by Tom Barber
Executed.
Turning to the next sheaf of paper, he stared down at a series of photographs clipped to an incident report, these images taken from inside a run-down apartment somewhere, old battered furniture, peeling paint and a litter-strewn floor.
Two Latino men were laid out on that floor, dead from gunshot wounds. They looked to be a similar size and build, both wearing jeans, one with a hooded sweatshirt and the other in a blue Giants football jersey. One had a buzz-cut, the other a longer straggly mop. The guy with all the hair had been shot twice in the chest, the other in the side of the head, a grey silenced pistol lying in his open hand.
Suddenly remembering he was in a public venue, Josh tilted the photo close so no-one around him could see what he was looking at.
‘The suspects,’ Marquez said. ‘Mario Valdez and Hector Carvalho, two low-rate pimps who pushed girls in Spanish Harlem. Both were found dead on Thursday afternoon at Valdez’ apartment on 168th and Amsterdam. They matched the descriptions of the car park shooters provided to detectives by several witnesses, including a liquor store clerk and a mechanic who was working across the street when Leann, Arch and Vargas were shot.’
‘I thought they were wearing masks?’
‘They were but in relation to witness statements, their hair, build and the pistol put them at the scene.’
Josh looked at the photo, focusing on the grey handgun resting in Carvalho’s open palm.
‘That’s a Steyr M9. German weapon.’
‘The same gun that killed Leann Casey.’
‘They held onto it?’
‘Judging by their priors, these two weren’t exactly Mensa material. How they died underlined that.’
She tapped the photo.
‘Homicide and CSU figured they had a fight. Carvalho lost the plot, shot his buddy then for some reason killed himself.’
Josh frowned. ‘Four weeks after they killed Leann and shot Arch and Vargas, they suddenly end up dead with the murder weapon at the scene?’
‘And take a look at the suspected motive.’
Josh thumbed through the incident report, quickly finding what Marquez was referring to.
‘Eliminating competition,’ she said as he read. ‘Apparently.’
‘But Leann Casey only has a history of working in the Upper West and East Sides,’ Josh said. ‘And she charged around five grand a night.’
Marquez nodded. ‘Completely different patches and a totally different class of girl. Valdez and Carvalho ran street trash for thirty bucks a trick in Spanish Harlem and Leann was anything but. She was in an entirely different league.’
‘And even if they were trying to up their game, why kill the golden goose?’ Josh said. ‘Five thousand a night? She’d be worth a hell of a lot more alive than dead.’
Marquez nodded, but didn’t speak, the unanswered questions hanging in the air. Taking a last look at the folder, Josh shut it and placed it on the table in front of him.
‘Shit,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’
‘There’re more holes in this than a Texas oil field.’
‘According to the 114th, it’s good enough. They’ve locked it down and moved on. Ethan said he had to call in a big favour to get this.’
‘It’s obvious that this needs more attention. Something is way off here.’
He paused, thinking.
‘Why the hell would they just leave it like this? That’s a good team over there.’
‘I think the pressure was on from the Department and the city to find who shot Vargas; the press are right into this case too. Homicide was clutching at straws, then suddenly they have a stroke of luck; two suspects dead with the actual murder weapon at the scene. Forget asking questions, the glove fits so it’s staying on the hand.’
‘Every loose end tied, case closed, everyone happy,’ Josh said. ‘Not left with an investigation that could drag on for months staining the 114ths reputation.’
Marquez nodded and tapped the file. ‘But four weeks after they shoot Leann, Vargas and Archer, this hombre suddenly ups and kills himself after dropping his friend? It doesn’t make any goddamn sense.’
Josh sat quietly for a moment, looking at her. ‘You reckon Arch is thinking the same way?’
‘Count on it,’ she replied. ‘You and I saw these anomalies in minutes. Imagine what he’s had time to dig up with a week’s suspension.’
‘How could he get the files?’
‘Ethan’s source at the 114th said someone else asked to see them earlier in the week. My friend told me that apart from a few of his favourites he groomed from the Academy, Royston’s hated by most of the guys over there. They reckon he gives them a bad reputation. I think they’d help Arch out if he needed it.’
Josh paused as the thought of Archer reminded him of someone else.
‘How’s Alice doing?’ he asked.
‘Still on the private recovery floor. She’s improving.’
‘Her security?’
‘Still in place. Shepherd’s insisted on it until she’s out even though the case is closed. Two cops outside her door at all times. Archer’s been banned from seeing her since his suspension, but hospital staff said he hasn’t called either since Friday lunchtime.’
Josh swore. ‘That really makes me uneasy. He’d walk barefoot over hot coals to get to her. He’d never just stop checking on her status.’
Marquez looked at him for a moment then focused on her coffee. Across the table Josh stared out of the window, trying to work through this latest information.
It’d been over two days since anyone had seen or heard from his detective partner; Archer seemed to have disappeared right off the face of the earth. Josh imagined him working alone, trying to find out if Valdez and Carvalho really were the killers. Asking questions, digging deeper, possibly finding something or someone Homicide had missed.
