Dead Lies (15 page)

Web didn’t have the advantage of his attacker’s leveraged position, but he’d been in his share of bar brawls in the past—many with men who’d made unwanted advances toward his beautiful twin—and he knew there was only one surefire way to deflect a blow that was headed your way: duck. Unable to do that in his prostrate position, so he turned his head to the left so that the force of the blow hit the back of his cheek, rather than his nose or eyes, where it would do the most damage. He had a reason to think this was a good idea: He’d known a kid in college who’d gotten into a fight and died when a splinter from the bone in his nose was rammed into his brain.

The assailant’s meaty fist hadn’t met its intended mark, but the wallop still hurt like a son of a bitch. It sent slivers of glass through his head and neck and made his ears ring.

Pumped up on adrenaline from the attack and an overwhelming sense of outrage that the man who’d taken his sister from him was not only inches away from him but was getting the better of him, the sleeping bear inside Web woke up. Conjuring the image of the fraternity brother who’d died, he heaved his body upward and slammed his forehead into the soft tip of his attacker’s nose with as much energy as he could muster. He heard a crack and a howl. More fire raced through Web’s head, but he ignored it, still consumed with the desire to turn this fight around and flatten the man who’d taken everything from his family.

But his assailant quickly recovered and fired an uppercut square into Web’s chin. As his head hit the floor again he saw the proverbial stars and lay stunned for a few seconds until they dissipated. When the wooziness passed, Web remembered another bar-fight axiom he’d learned the hard way: If you can hit a man once, hit him again; otherwise he’ll come at you with the fury of an angry hornet. So, expecting another blow, he tried to pull his head back. But his attacker surprised him. He didn’t strike again. Instead he leapt off of him and flew over the banister. In a seamless, lightning-quick movement, he was gone. A second later, Web heard a soft thud as the man landed on the floor below.

As pain continued to rattle through him, Web realized his prosthetic limb was still attached to his body, and he was grateful for that. He rolled onto his side, wondering if he should follow the assailant over the banister. Then he thought the better of it. He preferred to keep his remaining leg unbroken. He pulled himself up from the floor, regained his equilibrium, and tore down the stairs the old-fashioned way.

Back in the center hall again, he could see that front door was still closed. Where had the attacker gone? The house had only two doors, and the other one was boarded up. Then he remembered how, when he’d first come in, he’d thought there was a window open. He realized he’d been right and cursed himself for not listening to his instincts. He turned left and raced into the living room then through the door that led to the study. The side window—the one fronted by a thick covering of rhododendron bushes—was open. The attacker was nowhere in sight, but the curtains were rustling as if a soft summer breeze was blowing through the house.

Web dove out the window in pursuit and almost smashed into the young police officer as he rolled to his feet.

“What happened?” the stunned officer squeaked, gun raised, his eyes wide and bright. “I heard a commotion and saw someone come flying out the window. I thought it was you!”

“The killer was in the house,” shouted Web. “The motherfucker was upstairs when I came in!” He followed the officer as he dashed off in pursuit of the assailant, relieved to hear a wail of sirens in the distance. The officer was no dummy. He had already called for reinforcements.

Maybe there was a chance they’d catch the guy.

But it wasn’t to be. Within seconds, Web and ten cops had fanned out and began searching the surrounding area. But the assailant had slipped into the night. Why did this happen? Web raged silently as, one by one, the police officers returned to the front yard empty-handed. Why had the killer come back? Had he left something behind that could identify him? Had he come back to look for something he missed the first time? If so, what could it be? What the hell could be so important it would warrant double murder?

His search for answers was interrupted when a police captain arrived to take his statement. As he relayed the night’s events to yet another law enforcement officer, he noticed lights coming on in neighboring houses and bleary-eyed residents in bath robes coming over to ask the officers what in God’s name was happening now. Web could understand the fear he saw in their eyes, even the looks of distrust they shot him, as if somehow
he’d
caused the violence that had shown up on their street.

It made him question the assumptions he’d made about the case. What if Serena and Bill really weren’t the innocent victims he’d imagined them to be? What if they had actually done something to bring all of this about?

