Carlton Book rubbed his eyes and looked towards the window near the television and was near-blinded by the bright rays of sun pouring through. He looked at the cable box and saw it was almost ten in the morning.
I must have fallen asleep , he thought. How long was I out?
He consulted the face of his watch, fully expecting that the stress from realizing what he had become had put him out for days. It was only the next morning.
He ran his hands across his face and chipped the sleep from his eyes. He blinked several times and realized he felt rested and that no apparent hangover was lurking in the corners of his head. He used the remote to turn on the television, which had been previously set to the local news station. He blinked some more and stared at the screen, seeing the face of the detective handing the 3-Monkey case. Below his hard visage was a banner that read that the killer claimed yet another victim. He saw that the detective was speaking, but no sound came from his lips. Book stared in wonder for a moment, then chuckled as he took the TV off its mute setting.
“ ... leads right now,” Desmond Fine was saying. “We have the best forensic team and investigators reviewing the evidence at hand and we fully expect that an arrest will be made.”
“You’ve said the same thing after every murder,” cried a female reporter, shoving a microphone under Fine’s nose. “Yet you don’t seem to be any closer to finding this monster than you were the last time. How do you respond to that?”
Fine’s face flushed a deep red and tightened. His jaw shifted back and forth slightly, like he was gnashing his teeth.
Book felt that under different circumstances - like not being on television - the detective would grab the reporter by the throat and beat her to a pulp.
“We are doing the best we can,” Fine said after a deep breath. “Aside from the ongoing investigation, we have a 24-hour hotline, hoping that someone may have seen the killer either enter or leave the premises and will call with a description. That’s all I have to say,” he said quickly and turned and walked away from the throng of reporters.
Book watched as the reporters followed the detective and shook his head. The man was doing his best to capture this madman and everyone wants him to do more. He rose from the couch, poured a large mug of coffee from the carafe on the counter and nuked it. He returned to the living room and saw the light on the answering machine blinking. Book pressed the PLAY button and the machine’s automated voice announced that he had three messages.
“Carlton?” said Lena voice through the small speaker. “Lena. Please call me when you have a moment. I think it’s important.”
There was something in her tone; a worry, a concern that he did not like.
Next message said the automated voice on the machine.
“Carlton!” cried Lena. “Where are you? I left a message earlier and I need to talk to you!”
There was a pause on the line.
“That detective; Fine,” Lena continued in an urgent whisper, “He was here! At my apartment! And he was asking about you! Please call me back!”
He stared at the answering machine feeling his heart thud in his chest. He felt the mug begin to slip from his grasp and he placed it on the coffee table. He sat on the couch.
Next message repeated the answering machine.
He heard Lena utter a harsh “Shit!” which was followed by a hard click.
‘That was your last message,’ said the automated voice.
He looked up and saw the detective’s angry face on the screen. The news was repeating its earlier broadcast.
Book picked up the mug of coffee and took a long swallow.
He’s asking about me, he thought. Did he find something incriminating or was it just an interview; excluding potential suspects?
You need to leave town , said a soft but urgent voice in his head. You need to leave town now!
Book knew it would take him maybe an hour to pack but also knew he couldn’t. He had to stop the serial killer somehow. And then there was Lena. She was part of his life; of him, despite his attempts to keep her at a distance.
He mentally calculated how much money he had accumulated in his oversea account and knew with certainty that his other life was at an end and a life with Lena Truman was what he wanted most in the world.
Seeing her every day versus a few times a week. The thought of going to bed with her and waking with her at his side sent a warmth through to his core. He’d ask her to quit her going-nowhere receptionist job and they could exist on his savings very comfortably. He knew there was more than enough money to be made in his ‘other’ profession, but for her; for Lena, he could and would put that aside.
Book looked up as the face of the detective on the television switched to an attractive news anchor.
An idea formed in his mind. It was risky, to be sure, but he had to do something before more people were killed.
Maybe this is penance ? he thought. A way to pay for my sins?
Desmond Fine knew all there was to know about the 3-Monkey Killer. Who better to help track down this psycho?
