Book adjusted the bald skin headpiece to his temples with spirit gum, making sure the hairline was covered. He smoothed the edges around his ears and behind his neck, then, with infinite care, he applied the darker toned makeup to his bald pate, his face and his neck. He then spread a thin coat of the adhesive to his bare upper lip and in the place of naked flesh Book placed a thick bristly mustache that drooped over his lips. Lastly, he inserted the hazel hued contacts in his eyes and inspected his handiwork. He touched up here and there, combed his mustache out and nodded his approval.
It was the eleventh day since his package arrived.
In that time, he had concluded two assignments, gone over the second quarter figures of three companies, and took Lena out twice; once to dinner and a movie, and the other was to his place for a Book-cooked meal and the first disc of I, Claudius (Lena fell asleep half way through).
Several times during dinner Lena playfully asked about his ‘secret admirer’ who sent him the DVD set, and if she should be jealous. Book smiled and said it had to be from one of his clients; one who had asked what he was currently watching on television.
“And I can guarantee you,” Book added, “that the types I handle fall into the slimy and corrupt, questionably honest, honest, and painfully honest in a very old fashioned kinda way.” He took a sip from his glass of wine. “And, my dear, none of them are my type.”
“Oh, you have a type?” Lena asked in a seductive voice.
“Oh, yes I do,” answered Book, his body leaning towards her over the table.
“And what type is that?” she whispered.
“Yours,” Book replied and kissed her lips softly.
Soon the subject was dropped and everything went on as Book had determined it would.
For five nights Book cased OnePolicePlaza after hours, watching the faces of the cleaning staff and other members of the ‘invisible army’. As always, Book contacted his ‘source’ (who contacted their source) to get an official looking identification for Miguel Cervantes.
On the seventh evening, he came in through the rear, dressed in gray coveralls, a turned around baseball cap (Yankees), false ID clipped to his pocket and a slight Hispanic accent. His sewn-on name tag read Cervantes.
Over the next few days, Cervantes noticed that Pablo Ramirez, the night duty officer, was sifting through a small stack of vacation brochures to Spain with a notepad, a pen and a frustrated expression.
Book returned from work and spent several hours on the computer studying Spain. He learned of its history, its politics, its economics, its vacation spots, and finally places off the beaten path that offered an inexpensive, historical, and less commercialized version of the country. As an afterthought, Book printed out a list of places he thought Ramirez and his wife (he noted the gold ring on his left hand) would like.
The next evening, Miguel Cervantes walked directly up to Ramirez at the duty desk and dropped three folded pieces of paper in front of the officer.
Ramirez eyed the janitor suspiciously, glancing at the paper.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Places to take your lady, man,” Cervantes said with a smile.
The officer frowned as he unfolded and flattened the papers on the desk. His eyes widened and he flipped through the next three pages. He looked up with a wide grin on his face.
“Bro!” Ramirez exclaimed. “That’s righteous, man! Gracias!”
“Just helpin’ a brother out, you know,” Cervantes grinned and held out his fist for a fist-punch.
Ramirez punched the older man’s fist and looked back at the list. He shook his head, smiling. “It was kickin’ my ass, man,” the officer said. “Did I look like I was in trouble?”
“You looked like you were in the shit, man,” Cervantes said.
“I was, bro,” Ramirez said. “I’m Pablo; Pablo Ramirez. I can’t thank you enough, man.”
“Miguel,” Cervantes replied. “I’m from Spain. This shit was easy.”
Whenever he took a break, Ramirez would find the janitor and shoot the breeze while he dusted a room or mopped a floor. Once the officer began to talk to Cervantes in Spanish but the janitor chided him for it, proudly stating that he was an American. They would discuss whatever topic would it the news, they would joke and playfully insult each other, and share stories from their lives. One time the officer confessed his deepest fear; losing his beloved Dolores. And the cleaning man listened intently and offered his understanding and support.
Book needed Officer Pablo Ramirez as someone who could and would verify Cervantes as a regular part of the clean-up crew. He needed the officer in the same way he had needed the clerk at the hotel. Someone who would vouch for him and his whereabouts.
And something else that the accountant was only partially aware of; something deeper.
Carlton Book didn’t like manipulating people and felt guilty when he knew he had to do so. As a form of penance, he offered part of himself. His friendship, his sincerity, and his time. It wasn’t something he turned on or off. He was sincere in his feelings. And in doing so, in becoming close to the person, he replaced the guilt with a happy sadness.