And quite possibly getting himself into deep shit, with no-one to watch his back.
Thinking back to his visit to Archer’s apartment building thirty minutes ago, he suddenly straightened, realising something.
‘What?’ Marquez said, noticing the shift in his behaviour.
‘His car wasn’t outside his place,’ Josh replied.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and dialled the Bureau.
‘I’ll get Ethan to run a trace on the plates. If he’s parked it somewhere in the city, we can find it.’
Looking at him, her eyes brightening with hope, Marquez drained her coffee. ‘Still have the key to his apartment on you?’
His phone to his ear, Josh nodded and tapped his pocket with his other hand.
‘Right here. But I already checked it out.’
‘Let’s go take another look,’ Marquez said, sliding off her seat as Josh connected to Ethan. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Something’s really not right.’
As Josh and Marquez left the Upper West Side coffee shop, downtown in Hell’s Kitchen an attractive nineteen year old African American girl called Kelly Greer walked quickly into her apartment building, checking nervously behind her before closing the main door.
Turning, she moved up the stairs, her heart thumping as she pulled her cell phone and retried a number.
Once again, it rang out.
Gripping her cell, she tried another number but no-one answered that either. She started to feel sick with fear. That was two more girls not answering their phones.
She paused in the hallway to steady herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Then moving down the corridor, she unlocked her apartment door and walked quickly inside.
A moment later, a large hand clamped over her mouth. Her scream muffled, she tried to fight back as the door was slammed shut behind her, someone with brutal strength keeping hold of her as she fought and struggled. She realised there was a rag in the hand covering her mouth, some chemical pushed against her nose and lips, the palm of the gloved hand holding it in place.
Unable to breathe, she in
haled involuntarily.
And a second later she passed out.
FIVE
Across the East River in Queens, Josh and Marquez pulled to a halt outside a semi-detached building in Astoria; there was just one apartment per floor, the place Archer shared with Vargas and Isabel located at the top. Josh switched the engine off and the two detectives stepped out of the car, closed their doors and walked over to the building’s entrance.
As Marquez glanced around her, noting that Archer’s car was definitely missing, Josh withdrew the spare key Archer had given him a while back and opened the front door. They walked inside, made their way up to the 3rd floor and came to a halt outside the apartment.
‘He might have come back,’ Marquez said, more in hope than expectation.
Glancing at her, Josh knocked and waited for a moment.
There was no response.
A beat later he slid the key in the lock and opened up.
As they walked inside, the pair sensed the apartment was empty; it had that deserted, forlorn feeling homes have when they’ve been unoccupied for a while. To the right was the sitting area and door to the balcony; straight ahead was the kitchen and to the left were the bedrooms and bathroom. Everything was as it should be, a few personal possessions strewn about but there was no sign of any disturbance, nothing unusual and no obvious clue as to where Archer had gone or where he might be right now.
Turning, Marquez walked down the corridor and towards the main bedroom, easing the door back. The double bed was empty and made, the window half open, making the room feel chilly. Her eyes settled on a bedside table. There was a picture frame sitting there; she stepped forward and picked it up. The photo was of Archer with Vargas and Isabel in a stadium, all three of them smiling at the camera, Vargas wearing a blue Dodgers baseball cap back to front, Isabel standing on a seat beside her, a blue baseball cap on her head matching Alice’s with LA printed on the front in bold white lettering.
Looking at it, the thin curtains billowing in the wind the only movement in the room, she smiled briefly. It must have been taken at the beginning of this summer.
Then the smile faded.
A lot had happened since then.
Placing the frame back on the table, she glanced around and saw there was nothing here to provide any sort of clue to Archer’s whereabouts; she walked over to the window and shut it, then left the room. Heading back down the corridor, she passed another bedroom on her left. Glancing through the open door she could see a pink bedspread, posters on the wall and stuffed animals on a shelf; Isabel’s room.
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she moved back into the sitting room and glanced around. Everything was in place, nothing disturbed, no clues to suggest where Archer might have gone.
Beyond the kitchen counter in the sitting area, Josh was perched on a chair near the wall, flicking through some papers.
‘No case files, no keys, no phone,’ he said.
‘And no Archer,’ Marquez muttered, looking around.
Her fondness for him extended beyond that of a work colleague; she regarded him as one of her closest friends and with that in mind, she was worried. Going dark like this was totally out of character for him. She’d seen first-hand the effect that Vargas’ shooting had had on him; despite being suspended, she knew he wouldn’t have just let this go. You’d have to kill Archer to get him to quit.
She looked around the empty apartment, that last thought echoing in her mind. She knew Arch; with a closed case that full of questions, he must have found something.
Or something must have found him.
Josh’s phone suddenly rang, the sudden noise catching them both by surprise. Pulling out the Samsung quickly, he saw it was the Bureau and put it on speaker.
‘Blake.’
‘Josh, it’s me,’ Ethan said. ‘I got a hit on Archer’s car.’
Josh and Marquez looked at each other, hope flaring in their eyes. ‘Where?’
