The Craving

by Jason Starr

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  The voice was from one of the women who’d been eyeing him. He knew this because she was kneeling next to him. She had straight dark hair and was wearing Obsession and a strong deodorant. But how did he know any of this? How could he see her and smell her if he was dead?

  Now there was another voice, a man talking fast in some foreign language, probably Arabic. Simon looked over and saw a scruffy man who reeked of cigarettes next to the woman. Then Simon became aware of other odors and sounds but he didn’t know why he was so lucid. And where was the pain? He’d hit the pavement so hard, it should have cracked his skull open, but he was barely dazed, as if he’d just headed a soccer ball. There was some mild achy pain in his legs, but otherwise he felt perfectly fine. Maybe he was imagining all of this. Didn’t some people believe that you can hallucinate right before death? Or maybe he was having a near-death experience. Soon he’d see the bright light, reach out for the welcoming hand of a dead relative.

  But none of this happened. There were just more strangers crowding around him, asking him if he was okay, and assuring him that he was going to be fine and help was on the way.

  Then Simon stood up, the leg pain gone. Aside from some very slight dizziness, he didn’t feel at all unusual, but that was exactly what was so unusual. A car had hit him at full speed and he should be dead, or at least very seriously injured, but instead he felt barely jolted. The people around him noticed how unusual this was as well. Everyone seemed amazed, with widened eyes, and some jaws were slacked open.

  “W-what’re you doing?” the dark-haired woman asked.

  “I’m fine,” Simon said. “I mean, I’m not hurt.”

  The Arabic guy next to a cab—ah, so it was a cab that had hit Simon—seemed stunned.

  Simon glanced at the people, the taxi, and then at the area toward the front of the taxi where his body should have been lying with multiple broken bones and blood splattered everywhere.

  “You really should sit down,” the woman said.

  “Yeah,” a guy behind her said. “You shouldn’t move till the ambulance gets here.”

  The word ambulance terrified Simon. He couldn’t be taken to a hospital. He couldn’t have his blood tested and have the ER doctors discover that their patient wasn’t human.

  “Nothing’s broken,” Simon said. For emphasis he shook his arms, then each leg. Then he said, “See? I’m fine.”

  Everyone still seemed amazed, or in shock, as if they’d just witnessed someone come back to life, which, in a way, they had.

  “The car must’ve gone right over me,” Simon said, figuring that some barely plausible explanation was better than nothing.

  He forced a smile, but no one smiled with him. After an awkward few moments, he made his way through the crowd of about twenty or thirty onlookers, toward the curb. Then he walked away faster, practically running. He didn’t know if he was exhilarated or terrified.

  He just wanted to get away.

  FIVE

  Geri thought they’d caught Orlando Rojas’s killer. Early Saturday morning the police received a tip via the department’s 577-TIPS hotline from a caller who had seen the sketch on TV. Most tips were useless, as a lot of people treated calling in tips like buying lottery tickets—phone in a bunch and, hey, you never know, one might hit—but this one sounded legit. The caller was certain that James Arrojo, from Astoria, was the shooter, and even claimed that Arrojo drove a light blue economy car, perhaps a Ford Escort. When Queens police officers went to investigate, Arrojo threatened them with a pair of scissors. The officers were able to subdue the suspect, and he was taken to Manhattan North, where Carlita Morales was brought in to view him in a lineup.

  Geri, who had been home at the time of the arrest, arrived at Manhattan North shortly after Arrojo. Well, the guy certainly looked like the sketch—dark hair, same shaped eyes, same bushy eyebrows. He didn’t have any gang connections, though, and he didn’t seem like the drug dealer type. He worked at a retail computer store in midtown. He had no record.

  Officer Phillip Campo, one of the arresting officers, said to Geri, “When we broke down the door, he attacked us.”

  “Wait,” Geri said. “You broke down the door? You mean you had a warrant?”

  Campo smirked and said, “I thought I smelled some pot in the apartment.”

  A relatively new law in the city allowed police to break into apartments or houses if they smelled marijuana from outside or in a hallway. The law was designed to prevent offenders from disposing of drugs before police showed up, but some people felt the law could be used as an excuse by cops to avoid the hassle of getting warrants.

  “Okay, let’s see what we got,” Geri said.

  Geri liked a lot about her job—the detective work, the zero-to-sixty rush when things got out of control—but her favorite part of her job was interrogations—getting into the head of a perp, taking control.

  When she entered, the first thing Arrojo said was, “Yo, I didn’t do it. You got the wrong guy.”

  No surprise there. Practically every suspect—whether innocent or guilty—opened with, “You got the wrong guy.” After about an hour of questioning, Geri hadn’t gotten very far. Arrojo was sticking to his story that he was home with his girlfriend at the time Rojas was shot and he had no idea why he was even a suspect. He said he’d only gone for the scissors when the police arrived because he thought somebody was breaking into his apartment.

