Deluge

15

FLACK FOUND A VETERAN DETECTIVE in the precinct near the Gun Hill Road subway station. The detective, Stuart Bain, had been a friend of Don Flack's father.

"Buildings being painted," Bain said, standing outside the precinct under an eave where he could smoke without violating the law and getting wet from the rain. "How big a place we talkin' about here?"

"Don't know," said Flack.

"We've got a list we watch," said Bain. "Unoccupied places being built, remodeled. You wouldn't believe what people'll steal. One place they took new tile right off the floor at night while the glue was drying. I'll get you the list. But you know it might not be on there."

"I know," said Flack. "How's Scott?"

Bain finished his cigarette, fieldstripped it and said, "My son, Scott, is off fighting in Iraq. Was a time he considered becoming a rabbi. You know that?"

"Don't think so," said Flack.

"Now all he's considering is coming back alive and in one piece," said Bain. "Come on. I'll get you the list. I'll go with you. Check it out. Guy killed how many yesterday?"

"Four," said Flack.

"Maybe some backup wouldn't hurt," Bain said.

"Maybe it wouldn't," said Flack.

"Ellen?"

She wouldn't have taken any chances, not after she had been fooled the night before. The voice of the caller last night, the man she knew as Adam, wasn't really like Jeffrey's, but she had deluded herself. Not again. She was no fool.

"Jeffrey?"

She was alone in the hotel room. The room wasn't as nice as the one she had been in the night before. She had the feeling the police were punishing her for leading Adam to the hotel, for getting Paul killed.

The police had asked her to give them her phone. She had refused, said she needed it to stay in touch with her parents because her father was very ill, that she would tell the man in the bathroom if anyone called.

This call had come at the perfect moment. It was almost a sign. The officer, David McCord, had gone into the bathroom. The phone had rung. It was Jeffrey. No doubt. But she asked to be sure, to be reassured.

"Jeffrey, you sound- "

"I have to see you," he said. "Now. Soon."

He sounded like the sixteen-year-old boy he was, not the fourteen-year-old man-child she had first known and loved and wanted and needed.

"I'm sorry, Jeffrey. I can't. Not for a few days. Then we'll find a way to be together. I promise."

She had almost called him "baby." He didn't like that.

"I've got to," he said.

She heard the toilet flushing. Not much time. Seconds.

"I'll kill myself if I don't see you today," Jeffrey said, his voice definitely trembling.

"Gronten Hotel on Twenty-seventh Street," she said. "Room eight-eleven. Say you're my nephew. Tell them I told you to bring me something, a book. Pick up a book."

"I'm sorry," Jeffrey said.

"Don't be," she said.

This time she called him "baby."

"That was fine," said the limping man, taking the cell phone from the boy's hand and closing it. "You don't have to be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you."

"What're you showing me?" Danny asked.

Lindsay sat in front of him, palms up. The palms were almost beet red.

"Palms without glass fragments," she said.

He held out his hands and said, "Palms without glass fragments. What's your point?"

"I sprayed glass fragments into my palms," she said.

"Sounds like fun," Danny said. He grimaced.

"Then I applied French green clay like the clay I found on one of the palms of the people at Wallen we examined."

"And you found?"

"The clay didn't remove glass fragments. I had to pry them out."

"That had to hurt," said Danny.

"It didn't feel good. The interesting thing is I got the glass out, but I didn't get rid of all the green clay stain. Our killer did the same."

"So we have a suspect," said Danny. "Someone with a slightly green palm, swollen like yours where the fragments were removed."

"We have a suspect," Lindsay said with a smile.

"Wrong, Montana," Danny said. "We've got two suspects. I took another look at the videotape, sections that hadn't been altered."

"And you found?"

"I'll show you," he said.

It was Danny's turn to smile.

They moved down the hall to where Danny had set up the videotape.

"There," he said. "Students in Havel's ten o'clock class going into the lab."

He stopped the image on each of the four students.

"Got it so far?" he asked.

"Nothing to get yet," she said, standing behind him.

"Right," he agreed. "But now we go forty minutes after the class ended. I've isolated images of all the students. Annette Heights."

On the screen, frozen with a click, Annette Heights, the girl with the cute round face and wavy dark hair, was openmouthed, talking to two other girls.

"Okay," said Danny, pressing a button.

The images shot by and then stopped.

"Karen Reynolds," he said.

The tall girl was walking alone down a corridor toward the camera. Lindsay examined the image and nodded. Danny moved to the next image he had isolated.

"James Tuvekian."

The boy sat at a table in the cafeteria across from another boy. It was the same table where Danny had interviewed the students and faculty.

