Auto-parts Yard, Brooklyn
March 10, 6.05 p.m.
Karl Leer’s autoyard was used by Section 88 as a safe house. Karl wasn’t an activist himself; it wasn’t in his nature to do that. He liked his workshop and didn’t want to risk his livelihood. Karl was more of an observer. He kept himself to himself and, more importantly, he provided Section 88 with old vehicles when they needed them — vans so old they couldn’t be traced.
Heming looked around the yard. The dogs behind in the scrublands barked incessantly. If he was being watched, they were keeping themselves well hidden. Karl had given him the all clear. He was sure there was no one around. Heming had got sick of being cooped up and, anyway, he needed to be out. He had a lot to do. He had a lot on his mind.
He looked towards the veranda where the office door stood wide open and then at the small table set up by a heap of old engine blocks. Karl Leer appeared from the office. His eyes opened in surprise.
‘Thought you was hiding?’
‘I need a beer,’ said Heming.
A train passed by not far from the workshop. The tools rattled. ‘Could’ve been worse,’ Karl shouted over the roar.
‘Just how so?’ said Martin Heming.
‘You could’ve gone out with them, been arrested yourself. The way it is, they’ll be back on the street soon enough.’
‘I can’t work with them any more,’ said Heming. ‘They make mistakes. Everyone’s a fucking incompetent. Lukanov was a fool — no good. I thought he was better. I was wrong.’
‘He wanted to do good for you.’
‘Yeah, well, he failed. He was a liability.’
‘Was?’
‘Sturbe killed him.’
‘How do you know?’
Heming looked up. ‘How do I know? I was right there. I saw him do it. He enjoyed it.’
The passenger train rumbled into the distance. Heming’s voice lowered. ‘Detective Tom Harper took out my whole team.’
‘He must be something to do that.’
‘He must be a sonofabitch.’
‘You should go sort this cop out,’ said Karl.
‘I should, you’re right.’
‘Everyone else turned up at the meeting house, you know.’
‘Last night?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I told people the meeting was off,’ said Heming.
‘Six or seven turned up. Didn’t get your message. Cops were waiting right there. They took their names and addresses.’
‘Anyone mention me?’
‘Don’t think so. But you’re not exactly low key. Got your own website. They only need to look you up.’
‘They’re probably at my apartment. I can’t go back.’
‘You should do something about it,’ said Karl.
‘That’s right,’ said Heming. ‘I ought to.’
A silence fell between them. They reflected on what they had left unsaid for a moment. Heming looked into the office. ‘Karl,’ he said. ‘Get me a beer, would you?’
Karl shuffled across to the fridge and took out a key which hung on a chain around his neck. He knelt down and unlocked the padlock. He pulled a cold beer from the icebox.
‘I should just lay low, keep out of trouble,’ Heming said. ‘It’s too difficult to keep going while all this Capske shit is brewing.’
Karl nodded and placed the beer on the table.
Heming shook his head to some internal argument. He drank from the bottle, before wiping his forehead. ‘We can’t sit on our own and grumble. It ain’t us who are cranking this up. It’s them that are infiltrating every fucking place. Judges, lawyers, bankers, politicians, businessmen. They own the system now, Karl, that’s what we’re up against. These people are everywhere. Immigrants and Jews fucking running the place.’ He rose up. ‘I hate them, man, you know? I just hate them so fucking much I can’t focus on anything else.’ Heming’s cheeks were bright red and his forehead was glistening. He looked into the middle distance as if possessed by a terrible vision.
‘Why so much, Heming?’ said Karl Leer.
‘Why so much? Are you kidding? I’ll tell you straight up: I love my country and they are destroying it. It’s an act of self-defense. Would you protect your own children? Don’t answer me, that’s all I’m doing. Protecting my children. My children’s children.’
‘You don’t have children,’ said Karl.
‘Fuck you,’ said Heming.
Martin Heming stood still for a moment as though something had just been clarified in his mind. He drank until his beer was gone, then went and opened the door of the icebox. Let the cool air drift across his face a second.
‘Some guy has done some research and you know what he found? He found that the Jews and the Arabs and the Blacks are all part-Neanderthal. They did some genetic experiment and found this out. They carry the genes of the Neanderthal. Doesn’t that blow your mind? They’re infected with the genes of a dumb animal. Neanderthals. You can see it in their faces.’
Karl let out a laugh. ‘Sure they are, Heming.’
‘What are you saying? You saying that I’m lying?’
‘You’re not lying; you’re just being selective. We’re all of us part-descended from Neanderthals. All of us have that gene. I read about it too.’
‘Not all of us, Karl. You, maybe, but not me.’
‘It’s not something you choose.’
‘It is something you choose,’ said Heming. ‘I choose not to be a dumb fucking animal, I choose to rise above. I choose to further our race and not let it be diluted by theirs. You go eat with the animals, Karl, but not me. I’m no fucking violent Neanderthal ape.’
Karl stifled his rising laughter. If Heming was trying to be comic, he wasn’t showing it.
‘You take a look around you,’ continued Heming. ‘See who’s doing what and who’s suffering. This is everyone’s problem. You think you’re immune to it? You can just walk about, go about your business? Look at your fucking shop! Do you get everyone coming here? No. Where do they go? They got a monopoly, go to their own shops. It’s one rule for us and another for them. They’re squeezing guys like you out. Good guys like you. They’re the Neanderthals, they’re trying to destroy America from within, trying to fuck up our gene pool. Infected, they are, infected with this ape-gene. I love this country, man. I love it. But it’s got a disease right here under the skin and it’s carried by all those fucking types.’
Heming took another beer and pressed the cool bottle to his cheek. His pale blue shirt was stained with sweat under both arms. He carried three days of stubble and his eyes glowed red from staring into the dark, night after night, alone with his mind-rotting theories.
Karl reached out towards a chipped wooden bench and felt for a wrench. He found it and moved across to the open hood of an old car. He leaned into the engine. Heming watched for a moment. ‘These people have tentacles. They control Wall Street — and if they control finance, they control government — right? They’ve got us wrapped around their fingers. And what else? Out there, in the world, we were once a proud nation. Now we’re drowning in shit with our reputation dying because they got us into a war with the whole rest of the fucking world. Playing second fiddle, maybe even third fiddle.’
Martin remained by the open fridge letting the cool air dance around his heated face. He drank in quick gulps. Then he turned to the car that was absorbing Karl Leer more than he was managing to do.
‘You see, Karl, you got to go to the top of the mountain to see the lay of the land. The spread, the forces at work. You’ve got your head stuck down in the valley. Heh, listen to me, don’t be getting distracted by the fucking car.’
‘I’m working, Heming, I got rent to pay. You don’t work, you’ve got it easy, you got time to get all worked up. You should do something positive.’
‘Don’t tell me what I’ve got. They’ve taken the lot. My wife, my money, my freedom. Don’t tell me what to think, Karl, they took it all and they’ll take it from you too, if you sit back and let them. This government is destroying us. Our own government is infected with their thinking. We need to do something.’
Martin wandered back to his seat with another cool one. He twisted open the bottle and put it to his lips. The cold beer passed across his tongue and down his throat. He wiped his mouth. ‘I should do something positive, you’re right. You’re right, Karl, I got to do something real positive. Not wait around for the fucking world to change. Do something. You hear that? We got to do something. You got that fucking right.’
North Manhattan Homicide
March 10, 6.23 p.m.
Harper walked out of the investigation room, leaving Denise to work on the profile. He took two more codeine pills, knowing that in fifteen minutes he’d feel the subtle change of mood, a feeling of peace — happiness even. It was low enough, background enough to carry on working.
He felt in his pocket for the small piece of card. What did he do now? He pulled out the card. Erin Nash’s name in red lettering. She knew something and was interested in what was happening out there. She would sense what was going on. Erin Nash would maybe write an article that could help them to steer things.
There was plenty to write about, Carney had been clear about it. There was hate crime all over. Maybe Erin could upset the ship a little, warn the public about this freak. Maybe get Heming’s picture out there.
He dialed her number. Erin answered immediately. ‘Who’s calling?’
‘Detective Harper, NYPD.’
‘So formal. Tom, good to hear from you. I’ll book us a nice cosy table in Greenwich Village.’
‘What?’
‘You want to talk to me about this serial killer, I’m guessing, so why not talk somewhere comfortable?’
‘How did you know what I want?’
‘I’ve got many friends. They all like to talk to me. Some like more than that.’
‘What are they telling you?’
‘That Harper thinks there’s a hate killer out there. A pattern killer. Maybe a killer with a racial motivation.’
‘You work this out?’
‘I heard about the new body on Lower East Side. I also heard you were looking into the Esther Haeber murder. That’s three dead Jews, Harper. I can count, you know. That makes a series.’
‘How do you get all this information?’
‘I don’t know — I think it’s something to do with my nature. People just like to open up to me.’
‘I know your nature and you’ll do whatever you have to in order to get information, including debasing yourself.’
‘Nothing debased in sleeping with a cop, Detective. You should have more self-esteem.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Come on, Harper, lighten up. I like you, let’s get together. See what happens.’
‘To talk about the case.’
‘And that too,’ said Erin.
‘Two Jewish women and one Jewish man got shot. But there’s no real connection. I might be way off-track.’
‘That’s not your style, you’re usually spot on. Of course, you might not have been calling about the case at all. Let’s consider that for a moment. I look forward to seeing you, Tom. Be nice working together — unless, of course, it’s something else you’re after.’
‘What’s the restaurant?’
‘Little deli. Nice place. Mosha’s.’ She gave him the address. ‘See you in one hour.’
Harper ended the call. Erin Nash was used to using people, but in this case, Harper had an idea, a way of getting a great big spotlight turned on these murders. He needed Nash, because he needed the public to start giving him information.
Mosha’s Diner, The Village
March 10, 7.28 p.m.
Mosha’s was a simple table-screwed-to-the-floor Jewish deli that had once had a reputation for the best something or other, but had long since stopped giving a damn for quality just so long as things were served quickly and people were happy.
Jake Mosh, the owner, still worked the front desk. Harper arrived before Erin Nash and waved towards a seat. ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ he called across to Jake.
‘No way you wait for someone. You order something. This is not a bus stop.’
‘Get me a coffee.’
‘Coffee is not good for you, a man needs to eat. I get you a waiting plate.’
‘Okay.’
‘One waiting plate for the cop.’
Harper looked around.
‘What? You think you look like you write novels in Greenwich Village? You got that cop look, always checking out all the things. Cops have the wandering eye.’
‘You always like this?’
‘Like what? Like noticing things?’
Harper sidled into a tight space in a corner. A cop seat. No one behind him, a good view of the whole deli. He was only just in his seat when a teenager with dark hair put a coffee cup in front of him.
‘Taste it. Best coffee in the world.’
Harper nodded. She was obviously trained by Mosha himself. He took out his cell and checked the bird news. There were reports of Snow Geese upstate, flying high and honking through the night. It was enough to take him away for a moment.
The door opened and in walked a small woman dressed up with several bangles on each arm. She jangled to the counter.
‘Erin, my beautiful bride. We get married soon — you promise?’ said Jake.
‘Oh, yeah, Mosh, very soon. Just after I’ve tried every other man in New York.’
‘I will wait. My wife understands. She was only ever a stand-in.’
Erin was wearing a party dress. Black and silver. Hair done up high on her head. Not the weasel in jeans that Harper had got to know standing outside the precinct. She was looking pretty and elegant.
Erin turned and looked. ‘See my friend took the seat.’
‘I knew he would.’
‘The test always works.’
‘I didn’t know he was yours.’
‘He’s not mine yet. He’s a cop.’
‘I know he’s a cop. Who else wears cologne like that these days?’
Erin Nash walked across and sat opposite Harper. ‘Mosh tells me you’re wearing cologne.’
‘I shaved.’
‘For me?’
‘To avoid being picked up for vagrancy.’
‘Nice and smooth.’
‘This guy, Mosh, he’s a talker.’
‘Yeah, he talks. He’ll shoot you too if you don’t buy something.’
‘I got a waiting plate.’
‘Then you’re in trouble.’
‘You eating?’
‘Mosh will bring me something I like.’
Harper looked at her arms. Thin. Four small tattoos on the under-side of each arm. Possibly Celtic, possibly Chinese. He couldn’t quite see, but that was the gist — origins. Usually someone else’s.
‘You look different.’
‘Are you flattered that I put on a dress?’
‘It doesn’t take much.’
‘Don’t be, I’ve got a launch party. Friend wrote a terrible book and we’ve all got to turn up and smile about it.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. You know why? He’s a liberal with too much free time.’
‘A friend.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let’s cut to the chase, Erin. I don’t want to ruin your evening.’
‘You won’t. I might take you with me. You don’t look so bad.’
A moment later, two waitresses appeared from the side. One carried a small bowl of soup and placed it before Erin. The next moved beside Harper and placed an enormous platter in front of him. It contained everything. Herring, chopped liver, gherkins, a salt-beef sandwich.
‘Jesus.’
‘Not in here, Tom. It’s David and Abraham all the way.’
