In the Nick of Time (87 page)

Fuck!

He quickly dove to the floor and slapped the lamp button, rendering the room pitch black once more. As the door opened, he wiggled backwards into a corner, partially hidden beside a file cabinet.

“You sure you left it in here?” he heard someone ask as they flicked on the light.

“Yeah, had to have been. I looked everywhere else.”

Feet hobbled about, papers shuffled.

He pressed his body as much as he could to the ground, trying desperately to simply blend in. The odds were against him; he was in the lion’s den, and they were trained to smell freshly drawn blood. So, he prayed they’d experienced tremendous lethargy, the punishing kind that only a graveyard shift cop in Crown Heights, Brownsville or East Flatbush could have after breaking up several bar fights that had bled out onto the crime-streaked streets.

Don’t. Fucking. Breathe.

He swallowed his nervousness as rivulets of sweat collected around his brow. He’d never lose his cool on a call, but suddenly, being busted in an area he had no business being in sent his anxiety up into the rafters. He pushed himself further onto the ground.

Yeah… try explaining to them why the fuck you’re in here in the damn dark!

Captain O’Sullivan was no fool. If it got back to his boss he’d been drifting about at that time of night and discovered hiding away, down on his belly like a damn snake, not only would a series of drug tests be thrown his way, he’d be called into the man’s office, asked a bunch of invasive questions, and the shadow of doubt would once again hang over him. Hell, he wasn’t quite convinced it had ever completely left.

Clutching his phone so damn tight, the flesh over his knuckles strained, he danced with his own pulse, nestled in such a tight position, he was certain his ribs would be bruised when it was all said and done. Finally, one of the cops motioned towards the door to leave.

“Hey, it isn’t in here, man. Let’s check the break room.”

They exited, leaving the door partially ajar as they turned the light off. A sliver of light crept through, a beacon like the Statue of Liberty; its torch of brightness guided the way as he crawled across the slick floor on his damn knees, sliding about like some dying desert sidewinder. He felt like a damn fool…and then he paused, flirted with bursting out laughing.

This is so fucking ridiculous! I work here, goddamn it! Shhh! Don’t laugh. God, don’t laugh! Hold it in…

Peering out the door, he witnessed people going back and forth, to and fro. Some cursed under their breath while others talked in loud voices about the mundane. Finally, he saw a clearing. Jumping to his feet, he slid out the door and pressed his shoulder against the wall, dodging the many eyes, just as he’d done in rehab when sneaking off to his girlfriend’s room for a bit of late evening delight…

His pace fast and furious, he returned to the break room and took a few deep breaths, gained his composure. He smiled down at his phone, then slipped it back into his pocket, leaving out the place so fast it was a mystery how a blaze of smoke didn’t form in his wake…

The two computers
were positioned side by side like news teleprompters.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, brows dipped, nostrils flared, and a biteful of three-layer leftover lasagna in his mouth. Every day after work for the past three nights, he’d heated up a frozen meal and studied the photos, notes and all shreds of evidence he could muster. The suspect list looked promising, but then any given one would have an ironclad alibi when another abduction would take place. Frustration began with the letter ‘F’ but it wasn’t the only F word floating about on the tip of his tongue. He sighed, fell back onto the bed and ran his hand over his bare chest. His head throbbed as if tiny men were inside, rocking about with jackhammers and drilling to the beat of, ‘We Will Rock You.’ Gingerly sitting back up, he swallowed the rest of his meal, hating the flavor of defeat.

“Goddamn it!” he screamed out, shifting amongst the sheets, feeling the slight strain of his muscles from walking around town, where he’d asked questions and observed… That’s what he did—
always
observing. Taryn moved next to him; a muffled moan escaped her lips and then, back she drifted in slumber land.

The streets never lied; no, they were notorious for telling God’s honest truth, then laughing about their gruesome confessions. A single blood droplet in the cracks of uneven concrete told an entire tale, as well as a vibrant, white carpet fiber from a rare, imported rug discovered in a cluster of hair of a fresh D.O.A. Life and death were one in the same on the streets, and their stories overlapped, treated like mirror images.

Taryn had set her luggage, still packed, against the wall. He looked at it occasionally, feeling sorry for the woman, who now slept long and hard after she’d arrived on the red eye. He hadn’t had the heart to wake her… but he
did
have the heart to undress her, spread her legs, eat her pussy, and give a few eager, much needed pumps until he came. She’d cursed at him, laughing, but angry all the same as he didn’t show two fucks of concern—he was out to get his, desperate for the sexual encounter in the worst of ways.

Hell, she’d been gone so long. She should have been thankful he didn’t expect much more in her time of exhaustion.

And now, he was back to square one with this case…

He stared at the computer screens, the photos of the victims’ faces staring back in full resolution. He hated the camera… what had it missed? What was there that he couldn’t see?

Plucking a half full, dented, plastic water bottle from his nightstand, he uncapped the thing and took a long, hard swig. He clicked on another folder; pulled up the notes he’d taken photos of.

-
    
Missing Person: Denise Austin – Age: 9 Race: African American

-
    
Missing Person: Veronica Davis – Age: 10 Race: African American

-
    
Missing Peron: Casey Greene – Age: 10 Race: Caucasian

-
    
Missing Person: Niecee Pierce – Age: 11 Race: African American

And so it continued.

