Blood on the Sun (CSI: NY) (9 page)

“Then why yesterday?” asked Flack.

“I had recovered from my treatment and I wanted to see Asher. He suggested I join the
minyan
and we could talk afterward. I said yes. I owed him. More than money. He was good to me, steered buyers to me.”

“We know,” said Stella. “We were at Mr. Glick’s store.”

“Your wife,” said Flack, reminding the man that they wanted to talk to her.

As if on cue, one of the doors at the top of the landing opened and a woman came down the steps. She was short, slightly overweight, wearing a colorful orange and yellow dress. Her hair was short, touches of gray, neatly brushed, and she was wearing makeup and no smile. Aiden pegged her at forty plus.

“My wife,” said Bloom with a smile. “These are the police. They want to ask you some questions about Asher Glick.”

The woman vaguely registered Bloom’s words and took a few seconds to turn her head to look at him, then turned to look at each of the strangers before her.

“He’s dead,” she said softly.

“When did you last see him?” asked Stella.

“I only saw him three times,” she said. “Always at his shop to look at merchandise. The last time was, I think, last Monday. We bought a French Regency period commode, early nineteenth century, three doors, carved walnut with a marble top from L’îe-de-France.”

“It didn’t have the original hardware,” said Bloom, “but Ivy knew that I had perfect period hardware. And the legs needed a little work. The restoration is undetectable. It is one of the pieces we have a buyer for.”

“Your computer,” Flack prodded.

“My accounts,” answered Bloom. “I prefer the old-fashioned way, the feel and smell and touch of a craftsman’s shop.”

Bloom moved behind the counter, reached down to a shelf and pulled out an oversized old clothbound notebook.

“Before I forget,” said Bloom, making some notes in the book with a pen he pulled out of a white mug on the counter. “I keep track of where I am on each job.”

“We checked Mr. Glick’s computer,” said Stella.

“Yes?” said Bloom, looking up over the top of his glasses.

“What we didn’t find on Mr. Glick’s computer was more interesting,” said Stella.

Bloom looked puzzled.

Aiden appeared from the back of the shop, nodded for Stella to follow her.

“We didn’t find anything he bought or sold in the last year made of bloodwood,” Stella said, nodding at Aiden. “There was nothing in his shop made of bloodwood. But Asher Glick had bloodwood dust on his clothes. Do you have anything made of bloodwood?”

“Yes, back where your friend was,” said Bloom. “A beautiful piece. I was working on it when you came. My guess is that a fair number of people Asher was doing business with have pieces made of bloodwood. Have you checked them?”

“None of them were part of that
minyan,”
said Stella. “None but you.”

Stella left Flack with Bloom and joined Aiden in the small back room. Aiden pointed to a red sideboard.

“Transfer from Bloom to Glick,” said Aiden. “Can we match sawdust to a specific piece of furniture?”

“I don’t know,” said Stella, “but we’re going to find out.”

“He’s not left-handed,” said Flack as they left the shop.

Neither Aiden nor Stella responded. They had both noticed the same thing. Wristwatch on Bloom’s left wrist. Notes he made in his notebook with his right hand. The killer’s chalk marks, hammered nails, and written message near the body were definitely made by a left hand.

“But he avoided telling us if he had a computer,” said Stella. “We know he does.”

“Glick’s e-mail,” said Aiden. “He sent messages to Bloom.”

“Could use a computer at the library or an Internet coffee bar,” said Flack.

“Could be,” Stella said. “Let’s find out if he’s got one.”

“Will do,” said Flack, wondering what they would find on Bloom’s computer when he found it—and Flack was sure he would find it.

Kyle Shelton had abandoned the pickup on a street in the Bronx. The street, he knew, was an elephants’ graveyard of abandoned cars. He didn’t bother to wipe off fingerprints. He did bother to remove the license plate and tuck it into his backpack. It was four blocks to the subway station in a neighborhood where a white face was a rare exception.

