Book called his hacker associate and had him pull the police department’s records on the pimp named Magic. As the hacker read the information back to him he stopped when he reached the ‘Cause of Death’ line.
“Hey, man,” the hacker said. “This dude was taken out by the 3-Monkey Killer.”
“So I hear,” Book replied.
“First that doctor, now this guy?” he exclaimed. “Tell me you’re not getting involved with this nutcase!”
“My reasons are my business,” Book replied.
The hacker did not immediately reply. “Look, you be careful with this, okay?” he said finally.
“I always am,” Book replied.
“I mean,” said the man, “you’re not only a well paying customer, but I like you, you know?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, you’re not like my other customers. You joke with me; you actually have a conversation with me. Look, I know this is your business, but I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Book smiled. “Thank you for your concern,” he said. “But as you said, this is my business, okay?”
After a smaller pause, the hacker said in an awestruck whisper, “You’re going after 3-Monkey, aren’t you?”
“It’s none of your ...” he said.
“You are!” the man exclaimed. “You gonna do it! You’re a fucking super-hero, man!”
“You ... “ Book began but was cut off by a cackling laughter on the other end of the line.
“Say no more!” the associate said. “Tell you what; you call me day or night and I’ll get you whatever information or equipment you need. On the house!”
Book felt a slight vertigo. “Even if I’m doing what you say I’m doing, why the free service?” he asked.
More cackling laughter erupted on the line. “Ain’t every day I get to play sidekick to a super-hero, brother!” he said and hung up the phone.
Book heard the dial tone on the line and could not help but smile. He hung up the phone and left the hotel. After checking the street for anyone following him, he made his way to Bernie’s Costumes and More.
* * *
As the afternoon turned from dusk to night, the streets emptied and refilled with the city’s nightlife.
Waiting for the evening to arrive, Book returned to the hotel and used the time to work on a profit and loss statement for one client, and adjust the figures on another’s annual report. He then went to a showing of The Maltese Falcon in the village. Once the film ended, he took the subway to the Red Light District. He decided to wear jeans, a bomber jacket and work boots. He covered his short black hair with a longish blonde wig and covered that with a New York Yankees baseball cap. He stuck a thick mustache under his nose and a soul patch under his lower lip. He bent his spine forward a little, hunched his shoulders and changed his normal gait into a slight skipping shuffle, sticking his hands deep in the jacket’s pockets.
Women in short skirts and high heels walked up and down the streets, some took position on particular corners, store lights reflecting on their short satin jackets and flowing hair. Several women had their makeup put on in subtle ways to accentuate their eyes or their bone structure while others looked like the makeup was applied with a roller and a spray gun. They would greet the men who were also prowling the sidewalks and lean into slow moving vehicles who stopped at the curb in front of them. A few went into alleyways, or took hold of their client’s arm and walked then to a seedy hotel nearby. Some slid into passenger seats and disappeared into the night only to return minutes later and begin the process all over again.
Men wearing expensive jewelry over jeans and leather jackets stood off to the side observing the transactions, only moving from their spot in the shadows when necessary. They would surreptitiously take small hits from vials concealed in their pockets or openly take deep drags from joints, the hot embers reflecting off the gold in their teeth. Some would grab a woman; shake them, slap them, but always take money from them. Others would confront the clients if they felt a transaction was taking too long. Very few would stand in front of the women and quietly talk, share a laugh or two, and offer a hit of whatever was the item of choice. When a new client was in sight, they would slink back into the shadows.
It took Book the better part of the evening, striking up conversations and renting time, to find out that one of the women in Magic’s stable was missing. With Magic long gone, someone named Bear had taken over. Bear had taken a headcount of the women he now ‘supervised’ and had asked where the one named Ruby had gone to. None of the other women seemed to know. After a few more inquiries (which involved verbal and physical threats), he dismissed the no-show and picked up a teenage girl he found wandering Port Authority to take her place. She had come to the city to become a singer but fate had other plans.
He did not know why, but Book felt that this was another part of the puzzle. His gut told him that this woman Ruby was truly missing, not dead alongside her pimp (he felt that Fine would have brought her up at the same time he mentioned the pimp). That maybe the killer did the hooker a favor by taking Magic out of the equation. Why? She was only a prostitute.
Or maybe she wasn’t , Book thought.
