Red Death

by Alan Jacobson

  Scott drained the drink.

  “You okay?”

  Scott felt the pull of alcohol on his lids. “One more.”

  “Sure you don’t want to take a few minutes? That’s a hundred twenty-five proof.” Gary grabbed a bowl of nuts and slid them in front of Scott.

  “Don’t want any a that.” He lifted his empty tumbler and set it back down. Hard. “Another.”

  Gary hesitated, then nodded.

  Scott knew that the barman had seen a lot of people get drunk in front of him. He did not care. But at ninety-five dollars a bottle, perhaps Gary cared—as in being concerned that his customer had the money to pay.

  The man next to Scott brushed against his arm. Once, twice. The third time harder. He laughed and high-fived his buddy. “Good one!”

  “Hey,” Scott said to his back, not loud but not to himself, either.

  The bald bar mate—in his thirties and sporting a few tattoos on his head and thick neck—did not respond.

  “Hey,” Scott said again. Louder.

  The man turned, glass in hand. “Yeah?”

  “You keep bumpin’ inta me.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks for tellin’ me.” He laughed and clapped hands with his friend again.

  “Good one, Tony!” his buddy said, getting in his own chuckles.

  “No,” Scott said. “You don’t understand. I don’t want you fuckin’ bangin’ into me. Not in the mood.”

  “Heard ya the first time,” Tony said. “Chose to ignore you.”

  Scott looked at the tumbler in his right hand. Anger built. Bourbon-fueled frustration flushed his face.

  Another bump—which nearly knocked Scott off his stool.

  Before he knew it, Scott’s arm was moving. He smashed the glass against the back of Tony Asshole’s skull.

  Tony cringed in pain, fingers blindly reaching for his head, which was liberally oozing blood, then swung his torso around.

  Scott felt the crush of a fist against his nose. He flew backward and hit the ground with a thud.

  Tony was atop him but before he could land a blow Scott kneed him in the groin. Tony contracted, his head involuntarily slamming into Scott’s cheek.

  With the alcohol settling in his bloodstream, Scott tried to get off a punch. But his movements were sloppy and impotent. In response, Tony swung a pointy elbow into Scott’s left eye.

  Several blows to his face followed. In his blurry haze, Scott was vaguely aware of men pulling the assailant off him.

  But that was the last thing Scott saw as his lids closed and he descended into darkness.

  33

  291 Broadway, New York City

  December 24, 1998

  “Hey. Get up.”

  He heard the voice far away, a hazy fog enveloping his thoughts. But then he felt a kick to his ribs: not hard but more of a firm nudge.

  “Move on, buddy. Find another doorway to sleep in. I gotta open my deli. I’m goin’ next door for a cup a joe. You still here, I’m a call the cops.”

  Scott shielded his eyes against the bright morning glare. “Where am I?”

  “Broadway. In the way of my front door. Now git.” He turned and walked into the adjacent Starbucks.

  Scott rolled onto his left side. His ribs hurt. His face hurt. His nose was crusted and swollen closed. As was his left eye. Broadway. How’d I get here? What time is it?

  He cleared his parched throat and checked his watch.

  But it was not there.

  Scott patted his pockets, his shirt, his pants. Nothing. He tried to get to his feet—maybe it was wedged underneath him—but it was nowhere to be found.

  He dropped to his knees and sat there, staring at the ground, trying to remember what happened and how he got there. He vaguely recalled going to the bodega. The bar. That guy who kept banging into him. A fight.

  Except it was not much of a fight. A beat down. That was all he could remember.

  But the G-Shock. Phillip’s watch. That was irreplaceable.

  A tear dropped from his right lower lid, landing in a small puddle of dried blood. He knelt there, shoulders slumped. He lost track of time … literally.

  “You still here?”

  Scott slowly swung his head to the left. He looked at the guy, standing there holding his steaming tall coffee. No clue as to the loss he had just suffered.

  He pushed to his feet and trudged off in the direction of his apartment.

  “Hey, you got blood all over da gawddam entrance …”

  Scott continued walking, pain in his ribs with each breath, his left eye tearing and blurry, the swelling making it tough to see. He was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other—then realized he had better check to see if he still had his wallet. If they stole the watch …

  It was gone too.

  Scott made his way back to the bar to see if anyone had turned in his G-Shock. He figured there was nothing to lose. He was assuming he was robbed, but maybe it had come off in the fight.

  But Lefty’s was closed, locked up tight. He realized that it must be earlier than he thought. He glanced around and saw a woman approaching. “Miss—what time is it?”

  She cringed at the sight of him, stepped to her right, giving herself a wide berth. “’Bout seven,” she yelled, hurrying off.

  “I—I was robbed. They stole my watch.” He held up his bare wrist.

  She glanced over her right shoulder, checking for oncoming cars, and added distance between them by crossing the street.

  He walked all the way back to his place on Thirtieth Street. It was a typical New York City apartment—old, outdated, and small, though not tiny like others in the area. He had a shade over nine hundred square feet, plenty of room for one person. In fact, he had no right owning an apartment at all. But the market had been in a prolonged downturn since the eighties and he lucked onto a foreclosure owned by a bank that also had financial trouble.

