Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (3 page)

She tossed her purse onto the bed and switched her shoes for a pair of Adidas sneakers, then headed down to 243rd Street, the small town where the neighbors shopped at Key Food, got their hair cut at Fino’s and their bicycles repaired at Abel’s.

Vail walked into the Pizza King, where music was playing on the radio behind the counter.

“Hey Vinnie,” Vail said as she took a seat on a stool. “This that new one from U2?”

“Yeah,” the Italian man said as he twirled pizza dough in his hands. “It’s got some weird name, like, ‘Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me.’ I picked up the CD in Green Acres last week. Goody’s last copy.” He maneuvered the flexible soon-to-be-crust over his forearms. “Want me to get you a slice?”

“Do I really need to answer that?”

Vail pulled out a pack of Marlboros and started to tap on it.

“Thought you quit,” Vinnie said.

“Going to. Haven’t yet.” She took a long look at the cigarettes, then shoved them back into her pocket.

The smell of fresh mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce sent a rumble of hunger rippling through her intestines. She grabbed the red chili flakes and started to sprinkle liberally when a man sat down beside her.

“You like your pizza kinda spicy.”

Vail glanced over at him: a good-looking man, about her age, square jaw, innocent face, dressed in tight Levis and a polyester shirt splayed open down to the third button.

“I like a lot of things spicy,” she said as her eyes studied his face.

“Really. You like Italian?”

Vail held up her slice. “This
is
Italian.”

“No, I mean real Italian.” He used his hands for emphasis. “Eggplant parmigiana, fettuccini alfredo, linguini and clams, insalata, antipasti.”

“I like all that.”

“Maybe I can buy you dinner sometime. I know a place. In fact, I know a place in the city. We can catch a show, then have a candlelight dinner.”

“Really.” She did not know who this guy was, but her defenses were down. She was about to agree to a night out in Manhattan with a man she met thirty seconds ago. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sound nice. But I don’t know you or anything about you.”

“That makes us even.”

“Then let’s remedy that,” she said, holding out a hand. “Karen Vail.”

“Deacon Tucker.”

He took her fingers gently in his—and the contact made her shiver. She pulled her hand away. Something told her this was moving too fast—even though the attraction was palpable.

“And what does Deacon Tucker do?”

“He’s a numbers guy.”

“Uh-oh. You mean like you gamble? You run numbers?”

Deacon laughed heartily. “That’s funny. No, I work in the accounting department for National Overnight Delivery in Sheepshead Bay. They’re sending me to night school. To become a CPA.”

“So you’re cutting classes right now?”

Deacon’s grin broadened. “It’s four days a week. This is my night off.”

“They must like you if they’re paying your tuition.”

Deacon shrugged. “Like I said, I’m good with numbers. What about you?”

“Me?” The opening guitar licks of “Good” by Better Than Ezra started playing on the radio and snagged everyone’s attention—giving Vail a few seconds to think. A friend of hers had once told her men were intimidated by women who carry guns. But she wasn’t going to poison this relationship with a lie. She looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m a cop.”

“Whoa,” Deacon said, leaning back on his stool. “Does that mean I have the right to remain silent?”

“Anything you say may be held against you.”

“Hey, that’s the case in any relationship, you know?”

They both laughed.

“This pizza,” Vail said, “doesn’t seem so appealing anymore. It’s cold and, well, it’s just
pizza
.”

Deacon pushed the paper plate aside. “That place, the one in the city. Wanna go?”

“You know, Deacon Tucker,” Vail said with a sheepish grin, “I do.”

4

>ROSEDALE, QUEENS

Thursday, July 6, 1995

The morning came earlier than she would’ve liked. In truth, the previous evening went later than she should have let it. But she did not regret one minute of the time she spent with Deacon. He was funny and bright, and they ended up leaving the restaurant in Little Italy thoroughly stuffed, then going over to Serendipity for chocolate milkshakes. They stayed until closing, and then Deacon drove her back home.