"And finally, Cynthia Parrish," he said.

The girl was standing next to a locker. A boy was leaning over her, one hand resting on the wall over her right shoulder. She was looking up at him. She looked as if she were about to cry.

"See it?" Danny asked.

"I see it," Lindsay said. "One of our kids changed clothes."

"And why would someone do that?"

"Blood," said Lindsay. "Get rid of the bloody clothes. Alter the tapes."

"Let's go talk to our suspects," said Danny.

"I'll get my kit."

"Bring an umbrella," Danny said.

He hadn't been able to get the bloody clothes she had been wearing out of the building. Too many eyes. The alarm had come too quickly. The damned queer O'Shea had found Havel's body too soon.

He had improvised, gotten the gym bag out of her locker, helped her change. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Havel wasn't supposed to die. But it had happened and he had done his best to cover it up.

Now he had to dance just ahead of the two CSI detectives.

He was dancing as fast as he could.

If you were homeless, finding a reasonably or unreasonably dry place to get out of the rain was growing increasingly difficult. There were underpasses, but they were three inches deep with dark water. There were basements with broken windows, but they were minilakes with floating garbage. There were abandoned buildings, but they were thick with bottom-rung crack addicts or the clinically insane.

The Hat was in search of something better.

The Hat, of course, always wore a hat, whatever kind of hat he could find or filch. It was his trademark. It was all he really had to identify himself among the shaggy, skinny, toothless old men with unkempt hair and beards.

The Hat had another name. He hadn't forgotten it. He just had trouble attaching it to the creature of the streets he had become.

The Hat knew a place to get out of the rain, an office building that was almost finished. The Hat knew a window he could pry open. He would just have to keep watch for guards. There wouldn't be any contractors or builders or workers today, not with the rain.

All he needed was something to eat.

He wouldn't steal. No need. If you were willing to walk and knew where you were going, you could always get a free meal, a not-bad meal. You didn't even have to dig into the garbage bins down by the food court in Grand Central Station.

The Hat went through the window and almost lost the St. Louis Rams cap he was wearing. It tipped back when he went through the window, but it didn't fall off. He made a note to clean up the prints from the window before he left. The Hat closed the window behind him and stood quietly, sniffing the air.

Over the fumes of freshly painted office walls, he smelled peanut butter.

There wasn't much blood on the hospital blues that Charles Cheswith found in the hamper outside the open door of Room 203. A woman was mopping inside the room, speaking to someone in Spanish. Charles had been lucky. She was just across from the room in which he had been.

No one was looking down the corridor his way.

He might have found something cleaner, but he didn't have time to fish around. He took the blues and hobbled to a door marked "Custodial." The door was open. He clicked on the light and took off his hospital gown. The room smelled like solvent or cleaning fluid. Charles had always liked the smell of Lysol and gasoline. His brother, Mal-com, had a more delicate sense of smell. There had never been much compatible between them.

The small room contained white plastic bottles, packages of napkins, bolts of toilet paper, paper towels. Charles needed a pair of shoes or slippers. He needed crutches. He needed to get the hell out of the hospital.

He opened the door a crack and peered out. The cleaning woman with the hamper had moved farther down the corridor. Charles came out and went into the room she had exited.

Two beds, both occupied. A skinny, gray man in need of a shave lay sleeping in the nearby bed. His mouth was open. He was snoring. In the other bed, a short broad man with black wavy hair that looked dyed looked up at Charles and said, "Que pasa?"

"Stubbed my toe," said Charles with a rueful smile. "Just now coming out of surgery."

"You should take care of that, Doctor," said the man.

"On my way to do just that," Charles said. "Just checking on the patient here."

Charles hobbled to the first bed and looked at the chart at the foot of the bed. Then he looked up.

"Fine," he said.

"He's gonna die," said the man in the far bed.

"We all are," said Charles.

"Pero este hombre va a morir hoy o manana."

"Que lastima," said Charles. "Tengo a tomar sus zapatos."

"Por que?"

"He won't be needing them anymore," said Charles, holding on to the bed and leaning over. A pair of hospital slippers were just under the bed. He managed to fish them out without falling.

"I guess not," said the man.

"Does he have crutches?"

"No," said the man, "but I do."

"Mind if I borrow them? I'll get another pair and send these right back."

Charles awkwardly managed to put on the slippers.

"I guess," said the man. "They're hospital crutches."

Charles hobbled to the man's bed. The crutches leaned against the wall near the head of the bed. Charles reached for them.

"You are one fuckin' bad liar," the man said, grabbing Charles's wrist.

