by Blake Banner
“You got an address for him?”
“What do I need an address for? He comes to me. I don’t go to him. You want his Swiss bank account too? I got that back there along with his social security number. He’s casual. I pay cash. End of story.”
“You don’t know where he lives?”
“I just got through tellin’ you that.”
Dehan slammed her open palm down on the counter and made a noise that seemed too big for such a delicate looking hand. She snarled, “Can the attitude, Eva! We ain’t vice, but I know a guy who is. You want we should start going through pockets here?”
There was an immediate scraping of chairs as people started getting to their feet and hurrying casually to the door. Eva spread her hands and looked past us at her departing customers. “Hey! What the…!”
“A little cooperation, Eva!”
“I don’t know where he lives! What you want me to do? Get on my knees and pray for his address?”
Dehan leaned close to her and growled. “You got his phone number, Eva. Get it!”
She made a face that was a sullen scowl, looked in a notebook and wrote down the number. She handed it to Dehan and said, “It’s pay as you go. You won’t get no address from it.”
I nodded. “What about friends, girlfriends? He hook up with any of the girls?” She drew breath and her face told me she was going to lie. Before she could speak I turned to Dehan. “Get Max, tell him what we’ve seen. Get him to put surveillance on this joint. Facilitating the traffic of prescribed substances…”
“OK! OK! OK, already! She goes by the name Zena. Twenty maybe, Puerto Rican, she usually wears a little black leather skirt. She’s got a stud in her nose and another in her bellybutton. She hangs out on the corner of Edgewater Road, by the railway tracks. She takes her tricks down to the park.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “She should be there in an hour, maybe two. And for cryin’ out loud, you didn’t hear it from me!”
I smiled. “Course not, Eva. We heard it from Yoda.”
My cell started ringing as we stepped onto the street. Dehan sat on the hood of the Jag and watched me as I answered.
“John, it’s John, here. The inspector.” He clarified that in case I thought I was phoning myself. “Sergeant Solano is at Fillmore’s last known address. The landlord says he hasn’t been at that apartment for about two years. Has no idea where he is now.”
“OK, thank you, sir. Any word from the lab?”
“Pete Henson just called. He’s sending in his preliminary results. He said Frank was about to call you about the girl.”
I put it on speaker and sat next to Dehan. “OK. What did Pete find?”
“He said there were prints on Angela’s bag and you had asked him to compare them to Wayne Harris’. John, they were not a match.”
Dehan looked into my face without expression. I said, “Did you tell him to compare them with Jimmy Fillmore’s?”
“Yes, and he is doing that now.”
“Good. What about the Jane Doe from this morning?”
“Frank is calling you about that now. Better you talk to him. Have you got Fillmore?”
I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me. I had just heard the bleep of the call waiting signal. “No, sir. He didn’t come in today. We need to put out an APB on him. I have Frank waiting. I’ll talk to you in a minute, sir.”
I hung up and immediately it started ringing again. I put it on speaker for Dehan’s benefit. “Frank. What have you got?”
“Let me just tell you these are results that would normally take weeks. You understand that. We are going flat out because of political pressure.”
“OK. What have you got?”
“The Victim was Noelia Gomez, aka Cherry Pie, known to work Lafayette at Hunts Point. That’s a little extra on the house, and you’re welcome. A preliminary examination of the body, and please remember I have only had it a few hours, indicates bruising to the face, particularly around the mouth, consistent with having been punched or slapped. Bruising to the arms consistent with having been gripped tightly, but no prints, so he must have been wearing gloves.”
“Size of his hands?”
“A large man as opposed to a small one, but impossible to be more precise than that, John.”
“OK, anything else?”
“Yes, of course, bruising from ligatures on the wrists and, as with Angela, extensive bruising and damage to the trachea from strangulation, most probably with the thumbs.”
I glanced at Dehan. “What about semen and DNA?”
“There were traces of semen in her vagina and also on her skirt…”
“Whereabouts on her skirt?”
Dehan frowned at me and I could hear in his voice that Frank was frowning too. “On the hem, at the back, where you would expect it to be if it ran out.”
