88 Killer (21 page)

PART THREE

Chapter Fifty-Three

Auto-parts Yard, Brooklyn

March 10, 6.05 p.m.

K
arl Leer’s autoyard was used by Section 88 as a safe house. Karl wasn’t an activist himself; it wasn’t in his nature to do that. He liked his workshop and didn’t want to risk his livelihood. Karl was more of an observer. He kept himself to himself and, more importantly, he provided Section 88 with old vehicles when they needed them – vans so old they couldn’t be traced.

Heming looked around the yard. The dogs behind in the scrublands barked incessantly. If he was being watched, they were keeping themselves well hidden. Karl had given him the all clear. He was sure there was no one around. Heming had got sick of being cooped up and, anyway, he needed to be out. He had a lot to do. He had a lot on his mind.

He looked towards the veranda where the office door stood wide open and then at the small table set up by a heap of old engine blocks. Karl Leer appeared from the office. His eyes opened in surprise.

‘Thought you was hiding?’

‘I need a beer,’ said Heming.

A train passed by not far from the workshop. The tools rattled. ‘Could’ve been worse,’ Karl shouted over the roar.

‘Just how so?’ said Martin Heming.

‘You could’ve gone out with them, been arrested yourself. The way it is, they’ll be back on the street soon enough.’

‘I can’t work with them any more,’ said Heming. ‘They make mistakes. Everyone’s a fucking incompetent. Lukanov was a fool – no good. I thought he was better. I was wrong.’

‘He wanted to do good for you.’

‘Yeah, well, he failed. He was a liability.’

‘Was?’

‘Sturbe killed him.’

‘How do you know?’

Heming looked up. ‘How do I know? I was right there. I saw him do it. He enjoyed it.’

The passenger train rumbled into the distance. Heming’s voice lowered. ‘Detective Tom Harper took out my whole team.’

‘He must be something to do that.’

‘He must be a sonofabitch.’

‘You should go sort this cop out,’ said Karl.

‘I should, you’re right.’

‘Everyone else turned up at the meeting house, you know.’

‘Last night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I told people the meeting was off,’ said Heming.

‘Six or seven turned up. Didn’t get your message. Cops were waiting right there. They took their names and addresses.’

‘Anyone mention me?’

‘Don’t think so. But you’re not exactly low key. Got your own website. They only need to look you up.’

‘They’re probably at my apartment. I can’t go back.’

‘You should do something about it,’ said Karl.

‘That’s right,’ said Heming. ‘I ought to.’

A silence fell between them. They reflected on what they had left unsaid for a moment. Heming looked into the office. ‘Karl,’ he said. ‘Get me a beer, would you?’

Karl shuffled across to the fridge and took out a key which hung on a chain around his neck. He knelt down and unlocked the padlock. He pulled a cold beer from the icebox.

‘I should just lay low, keep out of trouble,’ Heming said. ‘It’s too difficult to keep going while all this Capske shit is brewing.’

Karl nodded and placed the beer on the table.

Heming shook his head to some internal argument. He drank from the bottle, before wiping his forehead. ‘We can’t sit on our own and grumble. It ain’t us who are cranking this up. It’s them that are infiltrating every fucking place. Judges, lawyers, bankers, politicians, businessmen. They own the system now, Karl, that’s what we’re up against. These people are everywhere. Immigrants and Jews fucking running the place.’ He rose up. ‘I hate them, man, you know? I just hate them so fucking much I can’t focus on anything else.’ Heming’s cheeks were bright red and his forehead was glistening. He looked into the middle distance as if possessed by a terrible vision.

‘Why so much, Heming?’ said Karl Leer.

‘Why so much? Are you kidding? I’ll tell you straight up: I love my country and they are destroying it. It’s an act of self-defense. Would you protect your own children? Don’t answer me, that’s all I’m doing. Protecting my children. My children’s children.’

‘You don’t have children,’ said Karl.

‘Fuck you,’ said Heming.

Martin Heming stood still for a moment as though something had just been clarified in his mind. He drank until his beer was gone, then went and opened the door of the icebox. Let the cool air drift across his face a second.

‘Some guy has done some research and you know what he found? He found that the Jews and the Arabs and the Blacks are all part-Neanderthal. They did some genetic experiment and found this out. They carry the genes of the Neanderthal. Doesn’t that blow your mind? They’re infected with the genes of a dumb animal. Neanderthals. You can see it in their faces.’

