88 Killer (13 page)
Authors: Oliver Stark
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 8, 8.19 p.m.
I
n Brownsville, the car slowed to a crawl as it passed her, then went straight up the street. She watched it, then she turned left into a smaller street, hoping to avoid a third sweep.
She continued running through the vacant lots and low-rise housing projects surrounded by wire fences. She glanced to her side. The sedan was right there, out of nowhere. Four guys in the car. Two guys hanging out of the window, tracking her. Not gangbangers. White guys. Two she recognized as Tommy Ocks and Leo Lukanov. She looked ahead. There were no other cars on the street. No people. This was a ghost town.
‘Hey, Jew, you want to make a complaint about us?’ shouted one of them, his hands drumming on the side of the car.
‘We found ourselves a stray kike bitch,’ called the other.
‘Come on, lady, you want to stop and talk about missing Jews?’ All four men in the car laughed.
Denise stared straight ahead, her pace increasing, her heart rate speeding up. Adrenalin starting to make her muscles feel weak. Condition red just around the corner.
A baseball bat appeared through the blacked-out window in the back seat. ‘You want me to take her Jew legs out? That’ll slow her.’
‘Not yet, fool, back off,’ said Lukanov.
‘Let me take her out, man. Let’s take the bitch home and keep her for a while.’ The drumming on the side of the car intensified.
Denise kept her eyes on the road ahead. She was so scared, her legs felt like Jello – so weak and tired that she couldn’t even coordinate her strides.
‘You talk about us again, Jew, and we’ll cut you to pieces.’
The sedan drove on ahead of Denise and then stopped. Denise slowed her pace. Two guys got out of the car. They were both over six two. Tommy Ocks was dark and mean. Leo Lukanov was pale and intense. They sneered, hitched their low-slung pants, jiggled their shoulders. Behind them, the background vocals from the sedan was a low persistent abuse.
Denise was fifty yards away. Life was a fifty-yard play.
‘Hey, Jew, we’re gonna show you how to behave right.’
Denise stepped off the curb and ran across the street. The two guys jeered.
‘You want us to hunt you down? We can do that too.’
Apartment, Lower Manhattan
March 8, 8.39 p.m.
H
arper sat in his car outside Denise’s apartment and continued trying to call anyone who might know anything about her. He called the building manager at her apartment, her neighbors, her colleagues and her therapists, but no one knew where she might be. Denise had kept herself to herself over the last few months.
Eddie appeared at the window and handed Harper a piece of paper. ‘That’s his cell.’
Harper nodded and called Daniel, Denise’s ex-boyfriend. He introduced himself.
‘Not you again – what the hell do you want?’ said Daniel.
‘Denise might be in danger, Daniel. So let’s forget our hang-ups. Try to help us here.’
‘What kind of danger?’
‘Just answer my questions.’
‘I’ll try. What do you need to know?’
‘Denise started running after the abduction.’
‘Yeah. Obsessively.’
‘We’ve been in her apartment. Her running shoes are missing, but her cell phone was still there. We guess she’s out there running somewhere. We’ve got an APB on her. You any idea where she might be?’
‘Brooklyn, I guess,’ said Daniel.
‘Brooklyn’s a big place,’ said Harper.
‘Listen, she has a GPS wristwatch. She downloads her routes and times on to her PC. If you can get on to her computer, it’ll have all her routes mapped.’
‘That’s great, Daniel. Thank you.’
‘Let me know when you find her.’
‘Will do,’ said Harper. He called across to Gerry Ratten and sent him up to Denise’s apartment. Harper and Eddie followed closely behind. ‘Call Dispatch, get some squad cars ready in Brooklyn.’
Gerry stopped and turned. ‘Harper, you drive across to Brooklyn – I can talk you through the routes by phone. No point in us all sitting in her apartment.’
Harper stopped. ‘Yeah, let’s do that. It might save us a few minutes.’ He watched Gerry lumber into the building. ‘Let’s hope he finds something.’
‘If it’s on her PC, Gerry will find it,’ said Eddie.
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 8, 8.52 p.m.
D
enise felt her heart pounding even faster now. It was hitting dangerous levels. She saw them head out towards her. She turned, started to run back towards Manhattan. A long way away now. Her head was hazy and confused, her vision began to tunnel.
‘Fuck you, bitch.’
The two neo-Nazis went back to the car, slipped in quickly and the driver pressed the gas hard. The car lurched off the curb, screeched as it reversed and turned.
Denise was sprinting. How long could she keep it up? After an hour’s run, not long. With her heart racing in fear, even less so. She felt her legs pounding. She could only hear the sound of her feet; all her senses had hollowed out a focus about a foot in front of her face. The sedan raced by, a hand slapped her ass, then laughter pealed ahead. The car ripped across her path, the suspension hitting the curb with a heavy clunk. Metal on concrete. Two guys jumped out. The slam of the car door. Quicker now. Closer. The last ten yards. Endgame.
