“I’m serious. Looks like we’ll only have a day or two to get our heads around this thing. Read the file. Call me when you’re done. We start in the morning at the murder scene. Unless you’d prefer me to take this someplace else?”
“I’ll call when I’m done with the files. From what I’ve seen on TV, everything points to Solomon as the killer. You know that, right? This one looks like a loser.”
“I’ve read all the newspapers too. Listened to all the legal experts on CNN. They think this trial is over before it starts. Maybe they’re right. But I’ve talked to Bobby. So has Rudy Carp. We don’t think he’s a fit for these murders. All we’ve got to do is persuade twelve people that we’re right.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With a flick of Kane’s wrist, he’d reversed his grip on the knife. As he passed the van in the driveway he bent low and whipped the tip of the knife across the rear driver’s side tire. The van lurched as the air hissed out of the rip in the tire wall. Kane pulled his cap way down, put the knife back in his pocket, walked up the few steps to the front door and rang the bell.
After a few moments, Wally answered the door. It was the first time Kane had gotten a good look at him. Up close, the man was probably in his late thirties. His hair was thinning around the temples and his face was flushed. Kane smelled wine on the man’s breath, and the ruby staining above his top lip told him the man had just swallowed a large glass of red. Which explained the flush look to his otherwise hard face.
The man’s face softened when he saw Kane. Whoever he might have been expecting, it wasn’t anyone who matched Kane’s current appearance.
Kane affected a southern accent. He often used it. Somehow, that southern drawl added credibility to whatever Kane said. It made people trust him.
“Sorry to bother you,” said Kane. “I was passing by and I saw the tire on your van was just clean flat. Maybe you already knew that, but in case you didn’t I just thought I’d do the neighborly thing.”
Kane turned around. He’d been careful to shield his face by keeping his scarf high, and keeping his eyes low. It seemed to have done the trick.
“Oh … well, thank you,” said Wally. “Ah, which tire did you say?”
“This one, I’ll show you,” said Kane.
Wally stepped out of the house, followed Kane to the rear of the van. He bent down on his haunches to get a look at the tire as Kane stood beside him. There were no streetlights close by, and the light from the house didn’t penetrate as far as the end of the drive.
“Jesus, something’s ripped the goddamn shit out of this,” said Wally.
He probed the hole with his fingers. It looked like a straight cut made by something hard and razor sharp. He was halfway to his feet when he said, “Hey, thanks for …” and froze. His knees were bent and his arms raised, palms open. He was staring at Kane’s gun. Kane made sure Wally didn’t miss this detail by pointing the weapon directly at his face.
When Kane spoke again, the warm southern honey had dissolved from his tongue as if it had never been there. Kane’s voice became hard and flat.
“Don’t speak. Don’t move. When I tell you to, we’re going to walk to my car. I’ll ask you a few easy questions and if you answer them you get to go home. If you give me trouble, or you don’t answer – then I’ll have to ask your young wife a question.”
Heavy breath misted in front of the barrel of the gun. Panicking, Wally’s legs had begun to tremble and he couldn’t take his eyes off Kane. He was looking at Kane’s face, hidden in shadow. Kane imagined that the light which seemed to escape from his eyes was visible to the man in front of him and that’s all he would be able to see – twin points of light in the darkness.
“Straighten up, let’s go,” said Kane. “Or do I have to ask your wife that question? It’s a real simple one. Which would she be most upset about? Me shooting you in the face, or putting my knife in your baby’s eye?”
The man straightened. His large Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed down his panic. Kane gestured for him to walk in front. Wally obliged.
“Turn right at the bottom of the drive, walk up the street and stand beside the passenger door of the station wagon. I’m five steps behind you. If you run, you die. So does the baby.”
They walked in silence to the end of the street, Kane clutching the gun underneath his jacket. There was no one else on the street. Too damn cold and too damn late to be out walking. Wally turned right, and did as he was told. He stopped at the passenger door of Kane’s car.
“What do you want from me?” said Wally, the fear raging through his chest like a drum.
Kane unlocked the vehicle and told Wally to get in slow. Both men slid into the car simultaneously, Kane now pointing the gun at Wally as he got into the driver’s seat. Both men closed their doors. Wally stared straight ahead, shaking and puffing for air.
