Silent Prey (7 page)

They argued about decoys for a while, a last-resort effort, but Kennett shook his head. “The area’s too big,” he said. He wandered over to a bulletin board-sized map of Manhattan, ran a finger from Central Park to the financial district. “If he was hitting a specific group, like hookers or gays, then maybe. But there’s no connection between the victims. Except some negatives. He doesn’t take street people, who’d probably be the easiest . . . .”

“He may specifically pick victims who look healthy,” said Case, one of the serial-killer specialists. “This science thing he has—Danny and I think he rules out anybody who’s too odd, or diseased or infirm. They’d mess up his findings. The medical examiner reports are all pretty much the same: these people are healthy.”

“All right,” said Kennett. “So he takes seven people, five female, two male, one black, six white. Two of the whites are Hispanic, but that doesn’t seem to mean anything.”

“They’re all noticeably small, except the first one,” Kuhn said. “The second guy was only five-six and skinny.”

“Disposal,” Huerta grunted.

They all nodded, and there was another long moment of silence, everybody in the room staring at the map of Manhattan.

“It’s gotta be a cab,” somebody said. “If he can’t let anybody see him, and he’s gotta have money for drugs, and he’s gotta have someplace to gas these people . . . .” One of the cops looked at Lucas: “What are the chances that he had some money stashed? He was pretty well-off, right? Could he have ditched . . . ?”

Lucas was shaking his head. “When we took him, we blindsided him. He thought he was home free. When his wife’s estate got into court, all their money was accounted for.”

“Okay, that was pretty thin.”

“It seems to me that somebody’s protecting him,” Lucas said. “An old friend or a new friend, but somebody.”

Kennett was nodding. “I’ve worried about that, but if that’s right, there isn’t much we can do about it.”

“We can try pushing his friend, using the media again,” Lucas said. “If he depends on somebody else . . .”

O’Dell, seated heavily on a shaky folding chair, interrupted. “Wait, wait. You guys are getting ahead of me. How do we think this, that he has a friend?”

“We’ve papered the goddamn town with his picture and with simulations of what he’d look like if he dyed his hair or grew a beard or if he shaved his head,” said Kennett. “These aren’t identikit mock-ups, these are based on good-quality photographs . . . .”

“Yeah, yeah . . .” O’Dell said impatiently.

“So unless he’s invisible or living in the sewers, he’s probably being protected,” Lucas said, picking up the thread from Kennett. “He can’t be a regular tenant somewhere. He’d have to pay rent and people’d see him on a regular basis. He can’t risk landlords or nosy neighbors.”

“And that means he’s living with somebody or he’s on the street,” Kennett said.

“He’s not on the street,” Lucas said positively. “I can’t see him living like that. He just wouldn’t do it. He’s . . . fastidious. Besides, he’s got to have a vehicle. He didn’t call a cab to haul these bodies around.”

“Unless he drives a cab himself,” said Huerta.

“Not much there,” said Diaz, shaking his head. “We’ll push the stolen one . . . .”

“And it’d still be pretty risky,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, but it answers a lot of questions: how he gets transportation, how he makes money and still keeps his face hidden,” Kennett said. “If he worked a couple of hours a night, late, and picked his spots . . . maybe concentrated on the tourist and convention areas, you know, the Javits Center, places like that. He’d mostly be dealing with out-of-towners, which would explain Cortese. People trust cabbies. Like if he pretended he had a parcel, gets out and asks somebody where an address was . . .”

“I don’t know,” said Lucas.

They all stared at the map some more. Too much city; single buildings that would hold the populations of two or three small towns.

“But I still think you might be right, that he’s living with somebody,” Kennett said finally. “How he gets his money . . .”

“He’s got skills,” Lucas said. “He’s got an M.D., he knows chemistry. A good chemist on the run . . .”

“Methedrine,” said White, a bald man in gray knit slacks. “Ecstasy. LSD. It’s all back, almost like the old days.”

“Be a good reason to protect him, too,” said Kuhn. “He’d be a cash cow.”

“Assuming this isn’t just bullshit, what does it get us?” O’Dell asked impatiently.

“We start looking for ways to put pressure on whoever he’s living with or who’s covering for him,” Lucas said. “We need some heavy-duty contact with the media.”

“Why?” said O’Dell.

