Day of Reckoning (2 page)

'Who are you?'
'I'm a big black mother named Henry, and you wouldn't
want to meet me in the showers on Rikers Island.'
Terry was terrified. 'I just did what I was told.'
'Which means you know too much. Regards from the
Solazzos.'
The knife went up through the breast bone and found the heart, and Terry Mount slid down the wall.
It was early evening and March dark on Columbia Street, Brooklyn, as the Lincoln turned right and pulled on to a pier
where a few coastal ships were tied up. Russo switched off the
engine. Suddenly alarmed, Katherine Johnson said, 'What is this? Where are we, Jack?'
'This is the end of the line, Signora. You sure played me
for a sucker.'
She managed a smile. 'Come on, Jack.'
'Come on, nothing. I've had your house searched. Found
your little tape recordings of us. Not that I said anything,
but you sure did. Just take it easy and flatter me, huh? You shouldn't have done that to me.'
'For God's sake, Jack, you've got to listen to me.'
'No, I'm done listening. And talking.'
A limousine pulled up behind. Fox got out and said to
Falcone, 'Aldo, you make this good.'
'At your order, Signore.'
Fox got in the rear limousine and was driven away.
Katherine tried to open the door, but Russo was there,
his great hand raised. Falcone cried, 'Leave it. I don't want bruising.' He found her neck and yanked her forward on her knees on the rear seat. Her skirt rose up.
'Go on, get on with it.'
He held her as she struggled. Russo took a box from his
pocket, opened it, and produced a hypodermic. 'You'll like
this, girlie. Best heroin on the market.' He jabbed her left
thigh, then injected her again, this time in the right buttock. 'There you go.'
She cried out and slumped forward.
Russo patted her. 'Hey, she's not bad looking. Maybe I
could do myself a little good here.'
He turned, reaching for his zipper, and Falcone gave him
a
shove. 'You stupid bastard, that'll blow the whole thing.
Come on, give me a hand.'
Grumbling, Russo picked up her feet while Falcone took
her arms, and they carried her to the edge of the pier.
'Easy now,' and she was in the water.
'Come on, let's go get a drink.' They walked back to the Lincoln, and a minute later they drove away.
Neither of them noticed Katherine Johnson's purse, where
it had fallen out of the car, in the shadows beside a packi
ng case.
The following morning at six o'clock, rain drove in across the East
River, rattling the windows of the old precinct house.HarryParker, brought out of bed only an hour before, drank coffee from a machine and made a face as a woman detective sergeant named Helen Abruzzi came in.
'This is disgusting,' Parker told her. 'Reminds me of why
I switched to tea. Okay, what have we got?'
'This kid is called Charlene Wilson. She was working a
strip bar not far from here.'
And doing business on the side?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'What happened?'
A man called Paul Moody took her home. When we
found her, she'd been raped orally, half-strangled, her wrists tied.'
Parker frowned. 'That sounds like those two murders in Battery Park.'
'That's what I thought, Captain, and that's why I phoned
you to come here. Charlene got away because he got drunk
and fell asleep and she managed to loosen her hands.'
Parker nodded. 'Okay, let me know when the line-up's
ready.'
She went out and Parker went to the window, the rain
driving against it, and found a Marlboro, having long since
stopped pretending to have quit. He lit it and looked out at
the river morosely, a huge black man who had started life in
Harlem, earned a law degree at Columbia, and then decided
to join the police rather than a law firm. He'd never minded seventy-hour weeks, although his wife had, and had divorced him for it.
For three years now, he'd been captain in charge of a
special homicide unit based at One Police Plaza. Sometimes
he got depressed dealing with one killing after another, in a
never-ending series, and when you were close to fifty you
began to wonder if there was something better to do. He wondered if Blake had really meant what he'd said that there
might be room for him in that special intelligence unit of his
in Washington ...
The door opened and Helen Abruzzi called. 'Show time, Captain.'
The girl in the viewing room was in a bad way, a blanket
around
her shoulders, her face swollen, one eye black, bruise marks on her neck. Helen stood behind her, a hand on her
shoulder,
while Parker read the file. He finished, nodded, and she pressed a buzzer. A light flared and five men appeared on the other side. The girl cried out.
'Number three. That's him,' she said and then she broke
down.
Compassion
didn't come easy at six o'clock in the morning on the East River, but Parker put an arm around her.
'Hey, take a deep breath. I know it isn't easy, but I'll make
you a promise. I'm going to take this fuck out.' He squeezed
her shoulder and nodded to Abruzzi. 'Take her away, then
bring that bastard in.'
He stood at the window, looking down at the water, and
after a while the door opened and Helen Abruzzi came
in,
followed by Paul Moody, cuffed between two police
offi
cers.
And ~ who the hell are you?' Moody demanded.
'Captain Harry Parker. Sergeant Abruzzi's got quite a list
of charges against you, Moody, beginning with aggravated sexual assault.'
'Hey, the bitch wanted it. She was into sadomasochism,
all kinds of stuff. I mean, I was shocked, man.'
'I'm sure you were, and I was forgetting physical assault
on a minor.'
There was silence. Moody said, 'What's this minor crap?'
'Didn't Sergeant Abruzzi tell you? The girl, Charlene
Wilson, was fifteen two weeks ago.'
Moody's face paled. 'Now, look, I didn't know that.' 'Well, you do now,' Helen Abruzzi told him.