Happy that he was lucky enough to meet the individual; sad that after the assignment was over, he would never see that person again. No meeting for coffee. No talking over a beer. No seeing a movie together. Not even a chat on the phone. All there would be were memories.
One time Book considered continuing the relationship, but the idea of always coming in costume or character struck him as not only insulting to the person, but pathetically self-serving.
There were times when Book would bump into another member of the cleaning staff. Because some of them were illegal, needed the money and spoke little English, few questions were ever asked. If they saw him mopping an area near the Forensics Department, they would simply move to another section of the building.
Book slid his arms in the sleeves of the coveralls, adjusting the shoulder and upper back pads so they aligned with his body. He checked the Velcro straps that held them in place and felt secure that they were not moving anywhere. He locked up his makeup kit and activated his apartment’s new security alarm. If someone tried to get in, a signal would be sent to his BlackBerry. There would be no more surprises.
He left the building and took the train to OnePolicePlaza.
* * *
Officer Pablo Ramirez sat at the small desk that resembled the ones in public school and checked off the racing form in his hand. He tapped a particular horse’s name with the tip of his pencil and after a moment of consideration, circled the name. The pencil point dropped to the next race and hovered over a small list of names. He was about to circle his decision when he heard a deep gravelly voice in his ear:
“Clean up on aisle three, maricón!”
Ramirez sat straight up in his chair, spun and saw Miguel Cervantes grinning at him.
“Goddamn it, Miguel!” Ramirez groaned. “You gots to stop sneaking up on a brother like that! I want to live long enough to get my pension, bro!”
“Man, you need to pay attention,” Cervantes said with a wide smile. He held out his hand. “How you doin’, bro?”
Ramirez raised his bulk from behind the small desk and gave the cleaning man’s hand two solid pumps and sealed it with a fist punch.
“Same ‘ol, same ‘ol, man,” Ramirez said stuffing himself into the folding chair. He folded his arms across his chest, aiming his chin at the man across from him. “You haven’t told me when your ass is coming over for dinner.”
“Prob’ly ‘cause I haven’t told you yet,” Cervantes replied.
“Man, you know Dolores’ been asking for you! She’s lookin’ for a reason to make her tortilla de patatas.”
“Don’ bullshit me, bro,” Cervantes said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You and I both know Dolores has another reason for me comin’ to dinner.”
Ramirez sat back in the chair and looked up at the janitor with a smile. “Well, Dol wants you to meet her sister,” he said.
“Ah-ha!” Cervantes said, raising his finger in the air and shook his head. “Thank you and thank Dolores for the invite, bro, but I’m driving the single road. You remember what that was like, or has it been too long for you, Papi?”
“Man, you get outta my face with that Papi shit,” Ramirez said hiding a smile. “I’m younger than you, and you know we’ve been married only five years, my man. I was a playa in my time.”
“Time’s long gone, bro,” Cervantes grinned.
“Five years ain’t that long,” protested Ramirez. “And ain’t it time for an old fart like you to settle down?”
“Ain’t that old, bro,” Cervantes replied. He ran his hand across his bald head. “This is what settling down did to me, man. Skin n’ bone is all that’s left, and I don’ want to lose that.”
“Ah, man!” Ramirez groaned.
“Don’ ‘ah, man’ me, mother fucka. You just don’ want to hear Dolores complain.” Cervantes squinted at Ramirez. He pushed the man’s shoulders down and lowered his face to the top of Ramirez’s head. “Hair’s lookin’ a little thin there, Papi,” Cervantes said in a concerned tone.
The policeman sat up and slapped away the older man’s hands. “Don’t be playin’ that shit, man!” he said.
“Lemme go, Pablo,” Cervantes said. “Gotta get to work.”
“You’re missin’ a great meal, bro,” Ramirez said.
“Bring me leftovers,” Cervantes said. He lowered his face to the officer’s, but his eyes zeroed on the top of his head. “Looks a little gray too,” he whispered.
“Get the fuck outta here!” chuckled Ramirez, gently pushing the older man’s shoulder.
“I’ll stop by after shift,” Cervantes grinned. He held out his hand and Ramirez slapped it. Cervantes returned the slap and sealed that with another fist punch.
* * *
Book went to the basement, tucked a few plastic trashcan liners under his belt, filled a bucket with warm water, added floor cleaner, grabbed a mop and took the elevator to three. The hallway was empty and he walked to the end of it, passing the room with the sign that read ‘Forensics’. He began to slowly mop the floor and made his way to the door.
