Book spent most of the evening calling overseas and online making preparations. He printed, signed and faxed documents he felt was important to his computations. By the time he shut down the laptop in his hotel room, he felt that all possibilities were fully explored; all variables considered.
The next morning, he took a hot shower and packed his things. He combed his hair, placed the green contacts in his eyes and pasted the thin black mustache to his upper lip. He took a last look at his reflection, left the room and checked out of the hotel.
He dumped his extra clothes in an alley before stopping at a bank to get a cashier’s check. He then went to a courier service to mail three letter-sized envelopes; two domestic and one international. What he felt was most important was the one leaving the states. Inside the international package were detailed instructions, three envelopes, pre-written Post-it notes, a folded piece of paper and a pre-paid shipping label with a specific delivery date. Book then wrote a detailed ‘high priority’ message on his BlackBerry. He pressed ‘send’, wiped the device down and tossed it in the rear of a passing garbage truck. He put on the dark sunglasses and used the tip of his finger to make sure that his mustache was in place. Book stopped at the coffee shop down the block from the precinct and picked up two large coffees.
FBI Special Agent Eric Scarborough walked into the police station.
As Scarborough approached the office of Detective Desmond Fine, he saw plain clothes men and women entering and exiting it. He dodged CSI Tommy as he came out of Fine’s office.
Fine looked up and saw Scarborough in the doorway, coffees in hand. “Thank God for you, my man!” he said reaching over his desk for a cup.
“What’s going on?” asked Scarborough watching another officer exit the office.
Before the detective could answer, Frank Costa came in and passed a file folder to Fine. He looked at the agent and his lip curled. He nodded and exited.
God help you if you’ve hurt her, Book thought as he watched the large detective back his way out of the office.
“Kidnapping,” Fine replied, taking a gulp from the cup. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as he swallowed.
“Okay,” said Scarborough slowly drawing out the word. “Why are you working on a kidnapping case? Don’t you have ... ?”
“We like 3-Monkey for it,” said Fine.
Scarborough frowned. “Why?” he asked sitting across from Fine. “That’s not his M.O.”
“It’s the ‘who’,” said Fine taking a larger swallow of coffee. “Lena Truman. Receptionist. She works for Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell.” He put the coffee down on a stack of folders. “First Parnell is killed, now Truman is kidnapped. Too much of a coincidence. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“You sure she was kidnapped?” asked Scarborough.
Fine sniffed. “Her place was trashed,” he said. “Showed signs of a huge struggle.”
The agent took a sip from his cup to hide the tightening of his jaw.
“Any contact?” asked Scarborough. “Ransom requests?”
Fine shook his head. “Nothing yet,” he answered. “The call came in around nine-fifteen last night. Ms. Truman said that someone was trying to break into her apartment. Dispatch radioed me. A pair of uni’s got there in ten minutes and found the place fucked.”
“Why were you called?” asked Scarborough.
Fine sat back in his seat. “Because of Parnell,” he replied. “I have all the employees under watch. Just in case our friend comes back, you know.”
The agent nodded. “Why would 3-Monkey go after Truman?”
“Why does he do anything?” Fine shrugged. “Maybe she was in cahoots with Parnell and he’s taking them out one at a time? Besides, I have plainclothes watching the Monkey’s crime scenes.”
“A ‘return to the scene of the crime’ thing?” asked Scarborough.
“Yeah,” replied Fine. “Just covering bases.”
“Anyone at the office you like for this?” asked Scarborough.
“I interviewed all the employees and as far as I can tell, they’re clean,” said Fine. “All with the exception of one.”
“Who’s that?” the agent asked taking a small sip from his cup.
“Their accountant,” said Fine. “Carlton Book. Met him on the day 3-Monkey took out Parnell. Seems harmless enough, but the dude went off the radar a few days ago. And he’s dating Truman.”
“So you think there’s a connection between Book and 3-Monkey?” asked Scarborough.
Again Fine shrugged. “Hard to tell,” he said. “The guy works freelance, so he’s in and out of town on a regular basis. He drops by the office to see Ms. Truman and to cook their books. Everyone likes the guy, but there’s this mysterioso thing about him.” Fine drained the cup and dropped it in the wastebasket. “I don’t know if this means anything, but we checked Ms. Truman’s phone records and found she called Book after she called 911. Probably a call for help.”
“Did he show up at her apartment?” asked the agent.
