Damnable
CHAPTER 14
“JESUS CHRIST, HATCHER! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW this looks?”
Hatcher yawned and wiped his face, the cuffs forcing him to do it with both hands.
“I’m guessing not so good.”
Wright let out a noise that sounded like a predator. Her incisors were noticeably digging into her lower lip. She seemed to be making fists with her eyelids.
“Just what the hell were you doing there?”
“I told you,” Hatcher said. He shifted in his chair. “I wanted to talk to Brian Warren.”
“Yeah, no shit. What I mean is, why did you want to talk to Brian Warren?”
“Because I had a feeling he was mixed up in this somehow.”
“Oh, you had a feeling, huh? That’s just great. I’m not even going to ask what you mean by this. You’re about two seconds away from a murder rap. Because you had a feeling.”
“Amy, you’re not really going to sit there and tell me you think I killed him.”
“It really doesn’t matter what I think, Hatcher. Don’t you get it? You were in the house, your brother was last seen with the man before he was killed. You admit your prints are all over the place. His blood is on your shirt. Motive, opportunity, physical evidence.”
“I’m the one who called nine-one-one. What kind of murderer does that?”
“No one said you were very smart.”
Hatcher glanced over at the two-way mirror on the wall of the interview room. Most laymen, and a good number of cops, believed it was there to allow others to observe the interrogation, but Hatcher knew that purpose had been long surpassed by technology. Cameras and audio equipment could provide better, more diversified monitoring far more surreptitiously. The real reason mirrors were still in use was because they wanted subjects to observe themselves during the interview. It was a tactic the military used liberally. Watching yourself lie is not the easiest thing to do.
He stared into his own reflection, thinking that watching yourself tell the truth wasn’t always a cakewalk, either.
“Nobody’s in there,” Wright said.
“I know. You wouldn’t be talking like this if anyone was.”
“Maloney gave me five minutes alone with you. And he knows there’s something between us, by the way. I can tell. Do you realize the position you’ve put me in, Hatcher? How could you do this to me? Tricking me like that? Getting me to pull men off a surveillance? Sneaking around and leaving dead bodies for me to answer for?”
There was no way to answer that question, since it wasn’t really intended as a question at all. Posed by Amy Wright the woman, not Amy Wright the cop. He would have preferred to deal with the cop. At the moment, at least.
A few seconds of listening to the sound of her fingernails tapping against the table, then Hatcher said, “He’s in love with you, you know.”
“What?”
“Maloney. He’s in love with you.”
She glanced away, then fixed her gaze coldly on him. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Whatever mind game you’re trying to play.”
“No, it’s true. He tried to warn me off. I could see it in his eyes. That helpless, desperate look of a man in love. Willing to do anything to salvage it. I just thought you should know.”
“That’s ridiculous. And we’re talking about you, Hatcher. Not him. You. I trusted you.”
Hatcher let it go. She was lying, of course. She hadn’t trusted him. If she had, he wouldn’t have had to pull his little ruse. But she believed she had, regardless of her actions, and her belief was what mattered at the moment. Amy Wright the woman, not Amy Wright the cop.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
Before Hatcher could respond, someone knocked and the door to the room opened. Maloney stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other holding a file folder.
“Amy.”
Wright locked eyes with Hatcher one final time and sighed with obvious contempt. She marched out of the room doing her best impersonation of Amy Wright the cop.
Maloney let her pass without comment. He leaned back and glanced down the hall in her direction before turning his attention to Hatcher.
“She thinks you betrayed her,” he said. He’d kept his voice low. He walked over to the table, dropped the file on it.
“I got that. Thanks.”
Maloney sat. Reynolds appeared in the doorway, pausing before entering and closing the door behind him. Brimming with attitude today. Attitude, and something else Hatcher couldn’t quite put his finger on. He stood in the corner, staring at Hatcher like he’d stolen the loser’s lunch money.
“So, here we are again,” Maloney said.
