Tick Tock (16 page)

I lifted a pencil and twirled it between my fingers. How
could one person not only seek revenge and twisted, freaky peekaboo thrills but also relish inflicting pain all at the same time?

He couldn’t, I thought, as I tried to stick the pencil into the ceiling and missed. It didn’t make any goddamn sense.

THAT’S WHEN I PULLED the second-smartest move of my morning. Instead of just thinking like Emily Parker, I took out my cell and called the real McCoy.

“Hey, Em. Sorry to call you so early,” I said when she picked up. “I’ve been looking at your notes on that copycat Seda. He ID’d himself with the Zodiac, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Emily said, still groggy.

“Well, if our guy is doing the same thing, how can he feel empathy with all three New York nuts? I mean, one’s an organized technician, and one’s a disorganized catch-me-if-you-can loon. And the third one is a classic violent sadist. How can that be?”

“That is weird,” she agreed. After a yawn she said, “Maybe two of the modes are just a smokescreen for the real one.”

“But which one is real and which are the smoke?” I said.

“The only communication he made with you was about the bombings, right?”

“You’re forgetting the Son of Sam letter he sent me.”

“True, but that was almost a photocopy of Berkowitz’s letter.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Also, since we haven’t even seen any publicity-seeking taunts or manifestos sent to the media, I don’t think his heart is in copying Berkowitz.”

“I’d lean toward Metesky, too,” Emily said. “Our guy is definitely detail-oriented, and not only was the library bomb the first crime, it was the only one that didn’t have a copycat message.”

“It’s revenge, then?” I said. “This guy is trying to get back at the world for Lawrence? But what about the social skills that Cavuto attributed to him during their meetings? Berkowitz and Metesky were loner, loser types, while Fish was a married guy who was sly, manipulative, and charming. If someone is capable of channeling Cary Grant, how do they become a wound-up, light-’em-and-run sneak creep like Metesky?”

“But he has to be somewhat of a loner,” Emily argued. “How does Mr. Life of the Party prepare his bombs and clean his collection of vintage weapons without friends or family getting suspicious?”

I slumped in my chair. Trying to figure this guy out was like trying to build a castle with quicksand. Yet we were almost onto something. I could feel it.

My office chair made a snapping sound as I suddenly sat straight up.

“Wait a second. He is detail-oriented, isn’t he? This guy
is all about the details. That’s about the only thing we know about him.”

“Yeah, and?”

I pulled out the sheets that showed the addresses of the historical crimes and compared them to the locations of the present spree.

“Emily, you know what I think? I think our guy is meticulous enough to have copied these crimes even better than he has. If he wanted to just reenact the crimes, he could have done the exact same thing at the exact same locations, but he didn’t.”

“Why not?” Emily said.

“Maybe it’s not about the copying at all,” I offered. “Maybe the copycatting concept itself is the smokescreen. We need to take another look at the victims. Maybe the connection is with them.”

THE REST OF MY DAY was nasty, brutish, and
long
.

Running with our new theory to find some connection between the victims, Emily and I split up and proceeded to try to interview as many of the victims’ families as we could. Every session had been grueling. All the family members I sat down with were still confused and angry, raw with loss and grief. Laura Habersham, the mother of the girl who’d been killed in the Queens lovers’ lane double murder, actually cursed me out before collapsing onto her knees in tears at her front door.

I didn’t blame her in the slightest. I just helped her up and asked my questions and went on to the next poor soul on my list.

By the time I was finished, I’d spent twelve hours driving hither and yon through NYC’s gridlocked outer boroughs and only managed to track down the families of four of the eight victims. Even so, it was a ton of data to
crunch, a ton of potential connections. That was police work in a nutshell—too little or too much info.

Around ten p.m. that night, sweating, bone tired, and yet unbowed, I cornered 91st Street onto steamy West End Avenue. Stumbling over the opposite curb in the dark, I just managed to catch the sliding Chinese takeout and six Dos Equis I was balancing on top of the file box I was lugging. When my phone went off in my pocket, instead of stopping to answer it, I continued to soldier on toward the awning of my apartment house a block and a half away. Beat-ass tired cops in motion tend to stay in motion.