* * *
While a fresh pot of coffee was brewing, Book took a hot shower. Once done, he sat on the couch and called Lena, explained that he was out late with a client, slept late, and felt that the detective was simply tying up loose ends by checking the whereabouts of anyone associated with George Parnell. He asked if she was free for a late lunch and made a date for two that afternoon.
Book then called up an associate who had helped him with false identifications in the past. He gave him all the information the man needed and said he would drop off the necessary photographs to complete the job. Book added that the funds were already transferred to his account in the Cayman Islands. Book then made a call to another associate whose talent was telephone and computer surveillance and hacking. He promised that he would drop by to pick up the devices he requested.
Book glanced at his watch and saw it was 12:30. He put on his jacket and made the short walk to the supermarket, picked up a container of milk, a few rolls from the bakery section, a pound of turkey and dark brown hair dye. He returned home, had another cup of coffee, brushed and flossed his teeth and left to meet Lena for lunch.
He arrived at the restaurant a few minutes before she did. They kissed and hugged briefly and went inside where they had a glass of wine while their order was being prepared.
“So you don’t think that detective suspects you?” she asked.
Book smiled and shook his head. “Of course not,” he replied. “You see things like that on all cop shows! The detective interviews people that had a relation to the victim; sometimes making them think they think that they are the one who committed the crime. They’re just confirming dates, times, and everything else to exclude that individual from their investigation.”
Lena took a sip from her drink as the waiter returned with their lunch. After the meals were placed before them, the waiter refilled their water glasses and asked if they needed anything else. Lena shook her head and looked to Book who did the same. When the waiter was out of earshot, she continued. “He just seemed so ... interested in you, Carlton,” she said.
“I’m just an accountant, honey,” he said taking a bite from his sandwich. “And why would I kill George?” he asked. “He’s never done a thing to me.”
Lena took a spoonful of her onion soup then dabbed her lips with a napkin. “But the detective ... ” she began.
“Okay,” said Book wiping his fingers on his napkin. “Say I was the killer. Wouldn’t it bring the police down on my neck if I was to kill someone I work with? The police would round up all the usual suspects and focus on the one person who knew George, but didn’t work for him directly. Or for the company for that matter! Except on a part-time basis. Someone who isn’t seen every day, comes and goes in and out of the office, and is gone for days at a stretch.” He took another bite from his sandwich. “I’d even suspect me, if I was the detective,” Book said around a mouthful of food. “The 3-Monkey Killer has not been caught yet,” Book added, “because, from what I hear on the news, he doesn’t leave any evidence behind. And yes, being able to elude the police for so long could make the guy cocky. But to kill someone he works with; someone who could lead the cops to his front door? Well, sweetheart, that isn’t cockiness; that’s just nuts!”
“But you have to admit that the killer is insane,” Lena said.
“That’s a given,” Book said chewing on a slice of pickle. “He’s a shadow; a ghost. You don’t know he’s been there until after he’s gone. Killing someone in your own backyard, well, I don’t think he’d do that. Too risky.”
Lena finished her soup and took a swallow of the wine.“Can we change the subject, please?” she asked. “The Maltese Falcon is showing at the Playhouse on Saturday, maybe ... “
“I’d love to go, hon,” Book said cutting her off, “But I have to meet with a major account and the job’s going to take me at least a week to complete. Maybe three.”
“Sounds intense,” Lena said, trying to keep the disappointment from her face and voice.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Book said leaning back in his seat. “A multi-national firm with offices around the globe. Each division is sending their files to their corporate office in Seattle and I have to compile the figures for their annual report.”
“You’re going to Seattle?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” Book said. “I tried to get them to send their files to my computer so I could work from home, but they’re a private firm. Confidentiality issues and they’re worried about security.” He sighed. “But the good news is they are paying me more than my rate and putting me up in a four-star hotel.” Book looked at her and broke into a smile. “Hey! Why don’t you come with me? You could see the sights while I work during the day?”