“Because we have to move them around. Get them to
do a little propaganda for us. We need to talk about how anybody who’s hiding Bekker is an accessory to mass murder. We need some headlines to that effect. That their only hope is to roll over on him, plead ignorance, get immunity. We’ve got to chase him out in the open.”

“I could call somebody,” O’Dell said.

“We need the right emphasis . . .”

“We can figure something out,” O’Dell said. “Are you still talking to the reporters this morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Throw something in, then . . . .”

When the meeting broke up, O’Dell lurched ponderously out of his chair, leaned toward Lucas, and said, “We’d like to sit in on the press thing. Me and Lily.”

Lucas nodded. “Sure.” O’Dell nodded and headed toward the front of the room, and Lucas turned to Fell. “We’re going out this afternoon?”

“Yeah. They’ve got us looking for fences,” she said. She had gray eyes that matched the touch of gray in her hair; she was five-six or so, with a slightly injured smile and nicotine-stained fingers.

“Could I get copies or printouts of all the Bekker files, or borrow what I can’t copy?”

“Right here,” she said, patting the stack of manila folders in her lap.

From the front of the room, where he was talking to Kennett, O’Dell called, “Davenport.” Lucas stood up and walked over, and O’Dell said, “Dick has been telling me about your idea, the lecture thing, the Mengele. I’ll call around this afternoon and set it up. Like for next week. We’ll play it like it’s been set for a while.”

Lucas nodded. “Good.”

“I’ll see you in the hall,” O’Dell said, breaking away. Out of the corner of his eye, as O’Dell spoke to him,
Lucas could see Kennett’s mouth tic. Disgust? “I’ve gotta pee.”

When he was gone, Lucas looked at Kennett and asked, “Why don’t you like him?”

The distaste that had flicked across Kennett’s face had been covered in an instant. He looked at Davenport for a long, measured beat and then said, “Because he never does anything but words. Maneuvers. Manipulations. He looks like a pig, but he’s not. He’s a goddamn spider. If he had a choice between lying and telling the truth, he’d lie because it’d be more interesting. That’s why.”

“Sounds like a good reason,” Lucas said, looking after O’Dell. “Lily seems to like him.”

“I can’t figure that,” Kennett said. They both glanced down the room at Lily, who was talking with Fell. “That pig-spider business, by the way . . . I put my ass in your hands. If he knew I thought that, my next job’d be directing traffic out of a parking garage.”

“Not really,” said Lucas. Power equations weren’t that simple.

Kennett looked at him, amused. “No. Not really. But the asshole could be trouble.”

They were both looking toward Lily, and when she tipped her head toward the hall, Lucas started for the door. “You coming?” he asked Fell.

She looked up from one of her files. “Am I invited?”

“Sure. Gotta be careful, though . . . .”

Reporters from three papers and two television stations were waiting, along with two TV cameras. The reporters were in a good mood, joking with him, chatting with each other about problems at the papers. They didn’t think much of the story: the interviews were easy and loose, focused on a trap that Lucas had built for Bekker in Minneapolis, and on Bekker himself.

“Really quick,” one of the television reporters said to Lucas as the talk was wrapping up, “ ’cause we’re not going to have much time . . . . You know Michael Bekker. You even visited with him in his home. How would you characterize him? From your personal acquaintance? He’s been called an animal . . .”

“To call Bekker an animal is an insult to animals,” Lucas said. “Bekker’s a monster. That’s the only word I can think of that’s even close to what he is. He’s a real, live horror-show freak.”

“Far out,” said the reporter, a harried blonde in a uniform blue blazer. She asked her cameraman, “How’d that look?”

“Looked good, that’s what they’ll use. Let’s get a reverse shot on you, reacting . . .”

When the reporters were gone, O’Dell, sitting spread-legged on a folding chair, the way fat men do, nodded approvingly. “That was good. You say Bekker’s smart and hard to catch and that everything is being done.” His heavy lips moved in and out a couple of times. “Like the blonde broad said, ‘Far out.’ ”

The Tropic of Sixth Avenue.

The sky was pink from the pollution haze boiling off the asphalt, and heat mirages made the light poles shimmy like belly dancers. Fell pushed the beat-up Plymouth through the cab traffic, one arm out the window, an unfiltered cigarette between her fingers, old-gold rock ’n’ roll playing from a personal boombox in the backseat. The Doors, “Light My Fire.”