“Give me your cell phone,” said Kane.
Wally’s eyes moved down for a half a second. Kane spotted it. Wally had glanced at the gun Kane held in his left hand, low, across his belly, and pointed at Wally as he arched his back, so he could reach into his pants pocket.
“Slowly,” said Kane.
Wally took a smartphone from his pocket, flicked his hand across the screen which lit up, but he was still shaking and he dropped the phone on the floor. He reached down. The station wagon’s interior lights were off, so Kane could only see the light of the phone screen on the floor. The screen light was enough to let Kane see Wally’s pant leg twitch. Kane stiffened and reached out but he was too late. Wally snapped bolt upright, and slammed a switchblade into the side of Kane’s right leg. Kane grabbed Wally’s wrist, even as Wally twisted the blade to start the blood flowing. But Kane’s grip was too tight, he couldn’t pull the knife free.
Kane smacked the barrel of the pistol off the top of Wally’s head. Another blow, this time with the butt of the gun to the solar plexus. He let go the knife. Kane watched the man wheeze and struggle for breath. Most PIs carry some kind of back-up, and Kane had not thought to search Wally before putting him in the car. Kane placed the barrel of the gun to the side of Wally’s head and looked down at the knife in his leg with a casual indifference.
“That’s those pants ruined,” said Kane.
“Wha – wha – what the hell is wrong with you man?” said Wally. He was holding the top of his head, pulling air into his chest in painful gulps and trying to make sense of the scene in front of him. Kane hadn’t reacted to the knife in his leg. No grimace of pain. No scream. No grinding his teeth. Just total disinterest to a serious, painful wound.
“You’re wondering why I’m not screaming? Give me your phone or I’ll make you scream real loud,” said Kane.
This time, he bent down real slow, retrieved the phone, and handed it over. Kane lowered the gun. Wally looked sideways at Kane, his hands up in front of his face, waiting for the pop from the pistol.
“Damn, I put a lot of effort into getting these pants to look right,” said Kane. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you,” said Kane, tucking away the gun in his jacket. “But I’m going to have to keep your knife. Here, have mine.”
Kane moved too fast for Wally to register. He still looked afraid, as if he was anticipating an attack. The hole in his skull from Kane’s knife bubbled with blood. Kane turned over the engine, pushed Wally’s head below the dash and took off. Kane switched on the headlights. When the dash lights went up they threw an orange glow on the chrome base of the blade that jutted from Kane’s leg. He dared not remove the knife in case he bled out. He needed somewhere quiet to patch up and get rid of Wally’s body.
Fifteen minutes later he’d found a commercial area. Transport yards, factories and garages. All closed up for the night, and some had been closed for years. Kane pulled into an open lot beside an abandoned factory and drove until he came to a wire fence at the back. No streetlights or security cameras. He got out of the car and switched the license plates. Normally he could do this in five minutes flat. Not t
his time. The blade in his thigh made it awkward to kneel, and he didn’t have the strength in that leg. Kane wiped Wally’s phone clean of any fingerprints, dropped it on the gravel lot. He pulled Wally’s body out of the car, dumped him beside his phone. He had a jerry can of gas in the trunk. Dousing the body and the phone, he then lit the gas and watched for a few minutes. Looking around, there was no one and nothing to see until you hit the river. A body could lie there for a week or more, undiscovered. And when the cops did find it, it would take at least another week or so to ID it from dental records. More than enough time for Kane to have completed his work.
Would the cops even know that Wally had been due to undertake jury service? Maybe. When he didn’t show tomorrow he would be put on a list to receive a subpoena to attend and explain why he didn’t show up for jury duty. All that would take a few days at least, maybe more.
An hour later Kane pulled into his space at the parking garage opposite Carp Law. He waited for a few minutes for the motion-sensor lights to go out, throwing the floor into darkness. First he fetched a medic kit from the back seat and opened it. Using sharp scissors, he cut through his pants, exposing the blade buried hilt-deep in his thigh. Seeing a major injury on his body was always a moment of curiosity for Kane. He didn’t feel a thing, but he knew there was probably deep muscle damage. When he’d changed the license plates, he’d limped, but he didn’t know if this was simply because the knife was still in there. On the plus side, he knew there was no damage to any major arteries, or he would’ve bled out on the road back to Manhattan.
