Should Have Looked Away (15 page)

THIRTY-ONE

Patrolman McNeill looked
again at the picture. He nodded.

He looked at Roberts and Alvarez.

‘Yes, Detective. Detectives. I know this guy.’

Roberts and Alvarez glanced at each other.

‘His name’s Breed.’ McNeill paused a beat. ‘Mitchell Breed. That’s it: Mitchell Breed.’

Roberts said, ‘I don’t get it. Neither the NYPD nor the FBI have any record of this guy, so how is it that you know him?’

McNeill looked up at her. ‘Because he’s not been in any trouble.’

‘Until now,’ she said grimly.

‘Detective,’ McNeill asked, ‘what’s he wanted for?’

Dobson replied. ‘You heard about that homicide at the mall in Columbus Circle?’

‘In the men’s room? There’s no way he would -’

‘Officer, you ID’d the guy. And so did a witness who saw him hanging around outside his house.’

‘But this guy’s never set foot outside the Borough.’

‘Well, he made it down to Columbus Circle,’ said Roberts. ‘And to the witness’s house in Greenwich Village.’

McNeill shook his head. ‘I don’t buy it.’

‘How do you know him?’ Dobson asked.

‘He lives with his mother,’ replied McNeill. ‘And his kid brother. It was through her that I came across him. She was mugged a few blocks away from home two, maybe three years back. Badly bruised. I visited their place a few times, saw both the kids.’

‘How old is he?’ Alvarez asked.

McNeill shrugged. ‘’bout twenty-four, twenty-five, I figure. His brother must be close to twelve by now.’

Roberts looked at Alvarez. ‘So not his accomplice, then.’

‘What about associates?’ Roberts asked. ‘There were two of them,’ she explained to Dobson.

The officer shook his head. ‘None that I know. I remember him as kind of shy, introverted, lonesome.’

‘You said he lives with his mother and brother,’ Roberts said. ‘Father?’

‘I think the father left them some time back. I never met him. Never seen the mother with a guy, ever.’

‘Well, we need to speak with him. I need the address.’

‘I don’t know the precise address, but I know the building. It’s off 193
rd
. Do you want me to take you?’

‘Take us there. We’ll follow.’

This course of action agreed, Roberts and Alvarez said their goodbyes to Dobson, and followed McNeill down to the parking lot. McNeill’s partner, Officer Frazer, was standing by their patrol car, smoking a cigarette. Frazer threw down the cigarette as they approached.

‘I’ll drive,’ McNeill said to his partner. ‘I need to lead these Detectives to 193
rd
.’

‘Your turn to take the wheel,’ Roberts said, tossing Alvarez the keys. Shortly, the blue and white pulled onto Webster and headed off, the two detectives following.

They followed the patrol car to the corner of 193
rd
Street and Grand Concourse. Both cars parked on the side street, across from a sand-coloured six floor residential building on the corner.

‘It’s this one here,’ McNeill said, pointing to the building.  The ground floor of the building was a partly underground parking garage, its semi-circular glassless windows having metal bars across them. As they walked up to Grand Concourse, they heard a voice whisper, ‘cops!’ Then the sound of two, maybe three pairs of feet running. Roberts looked through the bars where the sound came from.

‘Kids smoking dope,’ she said to the uniformed officers. ‘Show us where Breed lives, then you can take a look down there. Though they’ve probably gone by now.’

The entrance to the building was on Grand Concourse, next to a candy store.  Round the corner was a large pink depository for unwanted bed linen, and a free newspaper vending machine, painted white but covered in graffiti, as was the front of the building. A pile of freshly deposited dog excrement lay in front of the vendor. Roberts stepped back and checked the rust coloured fire escapes, front and side. It was not unknown for a suspect to be leaving somewhere this way, while she was knocking on the front door.

‘Fourth floor,’ McNeill said, as they went inside. The lobby smelt of urine. There was no elevator, so they climbed the three flights of stairs, passing three youths on their way down. All three, a mixture of one Asian and two African, stared curiously at the entourage as they passed. On the fourth floor, McNeill led them to a dark brown door, with a tarnished metal E screwed to it. Roberts knocked on the door.

A few seconds later, the door opened slowly, restricted by a chain.

Roberts held out her badge. ‘Detectives Roberts and Alvarez, Midtown North Detectives. And these officers I think you know. Mrs Breed, may we come in?’

