If a Tree Falls

by Robert I. Katz

  “He’s doing it somewhere else,” Drew said. Bill sighed and glumly nodded.

  Kurtz grinned. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Lew Barent said.

  Christine Morales smiled and tipped her wineglass in his direction. Christine Morales was a beautiful woman, with coffee and cream skin, thick black hair and deep, brown eyes. Barent was unsure of her age, forty or so, he figured, though she could easily pass for much younger. She looked at the world with wise, knowing eyes, the sort of eyes that invited a man to tell her all his secrets and confide all his cares, while Mama Christine made you feel better and took all your troubles away.

  Barent had first met Christine Morales a few months before, when trying to get to the bottom of a case involving seriously potent narcotics and the multiple murders of a slew of drug dealers. Christine Morales was the head of a high class call girl ring, and because she was truly dedicated to the good of all mankind, an occasional working girl herself.

  They were sitting in the dining room of the Modern, Danny Meyer’s French-American hybrid at the Museum of Modern Art. It was Christine Morales’ favorite place to eat lunch. Barent was happy enough to join her and submit the bill to the Department, interviewing a consultant being a reasonably legitimate expense.

  “I enjoyed our last conversation,” Christine Morales said. “What can I tell you about this time?”

  Barent smiled. “I realize that your organization does not cater to the baser urges with which mankind is afflicted.”

  She blinked. “We don’t? I thought we did.”

  “Not this base.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “Briefly, we are trying to track the whereabouts of a known serial killer. At least once a year, this man kidnaps, rapes and strangles a young teenaged girl. Most of these girls are teenage hookers. Some are runaways. Others are just pretty young girls, who he somehow meets, grooms and takes away from their boring, mundane lives, before taking away their lives.”

  “That’s…unpleasant.”

  It was, wasn’t it? “Sorry,” Barent said. “I sometimes forget that other people aren’t cops.”

  She toyed with her salad for a moment, gave a minute shrug. “How can I help you?”

  “You can tell me how to get in touch with people who live in that world.”

  “Childhood sexual abuse? I wouldn’t touch it. I know nothing about it.”

  “Do you know people who do?”

  She sighed. “Maybe,” she said. “Let me think about it, and give me your card.”

  A day later, Barent’s phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognize. He hesitated, then picked it up. “Hello?” he said.

  There was silence for a long moment. Then he heard a sigh. “Is this Detective Barent?” The voice was feminine, with a faint accent, possibly British.

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “A mutual friend gave me a call and said that I might be able to help you.”

  “Ah,” Barent said.

  “I always schedule an initial meeting in a public place. My business attracts a wide range of clients. I need to assure myself of both mutual compatibility and safety before we proceed any further.”

  Barent stared at the phone. “Perhaps you misunderstand the nature of the help that I’m requesting.”

  “I don’t believe I do. I understand that you do not—at the present time—intend to become a client. I also understand that you wish me to impart information that could be considered confidential, and potentially damaging to actual clients. If you wish to speak with me, we will do so in a public place.”

  “No problem,” Barent said.

  “Meet me at Vong at 1 PM tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there. What’s your name?”

  She sounded amused. “Ask for Evelyn.”

  Barent showed up five minutes early. He had heard of this place, an Asian-Continental hybrid, kitschy and expensive. The dining room looked weirdly exotic, with fake Indian panels and colorful tapestries decorating the walls. He introduced himself at the hostess’ stand. The hostess, a tall blonde woman who looked not Asian in the slightest, recognized the name, smiled and said, “Please follow me.”

  She showed Barent to a corner booth, where another tall blonde already sat, studying the menu. She rose as he approached. “Detective Barent?”

  “Yes.”

  They shook hands and Barent sat. Menus were already on the table. “Before we go any further,” Evelyn said. “Please let me see some identification.”

  Wordlessly, Barent held out his ID. She examined it closely, nodded and said, “Let’s order and then we can talk, if that’s alright with you.”