Book paused to check his watch. The face read 8:10. He continued to mop, moving closer to the door. He would pick the lock and ...
He stopped mopping. What exactly would he do? Unless the evidence the police had in their possession was labeled ‘3-Monkey Killer’ he had no real idea what he was looking for. Logic suggested it would probably be marked with the case file number and that he did not know. He would have to look through everything that was bagged and tagged. And that would take more time than he had.
You went in unprepared , he groused to himself. You never go in unprepared! How’d you ... ?
Book was three feet from the door when he heard the sound of heavy footfalls coming down the hall. He forced himself to look up with casual disinterest and saw the detective that was interviewed on television. He lowered his head and continued to mop the floor past the door.
The detective’s eyes fell on the top of Book’s bald head for a moment as he passed him. His tired weathered features hardened as he rapped several times on the door frame.
The door opened and a plump young man wearing a lab coat stood in the doorway.
“Detective Fine!” the man exclaimed. “I thought you went home.”
“I did,” Fine said. “I took a shower, had dinner and came back. What’s the status on the evidence?”
“I’m still working on it,” the man said, an uneasy tone filling his voice.
Fine twisted his neck on his shoulders, his vertebrae making audible pops. He closed his eyes for a moment and released a deep lungful of air.
“Didn’t you tell me this afternoon ... ?“ Fine’s eyes narrowed. “No. I know you told me you’d have that bastard’s picture by the first thing in the morning!”
Book felt his heart thud in his chest, but he continued to mop.
Picture?
“Uh, yeah, I said that,” the man said in a low voice. He grinned sheepishly. “But it’s not morning yet. And I have other cases,” he added softly.
“Well?” asked Fine, lowering his face to the smaller man’s.
“There’s a slight ... problem making out the face,” he replied.
“What kind of problem?” asked Fine. Book could hear the barely controlled anger in the detective’s voice.
The plump man adjusted the glasses on his face. “Well, the nanny-cam pictures are grainy to begin with ... “
“You’ve had grainy footage before, Tommy,” Fine said, cutting the man off.
Nanny-cam? Book’s mind repeated. He swallowed. That flash of light he thought he saw!
“True,” Tommy said. “I’m still working on it, but then there’s the lighting problem,” Tommy said. “You ever see the film, DarkCity?”
“If you give me a film review, Tommy,” Fine began moving a step closer to the lab tech, “I swear I will ... “
“The lighting for the most part is dark!” Tommy said quickly holding up his hands. “The movie is filmed in shadows. The television was the only source of illumination in the room. Even when I used the facial identification program, I couldn’t really clear up the face for a positive ID.”
Book heard the sound of knuckles popping. He didn’t have to turn know that Fine’s hands had tightened into fists.
“Fuck me!” bellowed Fine. He ran both fingers through his hair. He turned and glanced at the cleaning man who had looked up when he screamed. Fine turned back to Tommy. “So, you’re telling me we do not have a shot of the killer’s face?”
“We have one, but ... “
“But?”
“It’s at the end of the movie when the sun comes out,” Tommy explained. “But he had turned away from the camera. All I can make out is that the perp is White, with combed back dark hair, dark sunglasses, and I think a mustache.”
“You ... think?”
“This type of nanny-cam works on a motion sensor,” Tommy said. “It only turns on if there’s movement. When the perp entered the room, the camera went on. But because of the dark lighting from the television, it only caught shadows. When the ‘sun’ came on, it only caught him as he was turning away.”
Fine closed his eyes.
“Detective?” asked Tommy.
“The shots are after the murder, right?” he asked.
Tommy nodded.
“So if the camera turns on to movement,” said Fine slowly, “then you have footage of him killing Kostakis. It may be dark, but your computer can enhance those shots! Right?”
Tommy frowned and shook his head.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” asked Fine. “The killer moves in to kill the man, the camera goes on!”
“Hold a sec,” Tommy said disappearing into the room. He came back out with a small remote control in a zip-lock bag and held it up to Fine.
Fine looked at it, then back at the tech. “And this is?”
“The nanny-cam remote control,” Tommy replied. Before Fine could respond, Tommy held up his hand. “Hear me out, Detective. We know that Kostakis was having an affair, right? His wife and kids are at their cabin up north, right? Kostakis turns off the nanny-cam so his wife won’t know he’s doin’ the nasty in their own home. Right?”
“Yeah?” said Fine.