Harper smiled. He needed someone to bounce ideas off. Someone outside of the NYPD. Erin was not Denise Levene, but she was smart and cynical and she could get his story the angle he needed.
‘Tell me about your family,’ said Erin. ‘I guess you came from a stable little well-meaning unit out in Brooklyn.’
‘You been reading up on me?’
‘Couldn’t get much.’
‘Not much to get. Parents separated. Mother’s English, she took off back to the UK some years back. Father’s a drunk, he took off to Chicago. My sister still lives in the city. She’s a lawyer. Two kids. Great kids. Me and my sister have never been close, though. Hardly speak now. I’ve lost touch.’
‘She’s older, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Always bossing you around?’
‘Yeah, she’s the one in command.’
‘Smart too?’
‘She was always smarter than me. Went to college. Got a degree. Law firm. Worked hard. She’s bringing up the two kids well. I wish I could get to see them more.’
‘Such a tender story. Why you both in law?’
‘Do I need to tell you?’
‘Why? You think I should be able to work it out?’
‘No. I know you will have already found out. Erin Nash wouldn’t come unprepared now, would she?’
‘Okay, I did a little research. I was interested.’
‘I’m flattered. What about you, Erin, what’s your background?’
‘God, we’re like some soap opera. My story is simple. I was born like this. I was spoiled by my old man and hated by Mom. I learned to enjoy annoying her. It became an art. I now use the same tactics to get under other people’s skin.’
‘What tactics are those?’
‘All people like flattery, right? You work your way in, be real nice, make them feel that you’re in need of them until they let down their guard. Then when they’ve revealed an itsy-bitsy bit of weakness, you snap their hand off.’
‘I guess, in telling me this, you’re not trying to impress me.’
‘I like you. I’m not playing games with you. You know the score. You do the same with interrogations, I bet. Soft soap followed by sudden attack. So, I’m just being honest.’
‘For a change.’
Tom pushed a gherkin around his plate. He thought of Denise, then looked up at Erin. He didn’t know what he was feeling at the moment. Hurt, mainly. The boxing match plus a couple of hits from Lukanov had left him with a few wounds. But beneath that, he was pleased to be working again, working with Denise.
‘Okay,’ said Nash. ‘Now let’s get down to business. Tell me about the case.’
‘Look, Erin, this isn’t official, but we’ve got unconnected Jewish deaths. Capske, you know about. I’ve got Esther Haeber from a few months back — and she’s Jewish. And South Manhattan found the body of a Jewish woman yesterday, apparently killed for no reason. Her name is Marisa Cohen. What’s more, about ten days ago, a Jewish high-school student was abducted.’
‘You’ve got links, haven’t you?’
‘I think so.’
‘What have you got?’
‘These three Jewish murders are all linked by an “88” written at the scene and by the use of iron bullets.’
‘What’s the significance?’
‘Being blunt, he’s using Nazi symbols and Nazi bullets and he’s attacking the Jewish community.’
‘You’ve just written tomorrow’s headline story. What do you want from me?’
‘We need help. We’re searching for a man called Martin Heming. If we could get some public help on this, we might be able to stop him.’
‘You need pressure put on him.’
‘I need information. He’s speeding up. The time between kills is falling rapidly.’
Erin Nash listened for another twenty minutes as Tom spoke and worked his way through his waiting plate. She nodded appropriately.
At the end she said, ‘Hell of a story, that, Harper. I can write this, you know.’
‘I know, but you can’t say anything definite yet.’
‘I wouldn’t need to, Harper, that’s the beauty of journalism. You have to prove your case while I just have to throw my case to the public. We’re talking about the police linking the murders of Jewish people across the city.’
‘Don’t name me as the source.’
Nash looked into Harper’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I understand. And thanks, this is another big break for me. Means I won’t have to do the story on Detective Harper’s addiction problems.’ She drank up and smiled.
‘You leaving?’ said Harper.
‘Yeah. I’ve got a party to go to.’
‘On your own?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said. ‘I like to travel light. Company gets in the way of a good story.’
North Manhattan Homicide
March 10, 11.11 p.m.
Denise met Harper outside her building. ‘I need sleep,’ she said, and looked at Harper. ‘You more than me, maybe.’
‘We can sleep when this is over. What did you get?’
‘I’ve been working all evening. First thing is that Aaron called. He found a link between the words. You know, the words Loyalty and Valiance that were printed on the card.’
‘Yeah, so what do they mean?’
‘The motto of the SS. Loyalty, Valiance, Obedience.’
‘The SS, as in the Nazi Party SS?’
‘Yeah. We think he’s playing a part. Trying to make it as authentic as possible.’
‘Anything to help find him or nail him?’
‘Not yet, but I spent some time thinking and then it came to me — where I’d seen those marks on David’s chest. My father used to show me images from the Holocaust. I think I might have another link between David and Abby.’
‘What?’
‘The tattoo on David Capske’s chest. I think it was a number.’
‘Marisa Cohen had something written on her chest too, but the water washed it away. They found some residual signs of ink. And he’d removed her blouse.’
‘He writes numbers on their bodies,’ said Denise.
Harper noticed the heavy tone in her voice. He pulled out his notebook and flicked through. Stared down at the marks. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘You got a theory for me? The guys at Forensics were trying to match letters.’
‘They look like prisoner numbers, Tom. After Aaron found the SS link, I just went with the idea. The SS ran the concentration camps. They numbered prisoners’ chests. They’re not letters,’ she said, her fingers running across the scratches in ink. ‘They’re prisoner numbers. He thinks he’s running some prison camp.’
Harper felt his breath catch. It was so obvious, but they’d missed it. He’d missed it. She leaned over his shoulder. He felt her closeness.
‘What’s the number?’ he said.
Denise stared hard at the scratches, trying to discern a pattern.
Then she smiled. ‘Well, although numbers are infinite, in fact, in our limited numerical system, there are only nine numbers and one zero.’
She took a pen and scratched a number four through the second set of dots. ‘Looks like a four.’
‘Could be a one or seven to start with,’ said Harper. He watched the numbers emerge on the paper below. ‘There’s a cross on the third. Got to be another four,’ he said quickly. They continued to stare at the marks on the page.
‘744…’ said Harper. He turned and looked at Denise.
‘Or 144,’ she said. ‘144003.’
‘That was quick. You know that number?’ Harper asked.
‘Abby Goldenberg’s kidnapper sent a letter to her father. It gave her weight and blood pressure. And it gave her a number. It was 144002.’
‘David’s the next in the sequence,’ said Harper.
‘So Esther was presumably the first kill,’ said Denise. ‘144001.’ Harper wrote down the four consecutive numbers: 144001, 144002, 144003, 144004. Would the sequence continue? Who would be number 144005?
‘What do the numbers mean?’ he asked.
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
‘Find it quick,’ said Harper. ‘We’re getting somewhere.’
Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn
March 10, 11.51 p.m.
‘Thanks for meeting me here,’ said Denise. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is to come back here.’
Aaron Goldenberg stared out glassy-eyed. ‘What can I do? My only daughter is out there — I must do everything I can.’
Denise felt the rise of tears but pushed them away. It wouldn’t help to be emotional. ‘The police won’t give you the whole story,’ she said, ‘because everyone’s afraid to speak.’
‘What about?’
‘A serial killer attacking Jewish victims.’
She saw something move behind Aaron Goldenberg’s eyes. ‘Killer? But my daughter was kidnapped.’
‘I can’t tell you a lie,’ said Denise. ‘We now think your daughter’s kidnapping is linked to three other murders. David Capske, Esther Haeber and Marisa Cohen.’
Aaron Goldenberg shook his head as if it was the only thing keeping him from being swallowed alive by the yawning abyss. ‘My only daughter.’
Denise watched him fall forward on to the glass case. Beneath his outstretched arms and tearful eyes, were photographs from Auschwitz and Belsen. Naked Jewish men, women and children, lining up for execution, modestly covering themselves although they were moments from death. The look of agony and uncertainty in their faces.
‘What do you know?’ he said.
‘Not enough. Your daughter and David Capske had consecutive numbers used to label them. Abby had the number 144002 on her report, David had 144003 scratched on his chest. Do you have any idea what the number 144004 means?’
‘No. I can look for you.’
‘Please,’ said Denise.
Aaron Goldenberg thought for a moment then let out a sigh. ‘The number of Jews who will be saved.’
‘What is?’
‘Maybe the 144 refers to 144,000. It is in Revelation. It is a contested number. It may refer to many things or nothing at all, but it is said that it related to 144,000 Jews converted to Christianity.’ Goldenberg walked to the side of the room and entered his office. He came out with a copy of the New Testament. He spent a minute flicking through it, then showed it to Denise:
Then I looked, and behold, on Mount Zion stood the Lamb, and with Him 144,000 who had His name and His Father’s name written on their foreheads.
Denise read the passage. She looked up. ‘The 88 Killer is trying to save Jews?’
‘There are some who see the number like that, to mean that 144,000 Jews will be redeemed.’
‘Our killer’s a delusional fanatic. The bullets they found in three of the bodies were original Nazi bullets.’ Denise lowered her head. In the museum, they were surrounded by examples of the horrors of the Holocaust, the mindless and ruthlessly inhuman destruction of millions of people. It was hard to imagine that the lessons of history had been lost so quickly.
‘What do you want from me?’ said Goldenberg.
Denise put out a hand. It rested on his shoulder. ‘You need to help me profile this killer. If he’s delusional, then I need to profile the projection as well as the man. I need to know what he’s doing.’
‘Committing crimes against Jews!’ said Goldenberg. ‘Playing God. Perhaps he thinks he is working in a concentration camp or a ghetto.’
‘The ghettos were just holding compounds for the camps,’ said Denise.
‘That’s right, Dr Levene. And it was happening all across Eastern Europe. When the Nazis invaded and took over areas, they created walled cities within cities. Policed by vicious soldiers, sometimes Jewish police. People were crammed into these ghettos, disease spread — but you knew this. The Nazis liked to associate the Jews with disease. Infected bodies were kept behind barbed wire. There were outbreaks of typhoid and cholera. They starved the populations, feeding them so little that they had to burrow out through the walls to find some food. You once said that one of the victims was found without a coat.’
‘Esther Haeber.’
‘In the bitter winter, they outlawed winter coats and fur coats.’ Dr Goldenberg sighed heavily. ‘In the Warsaw Ghetto, the Nazis outlawed the owning and wearing of winter coats upon pain of death.’
Denise listened. The full horror of what she was hearing opening inside her mind.
‘He’s doing the same.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Goldenberg. ‘It doesn’t end.’
An hour later, Denise dropped Aaron Goldenberg back at his house and called Harper.
When Harper answered, his voice was strained and tired. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Good,’ said Denise.’ ‘He’s not just a Nazi.’
‘So what is he?’ said Harper.
‘He’s living like a Nazi. I think he’s a copycat.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of Nazi crimes, Nazi murders.’
‘A copycat. These are real historical crimes?’
‘I think so. They echo what happened in the ghettos. I think he’s delusional. I think he even thinks he’s policing the ghettos and punishing crimes. The number 144 might be a Biblical reference to 144,000 Jews who would be saved.’
‘He thinks he’s saving them? What about Abby?’
‘Starvation. It’s how they killed great numbers in the ghetto. But there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘Aaron Goldenberg told me something he feared. They sometimes used Jewish women for prostitutes. They kept these women in brothels.’
‘You think that’s why he took Abby?’
Denise paused and then whispered her answer.
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
March 11, 7.55 a.m.
Harper and Eddie spent the night in the car, searching around the various locations that Jack Carney had given them for Heming’s whereabouts. Conducting surveillance was never easy and the night had been cold and long. There wasn’t much hope of finding anything, either, but they needed to keep busy and keep the team active. The interviews had revealed nothing. The killer seemed to come and go without ever being seen.
Harper pulled over at a news-stand. ‘We’re going to see some reaction now,’ he said. He handed across a dollar bill and took a copy of the Daily Echo.
Eddie looked and sighed. ‘There’ll be protests and marches. This is going to cause real outrage.’
Erin Nash was focusing on the murders of David, Marisa and Esther. Two big pictures of confident women stared out, smiling, with David in the middle. Denise read Erin Nash’s report.