The thought was too painful, and too insane, so he pushed it from his mind. At the moment there was only one thing he knew for sure. The killer had come back, which meant his business wasn’t done. And until the cops figured out what that business was, Web’s whole family might be in danger.

CHAPTER 16

“
DID WEB I.D. MALIK?” ANNA SAID TO KREEGER AS HE CRANKED UP THE
heat in the car. Max’s sitter hadn’t arrived until eight o’clock so Anna never made it to the scene, and she was royally pissed to have missed it. But now she and Kreeger were headed to the suspect’s home, intending on making an arrest.

“Web couldn’t see his face,” Kreeger said. “The guy was wearing a ski mask.”

“His parole officer coming with us?” Anna asked. It was common practice for a P.O. to be present when another cop had business with one of his charges.

“He’s on vacation in Florida. Like everybody except you and me. Gives us his blessing, though.”

“How’s Web doing?” said Anna. She imagined Web’s kind face bloody and bruised and hoped Malik looked worse.

Kreeger made a sound like “Harrumph.” “He won’t need any stitches. Even with that fake leg of his, that guy’s a tank.”

Anna sucked in her breath. It was an insensitive comment, yet accurate. But he’d been in a sour mood all morning, no doubt because of his early wakeup call. He looked like hell. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his hair was patchy and uneven, as if he hadn’t taken the time to shower. He didn’t look so much like his sleep had been interrupted; he looked like he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. She wondered fleetingly if Max’s meltdown last night also had contributed to the detective’s crankiness. But that couldn’t be it. Kreeger was tougher than that.

They were silent for a moment and then the detective said, “I put a squad car outside the Marinos’ house, just to be safe.”

Anna nodded, thinking that was a smart idea. Until they figured out what was going on, the family could be a target. “What do you think Malik was looking for?” she asked. “You think it has something to do with the family?”

A thought suddenly occurred to her. Web’s last name was Marino. Was it possible his family had a mafia connection?
La Cosa Nostra
still had a strong presence in New Jersey, even though they’d been pushed aside by other imported groups of late, namely Russian-based crime organizations. She mentioned it to Kreeger, kicking herself for not having thought of it before. She supposed she’d been blinded by the Marinos’ wealth and air of gentility. There was nothing Tony or Carmela Soprano about any of them.

“They’re as clean as a whistle,” Kreeger responded, allaying her concerns. “I asked Leon to look into it. Not even a whiff of anything came up.”

Of course Kreeger had already considered an organized crime connection, she thought! He was always one step ahead of her. She recalled how he had located Serena’s cell phone simply by dialing it, a clever trick, beautiful in its simplicity. She chose not to beat herself up for not keeping pace with the detective, however. Kreeger had been a cop almost as long as she’d been alive. Of course his investigative mind was more agile than hers. “What do you think Malik was looking for?” she asked him.

Kreeger shook his head. “I don’t know, but let’s hope he starts talking when we bring him in.”

Bring him in,
thought Anna. Kreeger’s initial plan to rattle the man’s cage until the lab results came back was moot now. Prosecutor Jane Carmichael had given them the okay to arrest him.

A vision of the sexy litigator, whom Anna had met the night of the murders, wormed its way into her head like an unwelcome visitor. She’d taken an instant dislike to the woman when she’d arrived on the scene. Always conscious of down-playing her own femininity in a workplace dominated by men, Anna had been turned off by the way Carmichael had waltzed through the house wearing a low-cut cocktail dress and leaned in every time she spoke to one of the detectives. But she acknowledged that the real reason she didn’t like Carmichael was because the woman had barely glanced in her direction when Kreeger introduced them. There’d be no good-old-girl camaraderie between a senior prosecutor and lowly uniformed officer was the message Anna had gotten from Carmichael.

Anna had known a lot of men on the job who were sexist jerks, but sometimes women were worse.

“Make the call, will you?” she heard Kreeger say. They were getting close, about a mile from the train tracks where Route 17 narrowed. Kreeger put his blinker on as the exit sign for Perona appeared.

