Green Light (Sam Archer 7) (6 page)

Looking
at him, her eyes brightening with hope, Marquez drained her coffee.
‘Still have the key to his apartment on you?’

His
phone to his ear, Josh nodded and tapped his pocket with his other
hand.

‘
Right here. But I already checked it out.’

‘
Let’s go take another look,’ Marquez said, sliding off her
seat as Josh connected to Ethan. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about
this. Something’s really not right.’

As Josh
and Marquez left the Upper West Side coffee shop, downtown in
Hell’s Kitchen an attractive nineteen year old African American
girl called Kelly Greer walked quickly into her apartment building,
checking nervously behind her before closing the main
door.

Turning,
she moved up the stairs, her heart thumping as she pulled her cell
phone and retried a number.

Once
again, it rang out.

Gripping
her cell, she tried another number but no-one answered that either.
She started to feel sick with fear. That was two more girls not
answering their phones.

She
paused in the hallway to steady herself, closing her eyes and
taking a deep breath. Then moving down the corridor, she unlocked
her apartment door and walked quickly inside.

A moment
later, a large hand clamped over her mouth. Her scream muffled, she
tried to fight back as the door was slammed shut behind her,
someone with brutal strength keeping hold of her as she fought and
struggled. She realised there was a rag in the hand covering her
mouth, some chemical pushed against her nose and lips, the palm of
the gloved hand holding it in place.

Unable
to breathe, she inhaled involuntarily.

And a
second later she passed out.

FIVE

Across
the East River in Queens, Josh and Marquez pulled to a halt outside
a semi-detached building in Astoria; there was just one apartment
per floor, the place Archer shared with Vargas and Isabel located
at the top. Josh switched the engine off and the two detectives
stepped out of the car, closed their doors and walked over to the
building’s entrance.

As Marquez glanced around her, noting that Archer’s car was
definitely missing, Josh withdrew the spare key Archer had given
him a while back and opened the front door. They walked inside,
made their way up to the 3
^rd
floor and came to a halt
outside the apartment.

‘
He might have come back,’ Marquez said, more in hope than
expectation.

Glancing
at her, Josh knocked and waited for a moment.

There
was no response.

A beat
later he slid the key in the lock and opened up.

As they
walked inside, the pair sensed the apartment was empty; it had that
deserted, forlorn feeling homes have when they’ve been unoccupied
for a while. To the right was the sitting area and door to the
balcony; straight ahead was the kitchen and to the left were the
bedrooms and bathroom. Everything was as it should be, a few
personal possessions strewn about but there was no sign of any
disturbance, nothing unusual and no obvious clue as to where Archer
had gone or where he might be right now.

Turning, Marquez walked down the corridor and towards the main
bedroom, easing the door back. The double bed was empty and made,
the window half open, making the room feel chilly. Her eyes settled
on a bedside table. There was a picture frame sitting there; she
stepped forward and picked it up. The photo was of Archer with
Vargas and Isabel in a stadium, all three of them smiling at the
camera, Vargas wearing a blue Dodgers baseball cap back to front,
Isabel standing on a seat beside her, a blue baseball cap on her
head matching Alice’s with
LA
printed on the front in bold white
lettering.

Looking
at it, the thin curtains billowing in the wind the only movement in
the room, she smiled briefly. It must have been taken at the
beginning of this summer.

Then the
smile faded.

A lot
had happened since then.

Placing
the frame back on the table, she glanced around and saw there was
nothing here to provide any sort of clue to Archer’s whereabouts;
she walked over to the window and shut it, then left the room.
Heading back down the corridor, she passed another bedroom on her
left. Glancing through the open door she could see a pink
bedspread, posters on the wall and stuffed animals on a shelf;
Isabel’s room.

Seeing
nothing out of the ordinary, she moved back into the sitting room
and glanced around. Everything was in place, nothing disturbed, no
clues to suggest where Archer might have gone.

Beyond
the kitchen counter in the sitting area, Josh was perched on a
chair near the wall, flicking through some papers.

‘
No case files, no keys, no phone,’ he said.

‘
And no Archer,’ Marquez muttered, looking around.

Her
fondness for him extended beyond that of a work colleague; she
regarded him as one of her closest friends and with that in mind,
she was worried. Going dark like this was totally out of character
for him. She’d seen first-hand the effect that Vargas’ shooting had
had on him; despite being suspended, she knew he wouldn’t have just
let this go. You’d have to kill Archer to get him to
quit.

She
looked around the empty apartment, that last thought echoing in her
mind. She knew Arch; with a closed case that full of questions, he
must have found something.

Or
something must have found him.

Josh’s
phone suddenly rang, the sudden noise catching them both by
surprise. Pulling out the Samsung quickly, he saw it was the Bureau
and put it on speaker.

‘
Blake.’

‘
Josh, it’s me,’
Ethan said.
‘
I got a hit on Archer’s car.’

Josh and
Marquez looked at each other, hope flaring in their eyes.
‘Where?’

‘
It just rolled into the Midtown impound. They picked it up on
East 19
^th
. Apparently it’s been sitting there collecting tickets for
two days.’

As Josh
absorbed this information, Marquez remembered something she’d read
earlier and pulled out the brown envelope from her jacket pocket.
Rapidly rifling through the pages, she found the sheet she was
looking for and withdrew it, holding it up so Josh could read it,
pointing to an address.

‘
Any idea why he’d park in the East Village?’
Ethan asked, his voice echoing around the empty
apartment.