Hatcher scratched his chin, having to lift both hands. He was sporting a uniform stubble, his reflection reminding him of a vintage G.I. Joe doll. “Always a pleasure, Lieutenant.”
“Reynolds, remove Mr. Hatcher’s cuffs, if you would.”
The younger detective made a face, but did as was asked. He eyeballed Hatcher the entire time. There was an edge to the way he was looking at him that made Hatcher take note. It seemed Freckles the Police Clown suddenly had a hard-on for him.
“I’ve told you all everything already,” Hatcher said.
Maloney bounced his jaw a bit, almost nodding. “I know.”
“Why don’t I think that means you believe me?”
“What I believe is irrelevant. The evidence backs up enough of what you said.”
Hatcher watched the detective in silence, waiting for him to say more.
“Blood evidence,” Maloney continued. “The drop of blood on the floor wasn’t a match for either you or the vic. But it was a match for what we pulled out of the trap in the kitchen sink. We haven’t had time to run DNA analysis yet, of course, but the lab was able to type it and exclude the both of you.”
“Someone else’s blood in the house doesn’t mean I didn’t do it.”
“Is that a confession?”
“Not the kind you mean.”
“What kind is it, then?”
“It’s me confessing that I know you have other evidence.”
Maloney scrunched the side of his mouth, tilted his head, conceded the point with a flourish of his brow, then a shrug. “Cab driver says he picked you up in the city around when the ME’s office puts the time of death. Maybe not airtight, but I don’t want to waste energy on the wrong guy. Besides, it doesn’t seem like your style, anyway.”
He was lying, but Hatcher had expected as much. “Are you letting me go?”
“Not quite. There are still a few things I want to know.”
Hatcher said nothing.
“Neighbors saw someone fitting your description leaving the house.”
“Neighbors? At that time of night? Don’t people in Long Island sleep?”
Maloney hitched his shoulders. “Guess some people can’t. At least one person described you perfectly, said they saw you get into Brian Warren’s car and leave. A car that was conspicuously devoid of fingerprints, I might add.”
“Why would I do that?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“Lieutenant, I’m the one who called you guys from the house. I was there at the scene when the first cops arrived.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“Because there’s nothing to deny. No neighbor is going to describe anyone perfectly at that time of night from the kind of distance away they’d have to have been. You’re fishing.”
Maloney glanced down at the file folder. “You’re not as smart as you think you are, Hatcher.”
“Why do I feel a threat coming on?”
“No threat,” Maloney said, cracking a smile. “I just mean, you don’t seem to know who your friends are.”
“Maybe that’s because everyone wants to ask me questions and nobody wants to give me answers. It was my brother who was killed, remember?”
The lieutenant tapped the file folder on the table. “Captain Gillis wants me to transfer you back to federal custody if I don’t charge you.”
“You and he becoming buddies now? That would be telling.”
“I told him that you were a material witness, and that I needed you to remain in the jurisdiction. I also made it clear I’d put in requests as far up the chain as I had to.”
“Exactly what are you trying to say, Maloney?”
“Nothing, only that you don’t have to go back to Fort Sill yet, once you leave here. Not right away.”
“That only matters if I’m allowed to leave here. Am I allowed?”
“Almost. But like I said, I have some questions I still need answered.”
Hatcher watched Maloney’s eyes, waiting. There was something about those eyes Hatcher found out of place. They were almost too steady. Like he was fearless. Fearlessness usually didn’t go along with lying. But at the same time, part of those eyes seemed on edge, as if there was a collection of knowledge lurking behind them that he was having to work to hide.
“Do you think what happened to this guy Warren had anything to do with Deborah’s disappearance?” Maloney asked.
The question surprised Hatcher, mostly because it was a really good one, lacking any pretense.
“I don’t know. But I tend not to place much faith in coincidences.”
Maloney stared at Hatcher for several breaths, then nodded. “Me, either. I’m assuming you believe this is all connected to your brother’s death.”
