The Caller. Alex Barclay
the Stinger’s Creek cemetery was doing his rounds and when he got to Donald Riggs’ grave … well, there was another one opened up right beside it.’
Joe paused. ‘Someone was dug up?’
‘No. Someone had just dug a grave. It was empty. It was thoroughly searched and there was nothing or no-one in it.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe.
‘What we have got to remember is everyone out there knows what Rawlins and Riggs did. And on the one hand, you’ve got people baying for blood. On the other, some of the officers from the sheriff’s department who went to investigate this, spoke to a group of stoners who were all, “Man, Duke Rawlins is, like, sick.” In a good way. So it could have been an angry relative of a victim, it could have been a teenage prank.’
‘Maller, why don’t we cut the crap, here? You know what this is. Alcoholic witness or not. It’s not a coincidence – we hear Rawlins shows up, pays a visit to a tool shed and within days a grave is opened up next to his old buddy. Come on.’
‘Yeah,’ said Maller. ‘It’s just I know what this man has done to you. I mean, that’s why I called you on this … yeah, I don’t think this one’s a false alarm.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I have to ask,’ said Maller, ‘has he tried to get in touch with you?’
Joe did not hesitate. ‘No.’
Anna Lucchesi sat at her dressing table in her bathrobe, her hair pulled back with a black jersey headband, her face pale, her eyes shadowed. She opened a packet of cleansing wipes and started wiping down her makeup products, getting rid of dust and dried-in foundation and caked powder. She grouped them together and lined them up, ready for the following morning. A photo beside the bed showed her as she used to be, her hair dark and glossy, her cheeks healthy, her eyes alive.
The notice board at Manhattan North was covered with badges from police departments all over the country and around the world. Joe stood in front of it, thinking about Duke Rawlins. Every evil thing Rawlins had done had settled close to the surface and deep down inside. He didn’t know what would end it, but every day a new scenario took him away from where he was supposed to be.
‘Joe? That’s your freakin’ phone,’ yelled Martinez.
Joe grabbed the receiver.
‘Joe? It’s Bobby Nicotero. From the 1st.’ Bobby’s father was Victor Nicotero – Old Nic – a retired cop and close friend of Joe’s.
‘Jesus, Bobby. What’s up?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘How’s Old Nic?’
‘You tell me.’
Joe paused.
Bobby’s laugh was off. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. How is my father?’
‘Well … last time I saw him was at that barbecue, couple weeks back. You had to be somewhere with the kids, I think. He was good, taking it easy, enjoying writing.’
‘Writing what?’
‘Oh,’ said Joe. ‘He’s working on a book.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve been busy …’
‘Yeah – your old man’s writing his memoirs.’
Bobby shot out a laugh. ‘I got a few chapters of my own I might like to add to that.’
‘Really?’ said Joe. ‘What can I—’
‘Actually I’m calling because I think I’ve got something you might be interested in. The Upper West Side homicide you got? Your vic – Ethan Lowry. Was there a phone by him when they found him?’
‘Yeah. There was. Why?’
Bobby sucked in a breath. ‘Sounds a lot like this case I caught in SoHo back in December. Guy’s name was Gary Ortis, badly beaten about the face, gunshot to the head, phone in the hallway beside him. We never got the guy.’
‘Jesus. And it looks like we’re already linking this one to a case a year back. Was your guy gay?’
‘He was single and he dated women,’ said Bobby, ‘but who knows? Yours?’
‘Ethan Lowry was married with a kid,’ said Joe. ‘William Aneto was gay.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I know where you’re coming from,’ said Joe, ‘it has that feel about it. That was some hardcore facial damage and I don’t know about you, but last few times I saw shit like that, it was two guys, lovers’ spat. No-one died, but …’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Bobby.
‘Look, why don’t you call in to the Two-Oh, bring what you got.’
Joe put down the phone and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. He pulled out two pills and took them with a can of Red Bull.
‘Guys,’ he said. ‘That was Bobby Nicotero from the 1st. Looks like he got a third vic, happened back in December. He’s on his way over.’
‘Holy shit,’ said Danny.
‘On Lowry’s records? said Blazkow. ‘The last call at 10.58? Was to a woman – Clare Oberly. Lives on 48th Street between 8th and Broadway.’
‘OK,’ said Joe. ‘Danny and I’ll go check her out this evening.’
Half an hour later Bobby Nicotero walked into the twentieth precinct with his partner. Bobby was thirty-nine years old with a thick neck, broad shoulders, short legs and suits too cheap to flatter any of them. He had close-cut black hair, a heavy brow and a range of facial expressions that stretched to pissed off.
‘Hey,’ said Joe. ‘Good to see you.’
‘You too,’ said Bobby, shaking his hand. ‘This is my partner, Roger Pace.’
Pace was shockingly gaunt with eyes set deep into dark sockets.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Joe, shaking his hand. ‘Thanks for coming in.’
‘No problem,’ said Pace, slipping back behind Bobby.
‘OK,’ said Joe, walking over to the others. ‘Bobby, you know Danny Markey. And this is Aldos Martinez and Fred Rencher from Manhattan North. Tom Blazkow and Denis Cullen from here at the Two-Oh. Everyone, Bobby Nicotero and Roger Pace from the 1st.’
Everyone nodded.
‘Do you want to tell us what you got?’ said Joe.
‘Sure,’ said Bobby. ‘I read the paper and I just saw our friend, the “source close to the investigation” saying that the vic was found naked and his face was severely beaten. I figured there could be something to it, could be nothing.’ He opened the file.
‘Our vic’s name was Gary Ortis, DOB 07/10/69, cause of death – GSW to the head from a twenty-two. There were signs of oxygen deprivation, you know, petechial hemorrhages. He was found naked in his apartment on Prince Street in SoHo.’
‘Body behind the door,’ said Joe.
‘Yup.’
Everyone nodded. ‘That sounds like our guy,’ said Joe. ‘Any leads?’
Bobby shook his head. ‘Nothing. We thought it was a gay thing, but the guy had lots of girlfriends—’ He shrugged. ‘Not that that means anything.’
‘Yeah,’ said Martinez looking at Danny.
Danny rolled his eyes.
‘Looks sexual to me,’ said Blazkow. ‘They’re all found naked like that, beaten so bad.’
‘We got the ME talking about a homosexual motive,’