“So if his wife and kids are gone, why would Kostakis turn the nanny-cam back on? He had to know his wife would probably check the video, and why would he leave something for his wife to find?” Tommy asked. “As far as I can determine, the nanny-cam was turned on after Kostakis was killed.”
Fine’s eyebrows came together. Blood filled the detective’s face and his eyes widened.
“Son of a bitch!” he whispered. “Son of a bitch, bastard, fuck! The mother fucker’s playing us! He wanted us to see him. The scumbag’s bragging! He’s showing off! FUCK!”
“But I’m still working on that shoe print, detective,” added Tommy. “It’s not much; just the toe of the shoe, but based on measurements, I’ve determined it’s a standard loafer; size ten and a half. Nothing unusual about it. And as for the video, I’m still working on it and concentrating on the last shot. I just wanted you to know that it’s going to take a little longer than I first thought.”
Fine took a few deep breaths. “Good work, Tommy,” he muttered. “Let me know if you find anything else.”
“You know I will, Detective,” Tommy said proudly. His face clouded over for a second. “Detective?”
Fine was lost in thought and flinched slightly. “Yeah?”
“I don’t know if this means anything,” he began slowly, “but I did notice one difference between this killing and the others.”
“The absence of a taser burn,” said Fine. “The vic wasn’t tasered unconscious before the ‘surgery’ began. Yeah. Caught that.”
“What do you think it means?” Tommy asked.
Desmond Fine sniffed and shrugged. “Means he didn’t like the son of a bitch for some reason,” he said. “He wanted him to see what was coming. Goodnight.” He turned to walk down the hall.
“Goodnight, Detective,” Tommy replied and retreated to the safety of his lab.
Book continued to mop when he felt Fine come to a stop behind him. He looked up at the detective, who was looking down at his face. Book straightened up. They were about the same height.
“What’s your name?” asked Fine. His face was stern, but relaxed.
“Cervantes, sir,” Book replied. “Miguel Cervantes.”
Fine stared at Book for a few seconds and suddenly held out his hand to him.
Book looked at the hand and matter-of-factly rested the mop handle against the wall, its business end still in the bucket. Book did not take his eyes from Fine’s. He wiped his palm against his pant leg and began to unclip his identification card from his pocket.
Fine shook his head, his hand still out. Book looked down and after a beat, clasped the detective’s hand. Fine gave his hand a firm pump.
“I want to apologize for that outburst,” Fine said, smiling slightly. “I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately.”
“No problem, sir,” Book replied. “No problem at all.”
Fine looked into Book’s eyes and nodded before releasing his hand. He walked around him, then came back. Book did not move a muscle.
“Over there,” Fine said, pointing with his chin.
“Excuse me, sir?” Book said.
“You missed a spot,” Fine said, giving Book a wink before he continued down the hall.
Fine did not get far when Detective Frank Costa came around the corner holding a manila folder. Costa was a large rumpled looking man in his mid-forties and looked like he had traded the gym for a fast food diet. But he wasn’t soft-looking. If any word could describe Frank Costa it would be hard, and that began in his light blue eyes. Eyes that bore into you and continuously warned that any contrary action would be dealt with severely.
Since the spot in question was where the detective stopped, Book, rolling the mop and bucket, came up behind him. Book mopped the spot and slowly moved down the hallway, keeping his back to them.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “You’re still here.”
“Hey, Frank,” Fine said wearily.
“I did a check on Kostakis, like you asked,” Frank Costa said.
Book glanced from the floor and saw that the man’s face was flushed, but not from running around looking for Fine.
“And?” Fine asked.
“You ain’t gonna believe this Des,” Frank said.
“Frank,” Fine began. “It’s late, I’m getting a headache and I’m tired. Just tell me, okay?”
“He was making his money from sex slavery,” Frank said.
Book felt his stomach turn.
Fine stared at Costa for a second and grabbed the folder from the man’s large hand. He flipped the pages and stared at one. He sighed and shook his head.
“I followed the last cash transfers to his account and traced it to a holding company out of Seattle,” Frank said. “On a hunch, I checked it out and that led me to a textile company in New Jersey. I did a check on that company and found several storage units in different parts of the Tri-State area under its name. I called the locals and had them check the units. Each one was filled with Asian and Hispanic women. None spoke a word of English. And Des; they were living in their own filth, man! This scumbag was bringing in young girls from out of the country with promises to turn them into domestics.”
“And turned them into whores,” Fine muttered.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Des, the youngest was twelve!”
Fine snapped the folder closed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“The press know about this?” he asked.