‘It just rolled into the Midtown impound. They picked it up on East 19th. Apparently it’s been sitting there collecting tickets for two days.’
As Josh absorbed this information, Marquez remembered something she’d read earlier and pulled out the brown envelope from her jacket pocket. Rapidly rifling through the pages, she found the sheet she was looking for and withdrew it, holding it up so Josh could read it, pointing to an address.
‘Any idea why he’d park in the East Village?’ Ethan asked, his voice echoing around the empty apartment.
‘East 19th Street,’ Josh repeated, looking at where Marquez’s forefinger was resting. ‘That’s where Leann Casey’s mother lives.’
Once she enters the sex trade, the average life expectancy for a prostitute in the United States is seven years. AIDS and homicide are the two main reasons for that statistic, but at that moment it was the latter that the terrified young escort called Cece Mills was concerned with.
She was alone in her West Village apartment, her room-mate out of town. With her attention split between gathering her things and watching the front door, she frantically packed her most valuable possessions into an overnight bag, her ears straining for any unusual noises coming from outside the apartment.
At twenty three years old she was already five years into that seven year life-span statistic but she knew if she didn’t get the hell out of there right now there was a more than high chance that she wouldn’t make it another two.
Almost finished packing, she hurried across the bedroom through the open door and into the kitchen. Ripping open a cupboard, she pulled out a can of tomato soup camouflaged amongst all the others and unscrewed the top. After some advice from one of the other girls a while back, she’d started to store a gradually-increasing wad of money away, an emergency fund. The cash was rolled up tight, six grand in total, her life savings which had taken months to build up, a joke considering she earned $5000 a night for the people who controlled her.
Taking the money, she pulled off the elastic band holding it together then flattened out the half-folded bills and tucked them into her bra. Pulling out a cell phone, she moved back into the bedroom and dialled that friend who’d told her to stow the cash. She had to correct herself halfway through the sequence, misdialling due to her shaking hands, but she finally got it right and pressed Call.
‘C’mon; pick up,’ she whispered as she zipped up her bag with one hand.
It continued to ring, no-one answering.
‘Pick up!’
‘Hello?’
‘April, it’s Cece!’ she said hurriedly. ‘We’re in deep shit, babe.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Kelly’s not answering now,’ she said quietly, her voice cracking.
‘Are you serious?’
She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘It’s just you and me. We’re the only ones left.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At home,’ she said, holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder as she picked up her bag, grabbed her keys and moved to the door. ‘I’m getting the hell out of here.’
‘Come over to my place right now. We’ll get out of the city and figure out what to do.’
‘OK,’ she said, opening up. ‘I’ll be the-’
As she opened the door she was suddenly pushed back into the room by a large figure in a black gas mask and white overalls, his hand around her throat and her scream cut off a second into the sound. As she stumbled back, Cece dropped the phone, the call still connected, and kicked out at her attacker but she was totally outmatched in size and strength. She fought in vain as two other figures similarly dressed moved into the apartment behind the lead figure and closed the door.
As she continued to struggle, the huge figure kept her restrained in an effortless iron grip, then whipped her around, clamping a chemical-soaked rag over her nose and mouth. Using up all her oxygen, her screaming and shouting muffled under the man’s glove, Cece was forced to inhale.
Then she passed out.
SIX
&nb
sp; Assisted by the relative lack of traffic on the Sunday city streets, Josh and Marquez made it down to the East Village in quick time, parking by the sidewalk outside Karen Casey’s apartment building on East 19th Street. Exiting the car, the pair quickly moved towards the building’s entrance, Josh running forward and catching the door as a couple walked out, Marquez following him inside.
Ten seconds later, they arrived outside 2B. Josh knocked on the door; there was a delay then the sound of movement before the door opened a fraction, catching on the chain.
A middle-aged woman peered through the gap. They could only see an inch of her but even so they saw she looked hostile.
‘Help you?’ she asked.
‘Are you Karen Casey?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Lisa Marquez and Josh Blake,’ Marquez said, showing her badge. ‘We’re detectives with the NYPD.’
A beat later the door was slammed in their faces.
‘We need to talk to you, ma’am,’ Josh said, raising his voice so he could be heard. ‘Please.’
‘Go away. If this is about Leann, I’ve said it all.’
‘This is about one of our detectives,’ Marquez said. ‘He’s gone missing.’
‘So?’
She looked at Josh, trying to find the right things to say. ‘We think he might have come to see you before he disappeared. His car was towed from down the street less than an hour ago. We don’t know where he is and we figured you may be able to help.’
There was a long pause, the pair looking at each other. The door remained shut.
Cursing under his breath, Josh shook his head at Marquez and they turned to leave.
‘Is that the only reason you’re here?’ Karen’s voice asked.
Marquez looked at Josh. ‘No.’
There was the sound of rattling and then the door opened fully this time, to reveal a slim woman somewhere in her forties. She looked tired and worn, dark shadows under her eyes but nevertheless it was easy to see she would once have been very attractive, just like her daughter.
