Rage of Angels (24 page)

Judge Barnard said, “May I see that?”

Jennifer handed the dossier to him. The judge glanced through it and then looked at Jennifer. “Well?”

“I won’t represent him.”

Di Silva raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “You shock me, Miss Parker. You’re always saying that everyone is entitled to a lawyer.”

“Everyone is,” Jennifer replied evenly, “but I have a hard and fast rule: I won’t represent anyone who lies to me. Mr. Jackson will have to get himself another lawyer.”

Judge Barnard nodded. “The court will arrange that.”

Osborne said, “I’d like his bail revoked immediately, Your Honor. I think he’s too dangerous to be walking the streets.”

Judge Barnard turned to Jennifer. “As of this moment you’re still the attorney of record, Miss Parker. Do you have any objection to that?”

“No,” Jennifer said tightly. “None.”

Judge Barnard said, “I’ll order his bail revoked.”

Judge Lawrence Waldman had invited Jennifer to a charity dinner that evening. She had felt drained after the events of the afternoon and would have preferred to go home and have a quiet evening with Joshua, but she did not want to disappoint the judge. She changed clothes at the office and met Judge Waldman at the Waldorf-Astoria, where the party was taking place.

It was a gala event, with half a dozen Hollywood stars entertaining, but Jennifer was unable to enjoy it. Her mind was elsewhere. Judge Waldman had been watching her.

“Is anything wrong, Jennie?”

She managed a smile. “No, just a business problem, Lawrence.”

And what kind of business am I really in,
Jennifer wondered,
dealing with the dregs of humanity, the rapists and killers and kidnappers?
She decided it would be a wonderful night to get drunk.

The captain came over to the table and whispered in Jennifer’s ear. “Excuse me, Miss Parker, there’s a telephone call for you.”

Jennifer felt an instant sense of alarm. The only one who knew where to reach her was Mrs. Mackey. She could only be calling because something was wrong.

“Excuse me,” Jennifer said.

She followed the captain to a small office off the lobby.

Jennifer picked up the receiver and a man’s voice whispered, “You bitch! You double-crossed me.”

Jennifer felt her body begin to tremble. “Who is this?” she asked.

But she knew.

“You told the cops to come and get me.”

“That’s not true! I—”

“You promised to help me.”

“I will help you. Where are—?”

“You lying cunt!” His voice dropped so low she could hardly make out his words. “You’re going to pay for this. Oh, you’re going to pay for this!”

“Wait a min—”

The telephone was dead. Jennifer stood there, chilled. Something had gone terribly wrong. Frank Jackson, alias Jack Scanlon, had somehow escaped and he was blaming Jennifer for what had happened. How had he known where she was? He must have followed her here. He could be waiting outside for her now.

Jennifer was trying to control the trembling of her body, trying to think, to reason out what had happened. He had seen the police coming to arrest him, or perhaps they had
picked him up and he had gotten away from them.
How
did not matter. The important thing was that he was blaming her for what had happened.

Frank Jackson had killed before and he could kill again. Jennifer went into the ladies’ room and stayed there until she was calm again. When she had regained control of herself, she returned to the table.

Judge Waldman took one look at her face. “What on earth’s happened?”

Jennifer told him briefly. He was aghast.

“Good God! Would you like me to drive you home?”

“I’ll be all right, Lawrence. If you could just make sure I get to my car safely, I’ll be fine.”

They quietly slipped out of the large ballroom and Judge Waldman stayed with Jennifer until the attendant brought her car.

“You’re certain you don’t want me to come with you?”

“Thanks. I’m sure the police will pick him up before morning. There aren’t many people walking around who look like him. Good night.”

Jennifer drove off, making sure no one was following her. When she was certain she was alone, she turned onto the Long Island Expressway and headed for home.

She kept looking in her rearview mirror, checking the cars behind her. Once she pulled off the road to let all the traffic pass her, and when the road behind her was clear, she drove on. She felt safer now. It could not be many hours before the police picked up Frank Jackson. There would be a general alert out for him by this time.

Jennifer turned into her driveway. The grounds and the house, which should have been brightly lighted, were dark. She sat in the car staring at the house unbelievingly, her mind beginning to shriek with alarm. Frantically, she tore the car
door open and raced to the front door. It was ajar. Jennifer stood there for an instant, filled with terror, then stepped into the reception hall. Her foot kicked something warm and soft and she let out an involuntary gasp. She turned on the lights. Max lay on the blood-soaked rug. The dog’s throat had been cut from ear to ear.

“Joshua!” It was a scream. “Mrs. Mackey!”

Jennifer ran from room to room, switching on all the lights and calling out their names, her heart pounding so hard that it was difficult for her to breathe. She raced up the stairs to Joshua’s bedroom. His bed had been slept in, but it was empty.

Jennifer searched every room in the house, then raced downstairs, her mind numb. Frank Jackson must have known all along where she lived. He had followed her home one night from her office or after she left the service station. He had taken Joshua and he was going to kill him to punish her.

She was passing the laundry room when she heard a faint scrabbling sound coming from the closet. Jennifer moved toward the closed door slowly and pulled it open. It was black inside.

A voice whimpered, “Please don’t hurt me any more.”

Jennifer turned on the light. Mrs. Mackey was lying on the floor, her hands and feet tightly bound with wire. She was only half-conscious.

