a stop at Withers Road and Degraw Place in Sayville.
“That’d be the cemetery,” Phillips told them.
That prompted Margaret to use the laptop to access the Web site Interment.net, where the burial of one Muriel R. Shewster was recorded. It indicated she had been interred precisely three years ago today. Driscoll asked Thomlinson to call Saint Thomas’s. When he did, the gentlemen who answered said, “That’s odd. You’re the second person inside of twenty minutes to ask about Muriel Shewster.” It came as no surprise when Thomlinson was informed that the other inquirer said he was the deceased’s brother, Malcolm, and was seeking directions to her grave. His description matched that of Shewster’s.
The three climbed back into Driscoll’s Chevy.
Quiet prevailed during their trip back to the city.
Chapter 86
Driscoll was annoyed. Jesus Christ! What was I thinking? Three officers? I used three officers chasing the goddamn pied piper? Next time, if there is a next time, one of us will trail the limo. How hard could it be to monitor a laptop while driving a car, for Chrissake? And this Malcolm Shewster. The man was full of surprises. He had a heart. Or so it seemed.
A knock sounded, dispelling the Lieutenant’s self-deprecation. Looking up, he found Thomlinson shadowing the door to his office, sporting a huge smile.
“Cedric, you hit it big at Keno?”
“Better. You’re gonna love this,” he said, stepping inside. “Department of Corrections called. One Mr. Oliver Novak, a resident of Cell Block B in Sing Sing, says he recognizes the faces in the photo.”
“Faces? Our photo shows only Angus.”
“Ready?”
“Okay. Out with it before your face shatters from that grin.”
“He recognized Angus and Cassie from their photo as kids on the reservation. Claims to have met them. Now…are you really ready?”
Driscoll looked like he was getting annoyed again. Cedric sensed it, so he ended the suspense with a whisper, “Says he knows the father.”
Chapter 87
Driscoll, northbound on the Henry Hudson Parkway, was heading for the Ossining Correctional Facility in Westchester County. Considering the traffic flow, he’d likely be there in forty-five minutes. The fifty-five-acre fortress known as Sing Sing, a name derived from the Indian words Sint Sinks, meaning “stone upon stone,” sat on a rocky hillside overlooking the Hudson River. Oddly enough, it was part of a residential town where neighboring homes sold for upward of $500,000. So close, yet so far, he thought—probably in sync with the thoughts of the nearly two thousand inmates.
Oliver Novak was doing a stretch of twenty years to life for attempted murder. Driscoll was certain the three-time convicted felon would be looking for something in return for the information he claimed to have on the twins’ father. There wasn’t much he could offer though to a three-time loser, outside of a softer pillow.
It was nearing two o’clock when he pulled the Chevy into the prison’s administration building’s parking lot, where he flashed his shield to the gatekeeper before heading for the six-story tan brick structure. Was it his imagination or was he actually hearing the wails of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, who had been convicted of espionage and executed on the site? Or the faint voices of President Abraham Lincoln, Mayor Jimmy Walker, or the actor James Cagney? They, too, had visited the maximum-security prison. Amusement ebbing, he put his flight of fancy aside and checked his phone to see if his sister or anyone else had tried to reach him. He was a distance up. There may have been trouble getting to him live. With his world in order, he got on with the reason he had come.
Novak was not as Driscoll had imagined. His freckled face and crooked smile suggested he be cast in a remake of the Hardy Boys. Had this man, cloaked now in prison green, met the right talent scout, he may have turned his back on savage butchery. His attempted-murder rap stemmed from an assault with a machete. The sliced and diced woman survived, saving him from lethal injection.
“Driscoll?” Novak wanted to know, taking a seat across from the Lieutenant at a metal table.
“You eyeball a couple of kids from a dated Polaroid in a downstate newspaper but miss my mug on page two?”
“You look better in the paper.”
Do I, now? “I’m told you knew the twins.”
“Their old man, too. I figure that’s gotta be good for something, no?”
Why alert the police
? Driscoll wondered. He could have called Shewster and laid claim to $3 million. That’d be a whole lot of something. “I don’t know how current your newsstand is, but we already know who the twins are.”