In spite of the name on the vanity plate, Kyle Shelton’s nickname was not The Beast. The plates had belonged to his cousin Ray, as had the pickup truck. People just assumed the nickname went with the driver. Kyle felt nothing about abandoning the pickup. It was a piece of crap, falling apart, rusting through the bottom, radio a spray of static, brakes needing fluid every two weeks. Ray wouldn’t care either, but he would want his plates back.

Kyle hitched the pack onto his shoulders. It contained clothes, a disposable razor, a toothbrush, a few books, a few nutritional bars. It had two more items too. One of them was a long-bladed kitchen carving knife encrusted with dry blood. Kyle had considered throwing it away, but he decided to hold on to it. He didn’t know much about forensic evidence, but he knew there were things Crime Scene Investigators could find that might help him with what he was trying to do.

It was midday, the sun burning bright in the clear sky, humidity coming thick from the air. He felt the moist itch in his crotch, under his jeans and against his scalp. It had been this hot in Iraq, especially on the unsafe roads across the desert, bouncing, hallucinatory.

The streets of the towns of Iraq had been dangerous for a soldier, more dangerous than this street in the Bronx.

The buildings on the street were mostly two- and three-story brick apartments built in the 1920s. Between some of them were debris-filled lots where buildings had been torn down.

Kyle had a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he could come up with. He had slept in the pickup the night before for about two hours. He was tired. He half closed his eyes and was aware of children somewhere in the distance laughing and arguing. What he wasn’t aware of until he heard the voice was the three young men standing on the crumbling stone steps of one of the old three-flat buildings Kyle was about to pass.

“You lost?” asked the voice.

Kyle looked up. The speaker was maybe eighteen or nineteen, black, hair cut short, clean yellow T-shirt and brown jeans. Flanking the speaker were two other young black men wearing identical T-shirts and brown jeans.

Kyle didn’t answer. He pulled the brim of his baseball cap down, shifted the weight of his backpack and kept walking.

“Asked you a question, brother,” said the young man, who was obviously the leader. There was irritation in his voice now.

Kyle stopped, tilted back his cap and looked at the young men who had taken a step toward him. He had been through situations like this, on the streets of Fallujah, at Riker’s.

“Bo asked you a question,” said the young man to the right of the leader.

“ ‘Life is not a spectacle or a feast. It’s a predicament,’ ” said Kyle, reaching over his shoulder into his backpack.

“Say what?” asked Bo.

“George Santayana,” said Kyle. “A philosopher.”

“He’s high,” said one of the others.

“Hand over the backpack,” said Bo, holding out his hand.

The three took another step toward Kyle, who shook his head “no.”

“ ‘I believe in the brotherhood of all men, but I don’t believe in wasting brotherhood on anyone who doesn’t want to practice it with me. Brotherhood is a two-way street,’ ” said Kyle. “You know who said that?”

“Don’t give a shit,” said the young man.

The young man on the right pulled a small gun from his pocket after looking up and down the street to be sure no one was watching.

Kyle didn’t seem to notice.

“Malcolm X,” said Kyle. “He said it. You know who he was.”

“I ain’t simple,” said the leader. “Saw the movie.”

Kyle’s right hand came out of the backpack holding a .45 caliber army pistol, which he aimed at the leader. The trio stopped.

“You gonna shoot all three of us?” Bo said.

“Looks that way,” said Kyle. “Unless he puts that gun away and you all back up and sit down on the steps and talk about the heat and listen to the radio or some CDs.”

The one called Bo scratched the side of his head, smiled and looked at Kyle.

“I like you,” said Bo.

“That makes me very happy,” said Kyle. “Adds to my new philosophy.”

“What’s that?” the leader said, still smiling.

“ ‘I’m only going to dread one day at a time,’ ” said Kyle.

“Who said that?” asked the leader.

“Charles Schulz,” said Kyle.

“Who?” asked Bo.