Frank shook his head. “The local blues only know the name of the New Jersey company, not the Seattle holding company, or Kostakis’ involvement. They just ran with the tip.”
“Good,” Fine replied. “Keep a lid on it. That’s the last thing the press needs to know, that the psycho took out a scumbag. Once the civilians hear about it, and they will eventually, they’ll build a monument to the bastard crying ‘vigilante justice’. Good work, Frank.”
“Des ... “ Frank began.
“Go home, Frankie,” Fine said. “Go home and get sloppy drunk. I suggest that because that’s what I’m planning to do.”
Book watched Fine give Frank’s shoulder a firm squeeze before walking away.
While he mopped, Costa stood in the hallway, his eyes on the back of the detective, watching him turn a corner and go out of sight. He turned and walked past Book and down the hall to an office. He walked inside.
Book, mop in hand, went to the open doorway.
There were six desks; three near the window and three against the wall. Each desk was covered in files and papers. Costa walked to a copying machine sitting silent in the far corner of the office and photocopied the information on Kostakis. The copy slid into a tray. Costa held it up and re-read it, nodding to himself at every line. He gently folded the paper and put it into his inside jacket pocket then walked to a cluttered desk at the far end of the room. He pulled out a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the file cabinet next to the desk. He opened a drawer and withdrew a bulging manila file and opened it on the desk. Costa placed the original three quarters into the thick file, then began sifting through it. His face tightened as his eyes went over pages of information, newspaper clippings, and photos of victims. He slowly returned it to the drawer and locked the cabinet.
The detective suddenly looked up at the open door. He slowly stood his full rumpled height and walked across the floor with an unexpected display of silence and stealth. His hand went to the inside of his jacket as he spun around the doorframe, colliding with one of the cleaning staff, sending the older Hispanic rocking on his heels.
“Shit,” sighed Costa. “I’m sorry, man.”
“That’s okay,” Book said in an accented growl.
“Getting’ spooked in my old age,” Costa said with a sheepish grin. He patted the man on the shoulder, closed the door behind him, locked it and walked down the hall and out of sight.
Book stared down the empty hallway as he tried to slow down his heartbeat. He reached out for the mop handle and looked at his hand. It was steady as a rock. He chuckled. He wondered why his hand appeared relaxed while he knees felt like vibrating pudding. He chuckled again. Because the first thing people would notice is your hand shaking, he answered.
Book’s smile slipped away as his bile rose. Visuals of scared young women, covered in sweat and dirt formed in front of his eyes. Being locked in a dark cold storage room only to be brought out, cleaned and sold to men to do ...
Stop! he heard his mind cry out. Focus! What do you know?
A nanny-cam, he thought. The words rung in his head like a vile curse. That was an easy miss. The facts were there and he didn’t account for it. The man had children (sex slavery). The man had (storage units) a wife who was rich enough to be a mother of convenience and leave the children with a nanny while she went shopping, or having lunch at the club with other spoiled women of her ilk. And since the living room had enough merchandise to send a junkie on a long drug induced holiday (if he didn’t OD first), there had to be some form of security (outside of Sidney, the condo’s rent-a-cop).
He repressed the urge to scream.
They almost had a picture of him.
And they had the shoeprint, but the shoes were not only purposely non-descript, but that was the first time he wore them. Book’s habit was to buy the appropriate footwear to fit the guise he was in, fulfill the contract, then get rid of them. If there was anything that could transfer from the soles of his shoes to a surface, it could only come from the area he was in. And to prevent any DNA transfer from foot perspiration, Book always wore plastic baggies under his socks, which also would be tossed.
But they almost had a picture of him.
Kostakis deserved to die. He used those poor women for profit. To him, they were just a line on a balance sheet. They were a line of products housed for purchase and he didn’t care what happened to them after they were sold. He didn’t hear their cries. He didn’t see their despair. He didn’t see them as human beings. He ...
Wait , he said to himself. Kostakis didn’t turn the nanny-cam on. The killer did.
Why?
Book placed the head of the mop in the bucket’s wringer attachment and squeezed out the excess water while he gave the matter thought. He again wiped down the spot Fine pointed out as he put his mind in the killer’s.
What did the killer see?
What did I see?
I saw a man entering the condo in disguise and show up on the same floor I was on. That would bring up the question, was this mystery man following Kostakis or following me? If he was trailing me, was he a lone cop trying to capture the notorious ‘3-Monkey Killer’ and make a name for himself? Maybe get a gold shield in the process. But if he wasn’t a cop, was he a reporter, who was trying to sell a front page story? Make a book and movie deal? Become a celebrity?