“Yeah? Then why ya here?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who called.”
“If the police department has ID’d the twins, why is their lead investigator here and not sitting before a judge and a jury with the twins lawyered up like O.J. Simpson?”
“News flash, Novak. Johnnie Cochran’s dead. It’d still take a lot of money to hire the remaining Dream Team. And where would a pair of sixteen-year-olds get that kind of money?” The expression on Novak’s face said he was aware he had slipped somehow. But it was too late to take back his remark. “Look, Novak, you placed the call. That tells me you’ve got something to say. So say it.”
“What do I get out of it?”
“You must have me confused with the genie inside Aladdin’s lamp. The police department’s not a financial-aid office.”
“I’m not after money. If I thought the king’s ransom they’re advertising in the paper could get me outta here, I wouldn’t have called you. Besides, I’m sure who ever is fronting the money would figure out a way of not having to pay a three-time convicted felon.” He smiled. “There are other forms of compensation.”
“Inmates can still be charged with extortion, my friend. And here’s another news flash. If you don’t start talking, I can make life a little more challenging.”
“This is a freakin’ prison. They got bars on the windows. How more challenging can it get?”
“Oh, I dunno…. How about a stretch in Special Housing? Or maybe a new roommate. One who doesn’t waste time soaping up after he tells you to bend over.”
“Yep. Much better in newsprint. It hides your ugly side.” After a bit of reflection, Novak opened up. Driscoll figured it was the prospect of no soap. “Their old man’s name is Sanderson. Talk about an ugly side. This guy’s a real prick.”
He’s speaking in the present tense. Could Sanderson be alive? “Yeah, like coming after a thirty-three-year-old woman with a machete makes you an Eagle Scout.”
“That dyke had it coming. She led me around by the dick for three years while she was screwing my sister-in-law.”
Driscoll was surprised. They usually swore they were framed. “Nice group of company you ran with. This Sanderson guy have a first name?”
“Gus. Gus Sanderson. A prince.”
“Sounds like he fit right in with your stable buddies.”
“You know the guy?”
“No. Should I?”
“But you said stable.”
“Yeah?” As in where people like you should sleep at night.
“C’mon. You’re shittin’ me. Stable. Like in horses. Right?” The look on Novak’s face was one of disbelief.
“So?”
“Sanderson was a hansom cab driver. Made a livin’ carting tourists back and forth in Central Park between the Plaza Hotel and the Tavern on the Green. When he wasn’t loaded and beatin’ up on his kids, that is. He did some carving job on the girl’s face, huh? Musta been tired of seeing double.”
Driscoll lunged across the table and grabbed Novak by the throat. “Your sense of humor just pissed me off!”
The prisoner’s face flooded with color. He gasped for air, leaning precariously backward in his chair until Driscoll released his hold.
“What’s the big deal?” Novak managed, choking on his words. “You figure they’re killing people. Aren’t you? You forgettin’ who the bad guys are?”
Was he? Or had the vision of a girl’s face being butchered forced a memory of his daughter’s mangled body entangled in the twisted metal of the family van?
“Lighten up, Lieutenant. You nearly killed me, for Chrissake! Lighten up already.”
“Talk.”
“I’m afraid to now.”
“Tell me about Sanderson.”
“As long as you stay focused, I will. Jeeesus! I thought it was lights-out back there.”
“Start talking about Sanderson.”
“Like I said. He ran a horse-drawn carriage in the park.”
“How is it you knew him?”
Novak looked over both shoulders and leaned in to within inches of Driscoll’s face. “This stays here, right?”
“Depends on what ‘this’ is.”
“Look. I’m a three-time loser. I’m never gettin’ out. But if Sanderson finds out it was me that turned on him, it’s goodnight Elizabeth. I may be behind bars, but that don’t mean I’m protected from the likes of him.”
“Talk.”
“Does that mean we have a deal?”
“DAs cut deals.”
“C’mon, Lieutenant. You know what I’m askin’ for.”
“Talk.”