On a quiet Monday afternoon earlier this week, in downtown Manhattan, a 32-year-old Jewish woman was found tethered to a piling in the East River. She had been submerged and then shot through the head. A small symbolic number was carved into a nearby post. It was the number 88.She was the third Jewish New Yorker murdered in the past two months, the second in the last three days. The question needs to be asked: is this a series of hate crimes against the Jewish community?Marisa Cohen, a PR consultant recently separated from city lawyer Daniel Cohen, had been missing since Sunday evening. A police source said that she was half-drowned before she was shot. A death that is so horribly violent and cruel that it takes your breath away.This attack comes only a few days after another Jewish citizen, David Capske, was found dead in East Harlem, his body wrapped in barbed wire.And now a police source is saying that two months ago, in a similarly random and brutal attack, 29-year-old Esther Haeber was shot in a vicious robbery. The thief cut off her fingers in order to escape with her gold rings. Although officially a closed case, police are investigating the possibility that this was a hate crime.All three victims may be among a growing number of victims of a new and vicious breed of American hate crime. Brooklyn’s higher rate of anti-Semitic hate crime seems to be heading across the river to Manhattan.Right-wing organizations like the American Brethren, the White Wolves, the Neo-Aryan Alliance and Legend 88, have been growing in recent years as unemployment and international and national crises deepen the sense of disorder and chaos.In communities across America, youths are seeing right-wing rhetoric as an attractive way to cope with social and national insecurity. In places like Brooklyn, Jewish communities are concerned by the rise in verbal and physical intimidation.Even with their own security force, the community could not prevent several attacks in recent months. A schoolgirl on her way home; a mother pushing a stroller with twins; a shopkeeper closing for the day; a businessman getting into his car. All of these people were assaulted and beaten to the accompaniment of racial taunts.Lieutenant Tierney of the Hate Crime Task Force said yesterday, ‘There is nothing more despicable than crimes of bias and we will seek out and prosecute every one of them. But there is little actual increase in crime figures. We are reporting more because we are better at identifying them. In the past, many hate crimes would not have been reported at all. We’re now hearing about them, and can act.’But is it true to say that communities feel less safe than a decade ago? Hate has come back and, as David Capske, Marisa Cohen and Esther Haeber lie dead, we must all ask ourselves: do we have a Nazi serial killer or, as the police have named him, the 88 Killer, stalking New York?
Harper waited as Eddie read and reread the article.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s what you wanted her to say. I’d even go so far as to say she’s been a little reserved.’ Eddie passed the paper back to Harper.
Harper said, ‘Let’s see what kind of a reaction we get.’
‘The Captain will know it was you.’
‘I know, but he won’t be able to prove it.’
Midtown, Manhattan
March 11, 8.42 a.m.
Becky Glass had been unsure about the job from the start. She’d never done anything like it. Never even anticipated that she’d end up in this position, but money was money and she needed a new place to live, her kids needed new shoes and everyone had to eat. Since the divorce, her husband’s checks were not reliable and she had to work for herself.
Becky continued to stride up the avenue, a child attached to each hand. Her pace was quick. She was already fifteen minutes late.
Out in Brooklyn, she had a part-time day job, but it paid very little. Prior to the arrival of the children she had been a bank clerk and now she needed a full-time job again. She had to focus on moving forward as an independent single mother.
She had to shut the door on her emotions. She’d deal with them later, when the children were older. It was a fact of life, no one else was going to jump in and save you, at least not if you were thirty-six with two kids in tow.
The job had been advertised. She’d called them up. She had the right experience and they told her to come by. She’d let her old boss know she needed full-time work and he was kind enough to put in a good word with the company. The location on Manhattan would present problems, but the pay was good.
That morning, things hadn’t gone to plan, though. It was a teacher day at school, her babysitter had called in sick and her friends couldn’t be rounded up at short notice. She had a brief meltdown, shouted at both kids and then pulled herself together. She got herself dressed, decided she wasn’t going to let this small obstacle get in the way of a new life, and brought the kids with her to the interview.
‘I can’t walk any more,’ said small, round-faced Ruth.
‘Well, it’s just round the next corner,’ Becky replied with a jerk of her right arm. Her daughter skipped forward. ‘Come on! I can’t be late for this. Mommy needs a job. Ruthie needs to eat.’
Ruth and Jerry were both seven years old. They weren’t twins, there were ten months between them, but for two months each year they shared the same age and the younger Jerry teased his older sister about it until she lost her temper.
Out on a Manhattan day trip from Brooklyn, or that’s how they saw it, they didn’t quite understand their mother’s impatience. Mom had always been there just for them.
Becky was excited about getting back into the routine of a job. She knew it was the right thing to do. She was a little scared, of course, not sure if she had the skills or attitude they were looking for, but she came with a very good résumé and she was determined.
Now, standing in front of the huge office block, dwarfed by the gargantuan glass building zigzagged with windows as far as the eye could see, she could feel her fears rising.
She looked at her kids. ‘Mommy is now officially terrified. Say a little prayer, won’t you?’ Neither child responded. ‘It’s just an interview. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. Wish me luck.’
They both turned their heads up towards her bright blue eyes and stared.
‘Good luck,’ came a staccato reply.
‘Come on, you can’t wait for me out here. You can wait at reception. I’ll ask the receptionists to keep an eye on you, but no moving and no talking to anyone. I called and told them my problem. They said they’d be pleased to have you. Anyone apart from them talks to you and you go straight to reception, they know where I am.’
Becky pulled both children up to the top of the steps. Jerry was preoccupied. He was pointing down at the street. ‘Mommy, that car’s on fire.’
‘Shhh, no more talking,’ said Becky. She looked across the street at a red car. ‘Someone’s smoking in the front seat, that’s all.’
Becky walked across the marble floor to the glossy receptionist, half dragging both kids.
‘Becky Glass. For an interview.’
‘Fourteenth floor, Ms Glass. Take the first elevator and report to reception.’
‘Thank you. I realize that it’s a bit of an imposition, but would you be able to keep an eye on my children? I called — you might remember. I had a problem with my babysitter and had to bring them with me. They have promised to behave.’
‘Of course, I’d be happy to. Good luck and have a nice day.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’ Becky looked around one last time. It was a very nice-looking building, safe and open, with security on the door and three receptionists.
She turned to her kids. ‘Now, look, it’s safe here, the receptionist is there if you need anything. You’ve both got reading books in your backpacks, now go and sit on that bench and be good. I won’t be long. If you move from here, I will not be happy.’
The two kids muttered under their breath and hauled themselves on to the bench.
‘Can’t I come in with you?’ said Jerry.
‘No, Jerry, you sit and read.’
‘I don’t want to be left alone with her.’
‘She’s your sister.’
‘I know and she stinks.’
‘She’s just the same as you. If she smells, so do you.’
Jerry said something under his breath. Ruth glared at him and pushed him with her leg. He pushed back. Becky scolded firmly, then moved towards the elevator, walking backwards and wagging a finger.
She gave them one last look as she stepped into the elevator and shouted out, ‘Now, don’t move from here. I love you. I’ll see you in a little bit.’ The elevator door shut. Becky felt the cabin shake as it rose. She took out her résumé, panic swelling in her throat. What was she getting herself into? Could she even hold down a job with her two children?
As soon as their mother was out of sight, the children glared at each other.
‘What are you staring at?’ said Ruth.
‘The ugliest thing I ever saw.’
‘That’s because you’ve never seen yourself.’
‘I’m not staying around here with you, stinker,’ said Jerry.
‘You heard what Mama said. You’re not allowed to go anywhere.’
‘I can go wherever I want as long as that lady on the desk doesn’t see me.’
Jerry jumped off the bench and started to walk towards the big glass door while keeping a close eye on the receptionist. He pulled the door open and felt the cold air again. The sound of the traffic excited him as he moved outside and let the door swing shut behind him. He’d prove who was the bravest.
Ruth looked around her. She wasn’t going to be left alone, that was for sure. She quickly followed Jerry out of the door. She caught a glimpse of her brother as he disappeared around the corner of the building, his two hands formed as if carrying a handgun, the imagination already in overdrive.
Ruth hung on the rail and then sighed. She’d have to follow. Otherwise Jerry would get himself into trouble and she’d get the blame.
North Manhattan Homicide
March 11, 1.54 p.m.
Harper arrived back at the precinct as Eddie was heading out. He stood across the road and stared at the media. He decided to go no further but hung back and waited for Eddie.
The article had provoked an enormous response. There were Jewish groups protesting at Police Headquarters and the Mayor’s Office, and the press were still sniffing around Blue Team.
Eddie came out and joined him. ‘Thanks for getting back. You heard?’
‘No, what is it?’
‘Another body, Harper.’
‘Is it Jewish?’
‘We don’t know yet.’ Eddie moved towards his car.
Harper took a look up to the sixth floor. ‘I ought to check in with Lafayette.’
‘No time,’ said Eddie. ‘Press will be at the crime scene before we know it.’
Harper followed Eddie to the car. They got in and Harper asked, ‘How did things go with the Nazi bullets and the typewriter?’
‘Very difficult to trace the Internet sales,’ said Eddie. ‘They’re often not identifiable, but we might get them through credit-card or PayPal details. There are relatively few agents dealing with this kind of memorabilia and we’re checking them all out. We’re starting by asking them about Martin Heming, seeing if he ever bought anything, but then we’re asking for their full records.’
‘What are the numbers like?’
‘In terms of clients, there are thousands,’ said Eddie. ‘The main problem is that the agents don’t want to get involved.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a closed world, isn’t it? They don’t want to be seen as Nazis or to be seen as outing their customer base.’
‘How did you get them to talk to you?’
‘I took your lead. I said I’d simply pass their names on to Erin Nash of the Daily Echo, explaining that they didn’t want to assist with the investigation into these Nazi killings.’
‘Did it work?’
‘You bet. New York is a dangerous place to be if you’re seen to be against this investigation. This is a liberal city, Harper. They’d be hounded out.’
Harper stared out of the window. ‘Where are we heading?’
‘Midtown. Woman killed, found in an alleyway.’
Eddie threw the car into gear and pulled off at speed. They drove up to the crime scene and found the squad cars sitting outside an alleyway.
‘Anyone tell you anything about this one?’ Harper asked.
‘Not a thing,’ said Eddie.
‘Another alleyway — maybe there is a connection.’ said Harper.
‘Seems likely, doesn’t it?’
They pulled themselves out of the car and moved towards the scene.
‘What you got?’ asked Harper at the tape.
‘Two months and I move to Suffolk County,’ said the First Officer.
‘Yeah, well I hope the pay makes up for the company. Tell me about the body.’
‘It’s a woman halfway up.’
Harper walked under the tape and down the long black tunnel of the alleyway. ‘Let’s get thinking, Eddie.’
The alleyway was wide, with two dumpsters at the far end. They arrived at the corpse. Two other detectives were already there, sketching and taking notes.
‘How you doing?’ asked Garcia.
‘Not great,’ said Harper. ‘You found anything?’
‘We just got here.’
Harper turned to the body. The victim was propped up against the wall of the building. There was a cloth over her face. Harper moved in close. He lifted the cloth and saw the star-shaped wound on her forehead. ‘Why did no one tell me? It’s a gunshot wound to the forehead. Did Lafayette know this?’
‘Dispatch didn’t know what it was. First Officer said it was a rape murder.’
Harper shook his head. ‘Rape murder, my ass — this is the 88 Killer. Look around for his symbol.’ He lifted the cloth again. ‘It’s another small entrance wound, very similar to the others.’
‘Yeah, we saw the hole in her head, Harper,’ said Garcia with a laugh.
‘It’s shaped like a little six-pointed star,’ said Harper. ‘This is the fourth homicide with a point-blank gunshot wound to the head or neck. The killer’s made an error. Or he’s done this purposely.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘They get decadent, they want more attention, they want people to know how they operate. He tried to hide at first; now he figures that we know it’s him, he wants to entertain us.’ Harper turned to Eddie. ‘He shot her point blank, Eddie. Point blank. With the muzzle tight against bone.’
‘Okay, man.’
‘You know what happens?’
‘Not sure, I’ve never been shot through the head — but please, Harper, enlighten me.’
‘The gases can’t escape so they get out through the skin. It’s pretty unmistakable. The gun was closer than it was on Capske and Esther Haeber, though.’
Harper knelt by her side and tried to get a closer look at her face. He moved her hair back. ‘She’s in her late thirties. Looks… worn out.’
‘She a whore?’ said someone from behind.
Harper ignored the comment and looked at the body. ‘Both shoes are missing.’
‘We got them, Harper. One over by the restaurant trash and one just to her side.’
‘No pantyhose. You find that?’
‘Yeah. We think. Tan pantyhose over here.’
Harper looked again at the body. The upper body was clothed but the victim was naked from the waist down. The pants were thrown to one side.
‘You find any underwear? You find that?’
‘No. Nothing else.’
Harper was letting the scene piece together. Was it a rape and execution this time? A change in MO? Or just something staged to look like that?
He stood up and looked round. ‘I need light.’
Three sets of flashlights flicked to his feet.
‘We’re looking for one bullet, one cartridge.’
The team of four detectives started scouring the scene. ‘Crime Scene will get this, Harper, why we doing their job for them?’
‘Because, Garcia, it might link this case with the Capske case.’
‘As much as it pains me, I think you might have something,’ said Garcia.
Harper moved back to the corpse. He took out his gun and held it in front of him. He looked again at the head wound. ‘The angle’s all wrong. She wasn’t here when he shot her.’
‘Where?’
‘Maybe further up the alleyway.’
The other cops spread out. No cartridge. He looked across at the wall, tried to work out the angles. He started to move along the wall, taking in a three-foot-high band and looking closely. He saw a tiny glint of metal; moved up close. The bullet-hole was there, but the bullet had been taken already. ‘I got the slug-hole, gentlemen. Anyone got the slug?’
