The Anniversary Man (25 page)

Delaney was forty-six years old, born in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Arrested seven times, starting at the age of nineteen. Lewd and lascivious conduct, exposure, attempted rape (charges never filed for lack of evidence), suspicion of pandering minors, burglary (a pornographic-film importer′s warehouse), soliciting prostitution, attempting to bribe a police officer and aggravated assault. He had never done time. He had missed the bus by the skin of his teeth. Delaney possessed the narrow-eyed, blemished-complexion, greasy-haired demeanor that seemed requisite to his trade. He had booked the Bedford Park. There was nothing illegal in booking a conference suite, regardless of how degraded the use of that suite might be. Delaney was not the way in. Delaney would be too well-known.

Irving took Delaney′s address, a condo no more than two or three blocks from the Bedford Park on Bleecker. He printed off a copy of the man′s picture, tucked it into his jacket pocket, shared a few words with Kayleigh and Whittaker, thanked them for their time, and left.

He drove back the way he′d come only half an hour or so before, a straight run down Sixth, right into West 14th, Eighth to Abingdon Square and Bleecker.

George Delaney′s condo was suitably exhausted for a man of his reputation and social standing. The paint peeled back in numerous places, a patchwork of rust stains discolored the walls beneath the guttering, and there was garbage of all kinds strewn along the walkway above the street - a broken chair, its stuffing creeping out along a swollen seam, a child′s tricycle, once brightly colored but now discarded and forgotten, a stack of decaying newspapers tied with string. Irving found it difficult to understand why people were willing to live in such a fashion. Had it been his condo he would have rallied the neighbors together, cracked some beers, cleared the walkway, painted the facade, made-believe that what they had was worth maintaining . . . But people here led desperate, solitary lives - unemployed, hunched in chairs as they smoked weed, drank warm beer, ate cold pizza, sweated through endless hedonistic images on the internet.

Irving parked across the street with a clear view of the building. There were cars parked out front, three of them, and he noted their license plates. The clock on the dash read ten to twelve. He took the picture of Delaney from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, propped it against the steering wheel. He looked at the man′s face and wondered what dark and unforgiving universe lay an inch behind his eyes.

Irving, cursing himself for not bringing a sandwich or somesuch, eased back in the driver′s seat and set himself to wait.

After forty-five minutes a beat-to-shit Buick Regal pulled up on the other side of the street. The man who exited the car could have been one of a hundred thousand. Faded jeans, leather jacket, hair slicked back, unshaven, a cigarette parked in the corner of his mouth. He locked the vehicle, hurried across the sidewalk, took the stairwell at a run and headed straight for Delaney′s door. Irving took the license plate, called Dispatch and asked them to ID it.

The words that were shared didn′t matter; that Delaney never appeared mattered less. The only fact of interest to Irving was the name being relayed back to him, that Delaney′s visitor, one Timothy Walter Leycross, was precisely the kind of individual that Irving needed. Leycross was thirty-one, three outstanding traffic violations, did seven months in juvy, another two and a half years in Attica for attempted rape of a minor, and was currently awaiting word from the DA′s office as to whether a computer in their possession was giving up its secrets. Leycross had been arrested in a city-wide crackdown on internet child pornographers, his computer had been seized, and the best computer hacks in the DA′s employ were trying to untangle the maze of circuitous avenues and invisible boxes such people employed to obfuscate and hide the evidence of their proclivities. Irving was familiar with the case - Operation Secure - and though it hadn′t crossed his desk, he had spent sufficient time in Vice to know how difficult it was to make charges stick. Police actions slowed down the efforts of these people, but they would never be stopped. And if they were successfully arraigned, charged, tried, convicted and imprisoned, the leniency of the system now permitted people like this to return to the world within months, whereupon they went back to their business with a vengeance. There was money in their line of business, plenty of it, though Irving believed they were far less interested in the financial returns than they were addicted to the subject matter. Delaney and Leycross were representative of a particular type of human being, and the world within which they existed was extraordinarily dark.

The conversation at Delaney′s door lasted less than a minute. Something changed hands, and when Leycross turned toward the stairwell Irving saw him bury something inside his jacket.

Leycross drove away in a hurry, didn′t look back, didn′t appear to notice as Irving cruised up behind him. Irving followed the Buick for half a dozen blocks, fired the light on the dash as they crossed Gansevoort, and then pulled Leycross over beyond the corner of West 13th and Hudson.