But if I wasn’t the subject, then the man was going after Kostakis. If the latter was the correct answer to the puzzle, he was performing an act of ... justice.
Book gripped the handle of the mop. Were the other victims of the killer equally guilty of something? Was this man’s motives ‘vigilante justice’, as Fine said? Book felt a tear of cold perspiration run down his spine.
Delete him from the equation , his mind said. He could possibly interfere and corrupt future removals. He could implicate you in one of his murders. He could get you arrested. Bile churned in Book’s stomach. If I remove him, others will be allowed to suffer. And the numbers will increase while the guilty goes unpunished.
Stay on track! he thought. Think like the killer.
I take care of Kostakis and turn on the camera knowing Mr. Mystery will be right behind me. The tape will show him instead of me. He would be accused of the crime. He will be hunted down and arrested, allowing me to continue my work.
Even when the police find the next body, they’ll assume that the intruder is a copycat.
But I have to make sure the interloper is removed in the event that something goes wrong with the tape. What should I do? I can’t allow anyone to interfere with the mission.
Book felt a chill run up his spine.
I will follow him.
I will find out where he lives and watch him closely. Study him like I study all my subjects. I will know him as well as I know myself.
And wait for him to leave his home, break in and take something to implicate him should he get too close.
Like the hair from his brush and comb.
Book shook his head. There was something wrong with his theory.
He could understand breaking into his apartment to get the hairs while he was at Hanna McGee’s (and get him the ‘I, Claudius’ DVDs), but the killer knew his email address!
The psychopath had to have been in his apartment before that night!
Which meant he had followed him, found out where he lived, and had been inside his home (and checked his DVR recordings for a better understanding of him through his viewing) while he was out studying Kostakis’ habits.
And unless he was visiting accounts, Book always left his BlackBerry home in its recharger station giving the killer easy access to his email address.
The bastard knows more about me than I do him, Book thought.
But still he took the hairs. That meant as much as he felt they were simpatico, the killer didn’t completely trust him.
It was proof that the hairs were insurance.
His eyes turned to the locked office.
And why would Costa take a copy of the evidence? Is he conducting his own investigation?
Book remembered the odd expression on the detective’s face when he looked at the document; as he looked at the file.
The Killer knew about Kostakis, information that could be accessed from the police database. 3-Monkey evades capture because he does not leave any forensic evidence behind, he thought. My hair is perfect evidence to leave at a murder. Who else would know what to leave at a scene of a crime and has access to the database than ...
The door to the forensic room opened and George stepped out, carrying a Transformers lunchbox. He whistled as he walked past Book.
“Hey, man!” Tommy called from behind, his voice echoing in the hallway.
Book turned to look at the tech.
“Great job!” Tommy grinned and shot him a thumbs up.
He grinned back and waved as Tommy turned the corner. Alone again, Book’s face became hard. Then his expression lapsed into weariness. He finished the last corner of the hallway, brought the mop and bucket back to the basement, and after rinsing the mop head, slipped out the rear exit of the building so not to pass Ramirez at the desk.
He didn’t feel like talking.
He had to think.
* * *
Detectives Frank Costa and Desmond Fine stood on the steps of Police Headquarters and talked about the Met game that was playing in a few hours. After a few minutes, Fine gave Costa’s shoulder a squeeze and walked down the steps to the street. Costa stood there watching him. He turned and walked down the steps and in the direction of the subway station.
Book, wearing a polo shirt, khakis, boat shoes and a white sweater tied around his neck, followed on the other side of the street carrying a gym bag. His hair was gelled back and wore dark aviator sunglasses.
He sat at the opposite end of the car, pretending to read a magazine while keeping his eye on Costa. When the automated voice called a stop, Costa stood and positioned himself by the doors. Book joined the sparse crowd of people that exited the car behind Costa.
Book followed him to the street and stayed a good distance behind him. When Costa turned the corner, Book quickly opened the bag, took out a blue windbreaker, deposited the sweater and switched the sunglasses for square clear frames. When he reached the corner, he stayed behind Costa for two more blocks and found him entering an area of detached single family houses. Each home looked identical in construction and each had a small fenced-in front lawn. The few that were out on their steps nursing a beer and smoking a cigarette or cigar waved to Costa as he walked by. Book felt it was a decidedly blue-collar neighborhood.