Saying nothing, Mrs Breed closed the door and released the chain. The four officers stepped into the apartment. The first thought which struck Alvarez as he looked around was that, with a few exceptions, this was an old person’s home. The ceiling had once been white, and was now stained yellow, matching the ends of Mrs Breed’s fingers. The ashtray on the little table next to the armchair was filled with cigarette ends. She must have been on thirty a day, at least; the place certainly smelt that way. The walls were covered in a thick paper with a floral pattern: in one corner, paper was peeling off, revealing mould on the wall underneath. The furniture was old: all heavy, dark wood; no light, flat pack style stuff here. The top of the old sideboard was filled with old photographs of various people – probably deceased family members.

Incongruously, one wall was almost filled with a huge flat screen television set. An old person’s home with younger people living there.

‘Don’t I know you?’ Mrs Breed asked, peering up at McNeil.

‘Yes, you do,’ he replied. ‘Frankie McNeil. I came to see you after your…’

‘When I was attacked. Yes, that’s right. I remember you now.’

‘Mrs B,’ McNeill said, ‘these are detectives from Manhattan. They need to speak with Mitchell. Where is he?’

She turned and looked at Roberts and Alvarez, but spoke to McNeill. ‘With Mitch? Why?’

‘Just routine, Mrs Breed,’ Roberts said. ‘I take it he’s not here.’

‘Of course he’s not,’ she said, puffing her chest out. ‘He’s at work.’

‘And where does he work?’ Roberts asked.

‘He has a very good job,’ Mrs Breed said proudly. ‘He has a lot of responsibility.’

‘And where is that, dear?’

‘He is the manager of a barber’s shop,’ came the reply. ‘Way up on 200
th
. A very responsible job.’

‘Do you know the name of the shop?’ McNeill asked gently.

Mrs Breed puffed and gesticulated, then shook her head.

‘Don’t worry, dear; we’ll find it,’ Roberts said. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disturb you. We’ll let you get on.’

They made to leave. As Roberts put her hand on the door, she turned to McNeill. ‘Why don’t you two stay here awhile? Make Mrs Breed a cup of tea or something? Keep her company?’

McNeill knew what she meant. He nodded, and he and Frazer remained in the apartment with Mrs Breed.

‘So she can’t call her son,’ Roberts said, as she and Alvarez hurried downstairs. ‘Come on, Eric; let’s go meet our prime suspect.’

THIRTY-TWO

The barber shop
was in fact situated on 32
nd
Avenue, sandwiched between an Interior Decorator shop and a Chinese restaurant. As Roberts pulled up across from the premises, Alvarez looked up at the shop front. Over the door and windows hung a red canvas awning, proclaiming in blue
CMC Barber Shop – Electric
Shavers Repaired
.

‘I can’t see him in there. Can you?’ Roberts asked.

Alvarez peered in and shook his head. He could make out figures inside, but the bright sunshine was reflecting off the windows, making out any more detail impossible.

‘There’s no way this kid’s the manager,’ Roberts said as they crossed over 32
nd
. ‘This is an old guys’ shop.’

Alvarez agreed. ‘If it’s the right shop.’

‘Let’s see,’ said Roberts, leading the way inside.

Inside, it appeared a very traditional barber shop. On the left of the door, with a view onto the street, were three raised chairs in front of large mirrors. Two of the chairs were occupied, one by an elderly man in the process of being shaved, the other by a slightly younger man getting a haircut. Two short men, in their sixties at least and wearing white linen coats were attending the men in the chairs. A third staff member, younger than the other two and wearing a dark green tee-shirt and camouflage pants was at the rear of the shop, using a large broom to sweep the floor. He was gathering up the swept hair into a dustpan and took it out back. Against the opposite wall were five chairs, clearly intended for customers who were waiting. Three chairs were occupied, one by an Asian man in bright orange overalls, and two by a black woman with her young son, who was engrossed in a  game on his phone.

One of the men in white coats, a short podgy figure with close cropped red hair looked up from his customer as the two detectives entered. He nodded and indicated for them to take a seat, his request being directed more to Alvarez than Roberts.

Roberts ignored his request and walked over to him. She showed him her badge and asked, ‘Mitchell Breed?’

At the same time as the barber muttered something and looked round, they heard the sound of something dropping on the floor in the room out back. Roberts reacted quickly.

‘You go out front,’ she said to Alvarez and quickly headed in the direction of the sound.