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning, people start breaking down your door, what would you do?”

  “You mean you didn’t know they were police officers?”

  “Not till they were busting in my apartment,” he said. “Then before I knew it they had me on the floor and were cuffin’ my ass. How come I don’t got a lawyer? I asked for a lawyer in the squad car and they told me to shut my ass up.”

  After rewording questions she’d already asked and getting the same answers, Geri left Arrojo in the room and went out to where Shawn was watching through the two-way glass and said, “He’s not the guy.”

  “His girlfriend could be lying,” Shawn said. “That’s what people do when they’re in love. They lie.”

  It was true that lovers and relatives were usually useless for alibis.

  “She’s not lying,” Geri said.

  “I’m not saying she is, I’m saying she could be.”

  “Come on,” Geri said. “This was a drive-by and this guy sells computers. We have nothing on him except he drives an Escort and he has bushy eyebrows.”

  “Let’s put him in a lineup just in case,” Shawn said.

  “Why?” Geri said. “So we can waste more time?”

  “It’s not a waste of time if he gets ID’d.”

  Carlita Morales was here and they had four guys for the lineup so Geri figured, Why not?

  Carlita wasn’t happy to be at the precinct for the second time in two days, saying, “I gave you the sketch, why do I have to be here again? And on a Saturday morning? I could be home sleeping right now.”

  Geri assured her that it would only take a few minutes and that none of the suspects would be able to see her. Of course Geri didn’t let on that she didn’t think there was a chance in hell that the suspect in the lineup was the shooter and all of this was, more than likely, a total waste of time.

  A few minutes later Carlita, standing alongside Geri and Shawn, viewed the lineup. Geri gave her all the usual BS, about how to take a good look at each guy before reaching any conclusions. She was expecting Carlita to say that none of them looked familiar so she was surprised when she heard, “Wait, that guy right there.”

  “Which guy?” Geri asked.

  Carlita pointed at Arrojo. “That guy, second from the right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Then she said, “Wait, I don’t know, he looks familiar, around the eyes, but I don’t know. I only saw him for a few seconds, maybe less. How’m I supposed to know?”

  “Take another look,
” Shawn said.

  Seeming frustrated, Carlita stared at Arrojo for a good minute. Then she said, “I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t say for sure.”

  “But at first you said it was him,” Geri said.

  “So I changed my mind,” Carlita said. “What do you want me to do, lie to you?”

  Shawn let out an agitated breath.

  “Okay, thank you,” Geri said. “That’s all we need for right now.”

  “For right now?” Carlita said. “What do you mean? I have to come back here?”

  “Maybe,” Geri said.

  “Yesterday you said all I had to do was give you a sketch,” Carlita said. “You didn’t say anything about having to ID anybody.”

  “You’re our prime witness,” Geri said. “You’re our only witness. So until there’s an arrest in the case we’re gonna need you to be at our disposal. You’ve just gotta be patient, that’s all. And you don’t have to worry, there’re cops outside your apartment twenty-four-seven, and it’s gonna stay that way till we get this guy. If you need a lift back to your apartment I’ll get somebody to drive you.”

  Carlita said she wanted a lift, so they went back to near the entrance to the precinct where Officer Campo was still hanging around. Geri asked Campo to give Carlita a lift back home.

  Campo didn’t seem thrilled. “I was actually about to go on break,” he said.

  “Pick-a-Bagel can wait,” Geri said.

  Geri went into Shawn’s office and said to him, “So what you think? Do we let Arrojo go or do we requestion him?”

  “I would love to get this case wrapped up so I can get back to watching my college football games this afternoon,” Shawn said, “but I don’t see what we have to go on except that he has bushy eyebrows and drives an economy car. But I think we’ve got ourselves a bigger problem.”

  “Carlita,” Geri said.

  “What happens when we make an arrest and get her in court? She’ll be like, ‘Naw, that’s not him. Wait, I made a mistake, it is him. Naw, I was right the first time.’”

  “You think she’s playing us?”

  “Honestly? No, I don’t,” Shawn said. “I wish she was. I wish she was just afraid, trying to get off helping us, but I don’t think that’s the case. I think she really doesn’t know what she saw.”

  “I’ll tell Arrojo he can go,” Geri said. “I just hope we’re not releasing a computer salesman who moonlights as a hit man.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Shawn said, “but I need somethin’ to eat or I’m gonna pass out. And I’m not talking about diet food. I need some eggs, pancakes, waffles. Wanna hit a diner?”

  “Already ate.” Geri had an idea. “But I’ll catch you back here when you’re done.”