He watched the detective walk up the steps of a small green house that looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint. The small lawn on either side of the stairs needed trimming as well. Book walked by the house watching Costa take out the key ring, open the front door and step inside. Book glanced down the street and saw a 24-Hour Store on the corner. He turned back to the building and saw a light on the first floor go on. He recognized Costa’s bulk silhouetted through the curtain. He reached the store and found he had a decent view of Costa’s home.
The first night, Book stood watching the house from an alley near the convenience store until 2 in the morning. The lights in the window stayed on until 11:30, but Book waited to see if Costa took any nocturnal treks.
The second night, Costa left the house minutes after he arrived and walked three blocks to a corner pup where he drank and conversed with the clientele until 11:00.
On the fifth night, Book became a patron of the pub, wearing washed out navy blue coveralls and wearing a baseball cap turned backwards. He nursed three beers while listening to Costa complain about the Mets, complain about the departmental budget cuts, complain about the weather, complain about cop dramas on television, and generally bitch about everything. Costa, at exactly 11:00, paid his tab and walked out of the bar and to the apartment.
Staying a half a block back and to the shadows, Book followed him home.
About a block from his home, Book watched as Costa stopped to listen to a squabble between a young man and woman standing in front of a house that was in more disrepair than his own. The man was jittery and waving his hands all around the woman’s face. She was crying and her mascara ran in dark tracks down her cheeks. Whenever the man’s hands got close, she flinched from a blow that never came. Suddenly, the man’s hand smacked her across the face, smearing the makeup across her nose.
Book saw Costa make a beeline towards the couple. He stood in the shadow of a streetlamp.
The detective positioned himself between the man and woman and said something to the young lady, who stared back simply.
“Get out of here!” Costa barked.
The girl spun on her heels and ran down the street.
The young man took a step forward and into the fist Costa sent to his jaw. The man’s head, then body went back, but the detective caught him by the front of his shirt and sent a blow to the man’s stomach. Costa punched the man in the back of his head when he doubled over, sending him face first into the pavement. After several kicks to the midsection, Costa hauled the man to his feet.
“How you doing’ there, tough guy?” Costa snarled in his face. “How’s it feel to be on the receiving end?” He rammed his forehead into the man’s nose, breaking it. When the man opened his mouth in a scream of agony, Costa shut it with an uppercut. Holding the man up by his scrawny neck, the detective reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folding knife which was easily opened with the tip of his thumb. He placed the tip of the blade under the young man’s eye.
“You leave her alone, y’understand?” he said. “You getting me? You come within ten feet of her and I’ll have both your eyes!”
Costa released the man’s shirt and the slight figure dropped unconscious to the sidewalk. The detective adjusted his jacket and calmly walked back to his side of the street. He closed the knife, slid it into his pocket and walked up the steps and into his home.
Book remained frozen in the shadows. He stayed there long after the lights in the apartment went out.
* * *
By the end of the second week, Book knew Frank Costa’s habits like the back of his hand because it resulted in one of two things:
After work, the detective would either keep to himself in his house on days a game was playing (Book could see the flickering light from the television through the curtains), or visit the bar on days there were not. That’s it. There was seemingly nothing more in the man’s life. Work. The game. The bar. Doubt began to form around Book’s theory that Costa was the 3-Monkey Killer.
The detective arrived home one evening, dropped off his laptop and went to the bar. Book, now dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt; hood up, waited ten minutes after Costa entered the bar to walk back down the street to the detective’s home.
As he walked past the houses Book could hear sounds coming from the other residences. Snippets of random conversations. The clinking of silverware and muttered requests to pass the (fill in here) as they had dinner. Discussions on what was on the television.
All snapshots of a normal life.
To Book these were echoes of a time that ended too soon.
He stood in front of the door to the detective’s house and looked in both directions. The streets were empty. Everyone was inside ending their evening. Book could see the light on in the front window; an old security ruse. Using a pick he began to open the door.
And stopped.
What’s behind the door ? his mind asked. An abattoir? Pieces of the 3-Monkey victims scattered around the rooms like trophies?
Book took a deep breath and walked inside. He closed the door behind him and walked through the rooms, stunned at what he found.
It appeared ... normal.
The kitchen, dining room, and living room were on the first floor and a staircase leading upstairs to what Book assumed were the bedrooms.
The kitchen sink was filled with empty and partially filled cups of coffee and spoons. On the counter was an empty frozen dinner box; the trash can was overflowing with them.