Karl let out a laugh. ‘Sure they are, Heming.’

‘What are you saying? You saying that I’m lying?’

‘You’re not lying; you’re just being selective. We’re all of us part-descended from Neanderthals. All of us have that gene. I read about it too.’

‘Not all of us, Karl. You, maybe, but not me.’

‘It’s not something you choose.’

‘It
is
something you choose,’ said Heming. ‘I choose not to be a dumb fucking animal, I choose to rise above. I choose to further our race and not let it be diluted by theirs. You go eat with the animals, Karl, but not me. I’m no fucking violent Neanderthal ape.’

Karl stifled his rising laughter. If Heming was trying to be comic, he wasn’t showing it.

‘You take a look around you,’ continued Heming. ‘See who’s doing what and who’s suffering. This is everyone’s problem. You think you’re immune to it? You can just walk about, go about your business? Look at your fucking shop! Do you get everyone coming here? No. Where do they go? They got a monopoly, go to their own shops. It’s one rule for us and another for them. They’re squeezing guys like you out. Good guys like you. They’re the Neanderthals, they’re trying to destroy America from within, trying to fuck up our gene pool. Infected, they are, infected with this ape-gene. I love this country, man. I love it. But it’s got a disease right here under the skin and it’s carried by all those fucking types.’

Heming took another beer and pressed the cool bottle to his cheek. His pale blue shirt was stained with sweat under both arms. He carried three days of stubble and his eyes glowed red from staring into the dark, night after night, alone with his mind-rotting theories.

Karl reached out towards a chipped wooden bench and felt for a wrench. He found it and moved across to the open hood of an old car. He leaned into the engine. Heming watched for a moment. ‘These people have tentacles. They control Wall Street – and if they control finance, they control government – right? They’ve got us wrapped around their fingers. And what else? Out there, in the world, we were once a proud nation. Now we’re drowning in shit with our reputation dying because they got us into a war with the whole rest of the fucking world. Playing second fiddle, maybe even third fiddle.’

Martin remained by the open fridge letting the cool air dance around his heated face. He drank in quick gulps. Then he turned to the car that was absorbing Karl Leer more than he was managing to do.

‘You see, Karl, you got to go to the top of the mountain to see the lay of the land. The spread, the forces at work. You’ve got your head stuck down in the valley. Heh, listen to me, don’t be getting distracted by the fucking car.’

‘I’m working, Heming, I got rent to pay. You don’t work, you’ve got it easy, you got time to get all worked up. You should do something positive.’

‘Don’t tell me what I’ve got. They’ve taken the lot. My wife, my money, my freedom. Don’t tell me what to think, Karl, they took it all and they’ll take it from you too, if you sit back and let them. This government is destroying us. Our own government is infected with their thinking. We need to do something.’

Martin wandered back to his seat with another cool one. He twisted open the bottle and put it to his lips. The cold beer passed across his tongue and down his throat. He wiped his mouth. ‘I should do something positive, you’re right. You’re right, Karl, I got to do something real positive. Not wait around for the fucking world to change. Do something. You hear that? We got to do something. You got that fucking right.’

Chapter Fifty-Four

North Manhattan Homicide

March 10, 6.23 p.m.

H
arper walked out of the investigation room, leaving Denise to work on the profile. He took two more codeine pills, knowing that in fifteen minutes he’d feel the subtle change of mood, a feeling of peace – happiness even. It was low enough, background enough to carry on working.

He felt in his pocket for the small piece of card. What did he do now? He pulled out the card. Erin Nash’s name in red lettering. She knew something and was interested in what was happening out there. She would sense what was going on. Erin Nash would maybe write an article that could help them to steer things.

There was plenty to write about, Carney had been clear about it. There was hate crime all over. Maybe Erin could upset the ship a little, warn the public about this freak. Maybe get Heming’s picture out there.

He dialed her number. Erin answered immediately. ‘Who’s calling?’

‘Detective Harper, NYPD.’

‘So formal. Tom, good to hear from you. I’ll book us a nice cosy table in Greenwich Village.’

‘What?’

‘You want to talk to me about this serial killer, I’m guessing, so why not talk somewhere comfortable?’

‘How did you know what I want?’

‘I’ve got many friends. They all like to talk to me. Some like more than that.’

‘What are they telling you?’

‘That Harper thinks there’s a hate killer out there. A pattern killer. Maybe a killer with a racial motivation.’