‘No one’s touched a thing,’ said Garcia.
‘Then the killer did it. He’s reading our reports and taking the piece of evidence that links these things. Still, there are fragments in here. We’ll know if it’s iron.’ Harper watched the CSU detective remove the tiny fragments in the bullet-hole and bag them.
Harper was closely examining the walls but there was no 88 to be found. He went back to the body. ‘Our killer’s changing. This is designed to shock. Naked from the waist down and up against the wall.’ He moved in close, peered beneath her smart black jacket: her white blouse was bloodstained, the buttons were undone. ‘I’ve found the 88,’ he said. ‘He’s cut her.’
‘So what’s the scenario?’ said Eddie.
‘Not sure this makes sense to me.’
Kasper pulled up close to Harper. ‘What is it?’
‘Motive?’ asked Harper.
‘Staged to look like a rape, maybe. So the motive is different. He kills because he’s a fucking psycho, but he puts her like that to confuse us.’
‘Yes, but she’s got bruising all up her arm and her pantyhose are ripped.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Why bother to stage it? Why write 88 on her chest like some big signature? I don’t think this was staged. I think he wanted to rape her. I don’t think he necessarily did, but he sure wanted to. Seems like he’s punished her for his desiring her.’
Harper crouched again. ‘She’s got dirty fingernails. Dirt across both knees too. She’s been kneeling in this alley. Just like Capske and Haeber.’ He stood and looked around the alleyway. ‘What do you suppose she was doing here? How did she get into this alley? She looks dressed for work.’
‘He’s brought her here or he’s forced her here.’
Harper suddenly stopped and listened.
‘What is it?’
He walked towards a dumpster and pulled his gun out. ‘There’s something in that dumpster.’
‘It’ll just be rats,’ said Eddie. But he drew his gun too and headed towards the sound.
Harper shouted, ‘Get out of there, right now!’
Nothing moved.
Harper moved in close. He moved behind the dumpster and yanked aside a large piece of cardboard. Two sets of eyes stared out at him.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harper exclaimed. ‘We got two kids back here.’
North Manhattan Homicide
March 11, 5.34 p.m.
Denise Levene and Tom Harper sat across from Captain Lafayette, who was scowling. ‘I’m going to have to bawl you out about that Erin Nash article, but this takes precedence,’ he said. ‘What you got on the victim?’
‘Nothing. Not even a name. We’ve tried dental records, prints… She wasn’t carrying a phone or a purse. Maybe they were taken. No ID.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘They won’t talk. They’re not talking to anyone. Not a single soul. Shut up tight. The psychiatrist says it’s trauma, so I’m guessing that they saw the whole thing. Makes you want to hurt someone, doesn’t it?’ said Harper.
‘They won’t say a thing?’
‘Not a word. Doctor says it’s not voluntary,’ said Denise. ‘I spoke to him in person. He says they’ve frozen. I’m going to see them, see if I can get through, but I’m not promising anything.’
Captain Lafayette walked across to the large blue board that Harper had started to use to pin up images of the unidentified Jane Doe. Either side were the four other boards in chronological order. Haeber, Goldenberg, Capske, Cohen and Jane Doe.
Photographs of the crime scene and body were all they had and they made for a grim spectacle. ‘What do you make of it, Harper? This is his work, right?’
‘Yes. It’s his. Iron was found in the bullet. He wrote 88 on her chest.’
‘But she’s half-naked.’
‘Yeah, but we just got back from speaking to the Medical Examiner. We wanted to see right away if there’s any DNA or semen. There’s nothing. No evidence of actual rape.’
‘He’s losing control,’ said Denise.
‘How so?’
‘I think all his kills have been sexual, but he’s been repressing it, made it about hate. I think he’s finding that hard. He wanted to rape her. He staged it so it looked like he did, but he couldn’t do it, or hates himself for it, if that makes any sense.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
Denise stood and pointed at the photograph. ‘He’s left her in an explicit pose to humiliate her, but he’s covered her face. He’s never done that before.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s ashamed. Not of killing her, not of raping her. He’s ashamed of letting his desire control him. He didn’t plan to rape her, that would be my guess, which would mean that he might have left semen or pubic hair on the scene.’
‘Before you ask, we’re checking it, Captain,’ said Harper.
‘Do you have a story? Why the kids?’
‘We’re walking the streets, talking. She looks like she was at work or going to an interview.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Crime Scene found spit on the ground. Her spit. Quite a lot of it.’
‘Strange.’
‘She appears to be on her knees, leaning on one hand and she’s either dribbling or spitting. They reckon it’s spit.’
‘How?’
‘There’s a spray pattern.’
‘This some fetish we ain’t heard about?’
‘We’ve got to re-enact it, get some people to look at the possibilities.’
‘If only the children could talk.’
‘It’d save a lot of time, I know that, but for their sake, I hope they didn’t see anything.’
‘Unfortunately, the psychs think they saw the shooting,’ said Denise.
‘How did they get to be separated, unless they heard something and went to hide behind the dumpster?’
‘He couldn’t have known that they saw him, is my guess, or else he might have killed them too. At the moment we don’t even know if they are connected to her. We’ve got to keep their existence tight.’
‘No way we can do that, Harper, not long-term.’
‘Then our only alternative is to catch this guy soon.’
Lafayette remained silent. ‘Tell me what you’ve been itching to tell me,’ said Harper.
‘I had a call about the kids. I didn’t want to say. It might not mean anything.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘Both the kids are wearing Magen Davids around their necks.’
‘Wearing what?’
‘Jewish Stars of David,’ said Denise.
Harper stared back. ‘So this is definitely our fifth Jewish victim?’
‘And they gave the kids paper and pens. All the boy has been doing is writing 88 all over the paper. It’s compelling, as you say. See if you can find anything more. As soon as you get an ID on this body, I want to know. The press is going to make some connections of its own, you know? If I could prove that you spoke to the press as I imagine you did, I’d discipline you so fast you wouldn’t know what hit you, Harper. It’s caused me all kinds of shit upstairs.’
‘It’s good to know you’re helping, Captain.’
‘With the Capske and Cohen murders going national on every channel, another murder of a Jewish woman is going to give the media plenty to report. So we need some results now. People are getting spooked out there and we need an answer for them.’
Levene’s Apartment, Lower Manhattan
March 11, 7.18 p.m.
Denise appeared outside her apartment block and Harper felt a surge of admiration. She was dressed for work, wearing a black suit with a white shirt, and looked every bit the young, ambitious, go-getting star she had been a few months earlier.
She got in the car beside Harper.
‘You ready for this? We need something from the children.’
‘Sure, I’m ready. At least we managed to get an interview with the psych team. I had my doubts.’
‘Lafayette got the Chief of Detectives behind us.’
‘The brass are beginning to believe us then?’ said Denise.
Harper nodded. ‘Reluctantly. The boy scrawled 88 all over his coloring book. He saw something. They can’t ignore that.’
‘Or heard something,’ said Denise.
‘Right. We only have one shot, though.’
‘I understand.’
‘You think you can argue your way in?’
‘What do you think, Tom?’
Harper smiled and started the drive across town to the children’s hospital. The kids were in a secure ward with police protection.
Despite several attempts to get to talk to the children, the psych team had refused on the grounds that the welfare of the children was paramount. The police needed someone who could convince the psych team to give them access to the children. Levene was a specialist, not a cop, but even so, it had taken some persuasion to set up the initial meeting, and there was no guarantee that the psychologist would allow them to actually meet the children.
As they went up to the seventh floor Denise straightened her jacket.
‘You look good,’ said Harper. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘You notice how I look?’ said Denise.
‘I notice. You’ve chosen pink nail varnish,’ he said. ‘I guess you’ve chosen a gentle color for the children. You usually wear a stronger color — crimson. The pink’s a little soft for you.’
Denise looked across at a now smirking Harper. They waited for half an hour before they were summoned into the room to see the children’s social workers. Denise pushed Harper out of the way. ‘Okay, now it’s my world, Tom. Let me do this alone.’
He took a seat, as directed by Denise, outside the room.
The psychologists sat in front of a big empty polished table, all with notebooks and case-files open and ready. Denise introduced herself, shook each hand and opened her own notebook.
‘This case is our number one priority at the moment,’ said the consultant child psychologist. ‘There are indications of extreme psychological trauma, which has unfortunately increased over time. Your friends at the NYPD don’t do subtle. Our staff have been given a hard time.’
‘No, they don’t do subtle,’ said Denise. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Listen, I’ll cut to the chase,’ said the consultant. ‘Our recommendation is that we do not allow any questioning until we can see how these children are coping. They have suffered and will suffer even more trauma if we allow further access to them. They need time to recover.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Denise. ‘I understand what you are saying — and I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s an important principle here that I would like you to acknowledge.’
The consultant looked up, his expression indicating surprise but a grudging respect for Denise.
‘Your concern is for the welfare of these two children,’ said Denise. ‘And you’re right: an experienced detective will naturally exert psychological pressure during an interview. Two big guys in suits are scary. Guilt is scary. These children are suffering fear and guilt — that’s not the way to ease their pain. I entirely understand that you would not want them interviewed. In fact, normally I would support it, Doctor. There is nothing more important than the welfare of these two children.’
‘Thank you, Dr Levene.’
‘But here’s my point,’ Denise continued. ‘These two children, we believe, have lost their mother. What I want to offer, Doctor, is a chance for them to close this primary trauma, not shy away from it. I want them to understand who killed their mother and why, then you can work on the secondary trauma, their fears. They have seen irrational violence. We need to show them that a man, who was very sick, and very wrong, did this thing and is now locked up. Until we can tell them this story, they will not heal.’
Denise stopped and held the psychologist’s gaze. When she saw the movement in his throat, the tiny muscle twitch in his eye, she knew she had him.
‘So, Doctor, for the welfare of the children, I am suggesting that we need to know how their mother died and who killed her. If we find these two simple facts, we can begin to piece their world back together.’
She saw the consultant swallow.
‘First, though, you will need to know what I am asking for. I need three sessions, each lasting thirty minutes. I will ask them a single question about the event. I won’t repeat it. I’ve written the question here for you.’ Denise handed the piece of paper to the consultant. He read it, nodded, then passed it around the table. He waited, looked at each set of eyes.
‘Okay, Dr Levene. I’ll give you the three sessions, but no one else speaks to the children.’
‘No one but me.’ She reached out her hand and the consultant shook it. He held it a moment too long, just as she’d expected.
Children’s Psychiatric Unit, Harlem
March 12, 9.00 a.m.
The room was a small ugly square. It had the lack of generosity and aesthetics of every municipal building. Denise had asked for the three sessions to be held in a single morning. It wasn’t ideal. It would have been better to hold them on consecutive days, but time was too important.
The first two sessions had gone reasonably well. The kids didn’t utter a word, but the odd nod and their facial expressions showed Denise that they were paying attention.
The third session was the important one. Harper sat at the back, watching, with his sketchpad open. Denise talked about her own mother. The kids didn’t seem to care.
Denise knew she didn’t have long to get a connection with them. She took her question out and smiled at the two kids. ‘We’ve got to go now, unless there’s something more you want to tell us?’ She searched their faces. They had no idea what to say or why.
She toyed with the question in front of her. She turned it in her hand, let the time slip by. Finally, she looked up.
‘Is there anything you can tell us about what happened in the alley that might help us catch the man who hurt your mother?’
She waited. The boy’s face seemed to show thought. His eyes moved around. The girl didn’t even look up. She hadn’t once held Denise’s gaze.
Nothing. Two minutes passed. They had all said that the boy knew something. He gave out more clues with his non-verbal communication, as if he needed to get this horror out of his system.
In the corner, Harper sketched a falcon from memory, the pylon below. Denise watched the children closely, then spotted something. A small, perhaps insignificant thing. She honed in on the girl and flicked a quick look over her shoulder. The girl was watching Harper.
What was interesting her? Denise waited another two minutes. Again, the girl’s eyes rested beyond Denise’s left shoulder.
Denise leaned back in her chair and reached her arm out. ‘Can I have your sketch?’
Harper let her take his notebook. Denise started to look through the pictures, concealing them from the girl. She needed to know what was interesting her. Another two minutes passed. The second hand on the white clock-face was slipping by. She didn’t have much time left. Then it happened again. The girl looked up through her bangs. She looked first at Tom but then quickly searched the room and rested her eyes on the book in Denise’s hand.
It was not Tom she was interested in, it was the book. Denise placed it in front of her. She slowly lifted her eyes again and stared at the picture of a falcon. There was a moment of apprehension, then she reached out and touched the picture of the bird.
‘Do you have the crime-scene sketches in here?’ said Denise.
‘Few pages back.’
Denise took up the book and flicked back to the scene of the alleyway. It was drawn several times, from different angles. She chose the one from the perspective of the far end where the dumpster was. She placed it in front of the children.
They both stared at the alleyway. The little girl reached out her hand and touched it.
‘Tom, draw a figure in the alleyway.’
Harper moved across and sketched a person standing in the alleyway. The two children watched intently.