He knew he had to work fast. The engine was still ticking over. Kane killed the headlights and depressed the cigarette lighter on the dash.
Gauze and bandages at the ready, Kane pulled the knife. He stemmed the bleeding with the bandages. A steady flow of blood. He was glad. If there had been rhythmic jets of blood, in time with his heartbeat, he knew he would’ve had to get to a hospital. And that would raise questions.
The cigarette lighter popped.
For any normal person, what Kane did would have had them writhing, screaming, biting down on the agony before passing out. In Kane’s case, all he had to do was concentrate and make sure he didn’t lose his grip on the lighter as he plunged it deep into the wound. He held it there. When the bleeding stopped, Kane put the cigarette lighter back in its place and threaded a needle. He worked expertly. This wasn’t the first time he’d stitched up his own skin. The sensation was the same. A pinched, tight feeling along the skin, but nothing uncomfortable. He bandaged up the wound with plenty of gauze and tape. He got out of the car, triggering the lights. Holding his jacket over his leg, Kane got into his second vehicle, stripped off the bloodied, ruined pants and put on a fresh pair of black jeans which he kept under the passenger seat along with a sweatshirt and a Knicks cap.
By the time Kane got back to the apartment he was tired. Undressing slowly, in front of the mirror, Kane examined his leg. There wasn’t much blood. Hopefully, by tomorrow, the bleeding would have stopped.
He had a big day ahead of him.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Hot and Crusty bakery at the corner of West 88th Street and Broadway had good coffee and better pancakes. My car was still at the city auto pound, so I’d taken the subway early to beat the rush. That gave me some time for breakfast. I ate a stack of pancakes with crispy bacon on the side and put two cups of coffee away while I waited for Harper. Eight fifteen. And already there was a line of construction workers, office staff, and tourists waiting on their breakfast bagels.
I saw Holten before I saw Harper. He came in the front door, spotted me, and was halfway across the floor before Harper stepped out from behind him. It wasn’t that Harper was small, it was more to do with Holten. You could stand him in front of a 1952 Buick and you wouldn’t be able to see it. Harper was a little below average height, slim and fit, with her hair tied up in a ponytail. She wore jeans, lace-up boots and a leather jacket zipped up to the neck. Holten wore the same suit, and carried the same briefcase, chained to his wrist.
“I’m going on shift change at nine thirty. Yanni should be here by then. He’ll look after the laptop till I come back on duty tonight,” said Holten.
“Good morning to you, too,” I said.
“Don’t blame Holten, Eddie. He slept on my couch. You’d be grouchy too,” said Harper.
“You mean he actually sleeps? I thought he just powered down and plugged himself into the socket to charge.”
“Believe me,” said Holten, “If Rudy Carp thought that was possible I would already have a power lead up my ass.”
Holten had really warmed up. I guessed Harper was responsible. Both of them were ex-law enforcement. They had a lot in common.
Harper sat opposite me. Holten beside her. They both ordered bagels and I decided I hadn’t quite had enough coffee.
“So you got permission from the DA for our little scouting mission?” said Harper.
“I did. Spoke to an assistant district attorney and he smoothed it over with the NYPD. There’s been so much media interest the house has become some kind of weird shrine, for fans. The police commissioner had to authorize a special overtime roster just to keep a cop outside the front door twenty-four hours a day. Otherwise there’d be people all over the house, tearing it to pieces for souvenirs and taking pictures for the Hollywood Reporter. The cop on duty knows we’re coming,” I said.
Harper nodded, nudged Holten, who smiled back at her. I could tell Holten had the hots for Harper. He looked like a high school kid with that goofy smile.
“Told you it wouldn’t be a problem getting inside. You should have more faith,” said Harper. Holten held up his hands, acknowledging defeat.
I’d read the case papers. So had Harper. We were both experienced enough to know that no matter how many photographs we saw of the crime scene, there was nothing like being in that physical space. I needed a sense of the murder scene, the geography, the room layout. Plus I wanted to make sure Rudy and the cops hadn’t missed anything.