Irving was unarmed, and left his handgun in the trunk of the car. He knew a thousand Leycrosses, and merely waited while this one hustled whatever he′d taken from Delaney beneath the passenger seat.

As Irving approached the rear fender of the vehicle, the driver′s door started to open.

′Stay inside the car, Timothy,′ he called out.

It was a standard ruse: get out of the car, approach the officer, engage him in conversation, keep him out of the vehicle, attention always away from the vehicle.

Timothy Leycross sat back and pulled the door shut.

The expression on his face when Irving looked down at him was all too familiar. Fuck, it said. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

′How are things, Timothy?′ Irving asked.

′Okay . . . sure. They′re fine, yes. I′m fine.′

′Good to hear you′re fine. License and registration is where exactly?′

′In the glove box.′

′Go slowly, my friend. Open up and let me look before you take anything out, okay?′

Leycross seemed all-too-familiar with the routine. He co-operated. He didn′t resist or protest or bitch or complain. He didn′t ask why he′d been pulled over. He knew precisely why, knew also that he was going nowhere.

Irving - merely to prolong the anxiety that Leycross was experiencing - pored over the documents as if there was something important to be gleaned from them.

When he handed them back there was a moment, just a moment, something in Leycross′s expression, that questioned whether that was it.

′You have three outstanding traffic violations,′ Irving said.

Leycross′s face fell apart.

′I meant to pay them—′

Irving raised his hand. ′You have a computer with the DA′s office, Tim. They have your computer . . . going through it to see if they can find all the kiddie porn, right?′

Leycross feigned indignation, opened his mouth to vent something or other.

′I don′t want to know,′ Irving said. ′That′s between you and the DA.′ Irving leaned down, put his hand on the roof of the car, and smiled warmly. ′However, what I do want to know is what it is that you just bought from George Delaney.′

′Delaney? I don′t know—′

′Anyone called Delaney,′ Irving interjected. ′You don′t know anyone called Delaney, or Dietz, and if it′s gonna get you booked for something then I′m sure you don′t know your own mother either.′

Leycross was agitated, annoyance creeping toward anger, but beneath that the unwanted certainty that this was not going to go his way.

Words went back and forth for no more than three or four minutes. Leycross challenged Irving′s right to pull him over, said there was no probable cause for searching the car. Irving said that the very first thing that Leycross did as he′d stopped the car was reach forward and put something beneath the passenger seat. A gun? A consignment of drugs perhaps? Of course there was probable cause. He recognized the momentary flash of anger in Leycross′s eyes, but just as soon as that anger was visible he seemed to fold up in defeat. Irving wanted something, there was no question in Leycross′s mind that this was the case. Was it better to play tough and get booked, or throw in his hand and hope to hell whatever he had to trade wasn′t that bad?

′Have to look at it like this,′ Irving told him. ′Co-operate, and we′ll get through this. Be an asshole and I don′t doubt that someone will find whatever they want in your computer, and then you′re back to Attica with a child-rape tag on your name.′

′I didn′t rape nobody,′ Leycross said.

′You′ve been there, Tim. You know how things are. They don′t give a fuck whether you did it or looked at it, or sold pictures of it. There are some things that even the worst human beings in the world won′t tolerate. Gotta remember that most of them have kids, and while they′re inside worrying about their kids they see you out here going after them with your movie camera.′ Irving reached into his jacket pocket and took out an empty clip-top baggie. He opened it, held it toward Leycross.

Leycross hesitated, and in that moment everything that he wanted to say was left unspoken. He gave up the package from beneath the passenger seat.

Eight DVDs, home-made, burned on a computer. No label, no nothing. He dropped them into the baggie and Irving slid the top closed.

′How old?′ Irving asked.

Leycross frowned.

′The kids on these movies?′

Leycross shook his head.

′Any of them older than twelve, Tim?′

Leycross looked away, out through the windshield to the other side of the street.

′Tell you the truth, Tim, I don′t even wanna know.′

Leycross looked back at Irving, his expression defiant.

′The party Friday night,′ Irving said. ′You going?′

′What fucking party?′

′Careful about your choice of expletive there, Tim.′

′I don′t know what you′re talking about.′

′Party that your friend George is throwing over at the Bedford Park.′

Leycross′s expression changed. A split-second′s panic crossed his eyes. Had he not been looking directly at Irving, Irving might have missed it.