Lena smiled and shook her head. “I wish I could, sweetheart,” she said, “but I can’t take that much time off without advance notice. Especially after ... “ Her voice trailed off.
Book leaned forward in his seat and held her hands.
“You sure?” he asked. “I could talk to Dave and Jerry?”
Lena shook her head again. “I’d love to, Carlton,” she said sadly. “But I’m also helping with a sales project that was due this week. Since the office is closed, I asked them to send me the files to work on.” She chuckled. “Business goes on, you know.”
Book frowned, then looked up. He leaned across the table and kissed Lena on the nose. “How’s about this?” he asked. “You take off three days at the end of the month and we’ll take an extended weekend somewhere? You pick the spot!”
Lena smiled. “That I can do,” she said.
“Then consider it a done deal!” Book grinned.
Lena looked at her watch. “I need to go to the office to scan some documents and email them to my laptop,” she said.
“You should take time for yourself,” Book said.
Lena shook her head. “I need to keep busy,” she replied. “If I don’t, I’ll go nuts.”
Book signaled the waiter for the check and took a few bills from his wallet. “Well, just in case you didn’t know, Ms. Truman,” Book said standing, “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too, Carlton,” Lena replied, her eyes staring into his.
The waiter came over with the check and handed it to Book. Book’s eyes scanned the numbers and handed the man the bill, adding a generous tip. The waiter grinned, bowed slightly, and turned back to the table to remove the empty plates and bowls. Book escorted Lena to the door and outside.
“Will you be able to call me?” she asked.
“Maybe not for a few days,” Book replied. “But as soon as I’m settled, I will.”
She held his hands and pulled him closer. They kissed deeply.
“I’m really going to miss you, Mr. Book,” Lena said.
“Not half as much as I’ll miss you, Ms. Truman,” Book said softly.
Book held Lena’s hand as they walked back to Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell. They kissed once more before she went through the office doors. He blew her a kiss and gave her a wink before leaving.
As he passed a storefront window, he glanced at his reflection and ran his fingers through his thick light brown hair. He knew Lena well enough to know she could not take days off without advance planning, needing to arrange for coverage and all. He didn’t like leading her on that way, but he didn’t want her to suspect that he would be local. He smiled to himself, wondering what he would have done if she said she would come with him to Seattle.
Book shook his head and headed uptown to meet his associate and then to the barber shop.
* * *
Desmond Fine walked out of his office, placed his briefcase against the wall and took out a ring of keys to lock the door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few wrinkled bills and sniffed.
“Guess it’s drive-through again,” he muttered.
Fine placed the money back in his pocket and walked down the hall to the elevators.
“Des!” cried Frank, coming around the corner with a file folder held tightly in his fist.
“Aw, Frank,” whined Fine. “I’m tired, I have a headache, and I’m hungry! Can’t this wait until morning?”
“I don’t think so, man,” the heavyset man replied.
“Fine,” the detective sighed. “What is it?”
“Well, our latest friend in the morgue ... “
“Doctor Richard Ziegler,” said Fine. “What about him?”
“I was doing a back-check on the guy and you’ll never guess what I found?” said Frank.
The detective stared at his friend and partner for several seconds who simply stared back.
“I am going to beat you with my briefcase if you don’t tell me why this couldn’t wait till the morning,” warned Fine.
“Well, we know that Ziegler was a high-priced surgeon, right?” asked Frank.
“Yeah,” replied Fine tonelessly.
“Respected in the community and all that, right?” asked Frank.
Fine rested the side of his head against the wall with his eyes closed.
“I’m getting ready to swing, Frank,” Fine muttered. “I’m giving you fair warning.”
“Bet you didn’t know the good doctor was a short-eyes,” grinned Frank.
Fine’s eyes shot open. “What?” he asked.
“He’s a pedophile, Des!” Frank exclaimed and opened the folder. “Real name Dean Gerald Anthony, out of Michigan. Also a surgeon. Convicted fifteen years ago on six counts of molestation. Oldest was ten years old; youngest six. Skipped during the trial. They convicted him in absentia.”
Fine snatched the folder from Frank’s hands. His eyes scanned the data.