‘Okay, draw another figure.’
Tom drew another figure. The mother this time, wearing a black suit. The little girl’s hand reached out and touched the figure.
‘Good. Now draw a third figure.’
Harper moved in again and drew a third figure next to the first. The girl’s hand darted out and she started to shake her head vigorously. Harper took his pen and scribbled over it. The girl calmed.
‘Okay, this is good. It’s one guy.’ She looked at Tom. ‘Draw me the dumpster.’
He did. The children looked at it. Presumably, they had heard people coming up the alleyway and had scurried behind it.
‘Draw them. Draw the boy watching but the girl hiding her eyes.’
Harper drew, but the girl’s head started shaking again. Tom sketched the boy hiding his eyes. He then showed the girl watching. There was no interference. ‘It was the girl who saw what happened,’ said Denise. ‘No one’s ever asked her. We’ve all just presumed the boy saw it while the girl hid.’
Harper drew a gun in the man’s hands. The girl pointed to the page. Harper seemed to understand and changed the man’s arm to point to the ground. Then the little girl pointed to the sketch of her mother and then at the man’s feet. It had been Harper’s instinct that she’d been kneeling and polishing his boots. He drew. The girl rested her finger on the man.
‘What?’
She took the notebook and turned a few pages back. She found the bird and pointed at it.
Harper and Denise stared for a moment. They didn’t understand. The girl then turned back to the alleyway and she pointed to the man.
‘A tattoo?’ said Denise.
Harper drew a small bird on his arm. The girl nodded. Harper then drew three quick sketches of birds. She chose the picture of the American Eagle, its head to the side, its wings arched.
‘Unbelievable,’ said Denise. ‘She was ten yards away.’
Harper looked at the girl. Her features were like her mother’s. Blue eyes, freckled cheeks. He drew her mother from memory and put it in front of her. The girl stared down. It had been only a day since the children had seen her face. Her brother looked away, biting his thumb, curling all his limbs inwardly.
The girl’s hand reached out and touched the face on the page. Harper handed her the pencil. She took Harper’s pencil and wrote two numbers beside her mother’s face. Two number 8s, side by side. Then she looked up at Denise and Harper. ‘Did he say anything?’ said Denise.
The girl looked up. It was the first time she had spoken and her voice was clear and unemotional. ‘He said his name.’
Harper and Levene held their breath. ‘What was it?’ asked Denise.
‘Something I don’t remember,’ said the girl.
‘Josef Sturbe,’ said the boy. ‘I heard it.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “I am Officer Josef Sturbe. Clean my boots”.’
The girl and the boy stared at them, clear-eyed.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ said Denise. ‘It’s going to be okay. Do you think you could tell us your names?’
‘Ruth Glass,’ said the girl. ‘This is Jerry. We’re both seven but I was born first.’
‘Thank you, Ruth. We’re going to go now, but we’ll find the person who did this to your mother. I am so sorry she’s been taken away.’
Denise stood up as the social workers walked in. Denise thanked them again as she walked out. Harper waved at the little girl and drew a quick smile on a face on his sketchpad. As he showed it to her, the little girl forgot herself for a single moment and smiled back.
Myrtle Avenue, Brooklyn
March 12, 4.06 p.m.
He sat outside the garage, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. His eyes were fixed on the small TV screen. He’d bought every one of the papers but none of them mentioned a blue eagle from the murder. He liked reading about his dead. He liked to see how dumb they all were, how little they understood. He liked to keep the clippings about them. But he didn’t understand how someone had seen the eagle.
They’d found the body of Becky Glass a day earlier but the TV reports were now talking about the latest NYPD discovery. They were looking for a man with a blue eagle tattoo. The image they had was of a small blue eagle with its wings outstretched. It was more of an American eagle than the one on his arm, but it was still shocking to see the image in connection with the 88 Killer. It shouldn’t have happened. How did the cops have a picture of the eagle on his arm? He considered it closely.
He hadn’t removed his coat until he was alone with Becky Glass. He had waited outside the alleyway until she walked by. She looked distressed. She was searching for her children. He was an opportunist. He’d told her they were in the alleyway.
She ran in, all on her own. Stood there and looked around her. Then he put the gun against her head and told her to take off her pants.
He only wanted her to do that in order to remove her underwear. It was important that she was degraded and humiliated. He had not intended to rape her. She had fought and cried and disobeyed him. He had to hit her face. He had to rip off her clothes. The attack excited him. He was ashamed. He made her kneel at his feet and wash his boots clean with her spit.
No one but the victim should have been able to see the blue eagle.
He let his mind return to his victim kneeling in front of him, thinking about angles. Perhaps someone had seen him from the street. He had pushed a large metal bin in the entrance to the alley, but someone might have looked round it.
He didn’t usually kill in the daylight, but he couldn’t help himself. It had been a mistake. He had lost control. He had only meant to trail her. He had been trailing Becky Glass for a while. He knew she had two children. They were even there with her at the interview, but they’d run off before she made it back down to the reception area. She was searching for the children. That’s why she went into the alleyway, to look for them, and that’s why he had acted. He hadn’t planned to kill her so soon, but it just overcame him and he couldn’t resist. He didn’t even bother to check to see if the children were in the alley. He had been foolish. The urge was too strong; the pressure of the press and the cops was getting to him.
He knew that Becky was a single mother. She had told him as much as he placed the gun at her head. He had listened to her pleading on behalf of her children as he dragged the clothes from her body. He hadn’t imagined for a moment that her children were watching, but, thinking logically, where would they go?
He recalled the scene. She had polished his boots. It had made him feel better. He had said he was pleased. He remembered her anxious gaze around the alley.
It was obvious and he wanted to kick himself for being so stupid. He had presumed that she was looking for help. But she had been terrified about her children witnessing the scene rather than what was happening to her. Witnesses. The children had seen him kill her. He leaned back against the garage. The children would be able to identify him. That couldn’t be allowed. That would put an end to his plans.
Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn
March 12, 4.42 p.m.
Denise sat in the large glass atrium of the museum waiting for Aaron Goldenberg to appear. She had already scented the 88 Killer and thought she understood the way his mind worked — from the clinical bullet-hole to the forehead to the brutally angry use of barbed wire. One mind, twisted beyond normal limits, a man with a need for control — surgical control — and a deep, deep pain that needed to be screamed from the housetops. But he was losing that control. Which would make him even more dangerous.
She looked down at her notebook and took up her pen. She kept seeing the number that Ruth Glass had written on the page. She wrote the words across the top. Profile of the 88 Killer.
Denise was in the process of unpicking the killer’s mind. Like an expert unpicking a lock, she would press each lever in turn, teasing and testing until it fell in line and suddenly the whole row would be along the shear line and the lock would open. That was all she was after — the killer’s shear line.
So far, she had written: He’s male, early- to mid-thirties, gifted, but a failure in something, single, unable to form strong relationships, with a background in security or military-type work. A man without siblings, a lone child, probably with a normal-looking family, a family he felt never knew what he was, never accepted him. Possibly adopted.
She looked at the words and felt the give of the first lever of the lock. She continued to write. He’s used to being alone, it’s not a problem for him to be alone. He’s been alone his whole life, he can take it. But he needs to be understood and that’s confusing him. He feels a dual push to keep hidden but to be understood. His latest kills show an increased stress level. He is getting more extreme, his attacks becoming regular, necessary. He is not a neo-Nazi with Nazi sympathies, it is stronger, the identification almost exact. He is a Nazi.
Just then, Aaron Goldenberg appeared, holding a sheaf of papers and folders. He looked at Denise’s notebook.
‘It should say Profile of Josef Sturbe,’ he said.
Denise turned. ‘Aaron. How are you?’
‘Better now. It has been so many days with nothing to do. Now I can work.’
‘So what did you find? Is Josef Sturbe a real identity or an assumed one?’
‘I will let you know what I found out,’ said Aaron. ‘But how did Harper get on?’
‘Detective Harper has tried every database that he can find and there’s nobody coming up with that name. The Feds have nothing on him either. They think it’s a name Martin Heming uses. A pseudonym.’
‘Then they’d be wrong,’ said Dr Goldenberg. ‘Very wrong.’
Denise raised both eyebrows. ‘He’s real?’
‘Yes, Josef Sturbe is real, all right.’
‘How the hell did you find a man when the combined forces of the NYPD and FBI couldn’t?’
‘They weren’t looking in the right places.’
‘Then what are the right places? Where can we find him?’
‘We can’t find him, but we know who he is. Josef Bernard Sturbe was born in Bavaria in 1923. We don’t have any records of him until 1943 when he turns up in the Warsaw Ghetto.’
‘He was an actual Nazi?’
‘Yes. A member of the SS. Of the feared Totenkopf — Death’s Head Division. According to reports, he believed he was fighting only for the Führer. He was fascinated by Hitler’s Mein Kampf — obsessed by eighty-eight words from its text. “88” is not just a code for Heil Hitler,’ said Aaron. ‘It also refers to the following passage. Let me read it to you: What we must fight for is to safeguard the existence and reproduction of our race and our people, the sustenance of our children and the purity of our blood, the freedom and independence of the Fatherland, so that our people may mature for the fulfillment of the mission allotted it by the Creator of the Universe. Every thought and every idea, every doctrine and all knowledge, must serve this purpose. And everything must be examined from this point of view and used or rejected according to its utility.’
‘He was into eugenics? What was he?’
‘A curious case. After the war, they could not find Josef Sturbe. The Nazi Hunters had him on their wanted list but he didn’t turn up. Many Nazis, members of the SS, went to South America after the war. There was a Network, ODESSA. It helped members of the SS to escape. They think Sturbe went to Argentina and ended up in America.’
‘Was he ever found?’
‘No. Never.’
‘What was he famed for?’
‘He was a murderer. Very vicious. A serial killer in the ghetto. A man who was so desperate to prove his loyalty to the Führer that he hunted in the ghetto after dark. He kept a record of how many he had killed. He conducted experiments, trying to emulate men like Dr Joseph Mengele. But he was an amateur. In SS circles, he was mocked. Sturbe had a secret, though.’ Aaron paused. ‘He was a Jew.’
‘What!’
‘The son of a young Jewish girl who had got herself into trouble, he was adopted by a German family. The Sturbes pretended the baby was theirs. His papers proved he was a German, but he looked Jewish. All through the 1930s he was bullied and mocked. He joined the Hitler Youth, but they could see he was no Aryan. He tried to change his appearance. He bleached his hair, but it made them ridicule him more. He joined the SS when they only allowed pure Aryans. He was obviously not, but they accepted him based on the ancestry of the Sturbes. It was on the eve of his acceptance into the SS that his father told him the truth.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He never spoke to his father again. But this knowledge was like a canker inside him. It was as if he could never outstrip his own identity. He hated the Jews even more than the other officers did. He started to murder in the Warsaw Ghetto. He was insatiable, proving his hatred every day.’
‘And no one knows what happened to him?’
‘No. The SS all had their blood group tattooed on the inside of their upper arm. After the war, the Nazi Hunters found a man in Boston who they claimed was Josef Sturbe. He was recognized by someone who lived in the ghetto. But he had no mark under his arm, so they let him go. Fifteen years ago, the Sturbe myth surfaced. Someone found Sturbe’s notes and in it, he stated that he never allowed them to tattoo him, because he feared that they would be able to detect his Jewish ancestry in his blood.’
‘He was insane?’
‘Yes. He was insane. I doubt he was the man in Boston, but we shall never know.’
‘So what do you think this has to do with our 88 Killer?’ Denise asked. ‘Josef Sturbe would be about eighty-seven if he was alive.’
‘I expect our killer has taken him as a model.’
‘Our killer feels the same? A fraud? A fake?’
‘I think it might be something like that,’ said Dr Goldenberg, ‘but we must continue to search.’
‘I think our killer is afraid of Jews. I think he’s deeply afraid of them. It’s why he caged Capske, it’s why he’s starving Abby. The Jew has a hold over him, a power. In his imagination, it is a terrible power. He’s trying to reduce it, to lessen the power, the anxiety.’
‘Maybe not a terrible power,’ said Dr Goldenberg, ‘but a terrible secret.’
North Manhattan Homicide
March 12, 7.14 p.m.
Harper walked into the investigation room with Denise Levene. They had to share what they had. They’d both worked through the night, hadn’t slept at all and looked ragged and exhausted. Harper had received a call from Jack Carney. The Hate Crime Unit had picked up some information. The remaining members of Section 88 and a couple of sympathetic organizations were planning a night of attacks to show solidarity with Leo Lukanov. His death was being treated as a martyr’s sacrifice. They also heard that Martin Heming might try to turn up to soak up some of Lukanov’s martyrdom.
Carney and Harper had set a night of joint surveillance between Homicide and Hate Crime. Harper wanted the whole of the task force to get out on the street, trail the Hate Crime Unit and their usual targets and see what these neo-Nazis were capable of. He wanted to help Hate Crime to cut out this terrible cancerous growth of anti-Semitism.
