Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (19 page)

29

>ELLIS ISLAND

Saturday, September 27, 1975

Niklaus spied the large ferry as it pulled into the inlet formed by the U-shape of the three Ellis Island land masses.

“What do you think that’s doing here?” Niklaus asked.

Dmitri, his sweatshirt hood pulled over his head, was whittling a stick with a sharp folding knife.

“Dmitri,” Niklaus said. “The boat. Why do you think it’s here?”

Dmitri glanced up as he dug out tiny slivers from the wood. “A ferry takes people from place to place.”

Niklaus stuck his hands out and parted the tall weeds, exposing a clearer view of the bay. Behind them was the massive hospital building, and behind that were the smaller units of the psychiatric wards, and behind them was the structure serving as their home.

“There aren’t any people on it.” Niklaus watched the ferry pull to a stop in front of the dilapidated building that once served as Ellis Island’s immigrant processing center. “Just two on the top, steering the boat.” His gaze wandered beyond the ship. “I think we should explore that one day.”

“Explore what?”

“The building. See what’s inside.”

“My mom said it’s where they examined the people who came from other countries.”

“Yeah,” Niklaus said, “but what’s inside? Let’s go take a look around.”

“She said not to go there.”

Fedor and Livana had taken the powerboat to Jersey City to buy food and the supplies Fedor needed to repair the roof. Fourteen-year-old Cassie was placed in charge of watching him and Dmitri. But she had fallen asleep under a tree, enjoying the unseasonable warmth of a sunny day.

“Do we always do what your mother tells us to do?” Niklaus asked.

Dmitri hacked away at the stick, removing a branch nub with one swift swipe. “No.”

“I’m going,” Niklaus said, releasing the weeds. They shifted back into place and he headed left, toward Island 2, the connecting land mass between the two legs of the U-shaped complex. Twenty feet later, he glanced over his shoulder to see that Dmitri was standing where he had been, running the blade’s edge over the thick piece of wood. “Hey! Put that thing away and come with me.”

Dmitri frowned, then closed the knife and shoved it in his jeans. The stick went in another pocket.

He trudged on, keeping several feet behind Niklaus—which always drove Niklaus nuts. Why couldn’t he just walk beside him like any normal kid?

They hiked along the water’s edge, using the wall of weeds as cover, moving behind the immigration building on Island 2, and then continuing onto Island 1.

“Wow, she’s a big boat,” Niklaus said, eying the ferry.

As they got closer, they moved behind a thick tree trunk and watched as the captain and his mate hopped off the ship and proceeded into the old building.

“Where do you think they’re going?” Niklaus asked.

“How should I know?”

Niklaus turned around to see Dmitri hacking away at the stick again. “C’mon,” he said, slapping Dmitri’s shoulder and moving out of the cover of the tree trunk and onto the broken sidewalk that ran the length of the island, fronting the former immigrant processing center.

He continued to glance over his left shoulder at the large building, watching for movement in case the men returned. He did not know if the authorities were aware that anyone was living on the island, but he doubted it: if they knew, the police would surely have removed them by now.

His father had told them all to keep their home a secret. Under no circumstances were they to tell anyone at their school in Manhattan where they really lived. If they did, they risked losing their house, and they would no longer be able to live in one of the most beautiful areas that existed in all of New York … a place where there was no traffic, no noise, no pollution, no cars. And no rent or taxes.

Although it took a tragedy to bring them there, his father had explained, their life—while by no means easy and often lacking the comforts of modern civilization—was serene and blessed.

Niklaus stole a look at Dmitri, who was easily ten yards behind him, carving away at the stick. “Damn it, Dmitri, c’mon. Hurry!” He quickened his pace and was now jogging toward the ferry. He hopped aboard and moved into an alcove, in case there were others on the boat that he had not seen. Dmitri followed a moment later; when he boarded, Niklaus grabbed him and pulled him aside.

“Put your stupid knife away. If we get caught, we’re in real trouble. Let’s go.”

“Where?” Dmitri shifted his head to the side, inside his hood, so he could see.

“I’ve never been on a big ship like this. Let’s look around.”

They walked in, up the flights of stairs, and emerged near the bridge. Niklaus stepped inside and stopped. “Whoa, look at this!”

Large picture windows encircled the room, which featured panels of instruments set into the countertop: levers, dials, lights, and large format maps. A framed yellowing photo with a placard that read, “Capt F. Rudiger” was propped beside the wheel.

“Compass,” Dmitri said. He stepped over to the shiny, polished gold handheld device and picked it up. “Wow.” He turned it over, catching the light—as well as his reflection—in the mirror-like finish of the rear surface.