“
Peanuts
,” said Kyle.

“Crazy fool. Get out of here,” said the leader, waving his hand.

Kyle nodded, put the gun back in his pack, and walked the rest of the way to the subway without looking back. He had things to do.

T
HE FIRST TIME
,
with Glick, he had made mistakes. There was no point in deluding himself. He had thought he was prepared, but he had let emotion take over, something he had been taught never to do. No, it wasn’t really emotion moving him to the kill, making him take chances. It was the high of running along the edge when he could take a safe path. It was the rush he got from pulling it off, and so he had made it difficult for himself and those who would be looking for him. He had something to prove to himself. His plan had been weak. It was unprofessional. It could get him caught. It could get him killed. He could, as he had almost done, lose control of the situation. He had been out of the game too long.

Yes, that was it. He comforted himself by saying that it had been a long time since he had called on his training, his skill. He hadn’t really forgotten. He had put it aside for a new life.

It was early afternoon. His armpits were sweating and even he was aware of the odor. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt with a tie. The shirt was soaked through. The radio had said the temperature was about to top 100 degrees and the humidity wasn’t far behind. He walked slowly, steadily.

No one paid attention to him or each other unless they were traveling together. He pulled the extra-long brim of his brown fedora farther down his forehead. The hat definitely did not go with the white shirt. Most people, if asked later, would only remember the hat that shaded the man’s eyes. By the time the first witness mentioned the hat, it would be gone, burned to nothingness.

The well-worn briefcase in his hand was hefty but not really heavy. He had kept the contents minimal. He passed the storefront of the Jewish Light of Christ, glancing through the window without moving his head. His peripheral vision was excellent and well honed. He hadn’t lost that and he knew from how he had handled the Glick killing that his hand was still steady and his aim nearly perfect.

He entered the narrow news shop, moved past the ATM, the counter behind which the cigarettes and cigars were neatly stacked, the refrigerator with glass windows behind which were lined-up soft drinks and prepackaged tuna salad, egg salad and chicken salad sandwiches. A machine on his right featured a Ferris wheel ride of skewered hot dogs and Polish sausages.

A short, lean man, about fifty, wearing an ugly, colorful shirt with dozens of different-colored stripes, stood behind the counter at the front of the shop. The man had glanced up at him, decided he was respectable, and returned to a newspaper in some foreign language.

He had been here before. Twice, making sure that on this, his third visit, the person behind the counter was different from the others, probably all members of the same Korean family. All Asians did not look alike to the man. He had spent years in Asia, Japan, both Koreas, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand.

The steel back door was closed. The last time he was here he had oiled the hinges to keep them quiet.

He went through the door, closing it behind him gently. He was in a narrow alleyway, garbage cans already overflowing, hearing the scurry of rats, the sound of horns and moving vehicles on the street muffled by the buildings.

He moved slowly to the door he had already checked. They had left it unlocked. They always did. They had nothing to steal but their faith.

He slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, stepped through the door, closing it behind him, and stood in the semidarkness of the small storage room, listening. He knew their routine. In a few minutes, they would all go out together to the park, kosher sandwiches in brown bags. They’d be gone a little less than an hour, eating, talking, listening to Joshua.

They always left someone behind. Someone to remain in the storefront synagogue, to be ready in case someone appeared to ask questions, to show interest.

He opened the door slightly, hoping it would not be a woman who was left behind. Yes, a woman would confuse the police, but it would also slightly change the pattern he wanted to establish. Luckily, it wasn’t a woman. It was a thin, young man with a beard, dark slacks, a clean, neatly pressed short-sleeved off-white shirt. The young man’s back was to the storage closet. He was absorbed in what he was reading. He had no sense of the person in the rubber-soled shoes who, leaning low, silently crept up behind him.