Deciding to go back to the maps, he looked closely at the locations of the abductions.

Okay, right here we’ve got Linden Boulevard… three disappearances. That’s smack dab between Brownsville and East Flatbush… Over here we’ve got Livonia Street; here we’ve got Lott Avenue… Right here we’ve got… Liberty Avenue… ‘L’…. not every street he’s done abductions in starts with an L, though… but a lot of them do… he collects. Like Oliver said, he likes order, pretty things… all of these streets, minus a couple, are border streets to larger mainlines…

Oliver was right; he probably shops right outside the… dollhouse. Yeah, let’s call it the dollhouse, for sure. He shops right outside of it, keeps his menagerie clean and neat, on display. So, if Oliver’s theory is true, where would a collector stay? Not far from his collection… He holds it too dear. He would be close, but somewhat removed… like a God… a Creator, right? He is not poor, but far from rich. He is comfortable around minorities… people know him. He is trustworthy…

I bet his ass stays on a street that begins with a damn ‘L’!

He pulled out a street map from his drawer, unfolded the damn thing, and spread it out across the bed.

He’s between the ages of thirty and forty, right? Yeah… he’s established, but strong. L…L… Linden Boulevard!

He stabbed the damn map, as if needing to draw blood from the thing.

Linden Boulevard is a main drag. It crosses through two boroughs—Brooklyn and Queens. This is perfect… he can shop for his dolls at various locations, but have an easy way in and out…

Dolls… I bet he is on the Queens side… He has a thing for order and categorization—got that. He steals from Brooklyn, but resides in Queens… His majesty takes his collection to Queens… He is on the Queens side!

Nick continued to scour the map, his brain moving a mile a minute. He knew the area like the back of his hand, after spending too much time loitering and hanging out there with his buddies as an adolescent, year after year.

Hide- and- go -seek… Time is running out… Tick Tock… Tick Tock…

He watches along Kings Highway… Yes! He lives in Queens, steals from Brownsville—Brownsville, brown girls… brown girl collection… Watches over the area like a King… Jesus Christ! That’s it!

He grabbed the map, hopped off the bed, and raced to his closet. His hangers swung frantically as he ripped off a shirt from one and his jacket from the other.

“Whu… what are you doing?” Taryn sat up, the black spaghetti strap of her silky gown sliding down her arm. She sluggishly rubbed her eyes, barely able to keep them open.

“Go back to sleep, baby… Gotta take care of something.” He huffed as he struggled to get his damn pants on.

“Where are you…” She yawned. “Where are you going?”

“Not sure yet, but I’ll call you.” He ran to her, kissed the top of her head, then raced out the bedroom.

Tick…Tock… The clock was moving…

The flames too high to douse…

Little brown dolls—he wants to collect them all…

And place them in his dollhouse.

Tick… Tock… who’s there?

Tiptoeing and re-routing his vector,

Tick tock, tick tock

It’s the King, in Queens, Collector…

Nick sat in
his parked car near Aqueduct Racetrack in Queens, scoping the damn place. He’d pulled his black scull cap down on his forehead, almost covering his eyebrows. A few renegade strands of hair stuck out along the sides, tickling his ear every now and again. Arms crossed, he sat, observed, and contemplated. His intuition was a hell of a drug, a thing of beauty if he said so himself. He’d already accessed the police database and received stats on all single, white male residents living within the radius. The number was unsurprisingly small. Armed with only home addresses, he made his rounds until he ended up right there, by the racetracks, sorting through his thoughts. There had been an increase in abductions as of late, and this sent Nick into high gear. He reached for the handle, got out of his car, and locked it. The area looked rather desolate at six in the morning, though a good show of school buses moved about.

Reaching into his pocket, he removed a piece of sugarless gum, unwrapped the thing, and popped it into his mouth. Chewing briskly, he turned from side to side, thinking… thinking…thinking…

Silver car… Impala…

None fitting that description were registered to any of the white men in the area.

Maybe it was a rental…

He pulled his cell phone out, shuddering from the unseasonably cool morning.

“Yeah, Mike, hey, how are you?”

“I’m good, Nick. You bringing donuts in this morning? It’s your turn, you know.”

Nick chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll bring some donuts. Hey, need a favor.”

“What’s up?”

“I need a list of all the rental car areas in Queens and Brownsville that have rented out any white or silver Chevrolet Impalas in the last six months.”

“You think I got nothing better else to do, huh? You think I’m just sitting here waiting on your beck and call?” The guy laughed.

“I thought we had a good thing going, so yeah, I figured you were sitting there thinking, ‘I wonder what favors I can do for my main man, Vitale!’”

“You rat bastard… you owe me. I’ll give you the information when you get in this morning.”

“Need it faster than that… Need it in, like, ten minutes, so get some other guys to help you, too.”

“What? Are you serious?! What are you doing, huh? What’s going on?”

“Can’t say just yet, just tryna figure it out and oh, do me another favor?”

“You’re pushin’ your luck, Vitale.”

“I know, I know… Keep this under your hat, okay? Don’t say it’s for me.”

“We’re friends and you helped me a few times over the years so I’ll do you a solid this one time! Where are you going to get the pastries? I have a request.”