She thought of inviting him in, but she figured it was best to leave the evening on a high note and not move things along too fast. They planned to get together again on Saturday for a Mets game. She had been to Shea Stadium once as a young teen for game six of the 1986 World Series when her friend’s father had scored tickets from a business contact. The atmosphere was electric, and the Mets won in dramatic fashion, forcing a game seven showdown.

Vail arrived on time at the Manhattan South homicide squad, located on the C Deck of the 13th Precinct, adjacent to the police academy—her old digs. The building, a flat-faced 1960s tan brick eyesore, sat in the desirable Gramercy Park residential neighborhood.

Heeding Russo’s admonition, Vail came dressed in plainclothes: a short-sleeve blouse and stretch pants. She found Russo immediately, though he appeared to be on the way out as she made her way in.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “Go upstairs, put us out in the movement log. We’re gonna go interview an old homicide witness in the South Bronx.”

“Right. Will do.”
Movement log?

Vail walked upstairs and surveyed the area. There was a desk off to the left with a large bound book. She stepped up to it and tried to read the scratch that was supposed to pass as intelligible English.

Is this a movement log? What does a movement log look like?

“You need something? Haven’t seen you before.”

Vail swung around, as if she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Don’t look intimidated, Karen. Make eye contact.
“Karen Vail,” she said, offering her hand to the woman. “I got a temp assignment with Sergeant Russo.”

“Oh, you’re Vail.”

Crap, is it good that she knows my name? Or incredibly bad?

“The sergeant wanted me to put us out in the movement log,” Vail said, parroting her boss. “We’re going to go interview an old homicide witness in the South Bronx.”

“I’m Maggie Beltran. Lieutenant Maggie Beltran. That’s not the movement log. Follow me.”

Beltran led her to the book, Vail made her note, and thanked the lieutenant.

“I remember my first day,” Beltran said. “Butterflies, not knowing the lingo. I get it. It’s nothing like being in the academy, is it? Just keep your head, stay within yourself. You’ll be fine. Okay?”

Vail grinned. “Okay. Again—thanks.”

She met Russo downstairs and he proceeded outside to the detective car.

“First order,” he said, “we stop by the ME.”

“I thought we were going to interview a witness.”

“That’s a wink-wink thing,” Russo said. “Basically it means we’re going to be out of the squad for a while. Like I said, we’re headed over to the ME, see if he found anything on the body. Yesterday’s vic.”

“Carole Manos.”

Russo stuck his key in the door and twisted it. “Yeah. Manos.” He looked at her across the hood of the car. “Problem?”

“I just think we should call her by her name.”

“Do whatever you want.” He settled his large frame behind the wheel and turned over the engine, gave Vail a quick look. “I remember when I started, all idealistic, fresh, wanting to do everything right. Please everyone. Make the world a better place.” He threw his right arm behind Vail’s seat and swung his head around as he backed out of the spot. “After a while I settled for making the city a better place. Then getting through the day without getting shot. Trying to help someone in need. Or trying to set things right in a domestic dispute. When I made detective, it was all about trying to catch the bastard who did the deed.”

“You saying the job’s ruined you?”

Russo gave her a hard look. “That’s not what I’m saying.” He made a few turns, seemed to be composing his thoughts. “Reality sets in. You see the job differently, you see people differently. It affects you, changes you. Seasons you. You learn to cut through the bullshit, who to trust, who’s being honest, and who’s jerking you around. Who’s worth your energy and who’s not. What things you can change and what things you can’t. It’s a hard lesson. Take my word for it—don’t fight it. Accept it when the lessons come. A lotta guys can’t, and they start drinking too much. Only way to deal with it.”

“You?”

Russo shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know anymore. Not usually on the job. But at night, my days off …” He frowned. “Don’t know. Anyway, just trying to save you the grief. Job screws with your head if you’re not careful.”

They pulled up to the medical examiner’s office and took the elevator down to the autopsy room and body storage facility.