“You sure about this?” he asked.
“Ran his prints through IAFIS and they came up Dean Anthony, MD!” replied Frank.
Fine’s red rimmed eyes looked up at the large man.
“Who else knows about this?” he asked in a whisper.
“Just us,” Frank said.
“Keep it that way,” Fine said. He closed the folder and rubbed his eyes.
“Uh ... “ began Frank.
“Oh, don’t tell me there’s more!” groaned Fine.
“I did a CODIS check too,” Frank said. “There’s a DNA match from an unsolved child rape case from three years ago,” Frank said. “When the detective in charge of that investigation checked it, it came up Anthony. And with Dean Anthony MIA, there’s no way he would have liked Ziegler for it.”
Fine opened his mouth and nothing came out. He rubbed his eyes again.
“Look, Frank,” he said. “Do this for me. Check out the other 3-Monkey victims on the ultra-QT. After this, I’m guessing there’s some dirt we wouldn’t have noticed on the first look. Meet me back here in the morning and we’ll figure out what to do about it then. Okay?”
“No problem, Des,” Frank said. “Good night.”
“Yeah,” sniffed Fine. “Right.”
Fine turned the corner and Frank walked past an old man mopping the hallway.
The old man mopped the hallway three times before he picked open the lock on Fine’s door. He slipped inside, removed the casing off the desktop computer on Fine’s desk and inserted the device he picked up earlier, attaching to the inside of the telephone jack. After replacing the computer’s cover, he then followed the wire leading from the phone on the corner of the desk to the wall. He opened the small square cover, connected the wires to the bug and screwed it down tight.
The old man peeked out the door and saw the hallway empty. He grabbed his mop and bucket and walked to the exit. At the door, he came to a stop and looked over his shoulder. The old man sighed and brought the mop back to a stain near the window and mopped it clean.
Satisfied that the spot was clean, he left.
* * *
Fine walked up the steps to the precinct feeling better after a full night’s sleep and a hot shower. He took a sip from the mega-sized cardboard coffee cup in his hand and glanced around him feeling good that there were no reporters in wait. Of course, since he usually arrived at 8:30 and the time being 7:15, he knew he beat them to the punch.
He disliked being hounded by the reporters; not because they were interested in the 3-Monkey Killer case, but because he had seen the integrity of reporters and what was considered news go downhill since Walter Cronkite retired.
Those were the days of news and news reporting. Stories that had teeth and meaning, not reporting which teen star was without panties when clubbing, or which third-rate canary had a public meltdown at a boutique. He knew that this was an important case, but these vultures just wanted to see him lose it on camera by taking swipes at him.
They didn’t know the inner details of the case because he had made sure Frank Costa removed that information from the files, just in case anyone was curious. He knew of cops that dug through old files and leaked information to the press. This case was not going to be one of them. The media would be told about secret background of the victims eventually. But not now.
Not today.
Fine said good morning to a few of the detectives and uniforms he knew and headed directly to his office. He sat behind his desk and looked at the stacks of folders on the 3-Monkey Killer. He pressed the power button on the computer.
His concentration was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Yeah?” he said.
Frank Costa opened the door and poked his head in, leaving his stocky body in the hall.
“Hey, Frank,” Fine said taking a swallow of brew from the cup. “That file from ... “ Fine stopped when he saw Costa was making small cutting gestures under his throat with his index finger.
“You got a visitor, Des,” Frank said, his face dark and hard.
Fine frowned as he looked for clues in the man’s face.
“Not a reporter?” he asked slowly.
Frank Costa shook his head and rolled his eyes. He mouthed the word ‘Fed’. He stood away from the door and next to Costa stood a man in a black suit, white shirt, black tie and highly polished shoes. He had a thin dark mustache and his black hair was cut short and combed straight back. His dark sunglasses concealed his eyes.
The man walked around Costa and stood in front of Fine’s desk.
“Special Agent Eric Scarborough,” the man said in a flat voice. He flashed his ID and slid it back in his jacket pocket. “FBI.”