  “Certainly.” The menu tended toward Chinese and Thai with a French flair. Barent ordered lamb shank with 5-Spice. Evelyn ordered Kung Pao pheasant. Barent blinked at the prices.

  Evelyn sipped a glass of water and examined Barent, frowning. “Well, you don’t look like a pervert,” she said.

  He grinned. “My wife might disagree.”

  Evelyn grinned back. “So, what can I tell you?”

  “What do you already know?”

  “Christine is an old friend. I trust her implicitly. She told me that you are trying to catch a man who preys on very young women.”

  “This is true. This man has raped and strangled at least sixteen women, all young teenagers, in West Virginia, and one, more recently, in New York.”

  Evelyn had a severe face, attractive and imperious, with thin lips and cold blue eyes. Her hair was pulled back tightly in a bun, her lipstick jarringly red. “I try to stay away from serial killers,” she said.

  “So do we all, but the nature of my job occasionally requires me to interact with them.”

  “Mine, I hope, does not.”

  “Please,” Barent said. “Tell me about your work.”

  She frowned. “As you can imagine, I cater to men, and a few women, with particular tastes. Most of my clients are in business. A few are politicians. These are all people who are used to wielding power and authority. I offer them the opportunity to let go, to give up their responsibilities and cares, to do what somebody else orders them to do, with no strings attached. I used to find it strange how many such people there are.”

  “What exactly does this entail?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Probably less than you think. I dress in a black leather costume. I usually wear a mask. I have the client undress and strap him onto a cold, metal table. He can’t move. He has to do my bidding. Most often, I tell him he’s been a very naughty boy and must be punished. I use a variety of devices to inflict some small degree of pain. Most of these leave marks, but nothing permanent, just enough so that he can look at them later in the mirror and re-live the experience.” She sipped a glass of water. “You might be surprised to learn that my business, while having sexual overtones, does not, in fact, involve any sexual transaction. It is, therefore, entirely legal.”

  “Oh,” Barent said.

  She grinned. “Are you turned on, yet?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  She shrugged. “To each his own. Everybody has their kinks.”

  “And is turnabout fair play?”

  “Are you asking if I, too, get off on being tied up and abused?”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “I am a Dominatrix, not a Submissive. In my case, turnabout is definitely not fair play.”

  “And where do men go who want a Submissive?”

  The food arrived. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Evelyn pushed her plate away and frowned at the room. “I like this place,” she said. “It’s completely artificial but it’s meant to be a pleasant, playful fantasy. Like me. Like my life and my chosen career.

  “It wasn’t always that way. My father was violent and abusive. He was a moderately successful attorney. He married my mother when she was very young, barely out of High School. My mother had a submissive streak. My father used to pick me u
p and sit me on his lap. He would caress my cheek and tell me that I was his ‘special girl.’ He told me how much he loved me, and perhaps he really did. He tucked me into bed at night. Sometimes, he would lay down next to me and rub my back until I fell asleep. Even at the age of six, this made me…nervous.”

  Evelyn shrugged. “He never physically abused me but nevertheless, he frightened me. It was the way that he treated my mother. It was impossible for her to please him. If she made chicken for dinner, he wanted steak. If she vacuumed the carpet, it was never clean enough. If she left the house to go shopping, she took too long. He would order her into the bedroom and close the door. I could hear what went on. Afterward, she was white and trembling. She often had red streaks on her back. Even at the age of ten, I could see what was coming. I could see the way he looked at me, the crooked grin, the gleam in his eye.

  “When I was eleven years old, I ran away from home. My mother kept a few dollars, hidden in a bowl in the kitchen. I took it. I got on a train and I left.”

  Barent had a pretty good idea where this was going. He nodded.