“OK, have you had time to run it?”
“Of course not. It takes time to get a profile, John. You know that. But we are working through the night. We might have something by tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Frank. Stay in touch.”
“Yeah, I don’t stay in touch with my wife, but I should stay in touch with you.”
He hung up and I looked at Dehan. Her eyebrows were high on her brow but her eyes were narrowed at me.
“You knew.”
I nodded. “I told you.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means that we get something to eat and then we go soliciting ladies of the night. Or in this case, ladies of the late afternoon.”
“That’s it. That’s all you’re going to tell me…”
I gave her a smile that was somewhere between smug and complacent. “You know my methods. You know the facts.” I raised an eyebrow. “You and the inspector have underlined them to me often enough. You work it out.”
I stood and went to open the car door. She watched me over her shoulder, muttered an obscene suggestion that was anatomically impossible and got in the passenger side.
FIFTEEN
Zena looked as though she had achieved the anatomically impossible on at least one occasion and survived, at least physically, if not mentally, morally and spiritually, to tell the tale—on a dedicated phone line and for a modest fee. Dehan was in the back seat pretending not to sulk, and I was cruising slowly up Edgewater Road trying to look seedy. I like to think that is not easy in a burgundy, 1964 Jaguar Mk II. Zena was standing at the curb, watching me, chewing gum and looking both sulky and seedy in a black vinyl skirt. I slowed to a halt and leered at her. She gave me a chewing gum smile back. “Hey, handsome, nice car. Lookin’ for a party?”
“I am, and I think you’re just the party I’m looking for.”
She bent forward with her hands on her knees and gave a dirty little laugh. Then she caught site of Dehan in the back and said, “Three way is extra.”
I tried to look like I cared. “How much?”
She glanced at the car, figured it was expensive and said, “Hundred bucks?”
I grinned. “Call it two hundred and we’ll throw in some coke and some French champagne. Hop aboard, sweet cheeks.”
She giggled and ran coyly around the hood toward the passenger side. I heard Dehan from the shadows behind me saying, “Sweet cheeks? Seriously?”
Zena climbed in and closed the door. I pulled away and she turned to smile at Dehan. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Zena.”
I smiled at the road ahead and said, “Hi, Zena, I am Detective Stone and this is Detective Dehan. How are you doing today?”
She flopped back in her seat. “Mother fucker…!”
“Relax,” I said, “We’re not vice. We just want to talk to you about a friend of yours.”
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”
Dehan shifted her position so she could see Zena’s face. “It’s going to happen, Zena, because this guy is wanted for murder, and his latest victim was a sex worker, just like you. Now, we happen to know that you are one of his favorites, so if you are smart you�
��ll tell us exactly what we need to know.”
“One of my johns, killing hookers? You kidding me?”
I glanced in the mirror. “You see, Dehan? They are called hookers, not sex workers. Call me a dinosaur, but at least I have mastered the lingo.”
She ignored me. “Not kidding, Zena. Raped and strangled last night.”
She looked worried and a little sick. “Who’s the john?”
“Jimmy, works at the Eva Maria’s Café.”
She burst out in an ugly, cackling laugh. “Jimmy? Are you out of your minds?”
She looked at me like I was stupid. I offered her no expression back but asked her, “When was the last time you saw Noelia?”
She stopped grinning. “Noelia?”
“Yeah, you know, Cherry Pie. Seen her since last night?”
“…no…”
Dehan cut in. “That would be because she was lying in the woods down at Ferry Point Park, dead, with Jimmy’s semen inside her.”
“Sweet Jesus…” She crossed her self and said a prayer under her breath. Then she looked over her shoulder at Dehan and said, “She was with Jimmy last night. He come down to the corner after work and they went back to his place.” She looked away. “Sweet mother… Jimmy… It’s always the fuckin’ sweet ones.”
I said, “Where is Jimmy’s place, Zena?”
She stared at me for a long moment before answering. Finally she said, “Second floor. Eleven twenty-one, Longwood, opposite the storage place.”