‘You work this out?’

‘I heard about the new body on Lower East Side. I also heard you were looking into the Esther Haeber murder. That’s three dead Jews, Harper. I can count, you know. That makes a series.’

‘How do you get all this information?’

‘I don’t know – I think it’s something to do with my nature. People just like to open up to me.’

‘I know your nature and you’ll do whatever you have to in order to get information, including debasing yourself.’

‘Nothing debased in sleeping with a cop, Detective. You should have more self-esteem.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘Come on, Harper, lighten up. I like you, let’s get together. See what happens.’

‘To talk about the case.’

‘And that too,’ said Erin.

‘Two Jewish women and one Jewish man got shot. But there’s no real connection. I might be way off-track.’

‘That’s not your style, you’re usually spot on. Of course, you might not have been calling about the case at all. Let’s consider that for a moment. I look forward to seeing you, Tom. Be nice working together – unless, of course, it’s something else you’re after.’

‘What’s the restaurant?’

‘Little deli. Nice place. Mosha’s.’ She gave him the address. ‘See you in one hour.’

Harper ended the call. Erin Nash was used to using people, but in this case, Harper had an idea, a way of getting a great big spotlight turned on these murders. He needed Nash, because he needed the public to start giving him information.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Mosha’s Diner, The Village

March 10, 7.28 p.m.

M
osha’s was a simple table-screwed-to-the-floor Jewish deli that had once had a reputation for the best something or other, but had long since stopped giving a damn for quality just so long as things were served quickly and people were happy.

Jake Mosh, the owner, still worked the front desk. Harper arrived before Erin Nash and waved towards a seat. ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ he called across to Jake.

‘No way you wait for someone. You order something. This is not a bus stop.’

‘Get me a coffee.’

‘Coffee is not good for you, a man needs to eat. I get you a waiting plate.’

‘Okay.’

‘One waiting plate for the cop.’

Harper looked around.

‘What? You think you look like you write novels in Greenwich Village? You got that cop look, always checking out all the things. Cops have the wandering eye.’

‘You always like this?’

‘Like what? Like noticing things?’

Harper sidled into a tight space in a corner. A cop seat. No one behind him, a good view of the whole deli. He was only just in his seat when a teenager with dark hair put a coffee cup in front of him.

‘Taste it. Best coffee in the world.’

Harper nodded. She was obviously trained by Mosha himself. He took out his cell and checked the bird news. There were reports of Snow Geese upstate, flying high and honking through the night. It was enough to take him away for a moment.

The door opened and in walked a small woman dressed up with several bangles on each arm. She jangled to the counter.

‘Erin, my beautiful bride. We get married soon – you promise?’ said Jake.

‘Oh, yeah, Mosh, very soon. Just after I’ve tried every other man in New York.’

‘I will wait. My wife understands. She was only ever a stand-in.’

Erin was wearing a party dress. Black and silver. Hair done up high on her head. Not the weasel in jeans that Harper had got to know standing outside the precinct. She was looking pretty and elegant.

Erin turned and looked. ‘See my friend took the seat.’

‘I knew he would.’

‘The test always works.’

‘I didn’t know he was yours.’

‘He’s not mine yet. He’s a cop.’

‘I know he’s a cop. Who else wears cologne like that these days?’

Erin Nash walked across and sat opposite Harper. ‘Mosh tells me you’re wearing cologne.’

‘I shaved.’

‘For me?’

‘To avoid being picked up for vagrancy.’

‘Nice and smooth.’

‘This guy, Mosh, he’s a talker.’

‘Yeah, he talks. He’ll shoot you too if you don’t buy something.’

‘I got a waiting plate.’

‘Then you’re in trouble.’

‘You eating?’

‘Mosh will bring me something I like.’

Harper looked at her arms. Thin. Four small tattoos on the under-side of each arm. Possibly Celtic, possibly Chinese. He couldn’t quite see, but that was the gist – origins. Usually someone else’s.

‘You look different.’

‘Are you flattered that I put on a dress?’

‘It doesn’t take much.’

‘Don’t be, I’ve got a launch party. Friend wrote a terrible book and we’ve all got to turn up and smile about it.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. You know why? He’s a liberal with too much free time.’

‘A friend.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Let’s cut to the chase, Erin. I don’t want to ruin your evening.’

‘You won’t. I might take you with me. You don’t look so bad.’