Harper looked across the room at the blank faces of the team who had been working flat out for days. Garcia wasn’t around. He pulled up a chair and sat down in the center of the room. ‘Guys, close in a minute. We’ve got in touch with Becky Glass’s husband. He’s been out of town speaking at a conference with a thousand delegates. He can’t tell us anything.’
Denise sat near the front. There was a freshly printed profile on her knee that she needed to share with Blue Team.
The team turned to face Harper. Harper spoke slowly, conspiratorially. ‘Listen, this is going to take a while to settle. We’ve found some new information about the killer. Denise has been working with Dr Goldenberg. It’s quite unusual stuff, but stick with it.’
Denise filled the team in on the background of Josef Sturbe. She gave his life story and then walked up and down the room. ‘In summary, gentlemen, our killer has assumed an identity. His identity is strange. It is of a man who is so ashamed of his origins and his race, that he becomes an extreme version of those he wants to impress.’
‘What can we use?’ said Swanson. ‘You think our killer is an eighty-seven-year-old man?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Denise. ‘I think he is a deluded narcissist. He wants power, he wants accolades but he’s got a big secret. Perhaps he’s like Sturbe, someone who feels his identity is fake. I’d say we ought to work from two assumptions. The first is that the killer is adopted. The second is that he was adopted from a Jewish to a non-Jewish family.’
‘He’s a modern-day Sturbe?’
‘It’s just a theory. I don’t know what he is. I’ve got a couple of other Nazi elements,’ said Denise. ‘The 88 moniker is code for Heil Hitler, but it’s also a reference to a passage from Mein Kampf, Hitler’s ruminations on power and eugenics. It’s not his name, it’s a salute after his kills, and it’s his mission statement. We’re looking at a man driven to kill by hatred, because somehow he’s got the idea that Jews are the cause of his problems, that they are less than human. But I think it’s himself he feels is inhuman. That’s why he identifies with the Nazis — because he thinks he’s subhuman himself. I think that he’s killing his own identity.’
‘He’s a Jew?’
‘Most serial killers attack their own kind. I’d say, yes, he’s Jewish.’
The room was silent. It was a complex idea to take in. They didn’t know how to respond.
‘We can’t go around saying that the Nazi Jew Killer is a Jew, Denise. We’ll be pulled apart as racists.’
‘You know the Atlanta Child Killer case?’
‘Remind me.’
‘A number of black children were killed over a period of time. Same kind of outrage, and everyone thought it was a racial crime, except that there was no political statement or claim by any group. In the end, they found him. He was a black man. He was attacking his own. That’s what a serial killer is, someone attacking their own identity; that’s why they repeat — it’s a process. It’s themselves they’re killing.’
‘That’s good,’ said Harper. ‘It gives you all some background. Anything else?’
‘How close is that profile to our prime suspect, Martin Heming?’ said Mary Greco.
‘There’s very little match,’ said Denise. She opened her palms. ‘I wish I had something more concrete. I’ll keep trying.’
Harper stood up. ‘You all understand?’ He looked around. ‘No word of this to anyone. We need to be further along before this comes out.’ There were nods throughout the room.
‘Now, why you’re all here. You want to hear about the operation — Operation Sturbe. There’s to be no more waiting around. We need to be out there watching them. We’ve got to find him, people. We’re going out to Brooklyn to work some overtime. We’ve set up a surveillance operation with Hate Crime. We’re going to track them, as many as we can, all across Brooklyn and see what we can find.’
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 12, 8.01 p.m.
Harper crossed town with Blue Team. There was a sudden sense of potential, and the whole team felt it. A feeling that they just might have something that cast a net around this killer.
They headed towards their meet with Hate Crime.
Harper, Levene and Kasper stopped outside a worn-out shop on the edge of Brownsville in Brooklyn. Behind them, the cars of Blue Team pulled up and a series of doors opened and shut.
The team leader, Jack Carney, was organizing the op on the ground for Hate Crime. He walked across. ‘Hey, Harper. Let me walk you through it.’
Harper introduced his team. They all shook hands. The night was damp and the temperature was dropping. It felt chill and gloomy.
Jack Carney walked by Harper’s side. ‘We’ve got surveillance going on most of the remaining members of Section 88 and seven other groups which are marked as code A through to G. We think they’re going to try something. They’re hurting after you took Lukanov and the gang. The word out here is that he didn’t kill himself, that police killed him.’
‘If only,’ shouted a voice from the back.
‘They’re after a conspiracy and that’s what they want to believe.’
‘It all fits with their view of authority,’ said Harper.
‘The key point is that they are angry and want to do something. We’ve been seeing a lot more activity. They usually use a public place to talk. We think that they’re going to use a big restaurant off the main road. It’s called McRory’s. There’s a big parking lot, a large drifting clientele. A busy place they can get lost in. They tend to get take-out and sit in the cars out back.’
‘Any sign of Heming?’ asked Harper.
‘Nothing,’ said Carney. ‘He’s either flipped out or hunkered down somewhere.’
‘Do we know their targets?’
‘We don’t. We’re still not sure how it happens, but we think they are told by someone, maybe by text even. When they’ve been told their hit, they travel out. We’ve got evidence of Section 88 using black cards as a way of putting hits out on their victims.’
‘I’m interested in our 88 Killer. Josef Sturbe.’
‘We got to follow the groups and see what we can. If he’s connected to Section 88, like you think, then this is the best way forward. You want Heming? We think he’ll turn up if he’s around. You take Unit C. These guys are on the edge, Harper, so steer clear unless you’ve got support.’
Harper looked down at the map on the hood of Carney’s car. ‘We just follow them?’
‘That’s it. Follow, get them caught in the act, then rumble. Backup will be with you on each unit. Now, come and meet the guys.’
They walked over to the Hate Crime team. Carney waved his arm. ‘You take them through your operation and why you are looking at Section 88,’ he said. ‘Then let me take over.’
‘This is the deal,’ Harper called out. ‘We know that Section 88 are involved in organized hate crimes. We also think that the organization is responsible either directly or indirectly for the murders of three women and one man. All the victims were Jewish. We’re looking for a lone wolf who may be feeding off this group, or he may be heading this group. His name is Martin Heming but he may be using the pseudonym Josef Sturbe. Most hits involve low-level intimidation, but that’s not what we are here for. We’re after our lone wolf, and his style is to pick off victims of hate crime and execute them.’
The men and women in front of him nodded. ‘This is a joint op, people. What we’re looking for is the main man, so try to hold off so that we can track these guys. See what they do, where they go, who joins them.’
Carney then took over. ‘Just a word or two. These guys get pumped up when they’re out on a mission, so roll with them, keep your distance and keep in contact. As soon as you see Heming, just shout. As soon as you see anything even close to looking like trouble, call in the support team. Okay, let’s move out.’
The team rolled out in a variety of vehicles and drove to McRory’s. They pulled into the parking lot and spread out. Each unit had a different target. The radio link between the vehicles was open. Harper was in the car with Denise Levene. They sat and stared out.
‘It’s a good spot,’ said Harper. ‘Maximum crowds, large numbers of people, so they wouldn’t be spotted. But we’ve got to get out and get closer. We’ll see nothing in here.’
The three of them got out and started to walk towards the center of the parking lot where the first of the suspects were congregated.
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 12, 10.05 p.m.
Blue Team and Hate Crime spent almost two hours watching, but nothing seemed to go down until one set of guys started to shake hands. It wasn’t a normal goodbye shake. They went down a line, high-fiving people in a pumped-up manner. This was celebratory.
‘We’ve got that truck covered,’ said Carney. ‘The rest just keep watching.’
The truck rolled out with four men in it. A few seconds later, a battered Hate Crime Unit panel van pulled out into traffic and started the tail.
Then the call came through. ‘Harper, you wanted to see how these guys operate, roll in and take the lead. This is a strong unit here. If Heming is around, he might want to make contact.’
Harper gunned the engine and pulled his car around. He overtook the HCU truck and followed behind the white van and hung back. There was silence in the car. The hunt was on.
The night air was chill and damp. The gang in the truck were traveling north from McRory’s and still drinking. They were easily visible from Harper’s car and the jokes seemed to be flying.
Right behind Harper, Jack Carney followed in his car and behind him was the HCU truck with the support team.
McRory’s disappeared behind them. The pink neon lights and big crowds were silenced by distance. The team had no idea what was ahead. The groups didn’t seem to speak on their cell phones and there was nothing they could find on the forums. All Hate Crime Unit had managed to find out from informants was that tonight was a joint operation — a protest at the treatment of Leo Lukanov. Carney had heard that the leader of Section 88, Martin Heming, could be joining the post-attack celebrations.
Tom Harper turned to Denise. ‘Why do they do it? What’s in it for them — attacking defenseless people?’
‘They believe they’re right,’ said Denise. ‘That there is someone on their patch who is causing them harm, and they don’t see the government doing anything about it. Or the NYPD.’
Section 88’s van turned. Carney and the support truck fell in behind. The truck turned off the major road and with the lack of traffic, the train of following vehicles was too conspicuous. Harper called Carney. ‘You and the van take the next left and carry on. You can re-join further up the street. I think they’ve clocked us.’
Harper watched the white van and Carney’s car veer into a side road and disappear. He continued to follow the truck.
They seemed to be heading towards Borough Park, one of the largest Jewish communities in the States. Harper followed until the group’s truck pulled off the road and into a side street, where it stopped. A sedan pulled up beside it. Harper stopped and they watched. Someone from the sedan jumped into the truck and then someone from the truck passed a duffel bag to the driver of the sedan.
Harper called Carney. ‘Jack, you need to pick up a dark blue sedan — it’s coming your way. You’ll be face to face in a moment. Looked like some drop. Maybe drugs.’
‘That’s how they fund their operations,’ said Carney.
Harper thought back to the three wraps in the alleyway beside David Capske. It seemed more likely than ever that this was a Section 88-sanctioned attack.
He called the driver of the white van on his radio. ‘This is Detective Harper, we’re following south of Lewton. Where are you?’
‘We’ve come up to a block. A truck ahead of us has got a flat and can’t move out. Carney got past but we’re stuck. We’re going to try to back up.’
‘You want me to drop off the tail?’
‘No, keep contact and keep in touch.’
Harper waited for a few minutes before turning into the side road. Up ahead there was nothing to be seen. It was a long narrow street surrounded by high buildings. Harper drove slowly, his eyes searching.
Five hundred yards down the street, Harper stopped at a junction. He pulled out and looked both ways. The Section 88 truck was parked to the right. He could just see its tail lights shining in the darkness. Harper turned and drove close enough to be able to see and the three of them sat and watched. Up ahead, the guys in the truck didn’t even look around; four of them were already on foot, heading down an alleyway towards the back entrance of what looked like a kosher bakery. Three were carrying sledgehammers and one had an ax. The lead guy, a huge muscular skin-headed man, called for the rest to follow. A fifth man got out of the truck carrying a can of gasoline.
‘What now?’ said Harper over the radio. ‘They are out of their vehicle and are heading to the street.’
‘Call for more backup. Do not try to stop them yourselves. We can’t be there soon enough. We’ve got reports of other groups heading to that area.’
Harper looked across to Denise and then to Eddie behind him. ‘What do you think?’
They could just see the group formed at the alleyway. It was 10.29 p.m. They seemed to be waiting. All five men pulled masks over their faces as the time clicked over to 10.30 p.m.
‘What the fuck are we going to do?’ said Eddie. ‘We can’t let this happen.’
‘Wait,’ said Harper. ‘Just wait for a moment.’
Then they heard a shout and further away, another shout and another. It wasn’t a secret assault, it was a war cry. ‘Let’s get out there,’ said Harper. A moment later, they heard a huge smash of glass, followed by another, and suddenly the whole street was ringing with car alarms, shop alarms and broken glass.
‘Kristallnacht,’ said Denise. ‘They’re smashing Jewish shops and buildings.’
Harper got on the radio. ‘This is Detective Harper. We’ve got major rioting starting up down here in Borough Park. We need SWAT, we need support. It’s big.’
Harper, Kasper and Levene ran down into the street. Then they stopped and drew back. Thirty or more hooded Nazis were running along the street with hammers, axes and baseball bats. They’d coordinated the seven teams. It wasn’t seven separate hits, it was one major assault. The shop fronts were exploding with fragments of glass, the doors smashed open. There didn’t appear to be any looting. The rioters would simply rush in and destroy what they could.
Across the street, people started to pour out of the Jewish restaurants screaming in terror. Gasoline was being splashed through the broken shop fronts and the sudden whoosh of fire exploded on to the street.
‘We can’t just watch, Harps. We got to do something.’
‘I’m thinking about how to get out of this without getting anyone killed,’ said Harper. ‘If all these rioters were being tailed by our operation, then we’ve got support.’ He got back on the radio, listened and turned. ‘They’re here.’
The joint operation involved over eighty police officers, who streamed into the street. Harper, Eddie and Denise were joined by ten or twelve other officers and they began to sweep towards the rioters. The other officers came from the west. The rioters gradually became aware that they weren’t going to smash and run like they had planned.