Tommy Ocks smiled. His thick biceps were covered in tattoos. The sickening feeling of fear was drowning her. The debilitating fear.
‘She’s all hot and sweaty,’ called out the guy.
‘Just shoot her on the street, man. Don’t want my car messed up.’
Denise shouted but she had no voice.
‘You gonna repent, Jew? You gonna accept that you’re the inferior race?’
Denise looked to left and right. She was paralyzed and confused. There was a wire fence to her left. A small opening at the bottom where local kids slipped under to play in the abandoned lot.
‘Or I can make you repent,’ said the second guy, taking a step towards her. Denise took her chance and darted towards the fence. The two big guys lurched after her. She made it through the hole in the fence, but it was much too small for the broad-shouldered neo-Nazis chasing her. She stood. Across the vacant lot, she could see Riverdale. There were cars and people on Riverdale. She started to run.
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
March 8, 8.56 p.m.
H
arper and Eddie were driving fast through Brownsville.
‘Where are you?’ asked Gerry.
‘We’re coming back the same way,’ said Harper. ‘Is there no other route?’
‘This is pretty obsessive stuff, Harper. She runs the exact same route, has done for three months. She times it and tries to beat it. She’s brought her time down by twenty minutes. She’s got some strength.’
‘But she’s not here,’ said Harper.
‘Keep circling,’ Gerry told him. ‘I’ll keep looking.’
Harper turned to Eddie. ‘She’s gone off the path.’
‘Or someone made her.’
Harper felt the flurry of anxiety again. ‘I called Hate Crime. They can’t find these guys anywhere.’
Eddie turned the car and they started back up through the streets of Brownsville.
Harper’s cell went again. He picked up. It was Gerry Ratten. ‘What is it?’
‘I had a thought. If her GPS watch is sending out signals and getting pinpoint location . . .’
‘Can you trace it?’
‘I’m waiting. I called the company. They want a warrant. They can’t release location information.’
‘They’re sticking to that?’
‘Seems so.’
Harper hit the window. ‘Come on.’
‘So,’ said Gerry, ‘I tried a little trick or two I know.’
‘And?’
‘The watch sends signals back to base. You can get your runs logged in real-time to share with others and race with others. I’ve signed her up for this service. It’s just loading up.’
Harper held his breath. Gerry kept them waiting. ‘It’s worked,’ said Gerry. ‘I got it live. Not quite live. But three minutes ago she was two blocks west from where you are. Then left.’
‘Let’s go, Eddie. Two blocks.’
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 8, 9.05 p.m.
B
ehind her, she heard them curse and start climbing the fence, but Denise was fast. She was halfway across the lot by the time they jumped down. Her eyes were scanning the fence ahead. She spotted another gap, a vertical cut, and headed off to her right. She was going full speed but they were gaining on her quickly.
Five yards to the fence she felt a hand slap her back. She hurtled forward and rolled, with laughter following her. Footsteps skidding on the gravel. The gap was close enough now and she scrambled through. A hand caught her ankle. She turned over and stared at his face. His name was Paddy Ellery. He was sweating, his eyes were brimming with excitement.
‘I’m just going to hold the Jew bitch here. You jump over and help her back through.’
Denise watched Tommy Ocks move down to a post and start to climb. Paddy held her ankle hard and watched, his chest pounding. ‘God, you’re pretty for a Jew,’ he said.
Denise felt the fear subside for a moment, to be replaced by a sudden clarity. She had to do something. ‘I’m not a victim,’ she said. ‘I’m a predator.’ Her eyes peeled around. As Tommy Ocks reached the top of the fence, Denise saw a beer bottle lying on the ground. She pulled and leaned towards it, twisting her upper body, and grabbed it. She sat up and smashed the bottle on the ground. Then she jerked towards Paddy Ellery and drove the jagged edge of the smashed bottle into his arm. Ellery looked up; he didn’t seem to feel much, then he saw the deep cut and the bottle gleaming with his blood.
Ellery screamed as he let go, his arm oozing blood. It gave Denise the time she needed. She pushed herself up as Tommy Ocks jumped down from the fence and looked for instructions. He took too long and Denise edged back, her hand holding up the bloody broken bottle.
She turned and ran straight into the street, but the sedan had circled and cut off her path. It drove right at her. Denise jumped to one side. Ocks and Ellery started to move in from the right. The car was advancing from the left. Denise saw no escape. Only an alleyway.
She backed into the alleyway, turned and ran, only to come up against a locked garage door and a brick wall. She looked round: the car had turned and the light cut into the darkness. Ocks and Ellery appeared either side of the car.
‘Now, let’s do this,’ said one of them. ‘Let’s finish it.’