“C’mon,” Niklaus said, “let’s keep looking.” He walked out of the bridge onto the exterior walkway and peered out at the immigration building. Rudiger and his mate were returning. “Dmitri, we gotta go, they’re coming back!”

Niklaus started for the stairs, then looked back at Dmitri. “Let’s go, hurry up.”

Niklaus ran down the steps, swung around to the next flight and heard the two men coming. He slipped left, behind a white steel bulkhead. “Dmitri!” he whispered. “Where the hell are you?”

The heavy footfalls of the crew echoed in the metal stairwell, getting louder as the seconds passed. Niklaus peered out, hoping to see Dmitri. Actually, he was hoping he did not see Dmitri, because if he did, the men would too.

Nothing. He probably went down the other set of stairs. As soon as the crew passed, Niklaus would head down, moving as quickly and as quietly as he could.

He had made it to the second flight and was nearing the bottom floor when he heard shouting.

“Hey you, punk! Get back here. Give that back to me!”

Niklaus turned and headed up, but with all the echoes and odd angles of the ship’s interior, he could not place the location. He thought Dmitri was above him, but where? It was a big vessel.

But then he heard

struggling

banging

yelling

And then he reached the top floor and saw the captain with his forearm around Dmitri’s neck, his stepbrother kicking his legs out and landing a blow against the mate’s chin. He went down and skidded backward across the floor. He got up and came at Dmitri and punched him in the face. But his fist also struck Rudiger’s arm, softening the blow.

Dmitri buried his shoe in the mate’s abdomen and the guy flew back into a counter. Dmitri bit into Rudiger’s bicep and the man screamed—then let go. The mate had gotten to his feet and yelled something just as Dmitri grabbed a metal pipe. He brought it back like a bat and was about to swing it at his head when Niklaus stepped in. “No, don’t!”

“What the f—” Rudiger turned and reached for Niklaus, but he squirmed away as Dmitri slipped out the side exit and ran for the stairs. They sprinted off the boat and kept running straight into the immigration building.

IT WAS DARK INSIDE and smelled of mildew. They ran through the dilapidated and cavernous, high-ceilinged rooms, peeling paint crunching beneath their sneakers as they moved deeper into the building, their footfalls echoing in the vacant rooms. Weathered wood benches sat askew, a few chairs lying on their sides.

This once-proud structure, with its close proximity to the Statue of Liberty and the gateway to capitalism and democracy—the ultimate symbol of American freedom—now sat abandoned, left to the merciless abuse of the elements.

“Son of a bitch, stop!”

The voice from behind made them run faster into the darkness and then out the back doors into the brightness, and into another colossal brick building.

Rusted iron pillars stared back at them in the sunlight that streamed in through large windows, their broken glass panes having allowed dirt, rain, and humidity to penetrate and degrade the interior.

The brick was crumbling in places, the tiled ceiling only partially intact, its missing sections having fallen across a corresponding area on the cement floor.

They moved into a darker room where the ground was littered more densely with detritus from the falling roof.

“I don’t think it’s safe in here,” Niklaus said, dodging a falling hunk of tile, then craning his neck ceilingward. “As soon as it’s clear we’ve gotta get out of here before something hits us on the head.”

“I wanna go now,” Dmitri said. He pulled his hood back up and looked down at the ground.

“We can’t, not while they’re out there.”

They moved to the edge of the room, around an alcove, and crouched in front of the wall. There they waited—but Dmitri got spooked when another chunk fell from above and crashed to the floor, shattering on impact and raising a cloud of dust and dirt.

Minutes passed. All remained quiet.

“That man was hurting me,” Dmitri said.

Niklaus stood up and took a quick glance around. “I couldn’t let you hit him with that pipe. You hurt him, the cops’ll come and move us off the island. You want that to happen?”

Rather than answering, Dmitri leaned back against the wall.

“You said that man was hurting you,” Niklaus said. “Was it like when those guys kidnapped you?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Just tell me what happened. You’ve never told anyone—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Fine,” Niklaus said. “Whatever.”

Fifteen minutes later, when Niklaus was convinced it was safe, they headed back the way they had come, into the main building. Through the windows, they saw the large ferry moving out of the inlet and into Upper New York Bay.

Once it cleared the island’s boundary, Niklaus headed toward the front door. “Now we can go.”

Moments later, they were walking back across Island 2 and then onto Island 3, where they lived.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Dmitri said. He shoved his hand in his pocket and fished around, as if searching for something.

“Would you leave that stick alone? We need to get back before Cassie wakes up.”