′Big night Friday night, my friend,′ Irving said. His tone was throw-away, nonchalant. He spoke as if this was something that was old news for the entire NYPD.

′I don′t know about any party,′ Leycross said. ′I don′t know what the fuck you′re talking about.′

′Well, you either start knowing exactly what the fuck I′m talking about, or we′re taking a drive down to the precinct house and I′m gonna book you on your traffic tickets, and then we′re gonna go put these DVDs on the TV in the commissary and half a dozen or so weatherworn and cynical Vice detectives, all of whom have kids by the way, are gonna check out your pirate copies of Jurassic Park and Star Wars . . . because that′s what I assume we have here, Tim. Am I right?′

Leycross lowered his head. He sighed deeply, and when he turned back to Irving there was something so resigned and pathetic in his eyes it was hard for Irving not to laugh.

′What is it that you want?′ Leycross asked.

′I want you to take me along.′

′What?′

′To the Bedford Park Hotel, Friday night. I want you to take me as your guest.′

′You′re outta your fuckin′ mind, man!′

Irving leaned closer. He could smell Leycross′s body odor through the open window. ′Either that, or we go down to the Fourth and talk about your long-overdue return to Attica.′

′Aah Jesus, man, what the fuck is this? You have any idea what′ll happen to me if I take you down there and you start busting people—′

′I′m not gonna to bust anyone, Timothy. I′m a visitor, a potential buyer of whatever the hell your friends are selling down there—′

′They′re not my friends.′

′All the better then. Better that they don′t know you. Means they won′t question you about who I am.′

′You know so much about it, you know where it is, go there yourself.′

′I know how this shit works, Tim, believe me. These are places you don′t go without an invite or a personal reference. Friday night, my friend, I am gonna be your date. Dress nice, okay?′

′Fucking bullshit—′

Irving slammed his hand on the roof of the car. Leycross jumped suddenly.

′Enough already,′ Irving said. He held out the baggie. ′You take me to the Bedford or I take you to the Fourth.′

′Okay, okay, okay . . . Jesus Christ, man, this is just fucking bullshit scare tactics. This is fucking harassment! ′

′And this?′ Irving said, jabbing Leycross in the shoulder with the bag of DVDs. ′This is a little harmless home entertainment? You′re a fucking animal, my friend, a fucking animal. Don′t even talk to me about harassment, okay?′

Leycross raised his hands in a placatory fashion. ′Seven,′ he said. ′You know St Vincent′s?′

′The hospital?′

′Meet me in the parking lot there Friday . . . seven o′clock.′

′Do I need to tell you about speaking to anyone?′

Leycross shook his head. He glanced at the DVDs in Irving′s hand.

′Oh no, my friend, I′m keeping these. These are my collateral. You don′t show, or I go there and the meeting′s been cancelled - I get even the slightest idea that they know who I am - then we′re gonna be sharing your viewing choices with the rest of the fucking world, okay?′

Leycross didn′t speak.

′Okay, Tim?′

′Okay, okay,′ he snapped exasperatedly.

′Good. St Vincent′s parking lot at seven.′

As Irving watched Leycross drive away, he wondered what kind of God could create such people, and then he smiled to himself: He′d stopped believing in any kind of God so many years before.

T
here were holes. Too many to count. Incident reports with names omitted, counter-signatures on circumstantial eyewitness statements. Irving knew for a fact that the parents of the fourteen-year-old twins who had found the body of Mia Grant had signed a minors′ statement disclosure agreement, yet neither Kayleigh nor Whittaker had been able to find it. Irving paged the female police officer who′d been at the house, got a call back from a colleague to say she was away for the rest of the week. Irving went through each of the folders himself and came back with more omissions. Crime scene photographs had been incorrectly dated. A sheet of names - all those who had been questioned in the vicinity of the Burch/Briley murders - was reported on the file summary, but again had taken a walk. A statement from the man who′d found the girls - Max Webster, a salesman - had his business card logged, on it his cell and landline numbers, but Irving couldn′t find it. No doubt it had fallen from one of the files in transit. Right now it could be anywhere, on a stairwell, the back of someone′s car, under a desk someplace. The guy could be found easily enough, but that was not the point. The fact that anything at all was missing suggested that other things might be missing. And if he didn′t know what they were, he wouldn′t know to look for them.