Frank silently lifted both hands and mimed a choking movement behind the agent’s back.
In one move, Special Agent Eric Scarborough did a quick about-face, grabbed Costa’s thumbs in his hands and bent them back slightly. Costa’s mouth dropped open and his eyes darted to his held thumbs, to the agent, to Desmond Fine and back again to the agent.
Under the dark glasses, the agent’s face showed nothing. Not anger, not mild irritation, not sadistic pleasure; nothing.
“Now,” Scarborough said softly, “that wasn’t very nice.” He tilted his head to one side, like he was listening to something only he could hear. “Was it?” he asked.
The agent released Costa’s thumbs and turned back to Fine who was in the middle of dislodging another chunk of bagel from his teeth with his tongue.
“Thanks, Frank,” Fine said. “I’ll see you later.”
Costa left quickly and accidently closed the door too hard.
“And what can I do for you, Special Agent Scarborough?” asked Fine.
Scarborough stood ramrod straight and reached inside his jacket again, this time withdrawing a folded sheet of paper which he handed to Fine. Fine opened it, his eyes first going to the embossed emblem of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, then to the letter’s details.
“I’m here to help you with the 3-Monkey Killer investigation,” said the agent.
Fine finished reading, folded the letter and handed it back to the agent. “We don’t need the FBI’s assistance,”
Scarborough stood with his arms at his side. “That’s your copy, Detective,” he said.
Fine pulled back his outstretched arm and dropped the letter on his desk. “Look, Agent Scarborough ... “
“Detective Fine,” Scarborough interrupted. “I have been in the field for three straight months and was due to take a needed vacation with my wife when I was called in. I’m under orders.” He removed his glasses, folded them and stuck them in his breast pocket, revealing deep green eyes. “You don’t want me here nosing around in your investigation; I totally understand that. If the situation was reversed, I’d feel the same. And if I was given a choice of hanging out with my wife on a beach in California, or hanging out with you, you’d lose in a heartbeat.” The agent sat in a chair across from Fine, opening his jacket and revealing the butt of a gun in the shoulder holster. “So let’s put our heads together and get this scumbag so I can go home to my wife, okay?”
Fine studied the agent for a few seconds, after which he smiled. “Fair enough,” he said. He looked down at the stacks of folders on his desk and back at the agent. “I just got a few things to clear up, so can you give me forty-five minutes to an hour?”
“No problem,” Scarborough replied standing and re-buttoning his jacket. “There’s a coffee shop a block from here. I’ll meet you there.”
“There’s coffee in the break room,” suggested Fine.
A hint of a smile pulled at the corner of the agent’s mouth.
“That’s all right, Detective,” Scarborough said opening the door. “I’ve tasted precinct coffee and committing suicide is not on my agenda. An hour then.” The agent stopped in mid-turn and looked back at Fine. He slid the sunglasses down and stared at the detective over the frames.
“Sorry about that ... “ he began, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
Fine grinned. “No worries,” he said. “Frank’s a big boy.”
The agent lifted his glasses, nodded and left the office.
Fine watched Scarborough close the door behind him, the agent’s face fresh in his mind.
The detective noted the short black hair, the green eyes, the well-trimmed mustache and searched his mind. He compared the faces he had seen before; in and out of the precinct, on the street, mingled in the crowd of reporters. He saw the trim build of someone who wasn’t overtly muscular, but had strength. He heard the voice and its Mid-Western accent and wondered if that was real or fabricated. He used his pen to open the folded letter, stared at the FBI logo and wondered if it was legit or did someone go out of their way to falsify the document.
And the detective wondered why.
To find out what evidence he had? To get close to him? If it was who he thought it was why was he doing it now?
Not to say that the feds weren’t involved.
Fine muttered a count to ten and Frank Costa opened the door.
“What was that about?” Frank asked.
“He’s here to ‘help’ us on the 3-Monkey,” Fine replied.
“Friggin’ feds,” muttered Costa. He looked at Fine. “You don’t trust him, do you?”