I dropped her at the corner of Longfellow and Lafayette, turned west and accelerated toward Garrison Avenue. I made the tires complain as I turned into Longwood and skidded to a halt outside an ugly, three story red brick with a small, blue plastic awning over the door. I got out and ran. Dehan was close behind me. As I rang on the bell and hammered on the door she said, “I called for backup,” in a voice that said it was something I should have done.
I said, “Good,” and hammered on the door again.
I pulled my Swiss Army knife from my pocket, selected the screwdriver, rammed it in the lock, gave it a firm whack with the butt of my automatic and opened the door. Dehan stood staring at me. “Stone? What the hell are you doing? We haven’t got a warrant or probable cause.”
I yanked my knife out of the lock. “You haven’t, Dehan, but I have. Coming? Or are you going to wait for backup?”
There was a steep, narrow staircase with wooden steps showing through a frayed carpet that was of no recognizable color. I sprinted up, with my Smith & Wesson still in my hand. There was only one door on that floor. I hammered on it and shouted, “Jimmy Fillmore, NYPD, open up!”
I heard Dehan’s feet on the stairs behind me. She had her weapon in her hand and went to stand on the far side of the doorway. She frowned and shook her head, whispering, “Stone, we can’t do this!”
I ignored her, listening for sounds inside. There were none. I gave the door a once over. It looked flimsy. I stood back and put all my two hundred and twenty pounds behind a hefty kick at the lock. The wood splintered and a second kick burst the door open. I didn’t look at Dehan, but I was pretty sure she was as distressed as the door.
I went in with my gun held out in front of me, shouting, “NYPD! Show yourself!”
It was a small, shabby room with two sash windows overlooking Longwood Avenue. On the left there was a door that led into a small kitchen, and between the two windows a small dining table with two chairs. To the right of the door there was a sofa and a coffee table in front of an old TV. The TV was sitting on a wooden crate up against the wall.
Jimmy was sitting on the sofa, with his right elbow resting on the arm. He was gaping at the TV, which was odd because the TV was turned off. I ignored him and moved to a door opposite the kitchen. It gave onto a bedroom. The drapes were drawn and the room was dark, and smelled of cigarettes and stale sweat. There was an aluminum-frame bed with the covers thrown back, showing old, stained sheets. Another door stood open onto a bathroom. I checked in there but it was empty, so I went back to Jimmy.
He was still gaping, but now I could see clearly his eyes were rolled back in their sockets, and the left side of his head had a neat hole plugged into the temple. I walked around and saw that most of the right side of his head was missing, and the sofa and the wall were spattered with blood and gore. It looked as though it was still wet. In his left hand he was holding a 9 mm Taurus semi automatic. Dehan was staring at him. I crouched down to sniff the gun. It had been fired recently. Dehan frowned at me.
“This isn’t funny anymore, Stone.”
“It never was.”
“How did you know?”
I felt a small twist of irritation in my gut but suppressed it. I stood and said, “I didn’t know, Dehan, but it was a possibility. A probability, given the facts.”
She narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “How? Why? How was this a probability? How could you possibly guess that he might commit suicide?”
I sighed, but before I could answer we heard the sirens of two patrol cars approaching. I shook my head. “I can’t go through the whole explanation now, Dehan. It was there to be figured out if you’d had an open mind. You want to call it in? I want to have a look around before the crime scene team kick us out.” Her eyes were bright with anger. I added, “Please don’t get mad. I will explain it, just not right now.”
She yanked her phone from her pocket and walked to the window. I stood back by the bedroom door and examined the scene. From where I was I could see into the kitchen. I went in and looked around. I could hear Dehan talking behind me. On the draining rack by the sink I saw a small breakfast bowl, a mug, a cereal spoon and a tea spoon. There was also a knife and a fork and two glasses. I stepped over and had a closer look at the glasses. They still had droplets of water in them. I had a look in the trash and in the recycling bin. There was no bottle. I smiled, took my cell and took several photographs of the scene. Then I took two evidence bags from my pocket and carefully placed one glass in each.