Maybe the woman was like her replacement; someone who became trapped in that lifestyle. Someone who wanted out, but was too afraid of Magic to leave? Maybe the killer saw that rat-in-a-trap look in her eyes and out of the goodness (?) of his heart, offered her a way out? Maybe he gave her enough money to run (not walk) to the train station, go back to where she came from and regain her life?
Why would he do that? Book wondered. He shook his head. Too many questions.
Book, with minimal information in hand, left the area and took the subway back to Bernie’s to change back into his agent costume.
Because it was a mild evening, after changing, Book decided to walk back to the hotel. Along the way, he called the hacker and asked him to dig into the police files and cross reference the name Ruby with the pimp Magic. His associate giddily told him he would have whatever he could find in an hour. Book heard his stomach growl when he passed a Chinese takeout. He hadn’t had Chinese food in a while and his protesting stomach concurred. He went inside and placed an order of Hunan Chicken and a spring roll. His stomach screamed Hurry up! while he waited for the food to be cooked, placed in its containers and be handed to him. Just as the scent of spices was close to making his protesting stomach do a scene from Alien, the plastic bag was passed to him over the counter. He paid for the meal and quickened his pace to the hotel.
He stopped at the front desk and chatted with the clerk, asking if there were any messages for Agent Scarborough. There were three from Detective Fine, requesting he call him at the station; the last coming in at four that afternoon. He took the messages, placed them in the takeout bag (the scent making his now-aching stomach scream in protest) and took the elevator to the room.
He removed the green contacts and placed them in the small solution-filled cups on the bathroom vanity, then peeled off his thin black mustache and dropped it on the edge of the basin. After wiping the line of adhesive from his lip, Book hung up his suit and shirt and carried the plastic bag to a small dining table in his tee-shirt and briefs. He paused at the door and placed his ear against it but heard nothing, then double-checked to make sure the door was locked tight. Satisfied, he took the container containing his meal from the bag and placed it on the table, along with a small plastic fork, a stack of napkins, packets of duck and soy sauce, and finally the small wax paper bag that contained the spring roll. The room was now filled with the maddening aroma of the Chinese food. His stomach growled as a reminder that it was still there and waiting. He went quickly to the small fridge and took out a can of cola and sat at the table.
As Book popped a green pepper in his mouth, he felt the urge to call Lena. Not for any real reason; just to hear her voice. He told her that he would call her in a few days and made a mental note to hold off calling her until the following evening. He chewed a chunk of chicken and stared out the window that overlooked the city.
His BlackBerry buzzed on the night table.
He took a swallow from the soda, walked the few feet to the table and picked up the device. Book smiled, figuring it was his ‘friend’ with the information he requested. He accessed the incoming text message and looked down at the display.
I sincerely hope you were looking for something versus cheating on Ms. Truman. If you were being unfaithful to her, I am very disappointed in you. I’d have thought you better than that.
If you were looking for something or someone – (and pardon my egotism) possibly me – and I hope you were, worry not. We will meet very soon.
I feel it is almost time.
BTW, just to let you know, I do not usually hang out in areas like that.
Give my best to your lady for me.
Your friend.
His eyes looked around the room, expecting to see the glowing red light of a camera recording him standing in his underwear, but none was in sight. He looked at the door and saw it closed; the knob’s button depressed and its chain in place. His eyes fell on the table and the partially eaten Human Chicken and realized his appetite was replaced by a cold fear and a gnawing dread.
When the BlackBerry suddenly vibrated, Book flung it from his hands like it was scalding hot. He picked up the device, his eyes on the display, his heart thudding under his tee-shirt. It was a text message from the hacker.
Hey,
I checked and couldn’t find a connection between ‘Magic’ and ‘Ruby’. What that tells me is she may have been on the streets, but was careful – or lucky enough not to get arrested, meaning that she’s not in the system. I’m also going to assume that ‘Ruby’ isn’t her real name.
Sorry, man. I tried.
If you need anything else, let me know.
Robin, the Boy Wonder
Book’s fingers nervously tapped out a thank you, sent the message and tossed the BlackBerry on the night table. He stood on shaky legs and looked out the window on the city below him.
He closed the curtains feeling the city looking back.
* * *
“Looks like someone didn’t get their eight hours,” said Desmond Fine from behind his desk.
Standing in the doorway of the office stood Agent Scarborough. Though he still wore his dark glasses, his face appeared drawn and tired.
“Was up late last night checking on a few leads,” he replied as he sat in the chair across from Fine.