“Not as far as I can toss the bastard,” Fine said. He turned to the computer and looked up the local field office of the FBI. After getting the number he picked up the phone and dialed. Before the line connected, Fine tapped a button and put the call on the speaker phone.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said a voice on the line. “Agent Weathers speaking. Can I help you sir or madam?”
Fine glanced at Costa who was rolling his eyes.
“Detective Lieutenant Desmond Fine, NYPD speaking,” Fine said. “Badge number 714.”
“Yes, Detective,” replied Weathers. “How may I help you?”
“Checking on a fellow agent,” Fine said. “Special Agent Eric Scarborough. What can you tell me about him?”
“And the nature of your inquiry?” asked Weathers.
Desmond Fine sighed. “Someone stating he was Agent Scarborough just left my office,” he replied. “I’m working on a particular case, and call me paranoid, but I want to make sure that this is your agent.”
“Hold please,” Weathers said. His voice was replaced with classical music.
Fine shook his head and looked up at Costa. Frank was leaning against a file cabinet, his arms folded across his chest, a weary look on his face.
The music stopped.
“Detective Fine?” said Weathers. “You still there?”
“No place I’d rather be, Agent Weathers,” sighed Fine.
“Special Agent Scarborough was assigned to your office to assist you in your investigation of the 3-Monkey Killer,” Weathers stated.
“May I ask why?” Fine said.
“According to the file,” said Weathers, “There could be a connection with several murders with the same M.O. we’re presently investigating.”
Fine looked up at Costa. Costa raised his eyebrows.
“Could you email me those files?” asked Fine.
“Not without clearance,” Weathers said.
“Thank you, Agent,” Fine said and hung up. He looked at Frank. “Get Ritchie in here,” he said.
Frank quickly left the office and came back minutes later with a bespectacled man wearing a polo shirt and Dockers. He had the pasty complexion of someone who did not venture into the daylight much.
“Ritchie,” grinned Fine. “Need your talents, my man.”
Richard Washington’s lips curled in a smirk.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re trying to open an Excel spreadsheet through Word again?”
“I did that because I was awake for four days, asshole,” Fine replied. “Need you to hack into the FBI system.”
Ritchie stared at Fine for a few seconds and walked behind his desk. Fine stood and allowed Washington the use of his chair. Washington tapped several keys and in a few seconds the screen showed the FBI logo.
“You know this is gonna cost you?” asked Ritchie.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Fine grumbled. “Look up the personal file on Special Agent Eric Scarborough.” He reached down and grabbed the folded paper from the stack of folders and handed it to the computer tech. He tapped a section of the letter. “That’s his agent number.”
Ritchie’s eyes scanned the letter, then accessed the agency’s personal files and tapped in the agent’s number. The face of Scarborough filled the left side of the screen and his record appeared on the right. Fine leaned over his shoulder and looked at the screen.
“Born in Kansas City, MO,” Fine read. “Been an agent for about fifteen years. Has a doctorate in forensic psychology. Married six years. Worked on a few serial killer cases. Ritchie; open those case files, please.”
When Washington accessed the files the word CLASSIFIED appeared on the screen.
“No can do, Des,” he said.
Fine looked at him.
“Not saying I can’t break in these Feeb files, but it’ll take a while,” answered Ritchie.
“Never mind then,” Fine said.
“We done?” asked Ritchie.
“Yeah,” Fine said thinking. “Thanks, man.”
Ritchie rebooted the machine and after a few seconds, the aquarium wallpaper appeared. Washington stood, walked from behind the desk and stopped at the door.
“Shall I email you my list of demands?” he asked.
Fine looked up from thought and smiled.
“No Dominican S&M tranny hookers!” he said.
Ritchie overtly slumped his shoulders.
“You used to be a fun guy, Des,” Washington groused. “You need to get out more!”
“Get out of here,” Fine said. “Thanks again.”
Washington left and closed the door. Costa looked at Fine.
“Seems to be on the up and up,” he said.
“So 3-Monkey’s M.O. matches some case the feds are working on,” he muttered. He looked up and winked. “I’ve got to meet with Scarborough in a bit. I’ll call you later, Frank.”