Since there was no way I could make it out to Breezy tonight alive, I’d have to make the best of it, crashing in my apartment alone.

My building’s front door was locked when I arrived. Which was sort of aggravating considering how much my pricey prewar building charged for twenty-four-hour doorman service. Instead of putting down the heavy box, I turned and knocked on the thick glass with the back of my thick skull.

I almost fell down when the door was flung open suddenly two long minutes later.

“Mr. Bennett. I’m so sorry,” Bert, the whiny evening-shift doorman, said hastily, tightening his loose tie. “Everyone else in the building is marked in, or I would have been standing right here at my post as usual. I thought you and the kids were away. We weren’t expecting you back until next week.”

I watched the short, old doorman yawn as he continued to make no attempt to help me.

“Yeah, well, you’re looking at what they call a working vacation, Bert,” I said as I walked around him.

Bert actually stopped me again halfway to the elevator to load me down even more with piled-up mail and packages.

“Don’t worry, Mr. B. Your secret is safe with me,” the old codger whispered, winking at my six-pack of suds. “I’ve been reading about your case in the
Post
. Who could blame you for hitting the sauce a little?”

I rolled my eyes as the door finally slid shut and the elevator began to take me upstairs.

Just what I didn’t need in my life, another elderly wiseguy. And I was looking forward to a Seamus-free night, too.

I DROPPED THE FILE BOX of victim data with a thud in the stuffy air of my apartment foyer and stood for a strange moment, just listening. After the usually thunderous chaos in our rambling three-bedroom apartment, silence was an almost unique experience.

Sorting through the mail, I smiled at the return address of a cardboard tube that had arrived. I went into the big boys’ room and put up the action-shot Mariano Rivera Fathead that I’d gotten for my son Brian’s birthday. Brian was going to go nuts when he saw it.

“Just me and you tonight, Mo,” I said to the life-size wall cling as I left. “Welcome to old guy’s night in.”

I proceeded to turn on all the window air conditioners to high. Coming back through the living room, I lifted what looked like a plaid horseshoe off the floor. It was one of the girls’ Catholic school headbands, I realized. I twirled
it in my hand before placing it on a coffee table littered with Jenga pieces and
Diary of a Wimpy Kid
books.

Taking a load off on my beat-up couch, I reflected on all the craziness of the past fifteen years of family life. It was a blur of big wheels and videos and kitchen tables covered in Cheerios, a lot of tears, more laughter. We’d converted the three bedrooms into five by using the high-end apartment’s formal dining room and half of the large, formal living room. Formal anything pretty much sailed out the window onto tony West End Avenue for Maeve and me once our incredible expanding family moved in.

The funny thing was, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

How I’d gotten my guys this far while putting away bad guys and keeping my job and a sliver of my sanity, I’d never know. Actually, I did know. Their names were Maeve, Mary Catherine, and, as much as I hated to admit it, Seamus.

Back inside my bedroom, I listened to the string of messages on the answering machine. The most recent one was by far the most intriguing.

“Yes, um, eh, he—, hello? Mary—Mary Catherine?” some fellow with a charming English stammer said. “It’s Jeremy Griffith. I, um, spoke at your class? I, um, do hope you don’t mind that I hunted down your number from the instructor. I don’t normally do things like this, but I—well, I’m here at this atrocious party, and I couldn’t stop thinking about those insightful links you made between
German Baroque and Nordic Classicism. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I met someone who actually knew who Ivar Tengbom was, let alone would admit to being his number-one fan. Anyway, are you doing anything this week? I have another dinner with some MOMA people coming up on Friday and thought, eh, maybe you’d like to, uh, tag along. There, I’ve said it. If you can make it, wonderful. If you can’t, well, my and Ivar’s loss. Here’s my number.”

“Sorry, old chap,” I said, immediately deleting with extreme prejudice Mary Catherine’s Hugh Grant–like suitor. “Looks like you’re going stag.”

Was that wrong? I wondered, staring at myself in the mirror. I turned away. It most certainly was, and I most certainly didn’t care.

I SHOWERED, tossed on some shorts, and brought a beer and my phone back into the living room.

