GRAVE WALKER

by PT Reade

  Level Five…Level Six…

  My heart pounded and my body ached as I covered the floors. Finally, as I blasted past the ninth floor, gasping for breath, the sound of footfalls again reached my ears. Whitehouse was directly above me now. And just as soon as I realized this, I heard a door opening and then slamming shut.

  I reached the tenth floor, knees burning and out of breath, and saw that there were no more stairs. Whitehouse had gone through a door marked ROOF. In his panic, he must not have realized that heading to the roof was the worst thing he could have done if he hoped to escape.

  I thought about drawing my gun but decided not to. It would only frighten the doctor. Unarmed, he’d likely be more willing to talk to me. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, why he was so spooked.

  With the sense that answers were close at hand, I pushed open the door to the roof and stepped out into the sweltering rooftop.

  The first thing I saw was the blinding sun. I felt the closeness of the air. The heat was still there, and the humidity was growing. Apparently, I just couldn’t get away from the rain…not in London and not in New York.

  The next thing I saw was much worse. Eugene Whitehouse was waiting for me, standing on the ledge of the ten-story building.

  FOURTEEN

  I took two slow steps closer to Whitehouse as he stood on the ledge. The doctor looked away from me for a moment, casting his eyes down to the street below. I realized as I approached him that this was a first. Almost fifteen years as a cop, and I had never been faced with talking down a jumper.

  I didn’t know what to do, and the hangover clouded my thoughts. I felt dumb and uncertain.

  Story of my life.

  It occurred to me that Whitehouse could be bluffing, but there was something in his wild eyes, something in the way he looked longingly down to the street. It made me think that he’d at least considered this a few times before.

  He looked up at me skeptically. The doc’s remaining hair was mostly white, and he was a tall, gaunt-looking man. I estimated him to be in his early sixties or so. His forehead was covered in sweat and he looked drained after the chase.

  “Eugene?” I finally asked. Hoping the soft approach might work.

  He regarded me cautiously as he wobbled near the edge. “Who are you? A cop?”

  “No,” I replied, mostly truthful. “My name is Thomas Blume, I just need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “You working for Walker?!” he snapped and looked again over the edge. My heart jumped.

  “No!” I replied quickly, unsure of what he meant. “Look, I’m not a cop or working for anyone. I’m just trying to find out about someone I once knew. I think you might be able to help.”

  Whitehouse seemed to think about this for a moment but did not move. My pulse quickened as a slight breeze blew in. “I’ve thought about this before you know,” he said, shaking. “Getting up on this ledge.”

  “Dr. Whitehouse, Eugene, I don’t know why you think I’m here, but I really don’t care about anything you’ve done. I’m only here to ask you about a body that was discovered in the Hudson two days ago.”

  “Someone who visited me for work?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Or maybe her sister. I was hoping you could tell me. Her name was-”

  “Most of the people who come to see me don’t give me their real names,” he cut in.

  “Doctor, I just need you to come down from that ledge. We can talk this out and figure out any problems downstairs. Just you and me.”

  He laughed humorlessly and again looked down to the street. “The problems… I deserve them. I deserve it all. So many mistakes…”

  “I understand, Doctor, I’ve made more than my fair share of mistakes myself.”

  “How could you understand?!”

  He was right, I couldn’t understand the horrors this man had experienced to push him onto that ledge any better than people could understand the demons plaguing me, forcing me to drink. Instead of arguing, I simply held his shaky gaze and remained silent.

  The doctor sagged, and I saw a silver trail run down his cheek. “The Russians, they took everything from me. Why did I get mixed up with them in the first place?”

  “This ‘Walker?’” I said, remembering his previous comment.

  The doctor glanced up at me, and though he said nothing, I could tell I was right.

  “I can protect you, Doctor, if you’ll just come down from there.”

  “No, no, no, no.” Whitehouse shook his head furiously, like a madman. “You can’t protect me. No one can. They are coming for me soon for what I’ve done. I thought you were with them.”

  “I’m not with anyone. It’s just me.”

  The doctor’s eyes were glassy now, and I could see his body was shaking. “I’ve spent my life in the shadow of those assholes. Maybe this is how I take back control?”

  “Doctor, please. I need your help.”

  But Whitehouse wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were scanning around frantically, as if searching for salvation. He was losing it. Without bothering to look back at me, he said, “I suggest you leave, Mr. Blume. If they find out that you were here to speak with me, they may come looking for you as well. Or Walker. Walker…” Whitehouse’s mumblings drifted off, and I realized the man was terrified beyond all reason.

  Time was running out, so I reached into my pocket and pulled free a crumpled picture of Darcey and held it up in front of me.

  “Doctor if you can just…no!”

  As I looked up, I noticed Whitehouse’s face blanch as he saw the photograph. I wanted to call out, to rush to help him, but a part of me already knew it was too late. His face went blank, devoid of emotion. He lifted a foot, and casually as a man strolling in the park, took a single step forward. One second there had been a human being in front of me, the next, thin air. Nothing.

  I stood shocked, unable to understand the empty space in front of me.

