In the Nick of Time (79 page)

H
e pushed the
down arrow on the computer, and scrolled as fast as his eyes could handle. Slightly ashamed, he wished upon a million stars that Sticky Finger Nicky would just die, but the thief refused. No, he wasn’t lifting top of the line bike parts and expensive men’s shoes, this time, but information. His eyes scanned down the screen. The damn thing had kept him up at night, made things hard to swallow.

Fuck!

The case had been plastered all over the news about a perpetrator in Brooklyn kidnapping little girls and the damn mystery refused to release him. He’d first read about it while in rehab, and the details held him captive. His curiosity grew into an obsession, and his obsession became his breakfast, lunch and dinner, with plentiful snacks in between. He was tired of shuffling papers and helping to answer the damn phones. Where was his goddamn beat? Where was the fucking city? The lights, the sounds, the groans of a soiled drunk lying about asking for money, then cursing him out when he refused? Where was the subway filled with people on their way to places they hated, missing those that they loved? Where was the instant flutter of criminally designed legs, flapping about in the opposite direction like bird wings taking flight when his car would enter their drug trafficking zone?

He needed the shopkeepers to call; he desired to hear the arguing voices of people blaming one another for a break in, of possession of stolen goods… even the nonsensical calls of someone reporting another for stealing their stash of weed and illegally carried gun. He was going stir crazy, about to pop at the seams. So, he soaked in the private conversations around him about the damn case. His hearing had always been one of his best senses, and before long, he’d become
one
with the case. This particular one struck a special, blood-drenched chord within him, one that bellowed an off-key melody that he was hell bent on tuning to perfection. He looked at the screen, seeing all the missing girls’ names, then looked over his shoulder at the map of the various abduction locations.

We got Rockaway Parkway right here… 108
^th
street, two hits… We got one on Ditmas Avenue. We got one on Ralph Avenue and three on Sutter and then one on East 95
^th
street, the latest one… The kidnapper is working a tight area…

He looked at the stack of photos of the girls, all pinned to each location. Scratching his scalp as he cocked his head to the left, he winced, working the information around in his mind, trying to make sense of it all.

They’re all black, except this one is Dominican.
He tapped the photo of the dark-skinned ten year old with long, bushy hair…

Hair.

They all have long hair… a couple have braids… all dark brown or black hair… And they all are small for their age…
He continued to tally the information, mull the shit over…

She coulda been mistaken for black… I think he’s going after all black girls… They ruled that out because of this one white girl right here on Ralph Avenue but I bet that wasn’t his… I bet that was a separate case…

He studied the photos carefully, running his finger up and down them. He noticed things, little things, big things—and then a thought hit him. Grabbing his jacket, he burst out of there, swooshed past his desk, still cold from him not touching it at all that morning.

“I gotta go!” he called out. “Be back in an hour! Lunch break!”

Nick stood along
the main drag of Atlantic Avenue. It was 12:09 P.M., and the latest incident had taken place in broad daylight, around lunchtime, almost as if the perpetrator had squeezed in a little afternoon play during a rather busy day. A case from his childhood haunted him as he stood there leaning against his car, watching traffic go by…

A beautiful, young Puerto Rican girl by the name of Eldira had disappeared one early autumn day in Brownsville. She only lived a few blocks from him, but he didn’t know much about her. He recognized her; she was easy on the eyes, but in his thirteen-year-old mind, she was just another girl. Her parents had five other children, and somehow, in the shuffle, Eldira disappeared one morning on her way to school and was never seen or heard from again. Her body was never recovered. It was one of those mysteries left unsolved and uncared about once the long weeks turned into longer months, and the months into faded years.

Over a decade later, bones were found in a shallow grave near Junis Street. A tiny piece of red fabric, no bigger than a Saltine cracker, was also found amongst the debris, and it was determined via dental records and that little red textile sample, that the remains were those of Eldira Serrano. To that day, no one knew who’d taken the girl. The only certainty was that the skull remains were fractured on one side, denoting blunt trauma. As in so many similar cases from impoverished lands, only the residents gave a damn…

People wanted answers, but nothing came about. Eldira had been a good student and a young lady full of promise. She didn’t run the streets, and barely spoke to strangers. One day, she went out dressed in her red jacket, dark jeans, and white shirt with an oversized collar.
The next day, she was never heard from again. Nick had a sore spot for children, one that had grown bigger and bigger over time. He knew it was so because of his own childhood. For if that cop that took him to his mother and his mentor hadn’t intervened, he’d be dead or in prison. Someone had to help the babies… the kids. Someone had to protect them from the underbelly of the streets and many times, from their own families. They were naturally defenseless, but up against a grotesque monster, a grim reaper that feasted upon young souls.

