Monkey in the Middle (16 page)

‘You can't even tell the guy's age,' he complains. ‘He could be anywhere between twenty and forty.'

‘That's what we figured, too.' Tina picks up a manila envelope and removes a sheet of paper. ‘So we faxed the computer enhancement to an artist, Cynthia Ratigan, a civilian we use for difficult reconstructions. Normally, I don't believe in going outside the job, but this woman's practically psychic. She did a reconstruction from a male vic's skull that was dead-on. We identified him forty-eight hours after her sketch hit the airwaves.'

Epstein fears the worst, but the sketch looks nothing like Carter. Everything's wrong, every feature, even the overall shape of the head. The man in the sketch glares from beneath heavy brows. His mouth is twisted at one end, into something between a sneer and a snarl. Even his nostrils are slightly flared. Meanwhile, Carter's eerie calm was the scariest thing about him. His voice hadn't betrayed a trace of anger, or even resentment, at the attempt on his life.

‘Let me ask you this, Tina.' Epstein steals a glance at Billy Boyle. Billy's been quiet all morning. ‘When I show this sketch to Champliss, do I . . . No, scratch that. Just tell me that CSU stands behind this sketch. Tell me you think the artist got it right.'

Tina lays a hand on her hip. She's grinning now. ‘We have our own artists, Solly, and we naturally ran the enhancement by them first thing. They couldn't help us. Not enough detail, they'd only be guessing. So we farmed the job out to Cynthia Ratigan, who provided this rendering, which I now pass to the commander of the appropriate task force. You want more than that, talk to my boss.'

Epstein remains silent on the short drive through the Midtown Tunnel and on to Second Avenue in Manhattan. Christmas Eve or not, Champliss wants a meeting in his office. The news Solly will deliver is anything but good, at least from his boss's point of view. Not only have they come up empty on the sketch, but no further tapes have emerged, despite the Flash's mighty efforts. And while the presence of mitochondrial DNA has been confirmed, in order to make a comparison, there has to be a suspect. Which there isn't and will never be if Epstein has anything to say about it. Not a live suspect, anyway.

‘What we did, Billy, is get suckered.' Epstein's right hand is inside his coat, stroking his rib cage. He thinks he's making sure that he's still here, still above ground. He can't understand why Carter left him alive and he somehow feels that he doesn't deserve to live. Talk about in over your head? Epstein feels like he's drowning.

‘Just the files on Paulie, right?' he continues. ‘That was the original deal with Thorpe. Then the case falls into our laps and suddenly we're keepin' Thorpe abreast of the investigation. But even that's not enough, not after the Flash turned up the heat with that video. Now we're supposed to whack Carter to protect our own interests. I don't know about you, but me, I don't like bein' suckered. Especially by someone I can't find. I mean, Thorpe could be anywhere in the world. He could be right behind us.'

Epstein opens the window, leans out, takes a deep breath. The temperature has been rising since early morning and the air is saturated with moisture. He peers down a mist-shrouded Second Avenue. He notes buildings, stores, heavy traffic, lots of pedestrians – it's Christmas Eve and everybody's going somewhere. There are no icons in sight, no great bridges or skyscrapers, but Epstein's satisfied with the view. Satisfied to be breathing air. Instead of eating dirt.

Billy Boyle pulls over to let an ambulance go by. He turns his dark eyes to his boss. Billy was an MP in Iraq, assigned to guard duty at a number of prisons, including Abu Ghraib. Not that Billy talks about his experience, but Epstein has the distinct impression that his protégé's honorable discharge was more a matter of luck, than discretion.

‘This guy, Leonard Carter, I might know where to find him,' Billy says.

Epstein's hand jumps to his knee, which he begins to rub. ‘How's that, Billy?'

‘I called in a favor from an army buddy, works out of DC now. He took a peek at Carter's service record. Seems that Carter's pre-enlistment address and the address of his next of kin, a sister, are one and the same. You want, we can check it out.'