‘Do not draw your weapons,’ ordered Harper over the radio. The streets were full of people running, some starting to fight the Nazi rioters. ‘We can’t ensure the safety of the public. Tackle them safely, but take them down. Now.’
The police ran forward. Two to one, grabbing the rioters, chasing them through broken and flaming streets. The rioters were flung to the ground, and cuffed, then left to struggle. Members of the public began to attack the rioters: there were groups kicking cuffed men on the ground. Harper moved forward. ‘Get the public off the streets.’
He ran up to one group. Two men and a woman were screaming at one of the cuffed rioters, dragging his balaclava off. ‘Get out of here before I arrest you,’ said Harper. ‘Don’t become one of them.’ He moved them off and up the street, saying, ‘Denise, can you direct these people out of here before they land themselves in prison.’
Harper and Eddie then raced across to a jewelry store, where two big guys with hammers were smashing the cabinets. A lifetime of work broken in a moment. Harper flew in and grabbed the first. He pulled the hammer from his hand, smashed his jaw with his forearm and threw him out to Eddie. The second guy watched, then dropped his hammer and let himself be cuffed.
Outside, there were seven or eight rioters still evading the police, but the majority had been downed. Harper looked at the damage. Twenty or thirty shops smashed to pieces, several burning, billowing black smoke. If they hadn’t been trailing these guys, it would’ve been a hundred times worse; the gangs would’ve attacked people. There was no question, a much worse situation had been avoided.
Harper called through on the radio: ‘We’re nearly there, people. Get the rest of them cuffed and move them out of here. We need to get this whole place cleared.’
Harper saw the big guy from the truck disappear down an alley with two other rioters. Not wanting any of these cowards to escape, he darted after them, back up the alleyway. As they headed back to their truck, Harper pulled out his badge and called: ‘NYPD. Stop! Drop your weapons — now.’
The lead guy stopped and turned. He saw that Harper was alone. Harper saw them come at him. Three of them and he was the only thing stopping their escape. A hammer flew at him, hard and low. If it hit, it would break his leg. Harper jumped out of the way and the hammer smashed into the brick wall.
‘I didn’t appreciate that,’ said Harper. ‘Not one bit.’ The second hammer rose high and flew across him. It was easy to avoid. Hammers were slow and heavy. Harper pulled the rioter towards him. He landed a boot in his groin and butted him to the ground. The other two came in fast. One jabbed at Harper with the ax, while the second guy threatened a big blow to his head.
Harper backed to the wall. An ax, a hammer and two frightened and desperate rioters. There was no fear, just the thumping of his pulse and the softening of the boundaries between his mind and his body. He could hear the screeching of alarms in the background. He could smell the smoke. He could even see the fear in the two sets of eyes staring out through their masks. He felt the wall at his back, the ax-head thump in his stomach again, the hammer press against his shoulder, being driven backwards like some beast.
Harper calculated they were just out of reach of his fists. He needed to get closer, inside the range of their weapons. He ducked, pushed the hammer away with his right shoulder, and moved inside the ax-head using his left arm. It gave him what he needed: something within his reach. He came up from below, delivering a thunderous uppercut to the hammer guy and an elbow to the lead. The hammer guy dropped his weapon and crumpled, dazed. The lead guy was shaken but not out. Harper moved in. This was no boxing match, this was a street fight. His right boot scraped hard down the man’s shin and dug into his foot, while his arms reached up, grabbed the masked head and tugged it forward at speed. His knee then came up hard to meet the head. There was a loud crack and then a thud as the guy hit the ground.
Harper knelt down and pulled off his mask. ‘You want more?’ The man’s nose was split wide open, and his eyes had that lost look that Harper had seen so many times in the ring. ‘I said, do you want more?’
The man shook his head. Harper grabbed him. ‘Where’s Martin Heming?’
‘Fuck you,’ he gasped. ‘Heming isn’t here. Heming is cleaning up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Yeah, like I’d tell you.’
Harper raised his fist, then stopped himself and stood. He had to use his head now. What would Heming be cleaning up?
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 12, 11.45 p.m.
Harper was sitting on the hood of his car looking out over the destruction with Denise. Eddie Kasper was in the back of an ambulance talking to a young female paramedic with cute dark brown eyes. Any opportunity, Harper thought.
‘What now?’
Harper looked at Denise. ‘We’ve got twenty-four more individuals to talk to, so we can hope that they’ve heard of Sturbe or that they know where Heming is hiding. But how helpful are they going to be?’
‘No sign of Heming, then?’ she asked.
‘He wasn’t here. The guy I took out said he was “cleaning up”.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve been trying to work it out.’ Harper took a call on his cell phone. It was Mark Garcia. ‘Where are you?’ said Harper.
‘Just taken our arrests to the cells. I’m back at McRory’s. Where are you?’
‘I’m still at the scene. You found something?’
‘Yeah, we found the black cards. They all just have the address in Borough Park. They were ditched in the toilets, torn-up and flushed. They weren’t careful. Quite a few pieces were on the floor.’
‘So what’s the news?’
‘One of the cards didn’t have the address on it.’
‘What did it have on it?’
‘We only got two pieces of it. On the right hand side it just says SS and 88. The word Obedience is in the top right corner.’
Harper said, ‘Thanks. Not sure what it means. The SS, the 88 and the motto… Hold on, Garcia.’
‘What?’
‘The other cards. Did they have the 88 on them?’
‘Not that we found.’
‘Neither did the card we found in Lukanov’s place with Denise’s name on it. Keep that card, Garcia, I want to see it. It might be the killer’s card, which means he might be out tonight, with a new target. Oh, and one more thing…’
‘What’s that?’
‘We need the name on that card. They could be in danger. Get the sewers checked out. The card might be somewhere.’
‘You’re kidding? You want me to search the sewage?’
‘It’s someone’s life, Garcia, and I never kid.’
Harper called the investigation center and got through to Swanson, who had returned earlier.
‘What you got, boss?’
‘We’ve got the potential of a hit tonight,’ Harper said.
‘What’s the lead?’
‘Black card with the moniker 88 and the letters SS.’
‘No name, I guess.’
‘No name. We just got the half with the SS and 88.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Swanson asked.
‘I want to see if we can get as many patrol cars on the streets of Manhattan as possible.’
‘Yeah, right — double overtime. I’ll ask, Harper.’
‘Put me through to Lafayette, can you?’
‘Sure, but he’s gonna say the same thing.’
Harper waited. The SS. The Nazis’ elite force. The previous card didn’t have the SS written on it. Perhaps there were different cards for different things. Some with names, others not.
Lafayette picked up. ‘Yes, Harper.’
There was silence on the line. Harper was thinking again. SS… Then he made a connection. What was Heming going to clean up? He was going to clean up any shit that could incriminate him.
‘Jesus!’ shouted Harper. ‘We got to go!’
‘Harper, what is it?’ demanded Lafayette.
‘I got to go,’ Harper repeated. He disconnected and slid across the hood of the car. ‘Get in,’ he ordered Denise.
The car was moving in an instant, eating up gravel and screeching out of the gates.
‘What is it?’
‘They found a black card with the letters SS.’
‘So what? We know Sturbe was a member of the SS. Our killer likes to use these monikers and symbols.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought too. If I’d seen it, I’d have known immediately, but I didn’t. I just heard over the radio.’
‘What would you have known?’
‘The SS doesn’t stand for the Shutzstaffel or whatever it was. It’s the last two letters of a name. All the cards have names on, right?’
‘Becky Glass,’ said Denise. ‘Was that Becky’s card?’
‘Not Becky Glass,’ said Harper. ‘Becky Glass is dead.’
‘Then what?’
‘There’s only one possibility. Her kids — Jerry and Ruth Glass.’
The Safe House, Manhattan
March 12, 11.47 p.m.
Jerry and Ruth Glass were being held in a well-used temporary safe house in the city on 14th Street. It was a two-story building with an anonymous-looking façade, a used Chevy out front and a yard scattered with kids’ toys like any normal family home.
Inside, a female cop was sitting reading, as the social worker assigned to the children sat beside her watching television. Upstairs, the two kids lay fast asleep in the same room, where they felt safest.
There were usually two cops on duty, but at the moment there was only one. The rota only changed one cop at a time to ensure continuity, but that meant that often, the cop at the end of his or her shift would leave dead on time, while the relief cop often turned up late — so at shift changeover, the house was at its most vulnerable.
Unknown to anyone in the safe house, a car was heading towards them, the driver looking down at his watch. His slot was narrowing. A few minutes had gone already. He had to be quick.
On the other side of town, speeding towards the house, were Denise and Tom. Harper reached his hand out of the open window and put a siren on his car. He drove like a bullet through the greasy streets. It was coming together in his head.
‘How do you read it?’ she asked.
‘Someone made the connection. We put out the information about what the child said. We didn’t mention the children, but the killer must’ve worked it out. The papers were full of it. And they reported the fact that Becky had two children. He spotted the link.’
‘Who called it?’
‘They’re protecting the organization, I guess. Heming might be on it himself, or even Sturbe.’
‘You think they’re different people?’
‘I don’t have time to think. I know we’ve got two names, that’s all.’
They shot through dark streets, their fear palpable. Harper called through to the house, but the line was dead. They called the police radio. It was switched off. A major violation. Harper hit the steering wheel.
He then called the precinct. ‘Swanson, I’ve got someone after the kids in the safe house. I need a number. Find out the name of the officer on duty or the social worker, and get me a cell-phone number.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Swanson.
The killer turned into the street. He felt his neck tensing and twisted his head around. He was gripping the wheel too damn tight as well. He parked on the opposite side of the street and got out of his car. He breathed deeply. He was a little late. The world seemed silent for a second. He moved around to the trunk and opened it. He took out two body bags, a thick rope and a climbing grapple. Then he walked across the street, checked his gun and looked up. He saw the lights go out in a downstairs bathroom. They were not expecting any trouble.
He walked around the back of the house. He needed to silence the children. It was as simple as that, but it didn’t feel good. It wasn’t part of what he wanted to do. He felt angry about it, angry and disappointed that he’d left a clue. He looked up at a large oak. It wasn’t close enough to the window, but that didn’t matter. He climbed up the tree, eased himself out on a branch, and then tied the grappling hook to the rope and swung it in a large circle. He released it. It skittered on the tiles and slid down, missing the chimney stack. He tried again, leaning out more. The throw went further. The hook slapped on to the higher tiles and went over the peak. He tugged slowly until the hook bit, and then dropped the rope. It hung down the guttering and right in front of the bedroom window.
He climbed down the tree, sweating from the exertion. When he reached up and tested the rope, it was fixed nice and firm.
He put one hand as far up as he could and jumped, reaching up higher with his second hand. His upper body was strong and he slowly pulled himself up the rope. One hand over the other, slowly advancing towards the window where the kids were sound asleep.
Harper’s cell phone finally rang. He switched off the sound of the siren and answered.
‘Garcia here. I’ve got the cell phone of the officer.’
‘Go ahead.’
Harper took the number and immediately cut Garcia off and dialed the officer. He waited as the ringer started up. The cop finally answered. ‘Hi there, it’s Candy.’
‘Candy, nice to know your first name. My name is Detective Tom Harper of North Manhattan Homicide. Are you with anyone?’
‘Just me and the social worker.’
‘Where’s the second officer?’
‘They haven’t turned up yet, but they should have been here by now.’
‘Okay, Officer Candy, listen up. We’ve got reason to believe that someone has the location and identity of the kids. Have you seen or heard anything at the house?’
‘Nothing, Detective, it’s all quiet here.’
‘That’s good. But this killer is smart. Listen to me. Don’t get alarmed, but I want you to stay on the phone and go upstairs.’
‘Have you called patrol?’
‘Yeah, everyone’s on their way. We’re on our way. Just keep calm.’
‘Okay, I’ll go check.’ The officer stood up and walked to the stairs. She pulled out her gun and switched on the light. The cell phone returned to her ear.
‘Anything?’ said Harper.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Check the kids.’
‘I’m going up,’ she said and walked slowly up the stairs. She felt a cool breeze down the corridor and edged into the children’s room.
‘What do you see?’ asked Harper.
‘They’re both sleeping,’ she said, feeling relief rise in her stomach.
Harper thought for a moment. ‘How about the window?’
‘It’s wide open. I’ll shut it.’
‘Was it open when you left them?’ said Harper.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Candy.
‘Then it might be too late,’ said Harper. ‘Pull your gun. He’s there already.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ, oh no,’ she said.
‘What?’ Harper said urgently. ‘Come on, Candy, keep it together.’
‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Her voice was high and trembling.
‘Help me here, Candy.’
‘I’m looking outside. There’s a rope hanging down from the roof.’ She leaned out of the window and saw the rope swinging right down to the ground. Across the street, she noticed a red car that hadn’t been there before.
‘There’s a car parked across the street. It wasn’t there earlier. It’s red. License-plate is not visible.’
‘Shit,’ said Harper. ‘Check the beds now.’
The police officer raced over to the beds. Neither child was visible. For a moment, she dared not look, the only sound Harper’s breathing in her ear.