Another thing,' Parker said. 'There've been two killings
in Battery Park within the last three months, using the same
technique you prefer, Moody. Girls tied up, abused, beaten,
and young.'
'You can't pin those on me.'
'I don't need to. We have good DNA samples retrieved
from Charlene Wilson. We've got the DNA of the Battery
Park killer. I'd bet my pension we'll have a match.'
'Fuck you, nigger bastard.'
Moody lunged at him and the two officers restrained
him.
Parker said, 'Why, Paul, you should conserve your energy. You're going to need it to keep you going for the next forty years in prison.' He nodded to the officers. 'Get this piece of shit out of here.'
He turned to the window as the door closed. Helen Abruzzi said, 'It's a bad one, sir.'
'They're all bad, Sergeant.' He turned. 'I need air. I'll take
a
walk if you can find me an umbrella. I'll come back to sign the papers later.'
'Fine, sir.'
He smiled, and suddenly looked charming. 'You've been
doing a good job here, Sergeant. I've been noticing. There's
an inspector's job coming up, if you'd like a posting to Police
Plaza.
You deserve it. I can't promise, mind you.'
'I know, sir.'
'Fine. I'll see you later, but ring the front desk and get me that umbrella.'
It was raining
hard on the waterfront. Parker had borrowed a
P
olice
raincoat with Gaped shoulders, and carried the umbrella
Abruzzi had organized.
The rain actually made him feel good,
cleared
the head. He lit another cigarette, and then an old man
was running toward him in a panic.
Parker got his hand up. 'What is it? What's your problem?'
'I need the police!'
'You've found them. What's the problem?'
'My name's Richardson. I'm a night watchman at the old
Darmer warehouse there. I was coming off shift and I went
to the edge of the pier to toss my butt in the water, and .. .
and there's a woman in the water!'
'Okay, show me,' said Parker and pushed him forward.
Katherine Johnson was a couple of feet under dark green
ter. Her arms floated to each side, her legs were open,
eyes stared into eternity. There was a look of surprise on her face and she was achingly beautiful in death.
Harry Parker took out his mobile and called the precinct. 'This is Captain Parker. I've got a Jane Doe in the water only three hundred yards from you. Let's get an ambulance and back-up out here.' He stood there, holding his mobile phone, then handed it to Richardson and took off his raincoat. 'Hang on to those.'
He went down a flight of stone steps, waist deep in water,
and reached for her. It was stupid, because that was the
recovery team's job, but he couldn't leave her there. In a
strange way, it was personal.
She was covered for a moment by flotsam, and he went
chest deep and pulled her in and above his head. Above
him, he heard the sound of vehicles grinding to a halt as
the recovery team arrived.
Parker went home, changed, had breakfast at his corner coffee shop – eggs, bacon, English breakfast tea – and returned to his
office. But the dead woman's face, the open eyes, wouldn't
go away as he phoned Abruzzi.
'What's happening with the Jane Doe I found?'
'She's at the morgue. They've brought in the chief medical examiner. I believe he's doing the post-mortem himself later this morning.'
'I'll be down. Tell him I'm coming.'
When Harry Parker arrived at the office of the chief medi
cal examiner, Dr George Romano was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.
'Harry, my man, what's new?'
'This Jane Doe from the river. I took her out.'
'So you're feeling personal about it, right?'
'Something like that.'
'I'm about to finish the post-mortem. I was just taking a
break. What do you want to know? Did she fall or was she pushed?'
'Something like that.'
'Okay, Harry, join me, 'cause this one stinks.' Romano
drained his coffee and led the way out.
They went into the post-mortem room, where two technicni
ans
waited, suitably gowned. Romano held up his arms and
vne
of them helped him into a robe. He went and scrubbed
,~.vt
the sink.
'There she is,
all yours, Harry.'
Katherine Johnson lay on a slanting steel operating table, her head on a wooden block. She was naked, the Y cut of the preliminary vivid against her pale skin. Romano held up his
hands and one of the technicians pulled on surgical gloves
for him. There was a cart loaded with instruments and a TV
v
ideo recorder on a swivel.
Romano said, 'Tuesday, March 2, resuming post-mortem
M
rs.
Katherine Johnson, 10 Barrow Street, Greenwich Vil
lage.'
'Hey, what is this?' Parker demanded.
'Didn't you know?' Romano looked surprised. 'The guy
found, her, Richardson? He was hanging around and
disco
vered her purse. She must have dropped it when she
Ov
er the pier. Plenty of ID.'
'Okay. Fine. Let's get on with it. Why did you say this
stinks?'
'She's a nice lady, well nourished, good condition, about forty years of age.'
'So?'
'So she died of a massive heroin overdose. Enough to
kill her twice over. It doesn't fit. Someone like her, in her condition? Plus, someone on that stuff at a high level would
have needle sores all over. She only had two – the recent ones. One in the left thigh, the other in the right buttock.
And what was she doing in the water?'
Accidentally overdosed and fell in?'
'Maybe. But I doubt it. Like I said, she wasn't an addict.
And another thing. Her medical insurance card was in her
purse and I checked it out. She was a lefty.'
'So?'
'Harry, with the greatest will in the world, I can't see a left-handed person injecting herself in the side of the right buttock. It's possible but unlikely.'
He reached for a De Soutter vibratory saw.
'So you're saying she was stiffed by someone?'
'Harry, like you, I've spent years in the death busi