She flipped the cover of her cell phone and dialed Lester Malik’s number. She waited for three rings then heard a click and a gruff “hello.”

“Sorry, wrong number,” she said and hung up. She turned to Kreeger. “He’s home.”

Another harrumph.

Anna remained silent the rest of the way.

Ten minutes later, they pulled onto Malik’s street and parked behind a beat-up delivery van. The neighborhood looked a little like Williamsburg, where Anna had grown up, before Manhattan real estate prices had started to skyrocket and the working class Brooklyn neighborhood had become gentrified. Some of the low-rise apartment buildings were made of a brownish brick; others were covered with scuffed aluminum siding in colors that looked like they’d come from the paint store sale bin. A dizzying array of telephone wires and utility lines seemed to buzz overhead, unlike in wealthier communities, where an effort had been made to bury them underground. Anna imagined that the people who lived in their midst looked as drab as this street. Perona was far from the bucolic image of the suburbs she’d imagined when she’d decided to make a fresh start away from the city.

They got out of the car and Kreeger slipped off his coat, tossing it on the front seat. He was wearing a white shirt and blue tie with a gray suit that was wrinkled at the rear. It was the same suit he’d worn yesterday.

They stood next to the car and waited for the back-up officers who’d followed them in a squad car. A moment later doors slammed and two coatless figures joined them on the sidewalk. Anna greeted Mike Steele, whom she’d instantly clicked with last night, and he introduced his partner, a black man named Eliot Leeds. She nodded a quick hello to the stocky new man, noting that his neck looked to be about as thick as a wheel on Max’s toy monster truck. His bald dome looked freshly waxed.

“We’re going to apartment 6B,” said Kreeger, dispensing with greetings. “Mike, I need you to stay outside and keep your eyes on the fire escapes. I’m not sure if the apartment faces the street or the back of the building, but we’ll radio you when we know.”

“Got it,” Steele said.

“Do we know if he’s armed?” asked Leeds.

“We have to assume he is,” Kreeger replied briskly. “I don’t need to remind you this guy’s a suspect in a double homicide. He may not go down easy.”

Leeds appeared unfazed.

“Does he live alone?” asked Steele.

“Yes, according to his parole officer, but again, we need to be prepared for anything.”

Kreeger looked at each of them in turn. “Everybody ready?”

“Yes,” they answered immediately.

“All right let’s go.”

Anna and Leeds followed Kreeger into the lobby, a dingy space lit by a single fluorescent bulb in the center of the ceiling. It bathed their faces in a sickly yellow light. Rows of metal mailboxes lined the wall on their right, and on the wall to their left, above a hissing radiator cracked with layers of paint, hung a homemade sign offering babysitting services from a woman named Bessie. A reminder that children actually lived here, the sign was the only hint of brightness in the otherwise depressing building. Bessie’s name and phone number were printed in repeating vertical columns along the bottom of the page, with scissor cuts between each one for easy ripping. Anna noticed that not one slip had been torn off.

The detective stabbed the elevator button. No one spoke while they waited for the car to arrive. While Kreeger stared at the numbers above the door, Anna surreptitiously studied him. His eyes were bright and alert, and he no longer seemed as surly as he had in the car. He seemed to have his game back now, and she chided herself for being critical earlier. She’d been surprised when he showed up at her doorstep last night and even more surprised she’d had such a nice time with him. But she shouldn’t have told him about her tattoo. The wine had gotten to her head.

The elevator gave no signs of life, so Kreeger poked the call button a few more times. Nothing happened.

“Looks like we’re hiking it,” he said, pushing open the door to the stairwell.

The three officers made the climb and stopped on the narrow sixth floor landing. Kreeger carefully opened the fire door and looked around. “It’s clear,” he said in a low voice.

They filed into the hallway and paused to listen. Anna heard pots and pans clanging behind one door and a baby crying loudly behind another. Malik’s apartment was at the end of the hall, and it was quiet.