Billy Boyle eases the department Ford into heavy traffic that will only get heavier as they approach the East River bridges. He drives facing forward, his uneven features composed. Epstein runs his hand along his thigh, from his knee almost to his hip. Billy's telling him that they can track Carter down. He's reminding Epstein that as long as Carter's alive, he's a threat. For starters, he has Epstein's home address and he knows about Epstein's relationship with Thorpe. And there's the other part, too, the personal part Epstein doesn't want to think about. Carter put a knife to Epstein's throat and made him beg. You can't let that ride, not if you're a cop. Not if you're Billy Boyle.

But there's no element here, practical or personal, that Epstein hasn't already considered. And if Carter was some ordinary gangster, he wouldn't hesitate for a second. But he's come to the conclusion that Leonard Carter's a freak of nature. You want to go up against him, bring a SWAT team.

Traffic slows to a halt as they pass Fourteenth Street. Not for the first time, Epstein questions the wisdom of locating police headquarters between a pair of East River bridges in the heart of Manhattan's financial district. In Brooklyn or Queens, for the same money, you'd get twice the space. But the outer boroughs were never in the cards. Lower Manhattan is the engine that turns the prop that drives the city. The high priests of the Puzzle Palace could no more resist its allure than iron filings resist a magnet.

Champliss takes one look at Cynthia Ratigan's sketch and shakes his head. He lays it on his desk, then picks up a printout of the computer enhancement. ‘What I don't understand,' he tells Epstein, ‘is how you get from this enhancement to that sketch. I don't understand the process.' He holds up the enhancement. ‘This is nothing. Less than nothing. You wouldn't be able to recognize the man if he was staring you in the face. But somehow the artist arrived at this sketch. How?'

‘I don't know,' Epstein admits, ‘but we've got another problem. Ratigan's a publicity hound. She's been interviewed on Court TV several times, CNN, too. If we don't release the sketch, she might take it to the media on her own.'

This is an argument Epstein developed on the ride downtown. Epstein wants the sketch released, as he wants the investigation to go permanently off track, his career be damned. If released, the sketch will draw hundreds of responses, each of which the detectives under his command will have to investigate. By the time they finish, the case will be stone cold dead.

Champliss draws a hissing breath through his long nose. He's getting the point. ‘Today's Christmas Eve, tomorrow's Christmas. Nobody's paying attention to the news, on television or in the papers. So if we do release the sketch, we won't do it until Sunday evening. That gives us a few days. You might take the time to pay Ms Ratigan a visit. You might explain the difference between cooperation and confrontation as it applies to the New York Police Department.'

‘Like you said,' Epstein responds, ‘today's Christmas Eve and tomorrow's—'

‘So what?'

Epstein stares at his boss for a moment, trying to decide whether Champliss is making some sort of cop-macho argument. Holidays don't matter, job before family, stiff upper lip. That would be truly amazing, because the way Epstein heard it, Champliss was angling for a desk job before he left the Academy.

‘All right, boss. Anything else?'

‘Keep your men working. Stick it to them, Solly. Before we decide whether or not to release the sketch, we need to know if there's an arrest on any horizon, near or far. Myself, I don't think the story will die out on its own.'

Epstein's on his cell phone before he reaches the elevators. Baby, baby, baby, baby. Sofia's not happy. No surprise there. Epstein's not all that overjoyed, either. But there's a lot at stake here.

‘I only have a few more stops to make,' Epstein explains. ‘I'll be home by two.'

‘I feel like it's his first Christmas, Solly. I'm talking about our son. I don't want him to spend it alone.'

Epstein lacks the courage to point out any of the flaws in her reasoning. ‘I promised to take you to midnight mass at St Patrick's. This is a promise I mean to keep.'

‘I truly hope so. Because the way I'm feeling now, I don't want to be alone tonight, either.'

A good shot, Epstein admits to himself. Enough guilt there to last until Easter. ‘The faster I get to work, the faster I get home,' he counters.

‘Just make it soon. I need you, baby. Our son needs you.'

Twenty-One

E
pstein and Billy Boyle make their first stop at the office housing the task force. Epstein's thorough, if a little abrupt. He first reviews each of the victim files with the appropriate detectives. Nothing new, praise the Lord. Then he divides his task force in half, the first half to work Christmas Eve, the second Christmas Day. Their job is to man the hotline from nine to five, and to report any leads to him via cell phone. Epstein doesn't shift blame for this assignment to the bosses. As far as these men are concerned, Solly Epstein's the boss. If they don't like him, tough shit.