“Is that a question?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, I do. Same as you.”
Maloney looked as if he was starting to say something, then stopped himself. He glanced down and removed a business card that was paper-clipped to the inside flap of the folder. He slid it across the table toward Hatcher.
“Reynolds found this at the scene. It was on the floor of the closet. The Long Island boys missed it.”
Hatcher picked up the card. It was slick, glossy. Centered on one side of it were two words, followed by what looked like an ambiguous address:
PLEASURE INCARNATE FIVE BLOCKS EAST OF EDEN MANHATTAN
In the top corner it read:
FOR DIRECTIONS OR AN APPOINTMENT ASK SAMARRA
Hatcher turned the card over. The entire back side was a partial black-and-white photograph of a woman’s eyes, and hair that seemed platinum, almost like it was the one thing in color among the shades of gray.
“We can’t find any trace of this place, who or what it is. I’ve had people check every business with the word ‘Eden’ in it and the surrounding ten blocks. They couldn’t find a thing. Vice never heard of it. Do you have any idea what it is? Other than maybe an homage to Steinbeck?”
“No,” Hatcher said.
He stared at the photo side, studying the details, thinking, But I’ve seen those eyes.
VALENTINE PLACED THE BOOK BACK IN ITS CASE AND gently closed the lid.
“I hope you’re not thinking of sitting on my forty-thousand-dollar Italian leather sofa,” he said, still facing the wall. “You put your bleeding head anywhere near it, and your day will deteriorate even more than you thought possible.”
Sherman froze in a crouch, his ass hovering over the cushion. He was holding several layers of gauze against the back of his head behind his ear.
“Sorry, Boss,” he said, wincing as he pulled himself erect. “I just need to get off my feet. I don’t know how much more my head can take.”
The lock on the case clicked into place and Valentine removed the key. “Fortunately, it probably won’t be much more. You should consider yourself lucky. You weren’t supposed to leave any evidence behind.”
“I’m sorry, Boss. The fat fuck hit me with a golf club.”
“As it turns out, he chose a body part you don’t use much. Regardless, it seems to have worked out for the best. I believe I’ve figured out a way to turn it to my advantage. They have your blood. You didn’t leave anything else for them to find, did you? Something I don’t know about?”
“No, Boss. I wiped down everything I touched. Didn’t bleed much, but I had to clean up somehow. Stop the flow. Before I started, you know, dripping.”
“Our friend is going to find the Carnates. Our contact in the department tells me he was given the card.”
Sherman pulled the gauze away from his head, grimacing, and looked at the pasty clump of blood and skin clinging to it. “You think he’ll be able to?”
“Yes. Whatever he lacks in intellect, I suspect he makes up for in determination.”
“All I know is, if I get another shot at him, he’s not going to like it.”
Valentine looked down at the book. “I wouldn’t underestimate him if I were you. Remember what happened the last time you did.”
“But, Boss, he caught me off guard. This is different.”
“It most certainly is.”
Sherman shook his head, wincing again. “It’s almost as if you like the guy or something. I can’t figure out what you got going on with him. He probably doesn’t even know you exist.”
“I know.” Valentine placed his hand on the glass. A faint trace of a smile graced his lips. “Manipulating people close to you is one thing, but doing it from a distance, well, that’s one of life’s beautiful little pleasures, now, isn’t it?”
THE SUN WAS ALREADY DOWN AGAIN BY THE TIME Hatcher left the precinct. Wright had refused to speak to him as he left, and the image of her turning away from him in the hallway, the deafening tone of her body language, lingered like a body blow. He tried to push the thought of her out of his mind, but was finding it a tough task. He lowered his head and walked, forcing himself to plan out his next move.
He took the subway as far as was practical and then a taxi the final few miles to get back to Long Island. It didn’t seem likely he was being followed, but cities had a way of making it hard to tell. During the trip, he tried to sift through what he knew, but the more information he possessed, the less everything seemed to make sense. Instead of forming lines from dot to dot, the connections were multiplying in ways that confused the picture even more. Why was Brian Warren killed? What was his connection to all this? And how did Garrett’s death fit in?