  The truth was, Geri hadn’t eaten since an early dinner yesterday and was starving, but she knew that Detective Mangel would be around now because she’d checked his schedule the other day. Figuring this would be a good time to chat with him in person about the other case that was gnawing at her, she drove to the 19th Precinct on East Sixty-seventh Street.

  There was very little traffic, early on a Saturday morning, and she made it down and across town in about fifteen minutes. It turned out Mangel wasn’t in but was expected soon, so Geri had a chance to eat after all, grabbing a ham, egg, and cheese on a roll and a coffee at a deli around the corner from the precinct. She took it to go and ate New York City–style—while walking. When she was about to go back into the precinct she saw Mangel walking toward her along the sidewalk. She smiled and Mangel smiled back in a flirty way, obviously not recognizing her. He probably smiled at every good-looking woman who was twenty years younger than him whom he saw on the street.

  When he got closer Geri asked, “Hey, how’s it going?”

  Mangel was about thirty pounds overweight, bald—well, he probably didn’t think he was bald because his thin gray hair was combed over a big bald spot—and he had an extremely wide nose that almost looked fake. He still didn’t seem to know who Geri was because she saw his eyes shift down briefly as he zeroed in on her chest. She could see the tip of his tongue between his yellowed smoker’s teeth.

  “Hello,” Mangel said in his thick Bronx accent, his eyes finally shifting back upward.

  “Rodriguez,” Geri said. “Manhattan North.”

  Geri expected Mangel’s attitude to change, but nope; if anything this seemed to be more of a turn-on for him.

  “Oh, so you’re Rodriguez,” he said, taking another long, very obvious look at her body. “I had no idea.”

  “No idea, what?” Geri asked, though she knew exactly what he’d meant.

  “Just no idea who you were,” he said. “I mean sometimes you hear a voice and you get a picture of somebody in your head and sometimes the voice doesn’t match the picture.”

  Geri hated how he was talking down to her, especially since she was technically his superior officer, but she knew that demanding respect wouldn’t get her what she wanted, so she might as well play up the sex card.

  “Well,” she said, “I hope I live up to the hype.”

  “Oh yeah, you live up to it,” Mangel said. “You don’t gotta worry about that.”

  Geri noticed Mangel’s thick gold wedding band, but this didn’t surprise her—most married cops were bigger hounds than the unmarried ones. Did he really think he had a chance to score with her? Yeah, probably.

  “Sorry to just show up,” Geri said, “but you don’t seem comfortable talking on the phone.”

  “Oh, sorry about that,” Mangel said. “Things have been crazy, you know how it is.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Geri said, making lots of eye contact. “So you think we can just talk for a little bit while I’m finishing my coffee?”

  “I’d like that,” he said, “but if it’s about the Olivia Becker missing-person case, I told you pretty much all there is to tell.”

  “Oh come on, just five minutes to get me up to date,” Geri said. “Most men wouldn’t complain about a chance to spend five minutes with me.”

  She didn’t know how she was able to say all this without vomiting, but Mangel seemed to believe she was actually flirting with him.

  “Well, I guess I’ve got five minutes,” he said.

  They went into the precinct and down a hallway to his office. As they walked, Mangel was full of questions: How come we never met before? How long have you been with Manhattan North? Do you live in the city? Funny how Mangel was so interested in the details of her life. At the entrance to the office Mangel held out his arm and said, “After you.”

  Geri knew he just wanted her to go in ahead of him so he could get a good look at her ass. She didn’t care—let him look. She even swung her hips in a more exaggerated way than she did normally, hoping it would give him an extra thrill and make him even more cooperative.

  She sat across from his desk, and then he sat in his swivel chair and asked, “So, what can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me where you are on the Olivia Becker case.”

  “If there was any news, you would’ve heard it.”

  “Come on, cut the crap,” Geri said. “I’m not moving in on the case, I’m not trying to steal your glory—like there’s any glory to be stolen. I just like closure with my cases, that’s just the way I am.”

  Mangel let out a breath, then said, “Well, in this case I’m afraid there may never be closure.”

  “No leads on the body?” Geri asked.

  “Nada,” Mangel said.

  “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish so well,” Geri said, trying to keep the flirty mood alive.

  “One of my many talents,” Mangel said, as if he thought he was winning her over.

  Letting the eye contact linger, Geri asked, “So if there’s no body, why do you think it was suicide?”

  “Her behavior,” Mangel said, twirling his wedding band. “She was definitely having some kind of breakdown. The day she disappeared she practically assaulted a client from Japan.”

  “What do you m
ean assaulted?”

  “Maybe assaulted is too strong a word,” Mangel said. “But she was coming on to him, trying to grab him. I’m telling you, it sounds like she was totally losing it mentally.”

  “Did she talk about any plans to kill herself?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “What about her boyfriend, Michael Hartman?”

  “What about him?”