‘Where does out back lead?’ Alvarez asked the barber.

Confused and flustered, the barber stammered out his reply. ‘Er… er – to an alley; leads over to 199
th
.’

Giving the barber a brief nod, Alvarez ran out of the shop. Pausing for a split second to ascertain which direction to head, he ran down to 199
th
.  Narrowly avoiding a small group of people spilling out of the
Khyber Pass
Indian restaurant on the corner of 199
th
and 32
nd
, he skidded to a halt at the alley just past the restaurant. It was more than an alley; more of a seldom used road leading to the backs of the premises on the streets. A grass verge both sides and a strip of grass and weeds along the centre. It did not seem to go all the way to the next cross-street, rather to some kind of parking lot half way down the block. He looked around, pulled out his Glock 19, and began cautiously walking.

Roberts, meanwhile, had run into the back room. The large headed wooden broom was lying across the floor, just where it had dropped. She pulled out her own Glock, and held it in readiness. She listened out: she could hear sounds of movement.

‘NYPD, Mr Breed!’ she called out. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

Breed did not call back, but she could hear sounds from upstairs. Cautiously, and with her weapon grasped with both hands, she slowly shuffled across the room. She glanced back briefly into the shop in case any of the civilians were putting themselves in danger, but all she could see was the woman ushering her young son out of the shop.

The room seemed to be some kind of storage area, free-standing shelves were against three walls, each containing brown boxes, some with their lids opened, some still sealed. She moved slowly through the second door, which led to a hallway, and a flight of stairs. She could hear noises upstairs.

‘Breed!’ she called out again. ‘I say again: this is the NYPD. Don’t do anything foolish; we just need to talk to you. I’m armed. I need you to slowly come back downstairs, hands above your head.’

As she heard a sound from above, her radio crackled.  She pressed the
receive
button, and inclined her head.

It was Alvarez. ‘I’m out back, in the alley, but there’s no sign.’

She spoke quietly into the radio. ‘No, he’s still inside, upstairs.’ She heard a sound she recognised. ‘He’s at the front. Eric, get round to the front. He’s making for the fire escape!’ Still holding her arms out, she hurried up the stairs.

Alvarez thrust the Glock back into the holster and ran back on to the street, round the corner and to the barber shop. He could see a window above the red awning open, and a figure climb out onto the fire escape.

He pulled out and took aim at the figure. ‘NYPD!’ he called out. ‘Stay where you are!’

Breed looked down at Alvarez. The detective caught a brief glimpse of his face: although not a one hundred percent likeness, Alvarez could see his face matched the picture they had.

‘Come down quietly,’ he said again.

Breed took one more look at him. For a moment, Alvarez thought he was going to comply, but instead, he began to head up to the next floor. Alvarez grabbed his radio to alert Roberts, but she appeared in the open window.

‘He’s climbing up,’ he called out.

Roberts thrust herself out of the window and onto the iron balcony. She called out herself, put the Glock back into its holster, and started climbing, a hand on each rail to propel herself up. She could see that Breed was not armed.

The building was four floors high: at the top floor the staircase ended, and there was just a metal ladder fixed to the wall leading to the flat roof. Alvarez watched while Breed reached the top balcony. He looked down to see how far Roberts had gotten, then put both hands on the ladder rung.

‘Crazy fool,’ Alvarez muttered, watching to see which way Breed headed when he reached the roof. By now, a small crowd had gathered around him watching: the two barbers, the man in orange overalls and two women who were carrying bags of groceries.

Now, Breed was at the top of the ladder, but as he reached out for the top of the wall, he lost his footing on one of the rungs below. He had no time to grab onto anything, so fell.

Roberts reached out to try to catch him, but was too far away.

One of the women with a grocery bag screamed; the other put her hand to her mouth.

Breed hit the side of the fire escape ladder, clumsily bouncing off it. As he fell, he landed on the red awning. The canvas was not strong enough to support his weight and the impact of a fall, so it tore. Half of the canopy, three steel bars from the structure, and Mitchell Breed landed on the sidewalk outside the barber shop. Breed cried out on the impact.

‘Everybody stay back,’ Alvarez called out, and ran over to Breed. He was rolling about moaning, clutching his left arm and leg. Both appeared at an unnatural angle, and his leg was bleeding. Alvarez was on the radio calling for an ambulance when Roberts reached the street.