“Hey, Mike,” Mary Catherine said when I called Breezy. “I was just about to call you. You’re not going to believe this. No Flaherty incidents, no stitches, no one even got sunburned. Even Socky the cat seems ready to twist by the pool tonight. How are you holding up? Are you on your way? I’ll save you some pizza.”

“Don’t bother, Mary,” I said, toweling off my wet hair. “I’m actually at the apartment. This case is looking like an all-nighter. Hey, I forgot to ask you. How was your art course this week?”

“It was terrific,” she said. “This really bright, young Oxford professor came to speak to us, a world-renowned expert on German architecture. He was really funny.”

“German buildings are fine,” I said, “but I’m more into Nordic Classicism myself.”

“I didn’t know you liked architecture, Mike. Were you peeking at my books?” Mary Catherine said.

“Bite your tongue, lass. Not all cops are meatheads.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” she said after a beat. “I’m afraid it’s too late to talk with the gang. They’re all asleep.”

“That’s okay. Just apologize and kiss them good night for me, okay?” I said.

“No problem,” Mary said. “Who are you going to kiss good night, I wonder?”

“What?” I said, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Mr. Bennett. Have fun all by yourself in the city tonight,” Mary Catherine said and hung up.

I stared at the phone. Then I cracked the cap on my beer. Sauce-hitting time had officially arrived.

“Nothing, Mr. Bennett,” I mimicked in a pretty good Irish accent as I tossed my phone at the opposite couch.

I PUT ON THE TV with the sound off as I sorted through my notes and the case files.

It was a lot of paper. There was still so much to get through, so much to absorb. I wasn’t even sure if we were wasting our time with our latest theory. The very real threat of yet another insane, pointless copycat killing wasn’t exactly helping my concentration.

I was getting up to exchange my beer bottle for a coffee cup when my phone rang. I grabbed it from the couch.

Lo and behold, would you look at that? I thought, glaring at the screen. It was my boss, Miriam. Did the woman never sleep?

“Bad news, Mike,” she said when I made the mistake of accepting the call. “I just got off the phone with the commissioner. It looks like he wants to go in a different direction with the task-force lead. Major Case is out. Manhattan North Homicide is in. We’re both still on the task force,
but he wants to, quote unquote, refresh the supervising investigative angle.”

“Refresh what? With the Manhattan North scrubs? He’s going to pull the plug on us now? Just when the ice is starting to break?”

“I know, Mike. This is just a bunch of backroom bullshit. The chief of detectives is just screwing with us because he can. We’ll still run the task-force meeting tomorrow, but then that’s it. I just thought you should know.”

“I’m sorry. I feel like I let you down, Miriam,” I said.

“How do you think I feel? I pulled you off your vacay only to get you jammed up. Don’t take this to heart. You’re still my go-to. Sometimes you just can’t catch a break quickly enough.”

I hung up, trying to absorb what I’d just heard. I was letting out a breath as my text jingle rang. It was Emily.

Hey, u still awake?

I’d almost forgotten that Emily was still out pounding the pavement. The original plan was to meet back up for dinner to brainstorm and crunch everything we’d learned, but she’d been tied up in an interview when I’d called earlier.

Just barely,
I started texting back, but then remembered I was over the age of twelve and actually called her instead.

“Hey, yourself,” I said when she answered. I decided not to tell her the devastating news about my impending
public demotion. She’d find out tomorrow along with the rest of New York.

“I thought we were supposed to meet and compare notes,” I said.

“The best-laid plans of mice and Feds, Mike,” Emily said. I could hear traffic in the background. “Turn left in two hundred yards,” Emily’s GPS system said in its annoyingly calm computer voice.

“I actually got lost after visiting one of the Grand Central bombing victims’ families. Newark is tricky with all those parkways and turnpikes.”

“You’re in Newark?” I said in shock. “What are you, nuts? I gave you all the Manhattan victims so you wouldn’t have to go too far, country mouse.”

I couldn’t believe how far and fast Emily was going on this. This wasn’t even her case, and she was putting in a superhuman effort. It was because it was my case, I realized. Not only had she volunteered, she was going above and beyond to make me look good.