The living room had a worn couch, loveseat and a coffee table with an ashtray that was overflowing with cigarette butts. There were scorch marks on the table from burning cigarettes that fell from the curved recess. The newest thing in the room was a small flat screen television on a stand by the front window. Cables ran from the back and disappeared into the wall. In the corner of the room was a small desk and connection for the laptop computer, next to a tall standing lamp.
The dining room was larger in comparison and looked unused. Against the wall stood a china cabinet, filled with plates, cups and saucers. There was a wide drawer for silverware and a shelf for a long casserole dish.
Everything was coated in a layer of dust and looked ... abandoned.
Book took that back when his eyes caught a half-dozen framed photographs on the wall by the desk that looked like they were cleaned often. There were five group shots of two boys and a girl who looked between the ages of 5 and 10. There was one picture of Costa, a dainty blonde and the three children. Mother and father stood behind their brood who sat on a bench, all smiling for the camera. Costa looked about ten years and thirty pound lighter. Book noticed that the hardness was absent from the detective’s eyes.
Book’s eyes were suddenly drawn to a note on the refrigerator, held there by a magnetic smiley face. He leaned closer to read the words coffee, bread, eggs, and frz dnrs. He shook his head and looked at the sparse bookshelf filled with books on politics and history. He did a double-take and again shook his head. Book was totally amazed that the bullish detective could read, much less own these thought-provoking titles.
Book looked at the stairs and back around the first floor. Satisfied he took the steps two at a time. When he reached the landing he saw four rooms; two of the doors were open. Book walked to the first door and opened it. Inside was an unmade bunk bed, superhero posters covering every inch of the walls, and a smattering of toys littering the floor. The drawers to the dressers were open and empty, like mouths waiting to be filled. Book closed the door and opened the second. This was the girl’s room. It was pink and lacey and her bed had a pink silk canopy. There was a heart shaped vanity in the corner, its bench covered in silver vinyl. The drawers to the dresser in the room hung open as well. He saw the dolls on the bed, his eyes landing on one tilted to its side, almost falling over completely. Its stuffed arm was stretched out reaching for no one.
Book closed the door gently.
It’s a shrine , he thought . If they come back, everything is exactly the way it was when they left. If they don’t, their memories are preserved.
Book swallowed a lump in his throat and glanced through the open doorway to the third room. He smiled. It was an Everything Room. His parents had one when he was growing up.
‘Where do I put the beach stuff?’
‘In the room, next to the bowling balls.’
‘I tried. There’s no room by the bowling balls.’
‘Then put it next to the winter clothes.’
A room to contain the things you were positive you were going to need immediately, saving you a trip to the basement or the attic. Or the way station before the basement or the attic.
‘I’m just going to put it in the room. I’ll take it to the basement later’ was one of his father’s more repeated lines Book had heard growing up. In Frank Costa’s case, he had enough junk for three Everything Rooms. Wincing at the disorder, he walked the few feet to the last room; Costa’s bedroom.
Book chuckled to himself, imagining an explosion of clothes – dirty and clean – covering the room: boxers hanging off the night table lamp, soiled tee-shirts hanging from doorknobs. Book walked in the room.
All four walls were covered in 3-Monkey Killer information. Black and white and color photos of the victims with dates, newspaper clippings of the murders, crime scene and autopsy photos, information from case files and handwritten notes with arrows and string pointing to photographs of the locations the bodies were found in.
Push-pinned under the photos of Kostakis was the photocopy of the evidence; its folds still fresh.
On a night table next to the rumpled bed was a scalpel.
Okay , Book thought . Very suspicious. Possibly incriminating. This is either one obsessed cop or the 3-Monkey Killer’s scorecard.
Book couldn’t tell which. There had been no more killings, which meant nothing. It was possible Costa hadn’t gotten the rush; the compulsion to commit another act since he started watching him. If the detective was the 3-Monkey Killer and had left his house; even to scope out his next victim, Book would have spotted him from his vantage point by the 24-Hour store.
Book walked down the stairs and passed the kitchen to the front door.
And stopped.
Wait , he thought. Shouldn’t there be a back door?
Book retraced his steps to the kitchen. In the corner of the room was a door with mops and brooms hanging on it. He had missed that. He opened the door and saw a fenced-in backyard with a rusty grill in its corner. His eyes followed a cracked concrete walkway to a gate near the steps. Book went down the steps and through the gate, passed through a neighbor’s yard and between the two houses. He looked around and realized he was on the street behind Costa’s home.
He could have walked out anytime , Book thought. It’s just that simple.
On the way home Book sent an email to an associate requesting a complete background check on Detective Frank Costa.