“Good luck,” Costa replied. He shook his head. “That SOB is fast!”
Fine nodded and sat back behind the desk.
He stared at the screensaver’s swimming fish, but his mind was on the agent.
* * *
Carlton Book glanced at his reflection in the coffee shop window and saw Special Agent Eric Scarborough staring back. The cell phone in his pocket began to vibrate.
He placed the tall hazelnut coffee on the table next to the uneaten chocolate cruller and pulled the phone from his inside pocket. It was a text message from his hacker friend confirming that Detective Fine not only called the FBI to confirm his identity but hacked into the Bureaus’ database for additional information. The message went on to inform him that the re-routers he planted the night before as the old janitor worked perfectly and that the hacker wanted an Oscar nomination for his performance. Book sent a reply thanking his associate for his assistance, the information on the last 3-Monkey victim and that his additional payment was already in his account. He was about to press the ‘send’ button, then added a line stating he would contact the Academy of Motion Pictures and get back with him.
He sent the message and slid the phone back in his pocket. He stared out the window for a moment, wondering if the 3-Monkey Killer was out there watching him. He eyed the bum rooting in a garbage can, the mailman walking into the coffee shop, the man in the jeans smoking the stub of a joint on the corner, the old man with the walker shuffling towards the mailbox, and the well-dressed man with the effeminate walk that was window shopping. He took a bite of the cruller and looked up to see the young man with the triangular paper hat staring at him. He stood from the small table and walked up to him.
“May I have a few extra napkins?” he asked.
“Sure thing,” the young man said reaching below the counter and coming up with a small handful.
“Thanks,” said Book as he took the napkins. “By the way, I caught you staring at me a moment ago. Why?”
The young man flushed. “Sorry, dude!’ he said. “No offense. I have a thing for chocolate crullers and you took the last one. Sorry.”
Book smiled. “No problem,” he said. “Thanks for the napkins.”
He returned to the small table, tore off a chunk of the cruller and popped it in his mouth. He stared out the windows at the people passing by.
He could be anyone.
* * *
Fine walked into the coffee shop and immediately spotted Scarborough sitting at a small table in the rear, facing the entrance way. The agent saw him and raised his cup. Fine walked past the counter and joined him at the table.
“You’re prompt,” Scarborough said. “I like people who are on time.” He moved the extra coffee across the short space to Fine. “I didn’t know how you take it, so ... " The agent slid packets of sugar, sugar substitute, a small cup of cream and a stirrer next to the cup.
Fine smiled and lifted the plastic cover from the coffee and emptied the cream in the brew, stirred it, then added two packets of the substitute and stirred it again. He replaced the cover and opened the notch. He took a deep swallow and leaned back in his chair.
“Now isn’t that better than the swill you get in the break room?” asked Scarborough.
“Won’t argue with you,” Fine replied taking another sip.
“There’s a place near headquarters that sells imported coffee and grinds the beans for you,” Scarborough said with a half-smile. “Ever try Ethiopian Yirgacheffe?”
Fine stared at the agent over the rim of the cup.
“I don’t even think I can pronounce it,” Fine replied. “Look. I come in, ask for a large coffee, cream with two Sweet ‘n Shorts and a sesame bagel and walk out.”
Scarborough smiled. “All I’m saying is that it pays to have a personal coffee maker in your office.”
Fine took another swallow. “Tried those cup-at-a-time things,” he said wrinkling his nose. He held up his large cup. “That’s a cup of coffee, not those pathetic mini-servings. I spent more time getting up to make another cup than drinking it.” Fine reached for a napkin and wiped his lips. “But I didn’t come here to discuss the finer points of java.”
Scarborough nodded and drained his cup. “True,” he said. “That last 3-Monkey victim?”
“Dr. Richard Ziegler,” said Fine.
“What do we know about him?” asked the agent.
Fine raised his eyebrow. “I know he was a surgeon,” he answered. “I don’t know what we know.”
The agent and the detective stared at each other for several silent seconds.