  “It’s an old, old story,” Evelyn said, “and it ended the way such stories usually do. I had no marketable skills, other than the obvious. I was young, weak, ignorant and untrained, an easy mark. I fell under the influence of an older man, ironically, a man much like my father. He knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what to look for. He was well-dressed and oh, so, polite and caring. He cruised the train and bus terminals, looking for young girls just like me. His name was Jimmy. Jimmy Bennett.

  “He took me home with him and introduced me to his wife. They fed me and gave me a room. Within a week, I was snorting cocaine, then heroin and then I had to do something for them, to support my upkeep.

  “They had a whole stable of underage whores and most of their clients were the sort of man that you describe. They made us do…unpleasant things. Some of us went with these men and never came back. Jimmy never seemed too concerned when a girl vanished in this way. I imagine he had been paid extra.

  “Finally, the police came. Jimmy and his wife were arrested. The girls were rounded up and placed into drug rehab and foster care.” Evelyn shook her head and wistfully smiled. “I wound up being placed with a middle-aged couple who had no children of their own. They both had careers and wanted a child who would be self-sufficient and not take too much of their time. Honestly, I never understood why they bothered. In any case, they were distant parents, not loving but not abusive either. We still exchange Christmas cards.

  “I went to college. I found that the allowance my foster parents gave me was not enough. One of my room mates introduced me to a man named Croft.” Evelyn raised a brow. “I understand that you know him.”

  Croft was a pimp, also, a sometime informant of Barent’s. “Yes, I do.”

  “Whether it was the influence of genetics, early training or whatever, I drifted into the career that I now pursue.” She smiled. “I like having the upper hand.”

  Barent sighed. “You’ve had an interesting life,” he said.

  She grinned. “That’s an interesting way of putting it, but yes, I have.”

  “How do you know Christine? She’s considerably older than you.”

  Evelyn shrugged. “I met her through Croft. For a little while, I was one of Christine’s employees.”

  Barent sat back and pondered all this. “These men who paid for your services, when you were with Jimmy, would you be able to identify any of them?”

  “Maybe. Do you have pictures?”

  Barent handed her Seamus Sullivan’s license photo and the two composite sketches.

  She examined them closely, then shook her head. “So far as I know, I’ve never seen any of these men.” Then she grinned. “You should talk to Sara,” she said.

  “Sara?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Jimmy’s wife, Sara. She won’t be hard to find. She’s serving a term at Riker’s Island.”

  “For what?”

  Evelyn smiled ferociously. “For putting a knife between Jimmy’s ribs.”

  Chapter 27

  Sara Bennett was a pale woman, with a lined, washed-out face. She might have been pretty, once. She stared over Barent’s shoulder and seemed content to sit in the interview room without speaking.

  “I have some photos I’d like you to look at,” Barent said.

  She looked at him, her expression blank, and gave a minute shrug. Carefully, he placed the three pictures in front of her. She looked down at them, blinked, then a small, sly smile crossed her face. “I’ll be up for parole in seven months,” she said.

  There’s always a quid pro quo, Barent reflected. “And I shall be happy to inform the parole board of your cooperation.”

  “That’s all I ask.” She leaned forward and tapped the driver’s license photo with a fingernail. “This one. The name he gave us was Sean O’Connor. He liked the young ones.”

  Barent looked at her, at the way she cocked her head to the side, at the light dancing in her eyes, at the dreamy smile, and regretted the bargain he had just made. Still, she had cooperated. He wouldn’t be testifying to any change of character, only that she had assisted the police on an investigation.

  “Where can we find him?” Barent asked.

  She shook her head. “No idea.”

  He rose to his feet. “Thanks.”

  Bill Harris put down the phone and looked at Drew Hastings. “It paid off. The cop in New York, Barent, has a positive identification.”

  “Enough for a warrant?”

  Not enough to put the guy away, the word of a pimp and a murderer being less than reliable, but certainly enough to justify a search of Seamus Sullivan’s house and property. “Oh, yeah.”