Max Finkelstein was dressed in a blue gown over green scrubs, with a paper hair cap and reading glasses perched on his crooked nose. Vail figured he had been a boxer when younger; the prominent, misshapen left brow and distorted bony features suggested someone who was in a physical sport—who either was not very good at it, or went up against men who were better than he was.

“Hey, doc,” Russo said. “Talk to us.”

“Vic was not assaulted.”

“Carole Manos,” Russo said.

“Yeah.” Finkelstein gave him a confused look. “Carole Manos.”

“Officer Vail here thinks we should use her name.”

“Really.” Finkelstein squinted at her over the tops of his half-glasses. “And what else does Officer Vail think?”

“A lot,” she said. “But for now, that’ll do.”

Finkelstein stared but did not speak.

Russo cleared his throat. “So Miss Manos was not sexually assaulted.”

Finkelstein tore his gaze from Vail and refocused on the corpse. “Right.” He pulled back the sheet covering the body. “Strangled, as I thought. That was cause of death. The slashes across the eyes were postmortem. So was stabbing the carotid.”

“Anything else?” Vail moved closer to Manos’s head. “What about the cuts? You said it looked like a knife but you weren’t sure.”

“Glass.” Finkelstein stood opposite Vail and set his hands on the stain-less autopsy table. “Broken glass, to be exact. A piece of jagged glass.”

Vail examined the cuts from a closer vantage point. “Why?”

“Why what?” Russo asked.

“Why would he use a piece of glass if he could use a knife? I mean, you use a piece of broken glass, you have to find something like a bottle and break it, which makes noise. A knife—there’s no noise. Noise is his enemy. Right?”

Finkelstein and Russo shared a look of agreement.

“So, I’m just wondering. Why do that? It’s more dangerous for him.”

“Maybe he didn’t care about getting caught,” Russo said. “Or he knew no one would hear or worry about a bottle falling and breaking. I mean, really, what’s gonna happen? Someone’s gonna hear a bottle break and call the police?”

Vail bit her lip.
Good point. Still, it just seems like there’s something there with that. What, though, I don’t know …

Russo patted her on the shoulder. “Nice try. Keep thinking like that.”

Vail examined his face. She wasn’t sure if he was patronizing her or if he really meant it. She
did
think it was a nice try, so she would take his comment as a compliment.

“Oh,” Finkelstein said. “The drawing.”

“What drawing?” Russo asked.

“Come over here.” As they moved around the table, Finkelstein turned on a spotlight above and angled it over Manos’s face. He rotated her cranium, then parted her hair. “See that?”

“Looks like …” Vail tilted her head one way, then the other. “An X. Or a cross. With letters in each of the quadrants.”

Russo leaned in. “An E on the left, an I on the right, a D on the top. And a lowercase d on the bottom.”

Finkelstein handed them a color enlargement of the image. “Figured you’d need this.”

“That’s just weird,” Russo said as he studied the photo. “What do you make of this, rookie?”

I’ve got no idea. Say something, take a shot …
“Obviously these letters mean something to the killer. Otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the time to draw them.”

Russo nodded slowly. “Good point. I’ll accept that. I wouldn’t have called it obvious, but I’m glad it’s obvious to you.” He nudged Finkelstein. “Thanks, doc.”

As they headed back to their car, Vail asked, “Was he a boxer?”

“Max?” Russo laughed. “Hockey player. Almost went pro but he blew out his shoulder and opted for something safer. Cutting up dead bodies. Not like they’re going to swing a stick at your face.”

As they pulled away from the curb, Vail asked, “Where we headed?”

Russo kept his gaze on the road ahead, his eyes scanning both sides of the street. “Thought I’d show you a seedier part of town, give you a taste of some of the shit that rubbed away that green rookie stuff behind my ears.”

He pulled over in front of a pay phone. “Notify the borough we’re going up to the Bronx.”

Vail got out and did as instructed, then returned to the car. Their excursion accelerated her heart rate, focused her attention, and sharpened her vision as if she had just woken from sleepwalking and wandered into a war zone.