The taxi dropped him off on Middle Island Boulevard, a couple of blocks from the Hicksville post office. The street gave him a good view of traffic in both directions as he headed toward West John Street. After a few minutes, he started to feel confident that no one had tagged along.
The walk to the post office was refreshing after having spent so much time cooped up in the precinct, most of it handcuffed. The evening air was cool and moist. He inhaled lungfuls of it, expanding his chest and letting it clear his thoughts.
Hatcher walked into the post office and rang the buzzer at the night window. He raised his hand to press it a second time when a postal clerk shuffled into view. He was a middle-aged black man with white hair and a pair of half-moon reading glasses hanging over his chest from a string around his neck.
“Help you?”
“My name is Garrett Nolan. I believe you have a package for me, mailed general delivery to this zip code.”
The clerk rubbed the side of his face with his palm, long, knobby fingers stretched out. “General delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Let me check.”
The clerk disappeared. Hatcher’s gaze wandered, sliding over the rows of post boxes, settling on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted poster. He read the names, studied the faces. Not a very nice-looking bunch of guys.
The clerk returned carrying a small box.
“Don’t see people use general delivery very much. I’ll need to see some ID.”
“I don’t have any. I told the person mailing it that I didn’t. They said they’d note it on the box.”
The clerk lifted his glasses from his chest and placed them on his nose. He held the box low and looked down at it from a steep angle. The words “No Identification Necessary” were written on the same side as the address, along the corner.
“Never saw that before.”
“If I wasn’t me, how would I know I was expecting a package?”
The clerk eyed him over his glasses for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose I can just let you sign for it.”
Hatcher scribbled a signature on a form attached to a clipboard and wished the man good night before leaving the post office. Once outside, he tore open the box and removed the cell phone Fred had given him and several hundred dollars in cash he had taken off of Brian Warren. He put the cash in his pocket, turned on the cell phone and called the only number stored in the phone’s call log.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Did it work?”
“The fact I’m talking to you on this phone should give you a hint.”
“Right.”
“Did the police take you in?”
“No.”
“How about Susan?”
“No. They came to the door and told her about her husband, questioned her for a long time.”
“How’d she hold up?”
Fred paused before answering. “Well, considering. She cried, but I think they were mostly tears of relief. From what I could hear, she did okay.”
“I’m assuming they’re still watching.”
“Yes. They’re still right outside the building. I can see them from the window.”
“Good. Are you sure they can’t hear this?”
“Positive. This room is set up to disrupt any microwave or laser transmitters, and I have white noise machines tuned to frequencies that will wreak havoc with any parabolic mic.”
Hatcher couldn’t help but smile. Paranoia has its advantages.
“How’s Susan doing now?”
“She’s okay. She’s resting. You have the money?”
“Yes. Thank her again for me.”
“I will. But she knows the police would have taken it if you hadn’t.”
“Still, relieving a dead guy of cash isn’t something I do.
Often, that is. Are you handy with Internet research?”
“Is that some kind of joke?”
“Forget I asked. I need a favor. I’m trying to track down something called ‘Pleasure Incarnate.’ It’s connected to all this somehow. It might be some kind of men’s club or brothel. I doubt you’ll find anything solid, but it’s the address I’m interested in. I need to locate it. What I have doesn’t make sense.”
“What address do you have?”
“It’s in some kind of code. ‘Five blocks east of Eden.’ Somewhere in Manhattan.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. I could use a finger in the right direction. Do what you can.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Hatcher pressed the button to disconnect and looked the street over. Traffic was light, an occasional pair of headlights approaching, taillights retreating. He checked the time on the phone. Almost nine. Hailing a cab back to the city might take a while. But whatever answers he was going to find, that’s where he would have to start. Somewhere in Manhattan.
Five blocks east of Eden.
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