“Considering the fact that I’ve been here since 7:30, expected you around nine and it’s now half past eleven,” Fine said sipping on his large coffee, “I hope for your sake those leads panned out. Find anything?” He handed the agent a large cup. “I just sent out for it,” he said. “Had to toss the last two, ‘cause you don’t strike me as the type to nuke cold coffee.” He reached across his desk to a paper bag that sat on the corner and dumped out packets of sugar, sugar substitute, plastic stirrers and small containers of half and half. “Don’t know how you take it,” he said.
“Thanks,” Scarborough replied. He used the edge of the detective’s desk to add the cream and sugar substitute to the coffee and used the stirrer to mix it. “No,” he said. “Nothing of importance.” He took a deep sip and leaned back in the chair.
“Define nothing of importance,” Fine said.
“Well, I did a little checking and found a name associated with the pimp, Magic,” Scarborough replied.
Fine’s eyebrow lifted.
“Do tell,” he said.
“Well,” the agent said leaning forward and propping himself up on his knee, “one of his ladies disappeared around the same time he was killed.”
Fine took a swallow of coffee and nodded. “Ruby,” he said.
Scarborough’s mouth parted in surprise. “You knew about her?” he asked.
Fine nodded. “Yup,” he said. “No last name; probably an alias,” he said. “No priors. Disappeared off the face of the planet.”
“You think she’s involved?” Scarborough asked.
Fine paused to take another sip. “At first, yes, I did,” he answered. “Then I asked myself why would someone without a record join 3-Monkey to take out Magic?”
“Just because she doesn’t have a jacket doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a criminal past,” the agent said.
Fine nodded. “True,” he said grinning, “but this is my theory.” He took another sip before continuing. “Did she know our buddy? Probably not. But with Magic out of the picture, she saw her opportunity to skip. And based on Magic’s old Port Authority/Grand Central recruiting habits, she was probably another innocent girl from out of town that hooked up with a bad guy.”
“So you have nothing on this ‘Ruby’?” asked Scarborough.
Fine shook his head. “Not a thing,” he answered. “Where ever she is now is a whole lot better than where she was.” Fine grinned. “Y’see, it sometimes pays to talk to the detective in charge of the investigation before you start your own. You’d get more sleep that way.”
Scarborough removed his dark glasses revealing tired red rimmed eyes. He smiled wearily at Fine.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Oh, hell yes!” Fine said leaning forward in his chair.
The agent started at the detective and nodded.
“You’re right,” he said. “I should have asked.” Scarborough took a deep and satisfying sip from his coffee. “You think there could be something sado-sexual in the nature of the attacks?”
Fine, who was in mid-swallow coughed and looked up at Scarborough. “You mean,” began Fine, “after he took their eyes, lips and ears, did he jizz on the victim’s faces?”
“Something like that,” said Scarborough. “But not so eloquently put.”
Fine shook his head. “No trace evidence left at the scenes of the crimes,” he said. “No blood, no semen, no sweat, no fingerprints; nothing, nada, zilch! The dude’s a freakin’ ghost!”
The agent nodded in thought. “Well, that confirms the revenge theory,” he said.
“More like justice than revenge,” said Fine.
Scarborough nodded. “If you look at it that way, yes,” he said.
Fine drained his cup and dropped it in the wastebasket on the side of the desk.
“No other way to look at it,’ he said. “The victims didn’t know each other and I’d be hard pressed to believe that our friend knew the people the victims wronged. Then again, maybe he worked with or was part of a victim’s group? Maybe he killed these people in order to give justice to the ones who couldn’t fight back themselves?”
“Could be a crisis counselor?” Scarborough asked.
Fine thought for a moment. “That’s good,” he whispered. “That’s very good!” His eyes locked with Scarborough’s. “He’s a crisis counselor who has clients who live in fear because their perpetrator has never been brought to justice,” Fine said. “These people live in fear, night and day, year after year, because their abuser either had a good fucking lawyer or skipped town before they could lock the son of a bitch away. So in order to give these people closure, he hunts these scumbags down and takes them out!”
Scarborough nodded and took a quick swallow of coffee. “And because the original victims lived in silence, afraid of mentioning and reliving the abuse they suffered, that explains the hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil mutilations!” he exclaimed in a rush.
“Make these assholes suffer the way the victims suffered!” added Fine.
“Exactly!” said the agent.
“Lunch?” asked Fine.
Special Agent Eric Scarborough’s mouth opened, then quickly shut. “Excuse me?” he asked, his face twisted in confusion.