  The scream and the noises from down on the street didn’t even register. I simply stood there, paralyzed. Just like that, Eugene Whitehouse was gone.

  What, or who, could drive a man to do such a thing?

  FIFTEEN

  Fortunately for me but not so much for him, Rey had been close by when Dr. Whitehouse had taken the one-step shortcut to the lobby. This gave me a credible witness—among the six other people on the street that saw the doctor hit the pavement—for when Kinsey tore into me back at the station.

  “One day on the job,” she said, scowling at me. “One day here and you’ve got people jumping off a goddamn building!”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” I argued. I was standing in front of her desk, doing everything I could to not raise my voice. Rey was sitting this one out at Kinsey’s request. It was just the two of us now as she tried to sort out the tragic events of the morning.

  “I need you to tell me everything he said,” Kinsey said. “Don’t skip a single thing.”

  I spent the next five minutes walking her through the scene and relaying what Whitehouse had told me. I told her about his mention of the Russians, and another name I assumed was involved; Walker.

  “And did you try talking Whitehouse down, or were you simply pushing your own agenda again?”

  “I did both,” I said honestly, having to put a bit more effort into not losing my temper. “But I think by the time the doc saw Rey and me, he figured we’d been sent to whack him or worse. Whitehouse had decided his fate long before we got there—we were just the nudge. He was terrified, Captain.”

  Kinsey rubbed at her forehead in frustration and nodded. “Okay, fine. I’ll call Parsons in Organized Crimes and try to sort this shit out. They are going to be pissed at me, you know.”

  “Thank you, and I’m sorry for Whitehouse,” I replied quietly. “Can you see if they know anything about any ‘Walker’ too?”

  She thought about this for a moment before giving a defeated shrug. “I can, but this is going to fall way outside of t
he Holland case.”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “And if it does, I’ll drop it.”

  “Can I have your word on that?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Good because the amount of crap I now have to clean up is going to take me all week, so I don’t need any more bullshit from you, ok?

  I nodded in agreement before leaving Kinsey’s office.

  As I headed for my own office-cum-closet, I passed by Rey’s office. I poked my head in and gave a thumbs up. “She took it easy on me. I think we’re good.”

  “You must be growing on her quick, then,” he said.

  “We’ll see,” I replied, continuing back down the hallway. “We’ll see.”

  ***

  In the stark light of day, my half-office was slowly becoming a whole storage room. Someone had slid a battered old printer into the rear corner, giving me even less space than before. Still, it was better than squeezing into someone else’s office, and it gave me the opportunity to be alone with my thoughts.

  I fired up an old laptop I had been allocated and noticed that it was connected to the precinct’s server, but as a note on a Post-It told me, I’d need special permission to access certain materials.

  Dropping back into the chair, I flipped through the scant material in Darcey’s file and figured that I might as well start at the bottom and work up. Time was against me, but there was so little to go on that I couldn’t afford to be picky. I looked at a list of names that had been recorded as Darcey’s friends and co-workers. I then went online and browsed through the website of St. Stevens, the hospital where Darcey had been previously working. Finally, I sought out names on the Staff page of the website that matched names on the list I had. This netted me four people and their e-mail addresses.

  As 1:00 in the afternoon rolled around, I was once again struck with the need for a drink, or maybe I missed the familiar numbness of denial. When I drank, everything felt further away, and the world was less harsh and real. I found myself longing for the safety of sticky floors and dark shadows in the London pubs I had become familiar with. I guess that city had grown on me more than I thought.

  But I still felt bad for the bottle of bourbon I had strategically hidden in the bottom of the desk, and while the hair of the dog was nothing new to me, I needed to sharpen up if I was going to crack this thing.

  I distracted myself from the craving by sending off e-mails to each of the addresses I’d found. As a personal friend of Darcey, I informally asked the recipients if they knew of any enemies or problems that Darcey might have had. I wasn’t really expecting anything—the cops had already done the basic legwork—but I also knew that sometimes the best leads came from the most unexpected places.

  With the e-mails sent, I went back to the photos of the scene where Darcey’s body had been discovered. Maybe I was making a mistake by being so sure she was killed. We all had a dark side we kept hidden from the world. Maybe Darcey’s had caught up with her.

  As I scoured the photos, I was interrupted by a knock on the door. I turned around and saw Rey standing there, peering into the room.

  “Nice digs,” he said.

  I gestured around the room. “Thanks, I’d offer you a chair, but I don’t have one. What’s up?”

  “I thought you might want to know that CSU found some interesting material at Dr. Whitehouse’s office. Pharmaceuticals galore…sedatives, tranquilizers, you name it. Holland had sedatives in her system right? And Whitehouse was wracked with guilt, so maybe that’s why he took his own life. It could all add up nicely. We’ll have a full report within an hour or so. I’ll make sure you get a copy.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering if things could really be so simple.

  Rey seemed excited, but as far as I was concerned, the discovery of pharmaceuticals at Whitehouse’s office didn’t seem that surprising. Sure, it was an easy home run to assume the doctor had killed Darcey, but without a clear motive, I was doubtful.

  Or maybe I was just so used to taking the long route in cases that I couldn’t accept the truth when it was in front of me.