Fine shook his head. “I sent Frank over to his place,” Fine replied. “The guy wasn’t home, so I’m thinking Ms. Truman got his answering machine. If I could nail down his whereabouts at the time 3-Monkey struck, I’d probably feel better about the guy.” The detective smiled bitterly. “Which I don’t. He’s a loose end, and I like loose ends less than I like coincidences.”
“Can I take a look at Truman’s apartment?” asked Scarborough. “Two sets of eyes, you know.”
Fine stared at the agent for several beats.
“Don’t see any harm in that,” he said standing and taking his jacket from the back of the chair. “You’re the Feeb. Maybe you’ll spot something us simple detectives didn’t.”
“I’m just trying to help,” said Scarborough.
Fine punched the agent’s arm.
“I know,” he said grinning. “Just bustin’.”
* * *
Fine had removed the crime scene tape and opened the door to Lena Truman’s apartment. He let the agent walk in first.
Scarborough removed his sunglasses and looked at the broken coffee table that was cracked down the center like both Lena and her attacker fell on it, the pieces from her tea mug near the door (thrown in defense?), her toppled bookshelf, the chair that was moved away from its position by the couch, and the droplets of blood on the cracked wall. He turned to the kitchenette and saw that the telephone was ripped off the wall. The plate that connected the phone to the wall was partially pulled away and hung by thin red and green wires.
“Looks like a metal band got their party on,” said Fine over his shoulder.
Scarborough walked over debris and spotted the black smudges of fingerprint powder on most of the room’s surfaces. The curtains that Lena opened to let the sun in was ripped from their rods and pooled on the floor by the windows. Her television was knocked from its stand and lay on the carpet, miraculously unbroken.
“You can see that the perp used a pry-bar to open the door,” Fine said pointing at the ragged lock and broken doorframe. “I’ll give it to Ms. Truman,” he added, “She put up a good fight. Didn’t think she had it in her.”
“Why?” asked the agent.
“She’s a lady,” Fine said, almost wistfully. “Very proper. Guess living in this wicked city turns you,” he said.
Scarborough looked at the wall, at its rounded dent and bloodstain and fought the urge to scream.
“The blood on the wall,” Scarborough said pointing. “3-Monkey’s?”
“No,” said Fine. “That’s Ms. Truman’s blood. Not sure if she tripped when she was running from him ...” Fine pointed to a small pile of cracked CD cases close to the wall. “... or he grabbed her by the head and smashed her against it.” .
The agent looked down and saw the photo from the company outing leaning against the wall, its glass broken and the frame cracked.
“Any sign of sexual battery?’ he asked over his shoulder, keeping a level tone to his voice.
“Fortunately, no,” the detective replied. “Just a snatch and grab.”
The agent looked askance at the toppled books and knelt beside them. He picked up one book and flipped the pages, then another and repeated his actions, then a third. He flipped the pages at the same time he released a palmed square of paper. It fluttered to the carpet and landed in an upside down V. He reached into his pocket and took out a pen and lifted it.
“Fuck!” whispered Fine. “My guys missed that. What is it? A bookmark?”
“It could be mistaken as one,” the agent said as he brought the folded paper to the kitchen counter. He opened it using the tip of the pen and a fork from the drain board. Fine came up behind him, looking over his shoulder.
“It says, ‘You can find her at the office at eight tonight’,” said Scarborough.
Fine looked around the kitchen and began to open and close the cabinet doors, stopping when he found a box of plastic sandwich bags. He took one out and held it open so the agent could drop the note inside.
“I’ll have my guys run tests on it,” he said. “See if we can get any prints.”
“Did your people find any prints here?” asked Scarborough. “Aside from Truman’s?”
Fine nodded. “One we can’t identify,” he replied. He zipped the baggie shut and placed it in his pocket. “We found matching ones in her bedroom, so we’re assuming they belong to Book, the accountant. We’re assuming that 3-Monkey wore gloves when he took Ms. Truman.”
“What do you intend to do about tonight?” asked Scarborough.
“I’m going to have all my people in place; surround the building and cover three city blocks,” Fine said. “Then I’m going to get Ms. Truman.”
“What about 3-Monkey?” asked Scarborough.
The detective looked at the agent.
“What about him?” he asked.
“He took her for a reason,” Scarborough replied. “You don’t think she’s going to be there all by her lonesome, do you?”
Fine shook his head. “No,” he said. “He’ll be there.”
“You want some backup?” the agent asked.
Fine looked deep into Scarborough’s eyes. He smiled.