“Lunch,” repeated Fine. “This got me hungry! Let’s go. My treat!”
Before Scarborough could reply, Fine had walked from behind his desk, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and had the office door open. “Waiting for you,” he said smiling.
The agent shrugged and followed.
* * *
Two medium-well burgers with sides of fries and onion rings were placed in front of the two men. The waiter then brought over two frosted mugs of beer and asked if anything else was needed. Both men said no. They proceeded to dig into their plates with gusto, pausing only to take a sip from their mugs.
“To the investigation!” said Fine holding up his mug.
“To the investigation,” repeated Scarborough through a mouthful of burger and tapped his mug against Fine’s.
“So,” began Scarborough, wiping his mouth on his napkin, “What got you into law enforcement? Where’d you get your start?”
Fine picked up a breaded onion ring and popped it in his mouth. “My father and his father before him were cops,” he said. “It was only natural for me to follow in the family business.” He took a sip from his mug and wiped the foamy mustache with a napkin. “Started out as a beat cop, got the shield, and then transferred to Special Victims. Felt I could do more for the people, you know? Was there for ten years. I collared a sex slavery ring and got a commendation and a pay raise.” He took another swallow of beer. “And here I am. You?”
Scarborough chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds and took a sip of the beer. “Nothing much to tell,” he said. “Majored in psychology in school, took additional classes in forensic psychology and was recruited by the FBI because of my grades. Then Quantico. Married about five years ago, though she’d say it was less due to the time I’m in the field.”
“She a civilian?” Fine asked, staring at the agent over the rim of his mug.
Scarborough looked down and picked up a fry and chewed it. “Yes,” he replied. “A secretary.”
“How’d you meet her?” Fine asked.
“Working on a case,” Scarborough said. “You know, we should check the background of each of 3-Monkey’s victims.”
Fine paused the onion ring en-route to his mouth. “The victims?” he asked.
Scarborough nodded as he finished his fries. “If we check their history,” he said, “we may be able to link their original victims and possibly the crisis center they went to. Then we can locate who was in charge of the sessions.”
“Who may be 3-Monkey,” added Fine. He ran his fingers through his thick dark brown hair. “This puzzle keeps finding more pieces.”
Scarborough nodded pushing his plate away and drained the last of his beer. “Sounds like we’re pulling an all-nighter,” the agent said.
“Sounds like I need that coffee maker for my office,” Fine replied.
Both men jumped at the simultaneous beep-beep-beep and old fashioned telephone ringing that came from their pockets.
The table they sat at seated four and they used the two extra chairs to hang their jackets. The right hand of both men darted to the jackets that hung on the empty chairs between them. They looked up at each other, grinned (Fine adding a shrug) and removed the ringing-beeping BlackBerrys from their pockets. The agent and the detective pressed the button that accessed the incoming messages.
Book fought to keep his face expressionless as he read the message. He looked up at Fine whose face was tight and flushed. Fine’s dark eyes lifted and Book felt them lock onto his.
“Tell me you got the same message,” the detective rasped.
Book looked down at the display noticing that the SEND TO address was not the one he created for the agent but his personal one. Because the address did not contain his real name or any information that could connect accountant Carlton Book to Agent Eric Scarborough, he flipped it over and held it out to the detective, but made a mental note to delete it and create a new one.
Fine stared at the display in the agent’s hand and read. He raised his hand and showed Scarborough his.
Hello Agent Scarborough. How nice it is to finally communicate with you after all this time. Detective Fine. Glad to see my two favorite people are finally together. Two great minds working together.
I hope we’ll now have a better understanding of the ... situation.
Until we eventually meet.
3MK
They turned off the BlackBerrys and placed them on the table. Scarborough took a sip from his mug while Fine drained his completely.
Book wondered why the Killer concealed his true identity from the detective.
“He has our addresses,” Fine muttered. “He’s sending us messages. The mother-fucker’s taunting us.”
“That means we’re close,” replied Scarborough. “And he’s taking it personal.”
“Oh, you think that ‘my favorite people’ line wasn’t a dig?” scoffed Fine.
“It doesn’t matter.” Scarborough drained his mug.
The detective stared in disbelief at the man across from him.
“It doesn’t matter?” he repeated.
The agent shook his head, his eyes thinking. “Doesn’t matter that he knows we’re working together,” said the agent. “He’s trying to throw us off; get us too emotional to think and follow our next lead.”
“The victims?” the detective asked.
“The victims,” nodded the agent.