When he was no more than two feet behind the young man, he pressed the palm-sized .22 caliber semiautomatic Walther in his hand against the man’s head and fired two hollow-point bullets, knowing the sounds of the street and the dying man’s thick hair and skull would muffle the shot. The young man slumped forward, clinging to the book. The man pushed the body to the floor and looked out the window. He picked up the brass bullet casings and pocketed them.

Satisfied that no one was looking, he stepped over the body, moved quickly to the door to lock it. He swiftly dragged the corpse to the storage room. Once inside, he opened the briefcase he had left there, put the gun inside and took out a heavy hammer, four thick pointed bolts and a piece of white chalk.

Then he went back into the alley and through the door to the narrow magazine shop. He had something to tell the man behind the counter, something that would change his life.

“Possibilities?” asked Mac, a cup of machine-brewed cappuccino in his hand.

He was standing next to Danny Messer in the spotless chrome snack room with uncomfortable black plastic-covered chairs. Along one wall a battery of machines—sandwiches, candy, soft drinks, coffee—hummed and glowed colorfully. They were the only people in the room.

“Shelton killed the boy, buried the body,” said Danny, working on a Diet Coke he held in his non-trembling hand. “We just haven’t found it. Went over the ground where we found the clothes and bikes with probes, detection machines. Nothing.”

“Maybe Shelton buried him somewhere else,” said Mac.

“Why? He gets the kid to take off his clothes. Now he has a naked scared kid. Why not just kill him there and bury him?”

“Maybe the boy’s not dead,” said Mac.

Danny nodded. He had considered it.

“Shelton’s hiding him somewhere?” asked Danny. “Pedophilia?”

“Nothing in his record that would suggest it,” said Mac.

“The girl?” Danny tried.

“Hawkes says there are signs of recent sexual activity,” said Mac. “Interrupted or stopped. Shallow penetration, no semen.”

“Could still be sex,” said Danny, taking a deep gulp, trying not to look at his hand.

“Could be,” Mac agreed, “Or maybe he’s into torturing children.”

“Again,” said Danny. “Nothing in his record to support that.”

“Okay,” said Mac. “That still leaves us with four questions. One, where are the boy’s glasses? Two, why did I find the boy’s single bloody shoe fifty yards from the crime scene? Three, why would Shelton kill the Vorhees family and lay the women out respectfully and leave the father in a twisted heap on the floor? And four, why kill the father last instead of first?”

“Want to play a video game?” asked Danny.

Mac shrugged, gulped down the last of his nearly tasteless cappuccino. Mac knew that Danny was suggesting creating a virtual room on the computer in the lab. Danny finished his Diet Coke and dropped the empty bottle in the recycling bin.

The two men walked down the hall to the computer lab. There was no one else in the room. Danny moved to one of the computers, pressed a key and watched as the desktop images began to appear. Both men sat.

“I’ve got it programmed in,” said Danny, controlling his right hand, which seemed to be somewhat better. He had taken the pills Dr. Pargrave had given him. They made him feel lightheaded, or maybe he just hadn’t had enough sleep.

Danny moved the mouse to an icon marked V
ORHEES HOME
and clicked. A photograph of the outside of the house appeared almost instantly. Danny hit another button and the image became a photograph of the foyer of the house, dominated by fresh white paint on the walls, a brightly lit, carpeted stairway to the left.

Using the mouse, Danny moved them up the stairs onto the upstairs landing and into the murder room. On the screen, the bodies of the two women were laid out on the bed, hands folded on their stomachs, eyes closed. The man was on the floor at the foot of the bed, contorted.

“Hawkes says the man had a badly bruised and cracked bone in his right arm,” said Mac. “There’s also a bruise, a cut and a cracked bone in his right cheek.”

“Killer hit him,” said Danny. “No blood on any object in the room that could have caused the blow.”

“So,” said Mac. “We may be looking for a killer with bruised knuckles.”

Danny nodded.

“Finally, the knife wounds,” Danny said, zooming in on the body.