By noon, Epstein and Billy Boyle are on the road again, driving north, toward the community of Inwood at the tip of Manhattan. Their route, along FDR Drive, takes them past every tunnel and bridge spanning the East River, and past the George Washington Bridge, which crosses the Hudson. Epstein has Billy Boyle use the siren and the flashing lights in the grill, but their progress is still painfully slow. Epstein might have called ahead, hoping Cynthia Ratigan was out, but due diligence being the order of the day, he wants to claim that he literally knocked on the artist's door.

Ahead, the towers and cables of the Triborough Bridge appear for a moment, a shadow within a shadow, then as quickly disappear as the fog thickens. Epstein's thoughts are mainly of Sofia. He's thinking it'd be real great if he stayed alive. Being as his wife needs him. Being as his son needs him.

‘So, Billy, let's say Carter's holed up at his sister's,' Epstein says. ‘What do you wanna do about it?'

Billy Boyle replies without hesitation. ‘Kill two birds with one stone.'

‘Pardon me?'

‘I wanna give him to Paulie Margarine.'

Epstein takes a deep breath, then crosses his legs. This is the best idea he's heard in years.

Cynthia Ratigan projects an air of distraction as she leads her guests to a loveseat in her tiny living room. In her forties, Ratigan's blonde hair is short-cropped and mostly concealed by an elaborate silk wrap that seems, what with its repeated geometric figures, vaguely African. The wrap is at odds with her dress, a white kimono sprinkled with lotus blossoms, and with her slippers, too, which are curled at the toes, pixie style. Meanwhile, every finger of both hands, including her thumbs, is circled by at least one ring. Epstein suspects that the rings have some mystical significance, though he's not stupid enough to enquire.

‘To what do I owe this honor?' she asks.

‘You were good enough to do a reconstruction last night. From a computer enhancement?' Epstein's left hand reaches up to stroke the side of his face. Still there.

‘The Macy's Killer. He'll be in my book.'

‘Your book?' Epstein asks.

Cynthia reaches into an overflowing ashtray to pluck out a thin, half-smoked cigar. She lights the cigar, then blows a smoke ring at the ceiling. ‘I want to share my gift, Lieutenant. And I want to make the world aware of the terrible price to be paid.'

Epstein leans a little closer. ‘So, you're sticking by your sketch?'

‘My resurrection,' she corrects. ‘I speak for the victims, through the victims, and with the victims.'

The wall behind Cynthia Ratigan is lined with bookcases. Epstein glances at the titles as he decides what to say next. The basic question has already been answered, but Champliss virtually ordered Epstein to make a threat on behalf of the NYPD. Something about explaining the difference between cooperation and confrontation.

Epstein registers a few of the books' titles:
Essential Spirituality
,
Messy Spirituality
,
The Spirituality of Success
,
The Spirituality of Imperfection.
He's not encouraged. But then he notes a cluster of textbooks on a bottom shelf, including Caroline Wilkinson's
Forensic Facial Reconstruction
. That's better. Ratigan isn't totally deluded. Or even if she is, she can still claim technical expertise.

‘I have a master's degree in forensic anthropology from Boston University.' Ratigan takes another hit on the cigar.

‘Is that a question?'

‘No, it's an answer. An answer to the question you're too polite to ask. You want to know if I'm full of shit. If I'm making it up as I go along. That's why you're here.'

Epstein smiles. ‘You have to admit, there's a lot of empty space between the computer enhancement and the sketch you drew.'

‘There is.'

‘And there are consequences, too. For instance, if we charge a suspect and your sketch is off-base, the perp's lawyer will use it to prove his client's innocence. He might even call you as a witness.'

A fleshy woman anyway, Ratigan's cheeks explode when she grins. ‘Nicely stated,' she tells Epstein. ‘Testifying in public on behalf of a guilty defendant would be a uniquely painful experience.'

‘That's true. And if the sketch becomes public knowledge, the prosecutor will have to call you, even if the defendant's lawyer doesn't. He'll have no choice, because the jury will want to know how you bridged the gap between a worthless computer enhancement and your extremely detailed portrait. Step by step.'