Dmitri did not answer, but he did pull something from his dungarees. It wasn’t the knife, however. It was the shiny gold compass.

THEY STEALTHILY APPROACHED the house, coming up behind the spot where Cassandra had been napping. But the area was vacant, the grass Fedor had planted, where she had been lying, still matted down from her weight.

“She’s not here,” Dmitri said. “She’s not here.”

“Where have you two been?”

They turned in unison. Cassandra was standing there, hands on her hips.

“We went exploring,” Dmitri said.

“Exploring? Mom and Fedor said we’re not supposed—”

“We didn’t go far,” Niklaus said. “And now we’re back. No big deal. You were sleeping, anyway.”

“That’s not the point. I’m gonna tell Mom—”

“No!” Dmitri said. “Don’t tell Mom. Don’t tell—”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because,” Niklaus said, “we’ll have to explain how we left without you knowing. And then they’ll know that you fell asleep and weren’t watching us, like you were supposed to.”

Dmitri again shoved his hand deep into his pocket and this time pulled out the knife and stick. “You fell asleep, Cassie.” He started carving the wood, then stopped abruptly. He looked up at her.

And smiled.

30

>520 2nd AVENUE

Manhattan

Monday, February 22, 1999

Vail walked into the apartment on Second Avenue ten minutes early. The crowd for Carmine Russo’s promotion party had already gathered, however, and it was a who’s who of the New York law enforcement community, from chiefs to captains, detectives, undercovers, and even a few prosecutors and judges.

Sofia Russo, apron still tied around her waist, hurried to the door and introduced herself. She took Vail’s hands in both of hers and said, “So you’re Karen.” She nodded, leaned back a bit, and said, “Now I know why Carmine talks of you all the time. You’re a knockout. What I looked like twenty-five years ago.” Sofia shook her head at her own comment. “Not really, I was never that good-looking. But in Carmine’s eyes … ” She smiled. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, no?”

Whoa, lady, calm down. Did someone shoot you up with caffeine?

“Thanks for the compliment, Mrs. Russo,” Vail said. “But I’d like to think your husband talks a lot about me because I’m a good cop.”

Sofia smiled, examined Vail’s face, and then laughed heartily. “Don’t you know, sweetheart? The best way to a man’s heart is his stomach or an impressive set of hooters. Or long legs. And not necessarily in that order.”

Vail stood there, unsure what to make of that—or Sofia Russo.

“Hey there.”

Vail turned—relieved to be rescued from this bizarre exchange—and saw a man a few years older than she, dressed in a suit.

“Ben Dyer. You’re Karen?”

Vail squinted. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“I’m a detective.” He grinned disarmingly. “Just bullshitting you. I overheard your conversation with Sofia.”

Vail turned and saw that Sofia had moved on to besiege another guest.

“Thanks for the save.”

Dyer laughed. “Don’t take it personally. She’s just a little jealous. He does have a tendency to talk about you.”

“Okay,” Sofia shouted. “Our stakeout team just informed me that he’s in the elevator, on his way up. Everyone into the living room.”

The guests shuffled in, squeezing shoulder to shoulder. The lights were turned out, and a moment later the front door opened.

“Surpri-i-ise!” everyone called out in unison.

Russo’s mouth dropped open. “What the heck is this?” The lights came on and he smiled broadly.

Dyer held up a beer. “Congratulations,
lieutenant
!”

Russo walked in, giving and getting hugs and handshakes. He worked the room and ended up in the back, where Vail was standing.

“So I’m curious. I’ve never cooked a meal for you, and I don’t have particularly long legs. Is it my boobs?”

Russo tilted his head. “Huh?”

“Sofia—”

“Oh, good lord,” Russo said as he craned his neck, trying to locate her. “Has she been drinking?”

“Hey, the way I see it, she threw you a terrific surprise party. You gotta cut her some slack.”

Russo, still searching the room for his wife, reached into his pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. He groaned as he read the display.

A second later, Vail’s cell phone rang. She answered it and locked eyes with Russo. “On my way.”

“So much for the party,” Russo said as he glanced at his watch.

“No way,” Vail said. “You earned this shindig. I’m a big girl. I’ll give you a full report.”

“Maybe I’ll stop by after, when things are winding down.”

Vail gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Yeah, why should I let another murdered woman spoil my party?”

VAIL PULLED UP in front of the apartment building on Fourth Avenue at 7:30 PM. She tinned the cop standing watch over the crime scene and walked up the stairs to 3B. The front door was open and she could see the flicker of flash photography from somewhere inside.

After putting on her booties, she was met in the hallway by one of the Crime Scene Unit detectives.