‘
East 19
^th
Street,’ Josh repeated, looking at where Marquez’s
forefinger was resting. ‘That’s where Leann Casey’s mother
lives.’

Once she
enters the sex trade, the average life expectancy for a prostitute
in the United States is seven years. AIDS and homicide are the two
main reasons for that statistic, but at that moment it was the
latter that the terrified young escort called Cece Mills was
concerned with.

She was
alone in her West Village apartment, her room-mate out of town.
With her attention split between gathering her things and watching
the front door, she frantically packed her most valuable
possessions into an overnight bag, her ears straining for any
unusual noises coming from outside the apartment.

At
twenty three years old she was already five years into that seven
year life-span statistic but she knew if she didn’t get the hell
out of there right now there was a more than high chance that she
wouldn’t make it another two.

Almost
finished packing, she hurried across the bedroom through the open
door and into the kitchen. Ripping open a cupboard, she pulled out
a can of tomato soup camouflaged amongst all the others and
unscrewed the top. After some advice from one of the other girls a
while back, she’d started to store a gradually-increasing wad of
money away, an emergency fund. The cash was rolled up tight, six
grand in total, her life savings which had taken months to build
up, a joke considering she earned $5000 a night for the people who
controlled her.

Taking the money, she pulled off the elastic band holding it
together then flattened out the half-folded bills and tucked them
into her bra. Pulling out a cell phone, she moved back into the
bedroom and dialled that friend who’d told her to stow the cash.
She had to correct herself halfway through the sequence,
misdialling due to her shaking hands, but she finally got it right
and pressed
Call.

‘
C’mon; pick up,’
she whispered as she
zipped up her bag with one hand.

It
continued to ring, no-one answering.

‘
Pick up!’

‘
Hello?’

‘
April, it’s Cece!’ she said hurriedly. ‘We’re in deep shit,
babe.’

‘
What’s wrong?’

‘
Kelly’s not answering now,’ she said quietly, her voice
cracking.

‘
Are you serious?’

She
squeezed her eyes shut. ‘It’s just you and me. We’re the only ones
left.’

‘
Where are you?’

‘
At home,’ she said, holding the phone against her ear with her
shoulder as she picked up her bag, grabbed her keys and moved to
the door. ‘I’m getting the hell out of here.’

‘
Come over to my place right now. We’ll get out of the city
and figure out what to do.’

‘
OK,’ she said, opening up. ‘I’ll be the-’

As she
opened the door she was suddenly pushed back into the room by a
large figure in a black gas mask and white overalls, his hand
around her throat and her scream cut off a second into the sound.
As she stumbled back, Cece dropped the phone, the call still
connected, and kicked out at her attacker but she was totally
outmatched in size and strength. She fought in vain as two other
figures similarly dressed moved into the apartment behind the lead
figure and closed the door.

As she
continued to struggle, the huge figure kept her restrained in an
effortless iron grip, then whipped her around, clamping a
chemical-soaked rag over her nose and mouth. Using up all her
oxygen, her screaming and shouting muffled under the man’s glove,
Cece was forced to inhale.

Then she
passed out.

SIX

Assisted by the relative lack of traffic on the Sunday city
streets, Josh and Marquez made it down to the East Village in quick
time, parking by the sidewalk outside Karen Casey’s apartment
building on East 19
^th
Street. Exiting the car, the pair quickly moved
towards the building’s entrance, Josh running forward and catching
the door as a couple walked out, Marquez following him
inside.

Ten
seconds later, they arrived outside 2B. Josh knocked on the door;
there was a delay then the sound of movement before the door opened
a fraction, catching on the chain.

A
middle-aged woman peered through the gap. They could only see an
inch of her but even so they saw she looked hostile.

‘
Help you?’ she asked.

‘
Are you Karen Casey?’

‘
Who’s asking?’

‘
Lisa Marquez and Josh Blake,’ Marquez said, showing her badge.
‘We’re detectives with the NYPD.’

A beat
later the door was slammed in their faces.

‘
We need to talk to you, ma’am,’ Josh said, raising his voice
so he could be heard. ‘Please.’

‘
Go away. If this is about Leann, I’ve said it
all.’

‘
This is about one of our detectives,’ Marquez said. ‘He’s gone
missing.’

‘
So?’

She
looked at Josh, trying to find the right things to say. ‘We think
he might have come to see you before he disappeared. His car was
towed from down the street less than an hour ago. We don’t know
where he is and we figured you may be able to help.’

There
was a long pause, the pair looking at each other. The door remained
shut.

Cursing
under his breath, Josh shook his head at Marquez and they turned to
leave.

‘
Is that the only reason you’re here?’
Karen’s voice asked.

Marquez
looked at Josh. ‘No.’

There
was the sound of rattling and then the door opened fully this time,
to reveal a slim woman somewhere in her forties. She looked tired
and worn, dark shadows under her eyes but nevertheless it was easy
to see she would once have been very attractive, just like her
daughter.

She
folded her arms defensively, looking at the two detectives. ‘So
what’s the other reason? Leann?’

‘
We’re from the Counter-Terrorism Bureau. We’re taking a look
at the case.’

‘
Jesus Christ, I got a call telling me you found her killers.
Why the hell are you still looking at this? And why
Counter-Terrorism? You’re telling me Leann was mixed up with
terrorists?’

‘
No, of course not,’ Marquez said. ‘Two of our colleagues were
shot that night with Leann. That’s why we’re involved.’