Charles tried to pull away, but the man was remarkably strong.

"I thought I was pretty good at it," Charles said. "I'm just having a bad day."

The man let go of Charles's wrist and said, "So am I," said the man, "but you can bounce away. I can't."

The man patted the blanket where his right leg used to be.

"Diabetes," the man said.

"Sorry," said Charles, taking the crutches.

"You think you're having a bad day? Talk to me about bad days," said the man, turning away.

"We'd like to look in your locker," said Danny.

"My locker? What for?"

"We think you know," said Lindsay.

A tall, broad young uniformed officer named Dave Wolfson stood behind her. Wolfson had been drafted as a wide receiver by the Jets. He got cut early in the season and became a cop. He still played weekend football for the NYPD team. Wolfson knew how to smile. He just didn't do it when he was on the job.

"You'll need a warrant."

"We can get one," said Danny. "Officer Wolfson will just stand guard in front of your locker till it arrives."

"I want a lawyer."

"We haven't charged you with anything," said Lindsay. "Are we going to need that warrant?"

"No."

"Let's go," said Danny.

They went down the steps at the end of the main corridor in the Wallen School. Classes were in session. Footsteps of the quartet clicked down the stairs. They went into a room at the end of the lower level corridor. The room was just past the video security center where a woman in a security uniform looked up at them from the screens.

Danny, Lindsay and Wolfson moved to a quintet of lockers. The man inserted a key into the lock on the third locker and stood back. Danny opened the door. The locker was empty, clean.

"You cleaned it out?" asked Danny.

"Yesterday," he said.

"Then why didn't you want us to look inside it?" Danny asked.

"It's empty. I knew you'd ask me why."

"Why?" asked Danny.

"I took a few things, computer programs, a hard drive, some things. You going to turn me in?"

"You've got bigger worries," said Danny. He nodded at Lindsay. She set down her kit, reached into it and came up with a spray and a pair of goggles. The others stood and watched as she sent a mist onto the inside of the locker door. Dozens of fingerprints appeared. Lindsay put the spray back in the kit and came up with a pack of transparencies inside of clear plastic envelopes. She selected one and held it up to the locker door.

"Your fingerprints aren't inside this locker," she said.

"I don't understand. Maybe I never touch- "

"This isn't your locker," said Danny. "Which one is it? We can open them all."

Resigned, the man moved to the first locker and used another key on his chain to open it.

Officer Wolfson moved to the door of the small room. Danny reached over and opened the locker door. Inside, on the high shelf, were two books. Hanging on one of the three hooks was a shirt.

"Looks like blood," said Danny.

On the bottom of the locker was a white plastic grocery bag. Lindsay reached over, gloves on, and opened the bag.

"And what's this?" asked Danny.

He got no answer.

"More blood," said Lindsay, taking something carefully from the bag.

She held up a dress. The front of it was covered with dried blood splatter.

"Want to tell us who the girl is?" asked Danny.

"What girl? I found that in the garbage this morning. I was going to turn it in to you."

"You weren't in a big hurry," said Danny.

"I did it on my own."

"Did what?" asked Danny.

"Killed Havel."

"We'll see," said Lindsay.

"I want a lawyer now," said Bill Hexton.

"Now," Lindsay said, "you get one."

Keith Yunkin watched the bald man heading toward the door of the hotel with an older man who was talking animatedly. Both men held black umbrellas and the pounding rain made them raise their voices to be heard. The bald man was carrying a container of coffee in one hand, umbrella in the other, and a newspaper under his arm. He glanced at the hotel entrance, looking as if he wanted to escape.

"You can close the deal by dropping two points," said the older man as they made it up the stairs and under the alcove in front of the hotel entrance. "Two points, Jerry. You'll still walk away with what…?"

"One hundred and forty-two thousand," said the bald man.

"One hundred and forty-two thousand," repeated the older man.

"One hundred and forty thousand is ten years ago's sixty thousand," said Jerry.

"So you're going to pass up writing the policy because of nostalgia? Insurance is insurance."

"That it is," said Jerry.

Keith stood to the side, listening.

"So you're going to write it up or not?" the older man said.

Jerry pressed a button on the umbrella to close it. He had purchased it from a one-eyed nervous vendor this morning for five dollars. It was working just fine.

"I'll write it up," said Jerry. "When I get back to Dayton."

"Before you go home," pressed the older man. "Jerry, don't give me a heart attack here."

"Before I go home," Jerry conceded.

The older man patted Jerry's shoulder and grinned. He was getting a piece of the action and it was enough.

"Gotta go," said the older man. "You going up to your room and getting it done now, right?"