  What was that thing about Occam’s razor? The simplest solution is usually the best.

  Still, I couldn’t shake the haunted look of Whitehouse in his final moments or the cryptic words. The Russians, Walker…

  While I was never a fan of sitting behind a computer and doing research, I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time chasing false leads.

  With my limited NYPD access, I dove into the records on file. The name Walker didn’t turn up much—well, it actually turned up too much, but little of interest. The Russian crime connection within New York made for interesting reading, though. It was a small group of persons of interest, which narrowed my search considerably. Throughout, one family name kept cropping up: Lem.

  The Lem family had roots in the city going back to pre-war, but it was only in the Eighties that the name became synonymous with organized crime in New York. Since that time, they had gained territory in all of the five boroughs and seemed to be edging out the Italians and the Chinese. Murder, extortion, and major drug running; there were reports linking the Russians to all the fun activities in the Big Apple, and then, nothing. About eighteen months ago, the records dried up and everything went quiet.

  Strange.

  It took several minutes before I discovered why. Or more accurately, who.

  One man had been the driving force behind the aggressive expansion of the Lem family, and his face now filled my screen. Victor Lem, every inch the old school mob boss and patriarch of the family, had been brought down almost two years ago after an extensive undercover operation.

  Victor had been sent to prison with an extensive list of charges leveled against him. Currently, it was believed that his son Mikhail, known as Mickey, was overseeing the business. By all accounts, Mickey’s current whereabouts were unknown, and there was no photograph.

  I managed to find a few recent pictures of Victor, though, before his arrest. The same slicked-back, gray hair and hard eyes flashed across my computer screen, but in many I noticed a second character cropping up; a tall man with dark skin almost always pictured close to Victor. In some of the pictures, he was in the background, almost in a security role. But in others, he was deep in conversation with Lem.

  Bodyguard, accomplice?

  One thing was for certain, though: the man was the most intimidating figure in any of the pictures I uncovered of Victor. I started to wonder if this might be the “Walker” that Dr. Whitehouse had mentioned. It would certainly be smart for the Lem family to pretend that Mickey Lem was running things, when in fact it was this ghost-like Walker who was really in charge.

  With this man’s face in mind, I ran an AFIS search for the name Walker. Unsurprisingly, I got thousands of hits. I refined the search by cross-checking and scanned through them quickly with a trained eye, looking for anything that might catch my attention. Just as I started to feel a headache settling in (after all, I rarely stared at a screen for this long), one file seemed to show much more promise than the countless others I had dismissed so far.

  The interesting thing about the file was that there was not much to see. There was no bio, no real information to speak of, and no photograph. All I got was the name of Samuel Walker and a seemingly random number. Everything else had been removed from the file.

  I knew this was strange. For any information to be removed from these listings, someone on the inside would have had to amend the record. I tried to hunt around to find out when the file had last been modified, but that information had been wiped too.

  Strange.

  I toyed with the idea of calling Kinsey but ruled her out when I feared she might shoot me down. As far as she was concerned, these Russians and Walker were not involved in Darcey’s case. I looked at my cell phone for a moment, and making a hard decision, eventually pulled up Rey’s number.

  “What’s up?” he asked after answering on the second ring.

  “I need some help.” />
  “Ah, finally you are admitting it,” Rey joked. “I think I have the number of a good shrink somewhere around here”-

  “Very funny, asshole. No, I’m about to go visit someone, and I think I might need you to grease the wheels,” I said.

  “That’s incredibly vague,” Rey said. “What did you find?”

  “Maybe nothing,” I said. “But I’d feel a lot more comfortable not going into it by myself.”

  “Let Kinsey know,” he said. “She’ll hook you up with another officer.”

  “Doubtful,” I said.

  Rey sighed and said, “I’d love to, man. But I’ve got to follow up on some leads about this terrorist case. And then there’s the paperwork from the Whitehouse thing this morning. Paperwork…you remember that, right?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “You know, you were there,” Rey said. “You saw him last. Maybe I should send this paperwork down to you.”

  “Oh hell, would you look at the time,” I said sarcastically. “I better get going.”

  I ended the call and paused for a moment. I took another look at the notes I had written down, and the one lead that spoke to me. It was a long shot, a risky move, but when was that something new?

  I gathered up my cell phone and the sidearm Rey had helped me acquire. Taking one last look at the screen, I closed the laptop and headed for the door.

  It was time to go visit the most dangerous man in New York.

  SIXTEEN

  Rikers Island maximum security prison was a sprawling complex sitting squarely in the East River between Queens and the Bronx. Surrounded by water and only accessible by a long service road, it was one of the world’s largest correctional facilities housing the most colorful, and deadly, of New York’s offenders.

  During my time as a New York cop, I’d been inside Rikers at least twenty times. However, I’d never had reason to visit the maximum security wing before today. Entering through the heavy mechanical doors just after 4:00 in the afternoon, I sensed the tension in the air. The melancholy gray walls and sterile hallways offered no cheer, and the hum of air conditioning buzzed angrily in the air. A serious-looking guard with a crew cut led the way as we wound our way through the labyrinthine hallways.