“Thought you’d never ask,” said the detective.
“What time?”
“The note says eight,” said Fine grinned. “Let’s meet there at seven-fifteen.”
The agent nodded. “Done,” he said. “And you take the credit for the capture.”
Desmond Fine sniffed. “That’s awfully white of you,” he replied with a grin.
“Isn’t it?” replied Scarborough smiling tightly. “I have to call in and take care of a few things. I’ll meet you at the office.”
The detective stared at the agent, his eyebrow rising.
“Following up leads to our friend?” he asked.
The agent nodded. “That and a few other tasks.”
Fine pursed his lips. “Like?”
Scarborough smiled.
“Find a place that sells Ethiopian Yirgacheffe for one,” he answered.
Fine chuckled and led the way out of Lena Truman’s apartment. Scarborough took one last look, his eyes taking in what was and remembering what used to be before closing the door.
* * *
The streets outside Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell were empty. The small restaurant down the block and the bodega across the street were open but were almost void of customers. Standing in front of the converted warehouse was Desmond Fine, sipping on a small coffee. He looked up at the building. From the street he could see the lights on in several offices. The sound of hard heels clicking on the pavement made him turn. Coming down the street at a relaxed pace was Eric Scarborough.
“Right on time,” Fine said when the agent was in earshot.
“I’m a stickler for promptness,” replied Scarborough. He looked up and down the street. “Where’s your backup?” he asked.
“They’re here,” said Fine. He looked up at the tops of the buildings. “Been here since seven. Snipers on the roof and a few plainclothes around the perimeter. That, and a several radio cars waiting for my signal in case our friend rabbits.” He pulled out a walkie-talkie with a thick black antenna from under his jacket, held it up for the agent to see and then put it back.
“They see anyone enter?” asked the agent.
The detective shook his head. “Not a soul entered the building since they’ve been in place.”
Scarborough’s eyes scanned the area. He looked back at the detective. “They’re well hidden,” he said.
Fine drained his coffee and tossed it in a metal wastebasket near the curb. “Well, we ain’t FBI, but we try,” he replied with a grin.
Scarborough looked up at the Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell building. “Lights are on upstairs,” he said.
“You’re good at overstating the obvious,” said Fine. “No wonder the Feebs picked you.”
Fine pulled out his weapon; a non-departmental black matte .45 and checked the clip. Satisfied, he snapped it back in place.
“Still think he has an accomplice?” asked Scarborough. He took out his Glock and removed the clip, checked it, then returned the clip to the gun’s recess.
Fine shook his head. “If he has a partner, you can color me surprised,” he replied. The detective looked back at the building. “Did your guys find a connection with the victims?” he asked.
The agent shook his head. “There were different crisis centers with different counselors in different cities,” he replied. “Nothing we could piece together. You?”
“Same on my end,” said the detective. He looked at Scarborough with a sour expression. “That was a waste of time.”
The agent shrugged slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “It was.”
Fine grinned. “But you have to admit it was a pretty good theory.”
Scarborough checked his watch. “You want to wait a little longer before we go in?” he asked.
Fine winked at the agent. “Naw,” he said. “I’m notoriously early for parties. There’s a rear exit. We’ll take that upstairs.”
Fine held his weapon in front of him as he softly quick-stepped down an alley at the building’s side. Scarborough, gun in hand, followed.
They both reached the door at the same time. Scarborough grabbed the door handle and pulled gently. It swung open revealing a carpeted hallway that led to the warehouse entrance.
“It’s unlocked,” he said in a whisper. “It could be a trap.”
“Gee. You think?” smiled Fine.
Through the doorway the agent could see the edge of a conveyor belt and a few empty snack food machines that were against the wall. He looked at Fine.
Fine nodded and walked ahead of Scarborough moving quietly towards the warehouse door and, with weapon held in front of him, peered around the frame.
“Clear,” the detective whispered.
He pulled back and used his chin to point at the door marked STAIRS. Fine pulled the door open slowly, checked the stairwell, then held the door ajar for the agent. Scarborough followed behind him and eased the door shut. They both winced when the lock engaged with a loud click. They did not move for several seconds, listening for any movement that came from above. Fine nodded and proceeded up the staircase. The agent followed, walking on the balls of his feet, glancing over his shoulder fully expecting the door to be suddenly flung open by the killer.