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 8, 9.08 p.m.
T
he car screeched around the corner. Harper spotted the black sedan at the head of an alleyway. They pulled to a halt, rushed out and ran across the ground, guns out.
The sedan was blocking the entrance. Harper jumped on to the trunk and leaped on to the roof and across the hood. Eddie followed. There, in the headlights of the car, four men were standing around Denise Levene.
She was in the center, a jagged broken bottle in her fist.
Harper jumped off the hood and into the alleyway.
‘Police,’ he shouted, raising his gun. ‘Move away!’
Tommy Ocks grabbed Denise and pushed her out in front of him. ‘You going to shoot? Then shoot.’
‘That’s dumb, that’s so fucking dumb,’ said Harper. He took his gun and handed it to Eddie. ‘No chance for a shot. This has to be done by hand.’ He moved fast down the alley, took the first thug by the collar and pushed him to one side. There was no reaction. He shoved past Leo Lukanov and Paddy Ellery, then stood in front of Tommy Ocks. He took Denise by the hand. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m okay,’ said Denise. She stared with anger at her four attackers and Tommy released his grip.
‘Let’s not make this worse than it is,’ said Harper. He patted Tommy Ocks on the shoulder. ‘Because I would just relish the opportunity too much.’
Denise walked back up the alleyway to Eddie. Harper held them in his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Uniform are on their way. Empty your pockets.’ He spat on the floor.
Tommy Ocks was first. He landed a heavy blow on the back of Harper’s neck. Harper fell to his knees. Eddie darted forward and raised his gun. Harper looked up to Eddie. ‘Take her to the car, Eddie. Call back-up.’
‘I can’t leave you,’ said Eddie.
Harper pushed himself to his feet. ‘Take her to the car, Eddie, and call back-up.’
He watched Eddie leave and then turned and looked at the four guys. ‘Your third dumb move.’ Harper considered. Four to one. The odds weren’t good, but he was feeling something he’d not felt for three long months and it was running through every vein and artery, pulsing in every muscle.
Running away was not an option. He’d needed this feeling in the ring, but it’d deserted him – yet it was there now, like a fire. His fists clenched, his body felt strong and agile, his eyes narrowed. Tommy Ocks positioned himself on his front foot. His aim was to hit Harper hard on the side of the head. The other three thugs had already closed in.
Harper moved so quickly and decisively that they had no time to react. He threw his foot out wide in a great sweeping movement, hooking the feet of Tommy Ocks and jerking his ankles back with sudden force. Ocks lost his footing and fell flat on his back, his arms in the air.
‘Fucking help me,’ shouted Tommy.
Paddy Ellery and Ray Hicks moved in. Harper caught Leo Lukanov circling round behind him. He turned, but Lukanov wasn’t coming round for an attack, he was heading up the alleyway.
Harper pushed a boot into Tommy Ocks’s neck and held him on the ground. He eyed Ellery and Hicks. ‘You’ve got to make a calculation here. You must be half-smart. So far, you’ve got harassment. That’s not good, but your chance of getting away is quite high. You want to add assault on a cop?’
He watched the two guys move nervously on their feet. Lukanov was getting away. It was Lukanov he wanted. He had to act.
Harper felt Tommy Ocks try to rise. He pressed hard on his neck. Ocks screamed. Paddy Ellery pulled a knife out of his jacket. He smiled like some moron who felt he’d suddenly got the upper hand.
Harper’s right hook was so fast, that they only saw the recoil. By which time, Paddy Ellery was lying on the ground with his nose mashed up. Ray Hicks ran in and kicked.
Harper reached out, grabbed his leg, locked it, jerked it up violently and threw Hicks on the ground. He looked down on all three. ‘Now, I can hand you over to my partner.’
Harper raced up the alleyway. Lukanov was in the sedan, staring out from the driver’s seat. The car’s engine growled. ‘Eddie,’ shouted Harper, pointing at the car. ‘Help me out here. Block this bastard in.’
Eddie’s Pontiac roared across the back of the sedan and screeched to a halt.
Harper raced to the door. Lukanov pressed on the gas and swerved the wheel towards Harper. The car lurched forward, scraped the wall and jammed Harper against the car. Lukanov shoved the door open and clambered out. His big fist hit Harper hard on the side of the head. Once, then twice. Harper felt the power of the blows and struggled to get his arms free as Lukanov came in again. Harper swerved his head and the third shot missed his face and landed hard on the wall. Lukanov cried out and Harper saw his chance. Leaning back, he threw the whole weight of his head forward. His forehead connected hard with Lukanov’s face and the big man dropped against the car. Harper squeezed out from behind it and grabbed Lukanov’s collar.
‘Leo Lukanov,’ said Harper, breathing heavily, ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of David Capske.’
