Atmosphere (19 page)

"Time was of the essence, and circumstances didn't allow us a proper disclosure of matters." He placed a gentle yet commanding hand on Clemens' shoulder. "Right now isn't a very good time to divulge any details regarding this case. Please."

In asking Clemens for a little 'time', Hector in essence was exercising his rank to elicit the sergeant's professional respect—an unspoken prominence that existed amongst the top cops in New York City. When a simple favor was needed, it would under almost all circumstances be granted as long as it didn't interfere with or adversely affect those sharing space.

"Fine," Clemens said. "But I'll need a statement from you both."

Frank rolled his eyes. Déjà vu, all over again.

Hector nodded. "I'll be happy to fill you in on what I can. Give me a few days, okay?"

Clemens nodded.

Frank edged down the hall, his legs feeling like wet tea bags. If Clemens really knew the severity of the case they were working on, and the fact that most of their efforts since early this morning had been done covertly, he'd have a hemorrhage with Hector's request for clemency.
Gee
, Frank thought,
Hector has really let things slide by the wayside. No longer by the book, that Hect.

Hector had a few more words with Clemens then met Frank near the elevators, where the doors finally closed on Harold.

"What he say?"

"He wanted to know how Harold got all fucked up."

"What did you tell him?"
  

"The truth. That the guy tried to throw himself through a barred window."

"He believe you?"

"Not for a second." A police officer came over and handed Hector his cap. He hadn't even thought about retrieving it, much less realized he'd lost it.

Ernie sauntered over, smiled weakly. He looked as pale as snow, as if he'd been locked up in a closet for a few years. Both his hands were bandaged. "Captain, I'm sorry to interrupt. Is there anything else you need at this time? I'd like to get back to the precinct. I have some work to do, and I'm guessing you'll need me to file a report."

Frank was hoping that Hector wouldn't have Ernie so much as whisper anything until they discussed the matter further. He peered at Hector through the tops of his eyes and Hector must have read his mind, or simply felt the same way, because he said, "Ernie, you go home and have yourself a nice dinner. Take tomorrow off. I'll call you if there's anything that needs to be discussed. I'll see you first thing Monday." Improper procedure, but given the perplexity, and sensitivity of the situation, a strategic and necessary move. Frank would've done the same thing.

Ernie nodded, then added, "Sergeant Clemens asked me to give a statement."

"Hold off. No word of this to anyone. Until my say so."

Ernie took the next elevator down. Frank pointed towards Harold's apartment. The entrance had been taped across and cops were coming and going. "Hect—the money..."

"It's already been grabbed. Open door equals free bait." The elevator rang and Hector placed a hand on Frank's shoulder. "Before we call it a night, let's discuss our next move over a cup of coffee."

"Better yet," Frank said, listening to the detective inside. "Let's get the coffee and then
make
our next move." He reached into his pocket and revealed a small piece of folded paper. He gently unfolded it.

A receipt. Village Clothing. He smiled thinly.

"When did you grab that?"

"After
you
dropped it."

Hector grinned, eyebrows raised in question. "What good will that do us?"

"Let's get out of here, and I'll explain."

The elevator rang open and they rode down in anticipatory silence, Frank rethinking the last eighteen hours as if he'd just seen a vivid movie.

T
he city's night-dwellers had taken flight: theater and concert-goers freshly dressed for the occasion; dour-faced happy-hour attendees still donned in the day's work attire, stumbling from their watering holes of choice; denim and leather-clad youths, grouped together with no direction in mind other than to aimlessly venture from street to avenue.

The traffic had thinned out some since Frank and Hector battled the rush-hour intercourse of the city nearly three hours ago. During their return Hector shrewdly utilized the beacons to escape red lights at 104th Street and 91st Street, making the going all the more faster and, of course, turning the heads of a few curious pedestrians who silently accused them of abusing their status. The return trip took about ten minutes, the time spent in unspoken silence until Frank pointed out a coffee cart on the corner of 78th and Madison.

Frank's thoughts during the short journey had been intense and to the point, like the unnerving memories of a man barely escaping the path of a speeding car: fraught with troubling questions and worry. His three personalities tried to sum up the day's venturesome encounters in an attempt to evaluate any possible relationship between them. From the incident in the alley and Bobby Lindsay making bail, to the discovery of Gross (and the other baldies) in the police file. The interview with the Racines and the eventual capture of Harold Gross. So much information and detail, filling his mind to a point nearing saturation. Yet still, frustratingly, no imminent answers sprang forth. Quickly scanning the years, Frank had difficulty recalling a similar experience, one where he had come across so many eventualities in just one day—and was still not able to make any sense of them all.

And to think he
still
squeezed in six hours sleep.

Frank returned to the cruiser with two coffees and a bag of cinnamon buns. They drove west up 78th and pulled into a Kinney System parking garage where the disgruntled attendant let them borrow a spot—the grimace on his face attested to the fact that he'd performed this service many more times in the past than he ever cared to. The city's parking garages were a common pit stop, providing a quiet place for the police to wind down, and here gave Frank and Hector a few moments to discuss the situation at hand.

"Oh, that feels good," Frank said, sipping his coffee. He closed his eyes and let the warmth spread through his stomach. "I need this bad."

"Not bad for a coffee cart." Hector's eyes had a lot of sleep in them, dark and droopy.

Frank uncurled the bag and dug out a cinnamon bun. "You know I'm never gonna be able to sleep tonight," he said, taking a bite. "Between obsessing about everything that's happened, and then trying to figure it all out, it's really got my mind racing."