There was no mistaking this section of the South Bronx for an upper-class neighborhood. Graffiti littered storefronts—those that still had intact glass—and metal rolltop doors covered businesses that had since closed.

Fires burned in dingy, dented metal garbage cans on several streets. That was an improvement over the blocks of buildings set afire in the late 1970s, when the structures were stripped of plumbing, wiring, scrap metal, and other commodities before being turned to ashes so the owner could collect insurance money. At one point, the police stopped investigating the blazes, and firefighters were so busy that they often had no time to return to their stations before they were dispatched to another burning high-rise. A perpetual pall of smoke hovered over the city for years.

And amid all this, violent crime surged, with murder, rape, and aggravated assault dominating police ledgers. Drugs, gangs, and prostitution stained what had been a vibrant community until the 1950s.

“Used to be quite the place,” Russo said. “Times change. Neighborhoods change.”

Vail looked around, taking it all in. She had heard of the South Bronx’s reputation as a low income, high crime slum, but other than that, she only knew it was a place to avoid visiting. And she now found herself wearing a badge and driving its streets, a target if ever there was one. She squirmed in her seat.

“Colin Powell was born here,” Russo said. “Al Pacino was raised here. And Jennifer Lopez. Know that?”

“Nope.”

“Hip-hop music was born in the South Bronx, too.”

“Don’t like hip-hop.”

“Just saying, it’s not all bad. A lot of the people who grew up here found a sense of community.”

He turned down a street and cruised past a stripped out car on cinder blocks, a shell of its former self. Russo shook his head. “Place was once called Morrisania. Know why?”

“Couldn’t even venture a guess.”

“Most of the land was once owned by the Morris family.”

Is this a test?
Vail turned to Russo and shook her head. “Should I know them?”

“Nah, I didn’t know who they were neither. My social studies teacher told me one day. Don’t remember why, but we were looking at some book with these old black-and-white pictures. And she pointed to this one blurry photo and said it was Lewis Morris.” He looked at Vail.

“Still got nothing.”

“One of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Another member of his family—brother or cousin, don’t remember—wrote part of the Constitution. Anyway, they owned most of the land here at one time. Some of their descendants still have property here. Not that it’s something to be proud of. I mean, look at this place. It’s a real shithole.”

That it is. Hope he’s not planning for us to get out of the car.

“Cross Bronx Expressway,” Russo said, hanging a left. “That’s what did it. Cut right through the area, killed property values. People moved, businesses closed. Rents fell, landlords abandoned their properties, the place went to shit. They’ve been trying to fix it up—new apartment buildings, houses, stuff like that—but it’s got a long, long way to go. Gotta get crime under control.”

“Sounds like you did some time here,” Vail said as they cruised by a colorful graffiti-blanketed wall.

“Did time is right.” He snorted. “I was born here. Also started my career at the four-one.”

“Fort Apache?”

“The one and only.” The police station, then home of the 41st Precinct, had a storied past and dated back to 1914 when it was a small town outpost whose ground floor consisted largely of horse stables. “I’m proud I served there, like a notch on my police belt.”

“Or a badge of honor.”

Russo chuckled. “You could say that.”

The radio chirped. It was garbled but Russo understood it. “That’s near here.” He craned his head and looked at the buildings to orient himself. “No, not
near
here. It’s here.” He swung the car against the curb and shoved the gearshift home.

“Let’s go.”

Go?

Russo moved swiftly around the front of the car, hand on his Glock.

Vail followed. She thought the call involved an “officer needs assistance” code, which would explain why Russo’s service pistol was now in his hands, tight against his body and pointed ahead.

He led the way into a derelict brick building that should have been torn down years ago.

Russo grabbed his radio and informed Central that he and Vail were responding to the call.

She mimicked Russo, removing her handgun and following him through a rusted metal door that squealed loudly as he pulled it open.

As they made their way through the corridor, darkness enveloped them, save for rays of errant light streaming in through holes and fissures in the walls. Illicit drug detritus—spent syringes, burned metal spoons—littered the cement floor and crunched under her heel.