“We know that this doctor did not exist a little over ten years ago,” said Scarborough. “He just appeared out of the ether, established his business, got into a small circle of wealthy clients, parlayed them to even wealthier clients, began donating his time and money to charities, and became the stereotypical pillar of society.”
Fine stared at the agent, chewing the inside of his cheek. “His real name was Dean Gerald Anthony, from Michigan and was a surgeon,” Fine said. “He was convicted fifteen years ago in absentia of six counts child molestation. He beat feet when he was on bail.”
The agent did not show a reaction.
“This is confirmed?’ Scarborough asked.
Fine nodded. “Through IAFIS and CODIS,” he replied.
Agent Scarborough nodded silently. “What can you tell me about the other victims?” he asked.
“What about them?” Fine asked, not breaking eye contact.
“Did the others have a secret past or life?”
“Why would you ask that?” asked the detective.
Scarborough smiled, put on his dark sunglasses and stood from the table. Fine got up as well. Both men walked out of the coffee shop and to the street.
The agent headed uptown and the detective walked beside him.
“What are you thinking?” asked Fine.
“I’m forming a profile of the killer,” replied Scarborough. “You answering my question with a question confirms that the other victims had a secret past. I’m thinking the killer’s motive is revenge.”
Fine shook his head. “Not too sure about that,’ he said. “The victims were from different areas, different professions, and as far as I can see, they didn’t even know the other existed. And because of what appears to be random choices in victims, I have a hard time thinking that the killer knew them.”
“He probably didn’t,” said the agent.
“Then how could it be revenge?’ asked Fine.
“Whatever crime the victims committed was not perpetrated on the killer,” Scarborough answered. “He’s taking revenge for their victims.”
Fine thought for a moment then shook his head again. “There’s a problem in your theory,” he said.
The agent stopped. “How so?” he asked.
“The victims are actually scumbags, and they did something to somebody in their past, right?” Fine asked.
The agent nodded.
“And now they’ve changed their identities and are supposedly leading the life of the straight and narrow,” Fine said.
Again the agent nodded.
“Then explain the pimp,” said Fine.
Scarborough stopped. “What pimp?” he asked.
“Pimp named ‘Magic’,” the detective said with a very satisfied smirk, seeing that he knew something the agent didn’t. “Found a week or so ago, just like the others, with his throat cut open; his eyes, lips and ears gone. The dude was a pimp and a drug dealer. He had a sheet longer than both our arms put together. He never made like he was someone else. He doesn’t fit your theory.”
Fine stared at the agent whose face was immobile under the dark glasses. He knew the agent was thinking and wished he could look in his eyes.
“Maybe the pimp was an anomaly?” he said.
“I don’t get you,” Fine said.
“The ‘revenge’ was taken for someone in the here and now, versus taken for someone who suffered in the past,” said Scarborough.
Fine thought and nodded again. “Possible,” he muttered. “That’s possible. What about Parnell?”
“What about him?” asked Scarborough.
“He doesn’t fit,” replied Fine. “Here’s this asshole, taking out scumbags out of revenge. Then he does Magic ... “
“Which could be revenge,” suggested the agent.
“... then Parnell. And the only thing Parnell could be accused of is being a junkie dickhead. Then he returns to his revenge shtick with Ziegler/Anthony.” The detective paused to chew on his lower lip. “The change seemed to start with Magic,” he muttered. “Let’s take a look at that pimp’s file. Another set of eyes, you know?”
“We’ll meet up in the morning,” said Scarborough walking away from the detective.
“Where you going?” Fine asked.
“Check up on a few things,” the agent replied over his shoulder. “Have a nice day.”
“Suppose I need to contact you?” Fine called.
“You probably won’t,” Scarborough called back. “I’m staying at the Mayfair on 62nd Street, but I’ll be out most of the afternoon. Goodbye, Detective.”
Detective Fine stared at the back of Agent Scarborough, his hair standing up on the back of his neck. He chewed the inside of his cheek and walked the short distance back to his office, his mind filled with faces placed next to the agent’s.