  Not only had Scott inherited the money Phillip socked away while in the army, but Phillip had listed him as the sole beneficiary to his military-issued group life insurance. Scott did not get rich off it, but it facilitated him putting a roof over his head. Even in death Phillip had taken care of his younger brother.

  All this virtually guaranteed that Scott would never have to see his mother and Nick again. As long as he got a decent paying job to cover property taxes and homeowner’s association dues—with enough left over to put food on the table—he was self-sustaining.

  As it turned out, the housing market started rising shortly after he made the purchase and he now had some equity in the apartment. Even though everything else in his life was a mess, this was a steadying influence. No matter how bad things got, he had a place to call home.

  He walked in and stood in front of the wall of picture frames: most were of Phil with a number of his buddies. Different poses, locations, friends, and times. Some were serious, official army pictures. Others were casual snapshots taken with his rifle in full tactical camo gear, mugging for the camera.

  Scott could not help but notice the watch in every one of the images. He hoped the G-Shock was still at the bar … but he figured that was wishful thinking. Either the guy who beat him up took it, his friends—or someone who saw him passed out in front of the deli.

  He walked into the bathroom and pulled off his filthy, smelly clothing. No wonder the woman had freaked out when he asked her for the time. He looked like the bums on the Bowery who dragged their greasy rags across your windshield in hopes of getting a tip. He poked at his swollen and bloody face. There were two large bruises covering his ribcage. He could feel the bones moving under his fingers. Two were busted for sure.

  After turning on the shower, and wincing from pain as he bent over, he slowly pulled off his underwear and began peeing in the toilet. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath—or tried to
.

  And flashed back on the moment when Nick had walked in on him while he was in the bathroom … and then the first time he had jammed the bottle up his rear end.

  Scott finished and flushed, but stood there reliving the moment, anger building. He felt impotent, useless, weak.

  He hated Nick James. But worse than Nick was his mother.

  She had abused him, physically and emotionally. She poisoned him, bullied him, and made life miserable for his dad. And her ultimate sins: she brought Nick into his life—and failed to protect him from that scumbag.

  Somehow, some way, someday, he had to make her pay. Maybe even both of them.

  34

  Vail stood in the resort’s lobby yawning repeatedly before shaking her head and hoping it would somehow wake her up. She caught a guy ogling her, so she pulled back her thin leather jacket and deliberately exposed her holstered Glock and brass FBI badge.

  The man looked away faster than a Rottweiler can snatch a hunk of steak.

  A moment later, her phone rang.

  “Good morning, Adam.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Not enough sleep?”

  “Not enough sleep. And.”

  Vail waited a beat, but Russell did not finish the thought. “And what?”

  “And we’ve got a list, remember?”

  “Last night the list was good news.”

  “Only by comparison to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. But I thought Ferraro said we couldn’t go that route.”

  “He said we couldn’t devote manpower to go door to door. Didn’t say we couldn’t do it.”

  “When are you picking me up?”

  “I’m parked out front.”

  “You could’ve said so.”

  “I just did. Get your ass out here.”

  Vail strode into the sunlight and saw Russell’s car parked near the valet stand. She descended the steps and climbed into his sedan.

  A moment later, they were pulling out of the resort.

  “So when we visit these women, I don’t think I should introduce myself as FBI. Might freak them out.”

  “You mean freaking them out more than the police coming to their doors and telling them not to wash or shower … until further notice?”

  Vail shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “We’re not seriously going to tell them that, right?”

  “No, Adam. We’re not. You’re going to introduce yourself as HPD Detective Adam Russell and then say, ‘This is my partner Karen Vail.’”

  “Thanks. I couldn’t have figured that part out.”

  “The key is not saying FBI.”

  “Do you think I took a stupid pill this morning? Move on.”

  “Right. So we tell her that we’ve gotten an anonymous tip and she should not buy any homemade soap.”

  “And you don’t think they’re gonna wonder about us?”

  “How so?”

  “Like maybe we’re imposters—or cops who’ve lost touch with reality?”

  “Sell it. You want me to give you a script?”

  Russell frowned at her. “No thank you.”

  Vail tried to hold back her smile but failed.

  “So which Mary do we visit first?”

  “Might as well save time. Go by proximity. Which is closest?”

  Russell pulled to the curb and looked over the list he had printed out. “This one. Mary Pollard.”

  A mile later, they parked in Pollard’s driveway. Russell took the lead and knocked on her front door, which featured a wreath made of wine corks and silk flowers.

  “Pretty,” he said.

  “If you like that kind of thing.”

  They waited, then rapped on the wood again.

  “Now what? Leave a note?”

  “No,” Vail said, pulling the list from her back pocket. “We’ve got phone numbers. Let’s call. Maybe she doesn’t hear us.”

  “Are those cells or landlines?”

  “You’re asking me? It’s your list.”

  “Don’t know.”