"Let the sand settle a bit. You've been bombarded. We both have." He bit into the bun Frank gave him, washed it down with coffee. "You said you wanted to tell me something about the receipt?"

Frank took a deep breath, thinking the whole time since they left the Bronx that revealing to Hector everything going through his mind right now might not be the best idea. First and foremost, he knew that Hector would have a hell of a time considering the validity of it all, unless of course Frank could outright convince him: something entirely possible but potentially painstaking given his own lack of spirit, energy, and downright belief in what clearly seemed outlandish. And, of course, Hector's bull-doggedness.

But with everything he'd seen and been through over the past eighteen hours, something inside—his detective-identity—told him that his ideas could very well be valid, that somewhere, somehow, it all tied in, that it could really make sense to Hector if he just laid it out in black and white. Yes, Frank
had
to tell Hector. At least the rudimentary facts as he saw them. Spell it out as clearly as possible and keep his fingers crossed.

Of course, if Hector bought his ideas, then the two of them would have to search for proof. That was another story altogether, and where Frank would really need Hector's assistance if they were to break any ground. But first things first.

"The receipt," Frank revealed, displaying the small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, "is really only a small part of everything that's rolling around in my head. I grabbed it because I thought—and still think—that a visit to the store might provide us with some additional clues."

"Clues to what?"

Frank shifted in his seat, his body squared toward Hector. "I truly believe that this whole thing with Harold Gross runs much deeper than what just appears on the outside: that he's just some crazy lost soul, a sadomasochistic murderer running around preying on the penises of adolescent boys. I've been thinking about it over and over, and it just doesn't make any sense. Think about it. What in God's name could his motivation be? Sick pleasure? I don't buy that. He was too hell-bent on killing himself for what I guess is the fear of having to disclose some secret he's holding inside. Hect, there's more to this sick puppy than just his bark and bite."

"We'll have some answers tomorrow. I plan on questioning him myself."

Frank frowned, shook his head with dismay. "He's not gonna talk."

"We'll make him talk."

"How? By roughing him up? Besides, he has no tongue."

Hector nodded, a grin of truth confirming his thoughts. "So what are you thinking?"

"This afternoon, when Martin was going through all those sketches of the bald men, I couldn't help but think of Bobby Lindsay. You remember seeing pictures of him in the paper? A few days before the murder he shaved his head completely bald and kept it that way all through the investigation."

Hector grinned, clearly skeptical, but still attentive. "Go on."

"At every questioning, at every occurrence we came in contact with him until the day of his arrest, Lindsay wore black clothes and sunglasses. He'd been very defiant in removing his glasses when we questioned him. When he finally did, his eyes were like black orbs, the pupils wide and dilated. We already knew at the time that there weren't any drugs involved. He'd been tested. So we attributed it to shock."

Hector nodded, eyebrows raised in question.

"Hect, call me crazy, but I saw that same dark blank look in Gross' eyes. His pupils, they took up all the color, just like Lindsay's"

"Are you trying to persuade me to believe that Gross and Lindsay are somehow connected?"

"I think it's a possibility."

Hector shook his head in doubt, then took a sip of coffee. "Frank, I don't think this is a time to let your gut do the talking, you're tired and upset about what happened with Lindsay—"

"Wait, there's more." There was a pause in their conversation as a parking attendant drove by in a black Lexus. "Gross was wearing gloves when he appeared in the alley, when he committed his crimes. Lindsay had been wearing gloves when he committed
his
crimes. There weren't any fingerprints at the scene. It's in my report."

Hector looked at Frank, made a
hmph
sound.

"Also, I find it very hard to believe that all those bald men wearing sunglasses we saw in the police computer were involved in personal, isolated incidents. Each sketch—what were there, twelve?"

"Something like that."

"Each had been of a man suspect in the disappearance of a number of young adult males, and each case had been
covered up
by the FBI. Remember the two men Martin researched after he'd done Gross?"

"Hilton and Farrell."

"Both were listed as suicides. Said so right in the report."

Hector leaned back, his brow curious, aimed skyward in thought. "Hmm. That's interesting. Gross
was
hell bent on killing himself."

"Yes. But he failed miserably. And another thing, Gross' victims were young males, like Hilton and Farrell."

"So how does that tie in with Bobby Lindsay? He murdered his sister."

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "That much I haven't figured out yet. But all the other similarities are there."

"So why go to the clothing store?"

"If Gross, Hilton, and Farrell are connected in any way, which I'll bet my left arm they are, and Lindsay too, then I'm guessing there's more of them out there."

"More of who? Bald men wearing sunglasses committing murders?"

"Yes, Hect. Absolutely. It's too coincidental to be overlooked. Something's going on, something very strange, cultish, and we're uncovering bits and pieces of it minute by minute. We almost
have to
check out every possibility. Not only whether Bobby Lindsay could have had a part in all this, but whether there are more. There almost has to be. I really find it hard to believe that we know of
all
of them."

Hector took a sip of coffee, looking out at the cars parked in the spaces opposite them. He twirled his moustache, eyebrows lifted in thought. "If there actually is a
them
."

Watch out for them...
 

"I'll almost guarantee it. It's a cover-up. We already know that."

"So what now?"

Frank smiled, knowing Hector already knew the answer to this one. Once again, Frank convinced his man—at least enough to warrant a further investigation.

"Village Clothing."