“ . . . don’t have enough money to fix the air conditioner,” she was saying, “but we get three computer terminals so we can do more paperwork, and they’re not even new terminals, they’re rehabs . . .”

Black and brown arms hung from the driver’s windows of the amber taxis beside them, while the paler passengers slumped in back, simmering in their own juices.

“Why fences?” Lucas asked. They were looking for fences. Fell, he’d been told, specialized in burglary and industrial theft, down through the manufacturing district of Manhattan.

“Because Kennett was reading one of these nut-case medical papers Bekker is writing, and figured out that Bekker was taking measurements that you can only take with medical monitoring gear. One of the papers mentions blood pressure taken from a catheter at the radial artery. You gotta have the right stuff . . . .”

“Check the medical-supply houses?”

“Yup, everywhere in North America and the major Japanese and European suppliers. Nothing. Checked the hospitals for stolen stuff and came up empty, but he had to get it somewhere . . . . There are a couple of other guys checking secondary sources . . . .”

They stopped at a traffic light. On the sidewalk, a fruit vendor sat in a plastic lawn chair with a wet rag on his forehead and took a continuous long peel off a red apple, using a thin-bladed stiletto with a pearl handle. A slow-moving, ratty-furred tiger-striped cat walked past him, stopped to look at the dangling peel, then hopped down into the gutter, took a last look around at the daylight world, and dropped into the sewer. Anything to get out of the heat.

“ . . . some kind of heat inversion and the temperature never goes down at night, see. That’s when things get weird,” Fell said, gunning the car through the intersection. “I got a call once where this PR stuck his old lady’s head . . .”

“A what?”

“Puerto Rican. Where this Puerto Rican dude stuffed his old lady’s head in the toilet and she drowned, and he said he did it because it was so fuckin’ hot and she wouldn’t shut up . . . .”

They rolled past the Checks Cashed and the Mexican and Indian restaurants, past the delis and the stink of a dog-’n’-kraut stand, past people with red dots on their
foreheads and yarmulkes and witty T-shirts that said “No Farting,” past bums and sunglassed Mafia wannabes in nine-hundred-dollar loose-kneed suits with shiny lapels.

Past a large woman wearing a T-shirt with a silhouette of a .45 on the front. A newspaper-style map arrow pointed at the gun’s muzzle and said, “Official Map of New York City: You Are Here.”

“There’s Lonnie,” Fell said, easing the car to the curb. A taxi behind them honked, but Fell ignored it and got out.

“Hey, whaddafuck . . .”

Fell made a pistol of her thumb and index finger and pointed it at the cabby and pulled the trigger and continued on around the car. Lonnie was sitting on an upturned plastic bottle crate, a Walkman plugged into his ear, head bobbing to whatever sound he was getting. He was looking the other way when Fell walked up and tapped the crate with her toe. Lonnie reared back and looked up, then pulled the plug out of his ear.

“Hey . . .” Lucas turned in front of him, on the other side. Nowhere to run.

“You sold three hundred hypodermic syringes to Al Kunsler on Monday,” Fell said. “We want to know where you got them and what else you got. Medical stuff.”

“I don’t know nothing about that,” Lonnie said. He had scars around his eyebrows, and his nose didn’t quite line up with the center of his mouth.

“Come on, Lonnie. We know about it, and I don’t much give a shit,” Fell said impatiently. Her forehead was damp with the heat. “You fuck with us, we take you down. You tell us, we drive away. And believe me, this is something you don’t want to get involved in.”

“Yeah? What’s going on?” He looked like he was about to stand up, but Lucas put his hand on his shoulder, and he settled back on the crate.

“We’re looking for this fruitcake Bekker, okay? He’s getting medical gear. We’re looking for suppliers. You know at least one . . . .”

“I don’t know from this Bekker dude,” Lonnie said.

“So just tell us where you got them,” Lucas said.

Lonnie looked around, as if to see who was watching. “Atlantic City. From some guy in a motel.”

“Where’d he get them?” Lucas asked.

“How the fuck would I know? Maybe off the beach.”

“Lonnie, Lonnie . . .” said Fell.

“Look, I went to Atlantic City for a little straight action. You know you can’t get straight action around here anymore . . . .”