  He dialed and they waited. They did not hear the phone ring inside the house, but Mary Pollard answered. Russell explained who he was and went through the spiel they had agreed on. After hanging up, he turned and headed back to the car.

  “Well?”

  “Good news is she’s still alive. And she hasn’t bought any soap.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “There was some pausing. Like she was trying to figure out if I’d escaped from the looney bin.”

  “I’ve been trying to figure out the same thing. What’d she decide?”

  Russell snorted. “That I was legit.”

  “For the record, I’m not convinced yet.”

  He ignored the dig. “Let me see the list,” he said, wiggling some fingers. “Next one up.”

  She handed it over and he scanned it as they climbed back into the car.

  “That one,” he said, tapping the page. “Mary Wingate.”

  Ten minutes passed. They parked and Vail and Russell strode up the center flagstone path to the front door. Russell knocked. They waited.

  Russell pulled out his cell. “I’m gonna call.”

  “You hear that?” Vail moved closer.

  “Hear what?”

  Inside, the phone began ringing.

  “That’s me calling.”

  “No,” Vail said. She pressed her ear to the wood. “I hear—I hear noises. Scuffling or something. Groaning? Moaning.”

  Russell chuckled. “Really? C’mon, Karen. I thought you were better than that.”

  “What?”

  “Every cop knows that trick and—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Vail unleashed a firm side kick and the jamb splintered. She followed the door in, Glock now in her right hand.

  “Shit. What the hell are you doing?” Russell followed, having exchanged his phone for a pistol.

  Vail wound her way to the back of the house where a small Italian greyhound was lying across a woman, her body prone on the back patio deck.

  She whistled and the dog turned and snarled, baring his teeth. A low growl rumbled from deep inside his throat.

  “I’m betting she’s dead and he’s freaked out,” Vail said. “Thinks we’re gonna hurt her. Or him.” Vail holstered her weapon and got down on her knees.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not gonna shoot the dog, Adam. He’s confused and upset.” Vail made a kissing noise with her lips and smiled, held her arms out and talked soothingly. “It’s okay, boy. Good boy.”

  The dog’s growl morphed into a whine. His ears drooped.

  “Adam,” she said softly. “Put your gun away.”

  Russell hesitated. “What if he charges?”

  “Once he realizes we’re not a threat, he’ll be fine. Put it away.”

  “What are you, the dog whisperer?”

  “Now.”

  “Fine. Good thing I’m a quick draw. And if he charges, I am gonna shoot him.”

  “C’mere guy. It’s okay.” Vail wiggled her fingers. The greyhound hesitated, watching her, then rose from his haunches and stood. He remained in place as she continued to speak to him, using a high, sing-songy voice.

  He advanced on her slowly, keeping a watch on Russell, who had mimicked Vail in getting on his knees.

  “No quick moves, Adam. Smile.”

  “Smile? You’re shitting me.”

  “Smile. Dogs read human facial expressions. Do it.”

  “I feel like an idiot.”

  “Socrates said to know thyself. And Shakespeare wrote, ‘To thine own self be true.’”

  “You’re really quoting Shakespeare?”

  “I have a
personal connection. Someday I’ll tell you about it.”

  The dog began wagging his tail, but his ears were still pinned back. Vail reached out slowly to let him sniff her palm. “That’s it,” she sang. “See? I’m here to help.”

  “Can I go check on Mary?”

  “Hang on a second. No quick moves. Let me build some trust. Unfortunately, Ms. Wingate isn’t going anywhere.”

  Vail began petting his head gently, stroking it, talking softly. “I’m sorry, guy. I know, this is very difficult for you.”

  “You have a dog, I take it?”

  “I do. A standard poodle.”

  Russell chuckled. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a poodle owner.”

  “And I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who knows anything about profiling dog owners.”

  “Just a good judge of character.”

  “Well I can’t dispute that. You obviously like me.” As she rubbed behind his ears, she checked the dog’s collar. “Oscar. Good boy.” Vail turned her head toward Russell. “Call animal control. Maybe they can locate next of kin who’d be willing to take Oscar.”

  Russell slowly pulled out his phone and began poking at the display.

  “And see if there’s a leash around here somewhere. No quick moves.”

  Russell rose and began moving about. He located Oscar’s lead and brought it over to Vail, who fastened it to the dog’s D-ring. “Okay, boy, let’s go for a walk, okay?”

  Oscar wagged his tail harder. Vail got to her feet and started toward the door. But Oscar stopped and turned back to Mary.

  “You want to say good-bye to mommy?” She led the way to Mary Wingate’s body. Oscar sniffed it, gave her face a lick, and then looked at Vail.

  “I know. I understand.” She turned and walked out under Russell’s watchful eye.

  Vail walked Oscar and waited by Russell’s car, getting down on a knee and petting the dog, calming him. A moment later, Russell exited the house and joined her.

  “So?”

  “So it looks like Ms. Wingate is another of our aconite vics. No one else home. Soap wrapper in bathroom. Freshly opened. Bar looks new.”

  “We were, what? Ten minutes too late?”