  Three hours later, Drew Hastings, Bill Harris and George Rodriguez, backed by an entire forensics team from Charleston, knocked on Seamus Sullivan’s door. He answered it, frowned at the horde standing on his front deck and wordlessly moved aside.

  Seamus Sullivan watched TV in the living room while the team quartered the house. They took swabs of everything. The basement gave them pause, it being far larger and better lit than expected. Whoever had installed it evidently liked his comfort. The floor was covered by an expensive looking carpet. A mini-kitchen was built into one wall, a heavy wooden bookcase, empty of books, in another. If furniture had ever been there, it had been removed. Drew Hastings noted two holes in the ceiling, near the walls, and two more in the floor underneath them. A temporary wall or steel grate could have been inserted into those holes. The bathroom appeared spotless, without a speck of dust, evidently having been recently cleaned.

  “The warrant includes any and all computer systems,” Bill Harris said to Seamus Sullivan.

  Seamus Sullivan looked at Bill Harris with a blank expression. “I don’t have one,” he said.

  Bill Harris shrugged.

  “You have a van,” George Rodriguez said. “Where is it?”

  “It’s been returned to the company,” Seamus said. “They’re giving me a new one. A later model.”

  George Rodriguez frowned. Seamus Sullivan smiled.

  Within an hour, they were done, having found nothing incriminating. The swabs, particularly those from the basement, might reveal something. They all hoped so.

  Once they left, Seamus Sullivan turned off the TV and sighed. Seamus Sullivan had no illusions. He had removed everything larger than a speck of dust that might link him to a crime. The cops had found no real evidence, but he knew that nothing is perfect, no con and no operation. His activities had been carried out with as much care as was humanly possible, but how possible, really, was that?

  He didn’t think they were going to give up. Fifteen dead girls buried in the woods, plus little Mirka Fedorov, dropped in the Sutton town square, were too much for them to gloss over. Sooner or later, if they couldn’t find enough evidence, they would manufacture some.

  It was time.

  Seamus Sullivan walked down into the basement. He carried
a heavy duty box cutter. Starting near the wall opposite the bookcase, he cut a square, four feet by four feet, out of the carpet, then cut a similar section from the under-pad, lifted an already cut section of plywood and peeled away the sub-layer of dimpled polyethylene.

  The basement, originally built for moonshiners to hide their product, also contained a hidden trapdoor that led into a tunnel dug into the hillside. The tunnel ran for over two hundred yards and exited in the woods.

  His preparations took less than an hour. He took one last look around the place, closed the door behind him and pressed the button.

  “What was that?”

  The five men assigned to conduct ongoing surveillance, all stared at Seamus Sullivan’s small house. A sound like a compressed whoof came to their ears. Then another. A sharp, chemical smell floated past.

  Smoke began to leak from the roof. A few moments later, a lick of flame crackled upward. Within minutes, the house was an inferno. An hour later, nothing remained but charred timbers.

  “So much for that,” Drew Hastings said.

  “Alas, poor Seamus,” Bill Harris said.

  George Rodriguez gave him a moody look. “I suspect when the forensics people go through the remains, that Seamus Sullivan’s body will not be found.”

  Drew blinked. “You think he escaped?”

  “Yes,” George said, “I think he escaped.”

  A good assassin must remain dispassionate. It was expected that one would enjoy the work, but finesse was almost always preferred to brute force. Finesse can be kept hidden. Brute force invited a response. The organization knew that a strong enough response would destroy it.

  This was disappointing. The Kurtz property was an important piece in the organization’s plan for Clark County.

  The assassin crouched in the hills, looked down on the farmhouse and barn, and reluctantly decided that this job would have to wait. What should have been an easy target had been hardened. Armed men, with guard dogs, patrolled the grounds.

  It would be easy enough to pick those men off, but that would require brute force, not finesse. A little anonymous barn burning could have looked like an unfortunate accident. Shooting armed guards could not be made to look like an accident.