“So what did you make of the case?” I said.
Instantly, Harper’s face darkened. Her eyes shifted to the table and she cleared her throat.
“Let’s put it this way, I’m not as convinced as you are. I think our client has too much explaining to do, and he hasn’t done any of it yet,” she said.
“You think he’s lying about the murders?”
At that moment, their food arrived. We stayed quiet until the waitress was out of earshot. Then Harper said, “He’s lying about something. Something important.”
There was no conversation while they ate. Which didn’t take long. Holten almost inhaled his bagel, and Harper ate like she was taking on fuel for a tough road ahead. Neither of them were tasting the food. I drank my coffee and waited.
Harper wiped her lips with a napkin and leaned back in her chair. There was something on her mind.
“I can’t get the butterfly out of my mind,” she said.
“I know, Bobby’s fingerprint and the two sets of DNA. Rudy thinks the cops planted the DNA evidence. I think he might be right.”
She nodded along with Holten and said, “Yeah, not sure how NYPD got Pena’s DNA in the lab. That’s a tough one. But I was more concerned about the butterfly itself. I tried to make one last night. Dollar origami is a thing, apparently. There are instructional videos on YouTube. I sat for forty-five minutes while I took a break from the files. I couldn’t do it. Whoever did this took time to make that thing. And they did it before the murder. It’s a cold-ass thing to do, messing with a dead body. Sends a statement.”
“I’d considered that. I don’t know how the DA will spin the significance of the butterfly, but I guess they’ll say it shows Bobby didn’t kill Carl and Ariella in a jealous rage. Like you said, it’s a cold act. It shows intention, and premeditation,” I said.
“It’s a really weird thing to do. It’s almost ritualistic. Like it’s more to do with the killer than th
e victim. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I made a call to a buddy of mine in the Bureau at Behavioral Sciences. He’s gonna check the database. FBI keeps a log on ritualistic murders. There’s a team there that search for patterns of behavior. Maybe it’s similar to someone else’s MO,” said Harper.
Holten counted out some bills, spreading them between his fingers. He had the laptop case in his lap, the long chain jingling as he moved the cash.
“Rudy already tried that. A whole team of us spent days chasing down blind alleys looking for a similar MO. The FBI wouldn’t talk to us so we did our own research through news reports and PD contacts. We got nothing. Maybe you might get lucky with your pal,” said Holten.
The waitress cleared the plates away and left the check.
“I’ll get this,” I said, laying down a stack of bills.
Harper and Holten both objected. Holten especially. Ex-cops were still in the habit of keeping out of the defense attorney’s pockets. Except, it seemed, when they were on the payroll.
“I’ll settle this,” said Holten, handing back Harper’s twenty, “Breakfast is on Carp Law. I’ll chalk it up as expenses.”
He gathered my pile of cash, threw down his own and gave me back my assortment of bills. The buck at the top of the pile of cash Holten left on the table drew my attention. The picture of Washington was face down. On the back of the bill was the great seal of the United States. A pyramid with an all-seeing eye at the top, and at the other end of the note, the eagle perched on a stars-and-stripes shield, olive branches in one claw, and arrows clutched in another. Right then, something was working at the back of my mind. Pure gut instinct that the bill in Carl’s mouth was the key to the whole damn case.
The three of us walked around the corner and onto West 88th Street. It ran all the way to the river, but we didn’t need to go that far. We passed a church, a couple hardware stores and a hotel. Then, on the other side of the street we saw the house. A three-story brownstone. Crime scene tape stood out bright against the door. In front of the house sat a cop in uniform who was taking five on the porch steps. The cop was smaller than Holten, but still a big guy with a shaved head and a thick neck. On the street were maybe a dozen people. They all wore black. Some had draped T-shirts, flowers and pictures of Ariella on the railings of the house. The group had fold-out chairs and raincoats. They were here for the day, probably every day. Candles were nestled at the foot of a tree opposite the house. A full-sized poster of Ariella had also been wrapped around the bark and tied around the tree with rope and tape.
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 9