“Eliot, go down one flight of stairs and radio Mike,” Kreeger whispered. “Tell him the apartment faces the back, the one on the west corner. Wait until he’s in position before you come back. I don’t want Malik getting tipped by any chatter.”

Leeds disappeared without comment, and Anna checked her radio to make sure it was off. It was.

Kreeger pulled back his suit jacket and flicked the leather safety strap on his shoulder holster. Anna followed suit, adjusting her below-the-hip blazer so that it didn’t restrict access to her weapon. She let her fingertips brush against the Glock’s polymer frame, a comforting reminder it could be drawn in an instant.

While they waited for Leeds to return, Anna steadied her crackling nerves with a few deep breaths. She’d been part of seven or eight raids during her three years on the force—including the memorable one at Tommy Two-by-Four’s filthy, cockroach-infested lair—and they’d all gone down without the use of any firepower. But she knew the day would come when the odds shifted out of her favor and a bust went haywire.

This could be that day.

Less than a minute later, Leeds returned. He gave a nod to indicate his partner was in position.

“Stay in the hall, out of Malik’s line of sight,” Kreeger told Leeds quietly. He looked at Anna. “I’ll take this side of the door; you take the other.”

Anna moved into position and hugged the wall. Kreeger did the same. He extended his arm and rapped on the door. Anna heard footsteps, then silence, and she guessed Malik was looking through the peephole to see who was there. A few seconds later a voice thick with suspicion said, “Who is it?”

“Police,” ordered Kreeger. “Open up.”

There was a muffled curse, then more silence, and Anna wondered if Lester Malik was making a break out the back window—or retrieving a weapon. Her fingers moved down the handle of her gun so that she now had a half-grip on it. She could feel the butt’s ridges against her sweaty palm.

A few long seconds passed. Just as she gripped the butt of her gun with her full hand, figuring they were going to have to break down the door, she heard a scrape of the lock. The door cracked open, spilling a narrow column of light onto the brown linoleum floor of the hallway. Kreeger had a direct line of sight through the sliver in the door, so when he stepped forward, not making a move for his gun, she relaxed a bit. Clearly he hadn’t seen anything to make him worry.

“What do you want?” a voice said. It was gravelly, tinged with annoyance and distrust.

“Lester Malik?” Kreeger asked, flashing his badge.

“Who’s asking?”

“Are you Lester Malik?” The detective’s voice was louder now, with a hint of steel.

“Yeah.”

As the door opened wider, Anna stepped into view and came face to face with the man responsible for a double murder. She was shocked by what she saw. The man’s face was fine. No blood or bruises, no broken nose. There wasn’t a scratch on him.

Her mind spun. There was no way the man standing in front of them was the same person who’d attacked Web last night…unless, of course, Web was lying about being attacked in the first place. But that didn’t make sense. Web wasn’t a suspect. Besides, Paul had seen the assailant fly out the window ahead of Web, and it didn’t seem there was any way Web could have given himself the injuries Kreeger had described.

If this man hadn’t attacked Web, who had?

What the heck was going on?

She stole a look at Kreeger, whose face betrayed no emotion. She waited to see what he’d do next.

“Mind if we come in?” she heard the detective say pleasantly. “We need to talk to you.”

The man snorted. “Do I have a choice?”

Kreeger gave a half smile. “No.”

When Malik turned around, Kreeger motioned to Leeds to remain in the hall. Anna followed Kreeger inside and kept her eyes on Malik. The ex-con had a cube-shaped head and a squarish body that looked to be made up of solid muscle. He was dressed all in black—black tee-shirt, black jeans and black sneakers. His eyes were hooded, dark. He glared at them defiantly.

Malik didn’t offer them a seat and didn’t make a move to sit, so the three of them remained standing in the center of the room. Anna took a quick look around the messy, cramped quarters and wrinkled her nose. It smelled like a combination of stale pizza and week-old laundry.

Malik turned to face them, his mouth a hard line. “What do you want?”

“I talked to your C/O this morning,” said Kreeger calmly. “Says you gated out from State seven months ago.”