“Ryan Chandler,” Vail repeated as she shook his hand. “I don’t think we’ve worked together before.”

“I’m new. Used to be a cop and detective in Sacramento, so I’m not
totally
green.”

“I’m not feeling real confident,” Vail said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t screw up your case—or your crime scene.”

Whew. Now I feel much better.

“Is that Vail?”

The voice from the other room belonged to the medical examiner, Max Finkelstein.

“It is, Max,” she said as she followed the hallway into the bedroom. “We got another?”

But as soon as she stepped over the threshold she knew she could have answered her own question. The body was seated in the bed, a shard of glass protruding from the side of the neck. And plenty of blood soaking the comforter.

“Do we have a name?” she asked.

Chandler glanced at his pad. “We do. Megan Kostas. An interior designer with a big firm here in the city. She was part-owner.”

“Kostas. Greek?”

Chandler shrugged. “Probably.”

“You start on the body yet, doc?”

Finkelstein slipped on his reading glasses. “Not yet. But I know what you’d like to see.”

“Shall we look together?”

“I feel a bit left out,” Chandler said. “What is it we’re looking for?”

“Writing in black marker on the back of Ms. Kostas’ neck, at the hair-line. Was she married?”

“Divorced, two years ago.”

“Can we move the body?”

Finkelstein shrugged. “Just about to do that myself. Have at it.”

“Okay, let’s take a look.” Vail nodded at Finkelstein, who was wearing a Tyvek suit. She took a pair of gloves from Chandler and began pulling them on as the medical examiner carefully lifted the victim’s head and then rotated it to the side. Vail craned her neck, aimed her flashlight, and said, “Oh, yeah. There she is. Ryan, can you get a closeup of this?”

Chandler complied and told Vail he would send a color print to the homicide squad as soon as the film was developed.

“So did the UNSUB do her the same way as the last one, Juli Herod?” Vail asked.

“UNSUB?” Finkelstein asked.

“Unknown subject.”

He looked at her over the tops of his glasses. “Where’d you learn that one?”

“FBI.”

Finkelstein nodded in approval. “Very good.”

“So was Ms. Kostas suffocated, or is cause of death from the laceration of the carotid? I’m guessing the latter based on the amount of arterial spray.”

Finkelstein released his hold on the victim’s neck and used the back of his hand to push the bifocals back up his nose. “Yes. My preliminary impression is the carotid.”

So why did he change his MO with Herod? Why has he stopped suffocating them?

Finkelstein straightened up and gestured to Chandler to help him with the body. “Oh. Mazel tov on making detective.”

“Okay everyone, drop everything you’re doing because happy days are here again!”

They all turned in unison and faced a trim man of about six foot four, wearing a black suit with a red tie, a collar bar—and cuff links.

“Who the hell are you?” Vail asked.

He walked in and stood in front of Vail, prompting her to crane her neck to look up at him. “Now that’s no way to greet the finest homicide detective on the East Coast.” He leaned left and saw Finkelstein crouched by the body, behind Vail. “Max! Good to see you. What can you tell me?”

“Hang on a second,” Vail said. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. And ‘the finest homicide detective on the East Coast’ doesn’t quite cut it. How about we start over? I’m Karen Vail.”

“Antonio Fonzarella. Homicide squad.”

Vail turned to Chandler, and then Finkelstein, who cleared his throat and rose from his crouch. “I forgot to tell you he was coming.”

Vail swung her gaze back to Fonzarella. “Let me guess. Your nickname is—”

“Fonzie, yes. But not after the TV character.” He obviously noticed her perturbed look, because he added, “Edgardo Alfonzo, on the Mets? Best defensive second baseman in the league. Just like me—best detective on the East Coast. He goes by Fonzie, I go by Fonzie.”

Fonzarella.
Vail tilted her head in thought.
He should go by Cinderella. Or mozzarella. Wonder if he’d appreciate hearing my opinion.

“He’s a very good detective,” Finkelstein said. “Personality notwithstanding.”

“Thanks, doc,” Fonzarella said. “But I don’t need your endorsement.”

Make that a “definitely not” for hearing my opinion.

“Why are you here?” Vail asked.

“This is the fourth vic. The chief wanted me to get my ass over here and solve this thing ASAP.”

“Good, I’m relieved,” Vail said, mocking a wipe of her brow. “Thank God. Because I’m tired of seeing dead bodies, and obviously I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“You got a nice mouth on you, I’ll say that. And—” he cleared his throat—“some pretty good equipment too.”

“I’ve got another piece of equipment in my holster. If you want it to stay there, you’ll address me with respect.”
Asshole.