“What are you doing?”
I turned to face Dehan. I could hear feet tramping up the stairs. I pointed at the glasses. “What did they drink?”
I moved out of the kitchen to meet the uniforms coming up the stairs. I showed them my badge. “Crime scene and the ME are on their way. Get some tape up for me, would you? And see who’s upstairs and if they heard anything.”
I knew they’d get squat, but you have to try. One of them went downstairs to get the tape and the other made his way up to the next floor, taking his pad from his pocket. Dehan was in the kitchen doorway. She seemed to be mad, and also a bit upset. She spoke without looking at me. “So there was somebody here and they had a drink.”
“It looks that way.”
“But whoever was here took whatever they were drinking away with them.”
I nodded. “That’s what it looks like.”
“And that is significant, why?”
I shrugged. “Maybe it isn’t.”
She sighed noisily, put on her latex gloves and went into the bedroom. I heard her open the wardrobe and went to watch. There was nothing in there save a few old clothes. She closed it and got on all fours to peer under the bed. Again there was nothing of interest there, only a pair of shoes and a lot of dust. Finally she came to the chest of drawers beside the bed. She went through it methodically, and found what I had guessed she was looking for in the bottom drawer, under a spare set of sheets. It was a shoe box. She took a photograph of it in the drawer, then removed it, set it on the bed and opened it. Then she photographed it again.
The first thing she took out was a pair of torn, pink panties that appeared to be stained. She put them in an evidence bag and set it to one side. I stepped over beside her and looked down. The box contained a small hairbrush with a few dark hairs in it, several silk handkerchiefs and several photographs. One was of Angela, one of Cherry Pie, the others were of similar girls whom I did not recognize. Most of them, but not all, were dressed like Cherry; all were sm
iling for the camera, and Jimmy was in a couple of them.
I hunkered down beside her as Dehan went through them one by one. They seemed to be in a bar, and Jimmy was raising his glass to the camera, with his left arm around one girl or another. Dehan said, “Are these the ones that got away? Or are they lying in the morgue, waiting for somebody to give them a name?”
She bagged everything, including the box, and left it back in the drawer.
We heard the heavy tramping of feet and after a moment a voice called my name from the next room. I went out and saw Frank and Pete Henson at the door with their assistants. They ducked under the tape and I pointed at Jimmy on the sofa.
“He’s all yours, Frank. Cause of death seems pretty self evident, but I’d be curious to know what his last meal consisted of.”
He paused on his way to the body and frowned at me. “Really?”
I nodded. “Really.”
“I wouldn’t normally do an autopsy on somebody who had shot himself in the head. It’s what we call in the profession a damn waste of time.”
“Will you make an exception in this case, please, Frank?”
He shrugged. “Fine.”
I showed Pete the glasses and asked him to go over the whole kitchen. Then Dehan took him to the bedroom and showed him the box. After that, he and Frank asked us to go away and let them do their jobs.
We walked down the stairs in silence and carried that same silence through the gathering dusk back to the station. There we climbed the stairs in silence and didn’t break it until we knocked on the inspector’s door.
“Come!”
Dehan opened the door and we went in.
“Ah! The dynamic duo!” He gestured with both hands at the two seats opposite him. “Please, sit. What progress?”
I turned to Dehan. “You want to explain, Dehan? I think this is more your success than mine.”
She raised an eyebrow at me and the inspector beamed. “Success? So you have Jimmy Fillmore?”
Dehan took a deep breath. “It looks that way, sir. It also looked as though he decided to spare the city the cost of a trial. Frank will have to confirm it, but it looks as though he shot himself in the head while sitting on the sofa. In his bedroom we found a box full of what appear to be trophies from his kills, though obviously, again, the lab will have to confirm that. It contained panties that probably belonged to Noelia Gomez, his last victim, and to Angela Fernandez. There was also a lady’s hairbrush, containing long, dark hairs, that should give us enough material to identify the owner, and photographs of Noelia, Angela and several other girls. Jimmy is with them in a couple of the pictures.”