At the top of the second floor landing was a door with a push bar and a thick window crisscrossed by strands of metal. Scarborough held up his hand to Fine and pointed to the side of the doorframe. The detective, gun held up, pressed his back against the wall. The agent crouched under the window and slowly raised his head above the frame, peering into the office. He slid back down and held his Glock in one hand while slowly pressing on the push bar with the other. Both men froze at the sound of the metallic click. Scarborough used his shoulder to push the door open and slowly looked around the door. He nodded to Fine who removed a fire extinguisher from the wall and used it to keep the door from closing. The men moved quickly and silently into the office.
Before them were rows of cubicles that housed the Billing, Customer Service, Accounts Receivable and Payable departments. Along the walls were offices for the Sales department. The lights were off in this section of the building and the large room was encased in dark shadows.
Fine pointed to Scarborough, then to the left side of the office and to an open doorway. The detective repeated the gesture, but at himself and the right. The agent nodded and went around the cubicles and down the narrow walkway past the Sales offices. Fine moved to the right side of the room and cautiously headed to the designated spot. Both men looked over the cubicle walls and at each other from opposite ends of the room. They moved as one to the doorway.
Scarborough stood on one side of the doorway while Fine crouched on the other. Fine held up his hand showing three fingers and Scarborough nodded once. Fine silently counted down, mouthing the numbers and on ‘three’, both men turned at the doorframe, aiming their weapons to the left and the right.
The hall outside the door was empty but there was a light coming from a room at the end of the hall.
Both men took position against the walls and made their way to the brightly lit room. A small plastic sign with the words CONFERENCE ROOM hung on the wall outside the door.
Scarborough peered around the doorway and fought the urge to dash forward.
Lying on the long conference room table was Lena Truman. She was wearing blue slacks and a light blue pastel blouse that was torn in several places. Incongruously on her feet were fuzzy bunny slippers. Her eyes were shut and her hands were tied together with single plastic binding strip. Outside of the scabbing purple bruise on her forehead, she appeared unharmed.
Scarborough walked forward, glancing around the empty room. He leaned over her and blinked when he caught a pungent aroma coming from her blouse. He looked up at Fine who stood in the doorway, looking over his shoulder and into the hallway.
“Chloroform,” the agent whispered.
Fine nodded and held a finger against his lips and pointed past the door. He disappeared from view.
Scarborough tried to remove the binding strip, but they were too tight to slide off her hands. Part of him was glad that her feet weren’t bound should she have to run. He hoped she would have the chance. He could see small gashes in her wrists where she probably struggled to free herself. He leaned forward and pressed his head against her chest, hearing and feeling a strong heartbeat. He looked Lena up and down, looking for more signs of trauma and sighed in relief when he found none. He glanced around the room hoping to find something to cut the strips with, but all that was there was a discarded plastic cup, a stapler, several company brochures, and a cup of mechanical pencils.
The loud explosion of the .45 firing made him spin completely around. Scarborough held his weapon in front of him and shielded the unconscious Lena with his body. He aimed the gun at the open doorway and held his breath.
Second ticked by. He could feel cold sweat dripping down his cheek and more running down his back, pooling in his waistband. He wanted to call out to Fine, but was afraid to in case the killer did not know he was there. It would give him the advantage if/when 3-Monkey walked back into the room. He hoped that it was the detective who shot first, wounding or killing the psychopath and he could take Lena far away from here.
After several seconds, Fine stepped into the doorway. Scarborough exhaled deeply, not realizing that he had held his breath. He turned back to Lena and after placing the Glock on the table near her hip, and began to use his fingers to try to stretch the thin strip of plastic around her writs.
“Did you get him?” asked the agent.
“Yeah,” replied Fine. “I got him.”
“Great!” he said pulling on the strips. “Do we know who he is?”
Fine chuckled. “Just like in the movies,” he said. “The one you least suspect.”
Over his shoulder, he heard the click-clack sound of an automatic’s slide being pulled back and a round being put in play.
“Or is that expect?” asked Fine. “And leave the gun right where it is.”
He froze in place and slowly lifted his hands to shoulder height. He turned around and saw that the detective had aimed the weapon at his face.
“Des,” Book began. “It’s not what you think. I’m not him. I’m not 3-Monkey.”
Fine grinned down the barrel of the .45.
“You know, Carlton,” the detective replied. “I figured that after all we’ve meant to each other, you’d offer me a bit of honesty.”
“But you don’t understand!” said Carlton.
“I think I do,” Fine said. “Now please. Have a seat.”