Novak looked defeated. He took a deep breath and held it. But when he finally exhaled, his words flowed like water. “Sanderson wasn’t just cartin’ tourists around the park. Once a week, one of those tourists dropped off a package. The package contained a half-pound to a pound of methamphetamine—working man’s cocaine. It came from a variety of sources. Some cooked right here in the USA. Some from other countries. At the end of the day, Sanderson would head to his stable, on East Sixtieth Street, under the FDR Drive. After tending to his horse—Teener was her name.” Novak grinned at the notion. And Driscoll knew why. “Teener” was street slang for meth. “After settling Teener in for the night, Sanderson would climb the stairs to a loft he had built over the stable. There, he would cut the meth with either baking soda or vitamin B12. One time he used lye. Said he had a score to settle. Remember, we’re talkin’ one mean son of a bitch. Back to the story. After depositing a sixteenth of an ounce of the stuff, Teener. The horse. A sixteenth, get it? Anyway, after depositing the speed into mini-press-n-seals, he’d call me.”
“Why you?”
“I was his distributor.”
Driscoll leaned back in his chair and reflected on what he had just been told. He had his suspicions, but he still wasn’t sure why Novak was turning on Sanderson. “The guy into anything else?”
“There was a rumor he had a Web site. For what, I haven’t a clue. But it musta been another way of making money. It’d be an even bet he’s still using it. That guy could squeeze mercury out of a dime.”
“And the twins? How’d they play into this?”
“Beats the hell outta me. All I can tell ya is they were attached to him like a Vise-Grip. The guy’d go to take a piss, and they’d hafta tag along.”
“So they knew about the loft?”
“Musta. Where he went, they went.” Novak scratched his head. He looked puzzled. “You’re really liking them for the killings?”
“You know otherwise?”
“No. Nothing like that. It’s just that when I knew them, they were nice kids. I don’t think either of them was a fan of the leash, but from what I saw, they were both nice kids.”
“One more question, Novak. Why tell me all this?”
He grinned. “Sanderson was one cheap bastard. Had tons of money. All of it cash. Stashed it under the floorboards in his loft.”
So that’s where they were getting the money for their killing spree. Sure, the Crenshaw girl said the bills smelled of horses! A perfect place to store it, too. Right in the middle of their killing field.
“I doubt if Uncle Sam ever saw one nickel of the money. But a lot of that cash was mine. He cut me off when the judge pounded the gavel. Why go and do that? He coulda easily got it to me in here. But he didn’t. So, my compensation is seeing to it the guy gets busted.”
Revenge. Powerful motivator. “You said the stable was on East Sixtieth under the FDR?”
“Looks like a two-car garage. Sits across from a small park on Marginal Street. Painted battleship gray, the last time I saw it. Had a rusted sign hangin’ overhead. ‘No Vacancies.’”
The man grew silent.
“That it?”
“I doub
t you’ll need more.”
The prisoner whistled, as he watched Driscoll stand, summon a guard, and head for the door.
As soon as Driscoll stepped outside the building, he called Margaret. “The con thinks their father’s still alive. Says his name is Gus Sanderson and that he operated a hansom cab inside Central Park across from the Plaza. Give the media a heads-up on the name and put a call in to the sheriff’s office in Carbondale. See if they have anything on a Gus Sanderson, then send someone up to the park.”
“On it.”
“I’m betting the father’s dead and that the twins are holed up inside a stable on East Sixtieth under the FDR. It’ll resemble a two-car garage. Some sort of loft up top. Painted gray. Call it in to Manhattan North. They’re to have the Nineteenth Precinct cordon off the area. No one moves in or out. The FDR skirts the river. Have the Harbor Unit send up two boats. And get a hold of Aviation. I want two choppers circling. They spot any pair in the vicinity, they’re to point them out so someone can intercept. Anybody comes within five hundred feet of that stable is to be intercepted as well. Let’s hope they’re home this time. I’ll be heading back with full lights and siren. Forty-five minutes. An hour, tops. If there’s no movement, I wanna be there when we go in.”
“You got it.”
“Where’s Cedric?”
“Sitting on Shewster.”
“Good. Fill him in on what’s going down.”
“Will do.”
The Screaming Room Page 22