“The knife wounds,” Mac echoed. “The two women were stabbed, but not otherwise touched, except for the attempted penetration of the girl. Give me the room without the bodies and blood,” said Mac.

Danny nodded, made the adjustments, and the girl’s bedroom on the screen was now clean, the bed made, the blood gone, no bodies.

“Likely scenario?” asked Mac.

Danny moved the mouse, punched keys and a reasonable but not photographic likeness of the dead girl appeared on the screen. She was on the bed, clearly alive.

The door opened. A male figure stepped in. Danny hit more buttons on the keyboard and a knife appeared in the right hand of the male figure.

“Shelton?” said Danny.

“Why did he stop in the kitchen to get a knife?”

“He planned to kill her?” Danny asked, moving the figure across the room.

“Why come through the house?” asked Mac. “He could have come through the window,” said Mac. “It’s not much of a climb.”

The male image disappeared and suddenly the image on the screen was the side of the Vorhees’ house. The male figure appeared at the window, opened it, climbed in and moved to the bed, where the image of the girl smiled up at him.

“The knife,” Danny said. “If he came through the window, he’d have to go downstairs, get the knife and come back.”

“Maybe he visited the girl regularly. She left the window open. He climbed in,” said Danny.

“Let’s play that one out,” said Mac.

“Now,” said Danny, working on the keys. “Mom hears them, comes in.”

An image of Eve Vorhees came through the door, looked at the bed where there was now an image of her daughter on her back with the Shelton figure on top of her.

“Shelton panics,” said Danny, manipulating the image. “Gets off the girl, kills her and then kills the shocked mother.”

“And why kill the girl first?” asked Mac, looking at the screen, trying to come up with an alternative tale. “Hawkes says the wounds show he did. You’d think he would shut the mother up instead of continuing to stab the girl. The knife would have taken at least ten seconds to make those wounds, plenty of time for the mother to scream, rush out of the room.”

“But she didn’t run. He killed her next,” said Danny.

“Where was the father?” asked Mac. “The odds are good that the mother or daughter would have started screaming.”

The Shelton figure stabbed the girl, hurried toward the stunned wife, stabbed her and the door opened. A figure representing the father stood there, struck with horror. Before he can move, Shelton strikes.

“The stab in the back,” Mac said.

The father figure, now with blood coming from his chest, turns, reaches for the door. The killer plunges the knife into the dying man’s back.

“Won’t play,” said Mac. “The man’s body was found at the foot of the bed. No blood by the door. He came all the way into the room.”

Three dead figures on the screen. Danny manipulated the images and watched Shelton remove the knife from the dead man and place it in his belt. Then he laid the women out on the bed.

“The boy had to hear,” said Mac.

No image of a boy appeared on the screen.

“Maybe,” said Danny, “the boy heard, even opened the door, saw and ran for his bike. Shelton heard him and went after him.”

“The boy was fully dressed at two in the morning?” asked Mac.

Danny shrugged and adjusted his glasses.

Mac sat silently, thinking about the knife, the problems with the scenario he had just witnessed, the leaf of the linden tree in the boy’s bedroom, the leaf with the tiny bite marks of a cankerworm.

For more than an hour, in a small interrogation room, Flack talked individually to all of the nine people who had gone to lunch in the park. Many of them cried, not just the women.

One man, Morley Solomon, in his forties with curly white hair, a weathered face, and a deep white scar on his nose, said, “It’s a test of our faith.”

“By whom?” asked Flack.

“Perhaps Yeshua,” said the man. “Some human instrument of his power, his dominion over the earth. A few will quit, but just a few.”

“Not you,” said Flack.

“No,” said Solomon. “What proof is there of the power of one’s beliefs unless those beliefs are tested? Like science.”

“Science?”

“I used to be a physicist,” said Solomon. “Princeton, theoretical research. I was a Jew. I remain a Jew. I will always be a Jew, but my faith will determine what a true Jew is, not the mandates and dictates of others. We observe the holy days, Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year; Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement; all of them.”