A moment later, two waitresses appeared from the side. One carried a small bowl of soup and placed it before Erin. The next moved beside Harper and placed an enormous platter in front of him. It contained everything. Herring, chopped liver, gherkins, a salt-beef sandwich.

‘Jesus.’

‘Not in here, Tom. It’s David and Abraham all the way.’

Harper smiled. He needed someone to bounce ideas off. Someone outside of the NYPD. Erin was not Denise Levene, but she was smart and cynical and she could get his story the angle he needed.

‘Tell me about your family,’ said Erin. ‘I guess you came from a stable little well-meaning unit out in Brooklyn.’

‘You been reading up on me?’

‘Couldn’t get much.’

‘Not much to get. Parents separated. Mother’s English, she took off back to the UK some years back. Father’s a drunk, he took off to Chicago. My sister still lives in the city. She’s a lawyer. Two kids. Great kids. Me and my sister have never been close, though. Hardly speak now. I’ve lost touch.’

‘She’s older, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Always bossing you around?’

‘Yeah, she’s the one in command.’

‘Smart too?’

‘She was always smarter than me. Went to college. Got a degree. Law firm. Worked hard. She’s bringing up the two kids well. I wish I could get to see them more.’

‘Such a tender story. Why you both in law?’

‘Do I need to tell you?’

‘Why? You think I should be able to work it out?’

‘No. I know you will have already found out. Erin Nash wouldn’t come unprepared now, would she?’

‘Okay, I did a little research. I was interested.’

‘I’m flattered. What about you, Erin, what’s your background?’

‘God, we’re like some soap opera. My story is simple. I was born like this. I was spoiled by my old man and hated by Mom. I learned to enjoy annoying her. It became an art. I now use the same tactics to get under other people’s skin.’

‘What tactics are those?’

‘All people like flattery, right? You work your way in, be real nice, make them feel that you’re in need of them until they let down their guard. Then when they’ve revealed an itsy-bitsy bit of weakness, you snap their hand off.’

‘I guess, in telling me this, you’re not trying to impress me.’

‘I like you. I’m not playing games with you. You know the score. You do the same with interrogations, I bet. Soft soap followed by sudden attack. So, I’m just being honest.’

‘For a change.’

Tom pushed a gherkin around his plate. He thought of Denise, then looked up at Erin. He didn’t know what he was feeling at the moment. Hurt, mainly. The boxing match plus a couple of hits from Lukanov had left him with a few wounds. But beneath that, he was pleased to be working again, working with Denise.

‘Okay,’ said Nash. ‘Now let’s get down to business. Tell me about the case.’

‘Look, Erin, this isn’t official, but we’ve got unconnected Jewish deaths. Capske, you know about. I’ve got Esther Haeber from a few months back – and she’s Jewish. And South Manhattan found the body of a Jewish woman yesterday, apparently killed for no reason. Her name is Marisa Cohen. What’s more, about ten days ago, a Jewish high-school student was abducted.’

‘You’ve got links, haven’t you?’

‘I think so.’

‘What have you got?’

‘These three Jewish murders are all linked by an “88” written at the scene and by the use of iron bullets.’

‘What’s the significance?’

‘Being blunt, he’s using Nazi symbols and Nazi bullets and he’s attacking the Jewish community.’

‘You’ve just written tomorrow’s headline story. What do you want from me?’

‘We need help. We’re searching for a man called Martin Heming. If we could get some public help on this, we might be able to stop him.’

‘You need pressure put on him.’

‘I need information. He’s speeding up. The time between kills is falling rapidly.’

Erin Nash listened for another twenty minutes as Tom spoke and worked his way through his waiting plate. She nodded appropriately.

At the end she said, ‘Hell of a story, that, Harper. I can write this, you know.’

‘I know, but you can’t say anything definite yet.’

‘I wouldn’t need to, Harper, that’s the beauty of journalism. You have to
prove
your case while I just have to
throw
my case to the public. We’re talking about the police linking the murders of Jewish people across the city.’

‘Don’t name me as the source.’

Nash looked into Harper’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I understand. And thanks, this is another big break for me. Means I won’t have to do the story on Detective Harper’s addiction problems.’ She drank up and smiled.

‘You leaving?’ said Harper.

‘Yeah. I’ve got a party to go to.’

‘On your own?’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said. ‘I like to travel light. Company gets in the way of a good story.’