"Right."

"I'll send a messenger to pick it up in an hour, okay?"

"An hour's fine," said Jerry.

The older man looked at the sky and shook his head. He muttered, "Fucking rain," and ran to the curb where a cab was waiting.

Keith walked up to Jerry, doing his best to hide the limp he knew the police would be on the lookout for. They would also be looking for a lone man. He meant to remedy that situation right now.

"Jerry?" he said as the bald man turned to head for the hotel.

"Yeah."

"I thought it was you," Keith said, holding out his hand to shake. "Ted Wingate from Dayton. You sold my uncle a great policy on his business."

Jerry took the offered hand and said, "Frank Terhune?"

"My uncle," said Keith. "What brings you to New York?"

"Insurance," said Jerry. "You?"

"Surgery," said Keith. "Leg. Long, boring story. Afghanistan. Got a minute? I haven't talked to anyone from home in weeks."

Jerry hesitated and then said, "Sure. We can sit in the lobby or- "

"Mind if we go to my room? I've got to make a call."

"No, that'll be fine. I just have a few minutes."

"Me too. I've got a check up at Mount Sinai at one. Wait. They were just starting to clean my room when I came down."

"We can go to my room," said Jerry.

They walked in together. Keith put his hand on Jerry's arm to steady himself, hide the limp. The hand made Jerry uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to distance himself from a wounded veteran.

Installation art. That's what it looked like to The Hat. A long time ago. A year? Six years? He had been an artist. A real artist. Shows in galleries in San Antonio, Los Angeles, Dallas, Chicago, Manhattan. He could have designed something like this back then.

A cleanly painted room with shining floors. A single office chair in the middle. Someone sitting almost motionless. A boy in jeans and a blue pullover shirt, short sleeves.

The Hat stood in the doorway, looking at the kid who looked back at him but didn't move.

"You okay, kid?" asked The Hat.

"I don't know."

The Hat stepped into the room. Nothing seemed to be holding the kid in the chair. He wasn't tied up. There was no bomb attached to him.

"Why are you sitting there?" asked The Hat. "You hungry?"

"No. He, this guy, told me to sit here till he got back," said the kid.

"Guy?"

"I don't know his name. He came for me at school, outside of school. Said Ellen was waiting for me."

"Ellen?" asked The Hat.

The truth was that Jeffrey was more frightened of this guy than he had been of the man with a limp. The man with the limp had talked to him softly, calmly, assured Jeffrey that he wouldn't be hurt, and Jeffrey believed him. Jeffrey also believed him when he said he would be very sorry if he got out of the chair before the man got back.

Jeffrey didn't feel the same about this guy. He knew homeless when he saw it.

"She wasn't waiting for you? This Ellen," said The Hat.

"No. He called her. I think he wants to kill her. He's got a knife."

The Hat knew kids this age who drank, smoked, snorted, ate and shot up with all kinds of crap that had them seeing murder where there was none. This kid was none too bright, but he looked clean.

"Kid, just get up and go home," said The Hat. "You got money?"

"No," Jeffrey said warily. "But I have a Metrocard."

The Hat moved to the middle of the room to help the boy up, but the boy didn't need help. There was nothing wrong with him.

"Maybe I better just wait," Jeffrey said.

"Maybe you better just get the hell out of here," said The Hat.

"Hold it," came a voice behind them.

The Hat froze, then turned around.

Don Flack stood in the doorway, gun in hand. The Hat knew he was a cop. He looked cop, probably smelled cop if they got close to him.

"I just came in to get out of the wet," The Hat said.

He looked harmless, but Flack knew better than to count on that.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," he said, taking a step into the room.

The Hat held his hands out. So did the boy.

"The man with the limp," said Flack. "Where is he?"

"Left," said Jeffrey.

"Who are you?" asked Flack.

"Jeffrey Herdez."

The name rang bells, lots of bells.

"Ellen Janecek," said Flack.

"He's going to hurt her," said the boy. "He said it was because of what she did to me. Ellen didn't do anything to me."

The Hat was lost. "The rain," he said. "We just- "

"You see the man?" asked Flack, putting his gun back in the holster under his jacket but keeping his distance.

"No," said The Hat.

Flack took out his phone, flicked it on, pushed a speed dial button, waited a beat and said, "Mac. Yunkin's on the way to the hotel to get Ellen Janecek. Might be there by now."

A pause. "You are?" said Flack into the phone. "Right. I'll get him home."

Flack turned the phone off and looked at the homeless man.

"Let yourself out the way you came in," he said.

The Hat didn't need to be told twice.