That grim reaper’s arms represented poverty, his massive chest cavity, abuse… his legs were made of molestation and rape. His hefty feet treaded upon hope and freedom, the tendons filled with the blood of fear. His gut made the home of domestic violence and his heart was darkened, filled with the shadows of the tiny coffins soon to come. His hideous face consisted of metal from bullets used in drive-by-shootings, robberies, kidnappings, and torture… The grim reaper was only a myth to those living in glass bubbles, but the children around him, the ones suckling from the ghetto’s breast, knew better. The Grim Reaper was real, and Nick looked in the bastard’s eyes every day, unable to completely stop him, only able to slow him down…

He ran his hand over his face, watching, taking it all in. He spotted silver Chevrolet Impalas here and there, wondering. Why he was loitering about, he wasn’t sure, but he felt the need for it. After a while, he got back into his car, and began to slowly drive around, canvassing the area. The good news was that none of the victims had been found dead, but with each day that passed, their chances of still being alive significantly decreased. Still clueless, he reluctantly drove back to the precinct, and settled into his undesired role of paper pushing police officer…

Four random drug tests later and a tedious psychological exam, he wondered how long this trust building period would go on, but it no longer completely mattered, because he was already knee deep in a sea with bigger fish to fry. He was involved, he was doing it, and nothing was going to stop him. The phone rang; he answered the call.

‘Who is this?’

‘The streets…’

‘I’m on my way…’

Her finger cramped,
digital spasms flashed through the tendons, stretched and pulled like short bursts of lightning.

“Ahhh.” She sighed in agony as she dropped her pencil, watched it roll away on the floor. Sitting amongst a heap of papers displaying bra designs here and there, she prepared for the meeting with Mr. Rousseau that loomed over her. Just the day before, his assistant had contacted her and asked that she email more of her sketches and answer a series of sweat inducing questions. Anticipatory heat rushed through her body every now and again and mixed with fresh waves of excitement. It was as if destiny had called her by name, and she stood up and reached high, determined to grasp the sucker before it eluded her once again.

Just then, the front door opened, and the tall shadow of a man cast across the wood. His keys jingled in his hand as he stomped past her. Clad in a dark trench coat, he looked somewhat sinister, shoulders slumped and incoherent mumbles escaping his lips. Frowning, she got to her feet and massaged her palm as she called out to him.

“No, ‘hello?’”

“I’m sorry, baby…” he murmured as he made his way to the restroom.

Soon, she heard the toilet lid lift, smack against the cistern, and as she drew quieter, she heard his zipper coming down. His piss hit the water, and seemed to go on forever. She lowered her head, drew circles on the rug with the tip of her toes. The soft fibers felt good and cool against her bare flesh, playing a game of hurt and tenderness from her spasm-filled hand to the arch of her heel. She got so cozy in her daydream, she startled when his hand landed upon her shoulder. His lips brushed against the side of her neck, the taste soon turning into a kiss upon her earlobe. Then, he playfully smacked her ass, retreated from her and hung his coat up.

“What secrets do you keep, Officer Vitale… you will tell me, I will make you squeal,” she teased. “You’ve been really distracted lately. What’s going on?”

“Huh?” He kept his back turned as he meddled with odds and ends in the closet, then slid his shoes off and shoved them with his toes toward the back of the thing. “No, I was just giving you time to get your work done. I know you’ve been busy preparing for the show with your friend Vicki ’nd all and getting some of your newer designs finished.” He huffed and brushed past her once more, avoiding eye contact.

“You know,” she said with a grimace, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest, “whenever you say, ‘huh,’ I know that you’re lying, Nick. I shouldn’t have told you, because now you’ll be aware of it, but since you rarely lie to me, I figured what tha hell, right? May as well let the cat out of the bag and let you know what a farce you are.” She didn’t have to try hard to imbue sarcasm in her tone.

He stopped in his tracks, made a U-turn and slowly stepped to her like a panther on the prowl. Lazy, menacing. His thick, dark brows drew together and his face twisted. Before she knew it, he was upon her, looking down at her as if she were some specimen.

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’ve omitted some details at times, but never lied. Take it back.”

“I’m not taking
shit
back and omitting details
is
a lie… Same difference.”

“No it’s not. I tell you what you need to know and you’ve got no room to talk…. You’ve been designing pussy parachutes and tittie holders, and didn’t tell me.”

“Don’t try to change the subject and it’s not for you to determine what the hell I need to know. You tell me the whole story, not your twisted version of it. I explained to you why I didn’t show you my designs. Now in retrospect, do I regret that decision? Yes, but let’s stick to this right now, please. What happened to our honesty pact?”

“It still exists, unless you want me to break it. I’m entitled to my own thoughts just as you are. You act like you have to know every damn thing that’s going on in my mind… You don’t, and I keep you safe that way.” He ran his finger over her lips, his eyes hooded… She knew she was in trouble.

“Stop trying to mind fuck me, Nick.”

“Fine. How about I
body
fuck you instead?” In a sudden quick move, he grabbed her, tossed her over his shoulder, and deposited her on the floor in the bedroom like the brute that he was. She looked over at the bed and took in her current predicament with a sense of alarm and excitement.

“What are you doing?” She crawled back a bit, but he came right after her, violently tearing his clothes off along the way.

…Monster.

“Ahhh! Stop it!” He snatched her pants down and tore her panties off, then pushed her down on the on the carpet. Knocking her knees apart with his strong legs, he pinned her down by her wrists, forcing them above her head as he worked to get into position. “Stop it!” she repeated, hating herself for the warm wetness that collected between her thighs at his every utterance and move.