SEVEN O’CLOCK with time still to kill. I board the train into Manhattan. The drone of the subway car speeding along the track lulls me to sleep. Fearing I will miss my station, I stand. With each stop a wave of commuters enters and exits the car; interchangeable and anonymous. White, black, brown, and yellow; citizens of the community I am sworn to protect and to serve. How many beat their children, beat their wives, beat their dogs, deal drugs, and worse? Any serial killers among you please raise a hand? Is The Chatterbox clocking my every move? Likely why Terry Lattimer put a bullet through his brainpan; to escape.
At a Starbucks located on 47th Street—one-block and four minutes on foot to Hell’s Kitchen Park—I order a large black coffee with a double-shot of espresso and a slice of banana bread cake. I’m not hungry but need a sugar rush. On the sidewalk outside, I find a two-seater table. Aside from me, there is only one other couple.
At a table out of earshot, I unwrap my slice of cake, wash it down with scalding coffee. The combined jolt of sugar and caffeine gives me a welcome lift.
Using the burner mobile, I dial the New Jersey State Police. Identifying myself, I’m put through to the Major Crime Unit investigating the Livingstone homicide. Detective Kevin Jacobi is the older detective present at the crime scene and is now in charge of the investigation.
“I shouldn’t be speaking to you, Fortune,” he says. “I’m only taking this call as a courtesy.”
Jacobi listens as I explain Gabby and Mel’s disappearance. I admit my telephone connection to The Chatterbox, withhold nothing except for my pending meet-up with the villain tonight. In exchange, I ask him to share the details of his own inquiry with me: “Whatever those details are.”
“You say this guy has abducted your partner and a second detective? How is this even possible?”
“I can’t excuse it. No one, from our Chief of Ds down, anticipated a second man. Livingstone was our only suspect. The evidence is solid. I think it’s why this person was able to operate freely. And Rohypnol.”
“Roofies?”
“I have reason to believe my partner and Detective Johns were drugged into submission. Gabby would not have been taken without a fight.”
“What does your CO have to say about all this?”
“The brass wants me drawn and quartered. You should know I’m under suspension.”
“Still running rogue, are you?”
“Silent and deep. But right now, I need your help.”
“You think I can help you to get them back?”
“I’m grasping at straws, Detective.”
At the end of the line, Jacobi stays silent.
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Just as I think he’ll hang-up, Jacobi says, “I spent ten years in the Marines before becoming a cop. Did a six-month tour in Iraq in the early days of that shit-show, before things really went FUBAR. Still, we lost our share. Snipers, suicide bombers, IEDs; hell man, we didn’t know what the fuck we were up against, did we? But as scared as we were—and believe me, Fortune, most of us were squirts-terrified—we never abandoned the one thing, the one certainty that allowed us to go out each day and to do what needed to be done: No man left behind. No matter what, we knew our brothers would never leave us behind to be dragged naked through the streets on TV, or for our bodies to turn to dust in that stinking shit-hole of a sandbox.” A pause, seemingly to regain his composure. “If it helps, I’ll get you whatever you need. Count on it.”
After hanging up with Jacobi, I use the burner to dial-in to the voice message box on my mobile line. As expected, nothing from Gabby or Mel. As expected, a trio of calls from Upton: I’ve sent over a car; the car arrived, and you aren’t there—where the fuck are you?! Even the Chief of Ds has seen fit to put in his two-cents worth: Don’t do anything reckless, Fortune. You’re not Rambo or Luke Cage!
Fingering the weapons strapped to my chest, my hip, and my leg, I beg to differ.
A call from Tony Giardano: It’s me. They’re having shit-fits over here. Maybe you plan on a solo run, Hoss, maybe not; it’s your rodeo. If not, let me know. Three years in the military, maybe I can help. Let me give you a number to call if you change-up your mind.
Finally, two incoming calls from Bobby Danilenko, The Uke. The first to let me know he’s reviewed the Livingstone and Plett case files, autopsy reports and all, and asks that I call him back. My first instinct is to dismiss the call for what it is: The Uke reaching out to a live voice at the opposite end of a line, any voice. I get it, the guy is lonely, but right now I don’t have the bandwidth. After listening to his second message, I decide to ring back.
“Thanks for getting back to me, Fortune. How’s Gabby?”
I swallow hard and say, “She’s good.”
The Uke says, “You know, normally, I think it’s a bad idea for cops to hook-up; fucks with the judgment, makes you stupid and sentimental, even reckless. But you two? You two seem good together.”
It’s not a conversation I wish to have. “Listen, Bobby, I’m up to my eyeballs in bullshit here, so let’s cut to the business. What do you mean you recognize the victim’s husband?”
“I didn’t say that, Fortune. What I said is he looks familiar, very familiar, too familiar. Does he have a twin?”
“Not that I know. An only child orphaned at a young age.”
“You recall me telling you about a tattoo parlor on Liberty Avenue, where our victims had their work done, Mancinelli and Manischewitz?”
“Sure.”
“Like I said, Lattimer shot his head off before we could conduct a proper investigation. Everything went into the shitter after that. Your ex-husband here? He looks a lot like one of the employees we had planned to question. The guy wasn’t an artist, just managed the joint, apparently.”
“Marcus Livingstone was a respected therapist with a doctorate in psychology, Bobby. He’d been practicing for years. He wasn’t moonlighting as a tattoo parlor manager on Liberty Avenue, not then, not ever.”
“Was?”
Reluctantly, I explain to The Uke that Marcus Livingstone is dead, how he died, how the investigation is now fucked-up-beyond-all-recognition, that Gabby and a second detective are missing, and I suspect The Chatterbox has them both.
When I finish, The Uke says, “Jesus Christ. And you’re sure the Doc doesn’t have a twin?”
“A brother we don’t know about? Maybe. A brother he didn’t know about? Don’t see how.” My reply is curt; all I want is to get The Uke off the phone.
“Okay, Fortune. But you were pretty damn sure this Livingstone character was your guy. Now it turns out he’s not.” A rebuke in no uncertain terms.
After a moment of silence, I say, “Bobby, both Gabby and I recall you referring to Alcoholics Anonymous regarding Manischewitz and Mancinelli. Our recollections from that night are a little hazy.”
“Right, AA. Both were attending, though Manischewitz for reasons other than to get sober.”
“Did you connect any dots from AA to a potential perp?”
“Another thing that didn’t make it into the reports. After Lattimer blew his brains out the investigation went phfft!”
“You never considered AA as a link between victims and the perp?”
“Like I say: phfft!”
Five minutes later, I telephone Jacobi at the New Jersey State Police.
“Me again.”
“So soon? You’re like a bad penny, Fortune: you keep turning up.”
“I know you’re sifting through Livingstone’s patient files. Did you find a wall safe?”
“If we did, what would you expect us to find there?”
“Patient files? Detailed notes on the particulars of the murder of one Dorothy Manischewitz and one Maria Mancinelli of New York City? A third file or notes describing a male subject, six foot tall maybe more, with a military, athletic, or some such background. Maybe you even have a photo? He’s a guy most women would find hard to resist.”
“You have a name for this man?”
“I do not. But until I know for sure, I won’t know for sure.”
“What’s to stop me from coordinating with your people to have this man picked up and detained for questioning?”
“If you do, you’ll be gambling with lives.”
“I hate to break it to you, Fortune, but those lives are already in play.”
With that, he gives me a name.