Fonzarella tilted his head, looking her over. He stepped to his right and kept his gaze on her face. “What are you, like twenty?”

“Like, no.”
I’m almost twenty-five. Smartass.

“Yeah, whatever.” He spun around, turning his back on Vail. “So, doc, what do we got?”

“Do you know what we’re dealing with here?” Vail asked.

Keeping his gaze on Finkelstein, he said, “You mean the sketch he makes on the vics’ necks? With the letters? Or the fact that he appears to be targeting Greek women?”

That’d be it.

Not waiting for an answer—or realizing none was required—he said, “So, doc, talk to me.”

“Name’s Megan—”

“Yeah. Vic four. That’s all I gotta know. Greek name?”

“Looks that way.”

“What else?”

“We’ve got that ‘sketch,’ as you put it, on her neck. More than that, I don’t know yet. I got here only a few minutes before you.”

“Looks like she got sliced and diced across the eyes, just like the others. So this is the same doer.”

That was a pretty damn quick—and superficial—assessment. If this is the best the East Coast has …

Fonzarella turned and called across the room to Chandler, who was dusting a chest for latent prints. “And you? Haven’t seen you before.”

“Ryan Chandler.” Apparently realizing that the less he said the better, Chandler kept it simple and short. Then he swung his torso back to the bureau and continued his business.

“That sketch on the neck,” Fonzarella said. “Same as before?”

“Almost. All the letters are the same, except the bottom one is a g.”

“A g? There was an e on the others—”

“The others,” Vail said, “had a capital E on the left, a capital I on the right, a capital D on the top, and different lowercase letters on the bottom. Right, Max?”

“Correct,” Finkelstein said.

Fonzarella frowned. “Weren’t the others found in a chair?”

“One was,” Vail said. “The male.”

Fonzarella moved the body to view it from different angles. “And what does it mean to you? Chair versus bed.”

“Not sure. I think it’s significant, though.”

“You’re not sure but you think it means something.”

“Gut. A woman’s intuition.”

He laughed. “Well, you got me there. Tits and balls, they think differently.”

“And in this instance,” Vail said, “thank God for that.”

Chandler and Finkelstein chuckled.

Fonzarella’s grin vanished. “I don’t think it means shit. It’s not like we have a large pool of vics to establish much of a pattern. Three he puts in a bed, one he does in a chair.”

“He killed one Italian and three Greeks, but you’re willing to accept the Greek victim pattern there.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” Vail asked.

“Because I said it is.”

Vail leaned back and placed a hand on her chin. “You know, I think I had you all wrong.”

Fonzarella smirked. “Yeah, how’s that?”

“Looks like you are just like Fonzie.”

“Yeah.” Fonzarella grinned. “You know it.”

“The TV character, not the baseball player. Narcissistic, putting up a facade to hide your insecurities, all just an act, afraid someone might see what you’re really like, who you really are. A figment of your own imagination.”

His face stiffened and he pointed an index finger at her. “I got twenty years on you when it comes to solving homicides. And I got a hundred percent solve rate. So I suggest you drop the attitude and try to learn something. That’s why I’m here. This is now a high-profile case. So think what you want, but the brass wanted me in charge of this, to make sure you don’t fuck it up.”

Vail had no response to that. And if this guy really did have the attention of “the brass,” she had better dial it back and do her best to get along with him. Even if he was a first-rate asshole in the body of a first-rate detective.

“Those letters are intriguing me,” Fonzarella said. “E, D, I, g. The killer’s initials?”

Vail lifted her brow. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“My point exactly. That’s why I’m here.”

Vail ignored the comment and instead considered the possibility. “Even if they are, what do we do with it? We don’t know which is his first name, last name, middle name … I mean, it’s interesting and it could potentially help us if we have a bunch of suspects we’re looking at. But what does it actually do for us? Here and now?”

“We write it down, file it away, and build a case. Sometimes we don’t know—can’t know—what all these things mean at the time they come to us.”

“Okay. Makes sense.”
But why would the killer use his own initials? It’s risky. Unless he’s signing his handiwork. That’s … sick.

Chandler set his kit aside. “I’ve lifted a number of latents. As soon as I have a chance to run them, I’ll let you know what I find. I vacuumed before you got here in case there are fibers worth examining. But I didn’t see any tool marks, sign of forced entry. No signs of a struggle.”

“And no skin under the nails,” Finkelstein said.

“So, like the others,” Chandler said, “it’s probably someone he knows.”

“Or he’s good at disarming them,” Vail said. “Makes them feel at ease. Someone he trusts, maybe. Security worker. Utility guy. Or someone impersonating a cop.”