‘Are the kids there?’ said Harper. The officer placed the phone on a bedside cabinet, took a deep breath and pulled back both covers. She picked up the phone.
‘Harper,’ she whispered. ‘They’re safe. Still sleeping.’
‘Thank God. We’re on our way — we’ll be there soon as we can.’
The police officer put down the phone and checked the children’s breathing, the fear subsiding slowly. She turned to the door and the fear returned immediately.
He was standing in the dark, behind the door, no face, a gun out in front of him. He motioned her towards the window, his finger on his lips to indicate that she should remain quiet. Her heart felt as if it had stopped.
He pulled the gun from her hand and threw it on the bed. He then took her handcuffs and cuffed both hands behind her back.
The officer couldn’t help herself. ‘Please stop. You can walk away from this. This house is surrounded by cops. You’ll never get away. Just leave the kids and walk. You’ve still got time.’
He pulled the rope through the window, wrapped it three times around her shoulders and arms and tied it.
‘Please don’t hurt the children,’ she said.
He forced her to the window and pushed her out. She dropped a few feet then jerked to a halt. Her body strained as the rope pulled around her shoulders. She dangled there beside the tree.
The man turned to the now waking children. He opened his backpack and took out the body bags. He looked at the phone on the side. All he could hear was a voice calling for the officer. He picked up the cell and put it to his ear, then he killed the call.
On the other end of the line, Harper hit the wheel. ‘We’ve been cut off.’ He screeched around a corner.
‘What?’ said Denise.
‘It means he’s in the house.’
The Safe House, Manhattan
March 12, 11.59 p.m.
As they arrived at the safe house, Harper looked for the car parked across the street. It was gone. Harper got out of the car, Denise following quickly behind. He told her to wait at the entrance and walked around the house. At the back of the house, he saw a strange shadow. There was something large hanging from a rope.
He felt his pulse quicken and for a moment he thought the figure was dead. Moving closer, he saw a female officer with the rope pulled tight around her shoulders.
She saw Harper in the dark and called out, ‘He’s gone. He’s taken the kids.’
‘We’ll get you down,’ shouted Harper.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to get him. I think they’re alive. I caught his license-plate as he drove off.’
Harper was astonished. ‘Well done, that’s got to help.’
‘I feel so guilty,’ she said. ‘I was looking after them.’
‘You shouldn’t have been alone,’ said Harper. She told him the license-plate and Harper called it in immediately to Dispatch.
With a racing pulse, he moved quickly into the house. The social worker was sitting in an armchair facing the TV, motionless. Denise flinched. ‘Are you all right?’ Harper asked.
‘He said he’d kill them if I moved,’ she explained, a look of terror across her face.
‘Did you see what he looked like?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He was wearing a balaclava.’
‘Stay here,’ said Harper. Denise sat beside the woman and comforted her while Harper ran upstairs. A moment later he reappeared in the living room. ‘There’s nothing there. He was hiding in the closet. I need to haul the officer in the window. Denise, I need your help.’
He turned to the social worker. ‘What happened? Just tell me.’
‘He took them, in two bags. Black bags.’
Harper called base and gave them the lowdown. They’d send an ambulance, and backup was already on its way. He then took Denise upstairs and together, they pulled Officer Candy Simons back through the window. They untied her and she flung her arms at them. ‘Leave me, for God’s sake. Go after him.’
Harper and Denise headed for the car. They had no idea which way to turn.
‘What about the car, Tom? Where do we go?’
‘I’m thinking,’ said Harper.
‘So am I. And I think the reason the kids aren’t dead is because he’s not tortured them yet. That’s what he needs to do before he kills. Mark them and torture them. We’ve got time, but it’s not much.’
Harper looked at her for a second. ‘Let’s go.’
As they sped back to Brooklyn, Harper reckoned that the kids would soon be in a lock-up or worse. He knew the driver of the red car wouldn’t risk speeding, but would keep to the legal limit. That was their advantage. They had the license-plate out there. Someone had to spot it.
He called up Eddie Kasper who was back at the scene in Borough Park, helping the clean-up. ‘I need to know the places these guys go when they’ve got something to hide. You’ve got twenty or more prisoners — find out which ones are most afraid and cut them a deal. I need a lock-up, a location, anything.’
‘I’ll see if anyone knows anything,’ said Eddie.
Harper hung up.
‘How did he know where they were?’ asked Denise when they arrived at McRory’s.
‘I don’t know,’ said Harper. ‘But I will find out.’
It took ten minutes for the red car to turn up on the police radio.
‘What have you got?’ asked Harper.
‘There’s a red car parked in Bedford-Stuyvesant. Plates match. It’s just been taken inside a lock-up of some sort.’
‘Don’t spook him,’ said Harper. ‘He’s got the two children. Just give us the location and tell them to set up roadblocks. If he drives off again, I don’t want him getting far.’
They traveled for about ten minutes. There was silence in the car. Harper turned into the street that Dispatch had given him and killed the lights. He then called the patrol car.
‘I’m going in direct. Got to see if the kids are still there. Most likely, he’s switched cars, come from the side street.’
Harper and Levene got out of their car. Ahead of them was a row of lock-up garages in a courtyard. Tall buildings flanked the lock-ups and two alleyways led between these buildings on either side.
‘You hold back,’ said Harper. Denise stood at the car as ordered. She watched as Harper walked towards the row of garages. He looked inside the one that was open, but it was pitch black. There wasn’t much light in the courtyard. The greasy asphalt shone in the moonlight, but the whole area was full of shadows and alleys. Whoever had taken them could be anywhere.
Harper held his Glock firmly in his right hand. He crept to the left of the lock-up, down a side street then came back. Hearing something, he turned quickly. It was a low thump. He listened intently. Someone was inside the garage, kicking at something. That meant that the driver had probably left the kids.
His pulse raced. The two children were still in the car then, still alive. Harper started to run back towards the lock-up. He only half-caught sight of something over to his right — a red cigarette end or a glint of light. The sound of a gunshot woke the night. A bullet hit the ground by Harper’s feet and ricocheted into a large metal door. Harper heard the patrol cops in the distance; they had started to run towards the sound. He pointed his gun into the alley and fired six shots into the darkness.
Nothing. Whoever had been there, had gone. Harper stared at the scene, trying to work out what had happened.
Denise was standing by the car, hidden in darkness. Harper decided he couldn’t wait another minute for patrol. He had to chase the killer down. He got up and started towards the alley, trying to get cover before heading into the darkness.
Harper hit the wall and leaned into the alleyway, gun first. It was too dark to see a goddamn thing. He stepped into the shadows. It was a risk, but he figured the sound of the uniformed officers running and shouting could have spooked the killer.
As Harper disappeared into the alleyway, a figure appeared from the next alleyway up and moved to follow him.
From the far side of the alleyway, Denise stared out, her hands shaking. Alone and exposed, she could hear the running footsteps of the two patrolmen coming up behind her and suddenly felt afraid. Her heart beat fast, and her legs felt weak.
‘It’s all going to be okay,’ she told herself and moved a couple of steps towards the alleyway. She stopped by the side of the car. At that moment, a shadow emerged about fifteen yards in front of her — a figure holding a gun. Denise stared across at the killer. The shaking moved throughout her body. She steadied herself and tried to breathe.
From where she was, she could see the garage and the alleyway where Harper had followed the killer, but the killer had doubled back and was now behind him. What could she do? Her throat was dry.
Denise tried to remember what Mac had told her, but she couldn’t. The whole psychological change that Mac talked about was already happening to her. ‘You’ve got to be a predator to stop your body preparing yourself to die.’ She knew she couldn’t shout to Harper. She was unarmed. The killer would turn, take her out and then wait for Harper.
She reached into the car and pulled out the keys. Slowly, she moved around to the back of the car and lifted the trunk, her eyes on him as he walked down towards the first alleyway.
She reached in and felt around until she gripped the handle of the lug wrench. She pulled it out and felt the weight in her hand. ‘Become the predator,’ she whispered.
Denise needed to get across to the killer just as he turned into the alleyway. She would have to move silently, so she removed her shoes. Watching and waiting, she was the predator now, both eyes forward, body still, ready to pounce. He was moving to the corner of the alley: if she left it any longer, he would be able to catch up with Harper. She had to act now.
Denise sprinted across the open ground, her feet making a low slapping sound, nothing more. She hit the wall within a few seconds and moved quickly to the corner. She leaned in, held the wrench hard, raised it to her shoulder and then turned the corner. Think Predator. Act Predator. It’s life or death. She needed all her power, but it was working. She wasn’t scared. Not at all. She was angry. This killer had Abby, had the two kids. Denise moved lightning fast, reaching him in two large strides. He heard her and turned, but that didn’t help him. As he turned, Denise smashed the lug wrench across his temple. The killer’s head twisted. She saw the whites of his eyes, white teeth and that was all. He was falling in front of her.
His head twisted into the ground, he lost control of himself and his gun hit the ground and skidded into the dark.
‘Harper!’ shouted Denise. ‘I got him!’
The killer rose slowly. ‘What the fuck…’ he said, but the lug wrench came down again, hard on the head. No mercy. One specific target. She hit him again on the same spot. ‘On the floor!’ she screamed. ‘On the fucking floor.’ He didn’t obey. She hit him twice, as hard as she could. Blood splattered her hand, but she kept him there and screamed, ‘On the floor, flat on the floor!’
She could hear Harper running up the alleyway. The man stirred and tried to speak. She hit him again. ‘Do not move,’ she shouted.
The body at her feet lay still on its front, a large wound on his head, blood creeping across his skull and on to the ground.
Harper appeared, his gun trained on the body on the ground. ‘What the hell?’ he cried. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s him, Tom. He doubled back on you. I saw him coming after you. I had to take him out.’
Harper just stared. Denise stood, her heart pounding, her body feeling strong and powerful, the lug wrench poised for another blow.
The killer lay prostrate, groaning in pain, his right hand clutching the wound. Harper flashed the light over him then pulled out his cuffs and jumped on the body, cuffing him.
‘Well done, Denise,’ said Harper. He rolled the body over. ‘Let’s see what we got.’ Harper’s flashlight illuminated the face staring up at them and he felt the shock jolt him.
‘It’s Jack Carney,’ said Harper. ‘You’ve attacked a cop.’
Carney groaned. ‘I tried to fucking tell her. She’s brutal. Just kept hitting me. Jesus Christ, my head.’
‘Save your strength, Jack,’ Harper said. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘Hate Crime Unit got the call from Dispatch. We got here a few minutes before you.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Denise. The lug wrench clattered to the ground. ‘I didn’t realize.’
‘You didn’t fucking check,’ said Carney. ‘Just lucky you didn’t have a gun.’
Harper knelt and uncuffed Carney. ‘Where are they, Jack? Did you see?’
Carney motioned to the building opposite. ‘There’s a garage. Second along. He parked in there, then I heard him lock the front, so I went around the back. He’s gone already. Are the children okay? I didn’t check if they were in the car.’
‘We don’t know. We hope so. Can you walk? We need to stick together.’
Jack was helped to his feet. Denise decided to say nothing and just looked at the ground. She picked up Jack’s gun and handed it back to him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Listen, lady, this goes nowhere, right? Nowhere. No one finds out I got pummeled to the ground by one of our own, by a civilian. By a woman.’
‘All right, Jack, this stays here, but let’s get back to the garage,’ said Harper.
‘I got the whole thing on the radio, got here fast as I could. I should’ve identified myself. I didn’t fucking see her. She must’ve been hiding.’ Carney grimaced through the pain.
Behind them, the patrol cops arrived. ‘We’ve got a man down,’ said Denise. ‘Call for Emergency Medical Support.’
‘Scrub that,’ said Jack. ‘There’s no one down and no need for a medic yet.’
They moved across to the garage. Harper sent the patrolmen around the back entrance.
‘We’ve got to break this,’ said Harper.
Denise ran back for the lug wrench. She smashed down repeatedly on the lock until the old wood shattered.
Harper kicked the door and the lock finally gave. They dragged it open. Denise ran to the trunk of the car and lowered her head to speak. ‘Ruth, Jerry, can you hear me? It’s okay, this is Dr Levene. If you’re in there, let us know and we’ll get you out. You’re safe now.’ She heard a kick from the car. ‘It’s the children!’ she shouted. She ran over to the car and tried the trunk. Locked. She called, ‘It’s okay, you’re safe. We’re with the police.’
The kicking continued, frightened, irrational thumping of panic.
‘Stay still, you’ll hurt yourselves.’
Denise tried to force the lock with the wrench but it didn’t budge. She passed it to Harper. He tried but also failed.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Harper. He ran to the back of the car, a knife in his hand. He pushed the blade under the rim and tried unsuccessfully to pop the trunk latch.
He looked around and had a second idea. He opened the back door and found the seat lever. He pulled out one seat and cut a hole through to the trunk. Denise stood at his shoulder. ‘Be careful,’ she said. Harper ripped back the material with his hand. They waited a moment.
Two small hands, like two petals of a flower, reached out and turned in the dark air.