“Yeah, yeah . . .”

“ . . . And I meet this guy at the motel and he says he’s got some merchandise, and I say, ‘Whatcha got?’ And he says, ‘All sortsa shit.’ And he did. He had, like, a million sets of Snap-On tools and some computer TV things and leather flight bags and belts and suits and shit, and these needles.”

“What was he driving?” Lucas asked.

“Cadillac.”

“New?”

“Naw. Old. Great big fuckin’ green one, color of Key Lime pie, with the white roof.”

“Think he’s still there?”

Lonnie shrugged. “Could be. Looked like he’d been there awhile. I know there was some girls down the way, he was partying with them, they acted like they knew him . . . .”

• • •

They touched a half-dozen other fences, small-time hustlers. At half-hour intervals, Fell would find a pay phone and make a call.

“Nobody home?”

“Nobody home,” she said, and they went looking for more fences.

Fell was a cowgirl, Lucas thought, watching her drive. She’d been born out of place, out of time, in the Bronx. She’d fit in the Dakotas or Montana: bony, with wide shoulders and high cheekbones, that frizzy red hair held back from her face with bobby pins. With the scar at the end of her mouth . . .

She’d been jabbed with the broken neck of a beer bottle, she said, back when she was on patrol. “That’s what you get when you try to keep assholes from killing each other.”

Babe Zalacki might have been a babe once, before her teeth fell out. She shook her head and smiled her toothless pink smile at Lucas: “I don’t know from medical shit,” she said. “The closest I got to it was, I got three hundred cases of Huggies a couple of weeks ago. Now Huggies, you can sell Huggies. You take them up to Harlem and sell them on the street corners like that . . . .” She snapped her fingers. “But medical shit . . . who knows?”

Back on the street, Fell said, “Sun’s going down.”

Lucas looked up at the sky, where a dusty sun hung over the west side. “Still hot.”

“Wait’ll August. August is hot. This is nothin’ . . . . Better make a call.”

Up the street, a bald man in a jean jacket turned to face a building, braced a hand against it, and began urinating.
Lucas watched as he finished, got himself together, and continued down the street. No problem.

Fell came back and said, “He’s home. Phone’s busy.”

They took a half hour, cutting crosstown as the light began to fail, through a warehouse section not far from the water. Fell finally slowed, did a U-turn, and bumped the right-side wheels over the curb. She killed the engine, put her radio on the floor in the backseat, fished a sign out from under the seat and tossed it on the dashboard: “No radio inside.”

“Even a cop car?”

“Especially a cop car—cop cars got all kinds of goodies. At least, that’s what they think.”

Lucas climbed out, stretched, yawned, and ran his thumb along his beltline, under his jacket, until it hit the leather of the Bianchi holster. The street was in deep shadow, with doorway niches and shuttered carports in brick walls. A red brick cube, unmarked by any visible sign or number, loomed overhead like a Looney Tune. Rows of dark windows started three stories up; they were tall and narrow, and from the third to the eleventh floor, dark as onyx. Half of the top floor was lit.

“Lights are on,” Fell said.

“Weird place to live,” Lucas said, looking around. Scrap paper sidled lazily down the street, borne on a hot humid river breeze. The breeze smelled like the breath of an old man with bad teeth. They were close to the Hudson, somewhere in the twenties.

“Jackie Smith is a weird guy,” Fell said. Lucas stepped toward the door, but she caught his arm. “Slow down. Give me a minute.” She dug into her purse and came up with a pack of Luckys.

“You’ve got it bad,” Lucas said, watching her. “The habit.”

“Yeah, but at least I don’t need an alarm clock.”

“What?” He stepped into it.

“Every morning at seven o’clock sharp, I wake myself up coughing.” When Lucas didn’t smile, she peered at him and said, “That was a joke, Davenport.”

“Yeah. Inside, I’m laughing myself sick,” he said. Then he smiled.

Fell tapped a Lucky on the back of a pack of matches, stuck it in her mouth with a two-finger flipping motion, cupped it with her hands and lit it.

“You’re not going to fuck me up, are you?” she asked, her eyes flicking up at him.

“I don’t know what that means,” Lucas said. He stuck a finger between his collar and his neck. His neck felt like sandpaper. If ring around the collar were a terminal disease, they’d be burying him.

“I saw the pictures of Bekker, after the arrest,” Fell said. “He looked like somebody stuck his face in a blender. If you do that in New York, with somebody connected downtown, like Jackie is, your fuckin’
career
goes in the blender.”

“I don’t have a career,” Lucas said.

“I do,” said Fell. “Four more years and I’m out. I’d like to make it.”

“What’re you going to do when you get out?” Lucas asked, making talk while she smoked. He tipped his head back and looked up again. He seemed to do that in New York, even with buildings only twelve stories tall.

“I’m gonna move to Hollywood, Florida, and get a job as a topless waitress,” Fell said.

“What?” She brought him down, startled him.

“Joke, Davenport,” she said.

“Right.” He looked back up, turning in the street. “Who is this guy?”

She took a drag, coughed, covered her mouth with a rolled fist. “Jackie? He’s fairly big. The others we’ve talked to, they were middle-sized or small-timers. Jackie’s a wholesaler. There are three or four of them here in midtown. When somebody hijacks a truck full of Sonys, one of the wholesalers’ll get it and parcel it out to the small-timers. If Jackie feels like it, he could put out the word on Bekker to fifty or sixty or a hundred guys. If he feels like it. And those guys could probably talk to a million junkies and thieves.
If
they feel like it.”

“If you know all this . . . ?” He looked at her with a cool curiosity. A man turned the corner behind them, saw them standing on the sidewalk, and went back around the corner out of sight.

“He’s got his own business, remaindering stuff,” Fell continued. “If somebody has six zillion nuts and no bolts to go with them, he calls up Jackie. Jackie buys them and finds somebody who needs them. That’s all legal. If you tag him, you’ll find him going in and out of warehouses all day, ten or twenty a day, different ones every day of the week. Talks to all kinds of people. Hundreds of them. Somewhere in the mess, he’s got eight or ten people working for him, running the fencing business out the back door of these legit warehouses . . . . It’s tough, man. I know he’s doing it, but I can’t find his dumps.”

“He knows you?”

“He knows who I am,” she said. “I once sat outside this place for three days, watching who came and went. Running license numbers. It was colder than shit. You know how it gets when it’s too cold to snow?”

“Yeah. I’m from . . .”

“Minnesota. Like that,” she said, looking down the street, remembering. “So the third night, this guy comes out of the building, knocks on our window, my partner and me, and hands us a Thermos of hot coffee and a couple of turkey sandwiches, courtesy of Jackie Smith.”

“Hmph.” He looked at her. “You take it?”

“I poured the coffee on the guy’s shoes,” Fell said. She was talking through her teeth. She took a last drag, grinned at him and flicked the cigarette into the street, where it bounced in a shower of sparks. “The silly shit thought he could buy me with a fuckin’ turkey sandwich . . . . C’mon, let’s do it.”

The warehouse door was built of inch-thick glass poured around stainless-steel rods, with an identical second door six feet farther in. A video camera was mounted on the wall between the two doors. Fell pushed a doorbell marked “Top.” A moment later, an electronic voice said, “Yes?”

Fell leaned close to the speaker plate. “Detectives Fell and Davenport to see Jackie Smith.”

After a short pause, the voice said, “Step inside and hold your badges in front of the camera.”

The door lock buzzed and Fell pulled the door open, and they went inside. Now between the two doors, they held their badges in front of the camera. A second later, the lock on the second door buzzed. “Take the elevator to twelve. It’s on the way down,” the voice said.

A sterile lobby of yellow-painted concrete block waited behind the second door. There were no windows, only the elevator doors and a steel fire door at the far end of the lobby. The elevators were to the left, and another video camera, mounted in a wire cage near the ceiling, watched them.

“Interesting,” Lucas said. “We’re in a vault.”

“Yeah. You’d have a hell of a time getting this far if Jackie didn’t want you in. You’d probably need plastique to do it in a hurry. Then you’d have to get through the fire door, to find the stairs, assuming that the elevator was up and locked. By that time, Jackie’d be gone, of course. I’m sure he’s got a bolthole somewhere . . . .”

“And he’s probably recording all of this,” Lucas said.

Fell shrugged. “I’d like to get him, and I’ve thought about it—that ain’t no secret.” Halfway up, she said, “You got a thing with Rothenburg?”