Jennifer quickly knelt beside her. “Mrs. Mackey!”

The older woman looked up at Jennifer and her eyes began to focus.

“He took Joshua.” She began to sob.

As gently as she could, Jennifer untwisted the wire that was cutting into Mrs. Mackey’s arms and legs. They were raw and bleeding. Jennifer helped the housekeeper to her feet.

Mrs. Mackey cried hysterically. “I c-couldn’t stop him. I t-tried. I—”

The sound of the telephone cut into the room. The two
women were instantly silenced. The telephone rang again and again, and somehow it had an evil sound. Jennifer walked over to it and picked it up.

The voice said, “I just wanted to make sure you got home all right.”

“Where is my son?”

“He is a beautiful boy, isn’t he?” the voice asked.

“Please! I’ll do anything. Anything you like!”

“You’ve already done everything, Mrs. Parker.”

“No, please!” She was sobbing helplessly.

“I like to hear you cry,” the voice whispered. “You’ll get your son back, Mrs. Parker. Read tomorrow’s papers.”

And the line went dead.

Jennifer stood there, fighting against the faintness, trying to think. Frank Jackson had said, “He
is
a beautiful boy, isn’t he?” That could mean Joshua was still alive. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have said
was
beautiful? She knew she was simply playing games with words, trying to keep her sanity. She had to do something quickly.

Her first impulse was to telephone Adam, ask him to help. It was his son who had been kidnapped, his son who was going to be killed. But she knew there was nothing Adam could do. He was two hundred and thirty-five miles away. She had only two choices: One was to call Robert Di Silva, tell him what had happened and ask him to throw out a dragnet to try to catch Frank Jackson.
Oh, God, that will take too long!

The second choice was the FBI. They were trained to handle kidnappings. The problem was that this was not like other kidnapping. There would be no ransom note for them to trace, no chance to try to trap Frank Jackson and save Joshua’s life. The FBI moved according to its own strict ritual. It would not be of any help in this instance. She had to decide quickly…while Joshua was still alive. Robert Di Silva or the FBI. It was difficult to think.

She took a deep breath and made her decision. She looked up a telephone number. Her fingers were trembling so badly she had to dial the number three times before she got it right.

When a man answered, Jennifer said, “I want to speak to Michael Moretti.”

“Sorry, lady. This is Tony’s Place. I don’t know no Mike Moretti.”

“Wait!” Jennifer screamed. “Don’t hang up!” She forced a calmness into her voice. “This is urgent. I’m a—a friend of his. My name is Jennifer Parker. I need to talk to him right away.”

“Look, lady, I said—”

“Give him my name and this telephone number.”

She gave him the number. Jennifer was beginning to stutter so badly she could hardly speak. “T-t-tell him—”

The line went dead.

Numbly, Jennifer replaced the receiver. She was back to one of her first two choices. Or both of them. There was no reason why Robert Di Silva and the FBI could not join forces to try to find Joshua. The thing that was driving her mad was that she knew how little chance they would have of finding Frank Jackson. There was no time.
Read tomorrow’s papers.
There was a finality about his last words that made Jennifer
certain he would not telephone her again, would not give anyone a chance to trace him. But she had to do
something.
She would try Di Silva. She reached for the telephone again. It rang as she touched it, startling her.

“This is Michael Moretti.”

“Michael! Oh, Michael, help me, please! I—” She began to sob uncontrollably. She dropped the telephone, then picked it up again quickly, terrified he had hung up.
“Michael?”

“I’m here.” His voice was calm. “Get hold of yourself and tell me what’s wrong.”

“I—I’ll—” She took in quick, deep breaths, trying to stop the trembling. “It’s my son, Joshua. He’s—he’s been kidnapped. They’re going to—kill him.”

“Do you know who took him?”

“Y-yes. His name is F-Frank Jackson.” Her heart was pounding.

“Tell me what happened.” His voice was quiet and confident.

Jennifer forced herself to talk slowly, recounting the sequence of events.

“Can you describe what Jackson looks like?”

Jennifer conjured up a picture of him in her mind. She put the picture into words, and Michael said, “You’re doing fine. Do you know where he served time?”

“At Joliet. He told me he’s going to kill—”

“Where was the gas station he worked at?”

She gave Michael the address.

“Do you know the name of the motel he was staying at?”

“Yes. No.” She could not remember. She dug her fingernails into her forehead until it began to bleed, forcing herself to think. He waited patiently.

It came to her suddenly. “It’s the Travel Well Motel. It’s on Tenth Avenue. But I’m sure he isn’t there now.”

“We’ll see.”

“I want my son back alive.”

Michael Moretti did not reply and Jennifer understood why.

“If we find Jackson—?”

Jennifer took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Kill him!”

“Stay by your telephone.”

The connection was broken. Jennifer replaced the receiver. She felt strangely calmer, as though something had been accomplished. There was no reason to feel the confidence she did in Michael Moretti. From a logical point of view, it was a wild, insane thing to have done; but logic had nothing to do with this. Her son’s life was at stake. She had deliberately sent a killer to catch a killer. If it did not work…She thought of the little girl whose body had been raped and sodomized.

Jennifer went to tend to Mrs. Mackey. She took care of her cuts and bruises and put her to bed. Jennifer offered her a sedative, but Mrs. Mackey pushed it away.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she cried. “Oh, Mrs. Parker! He gave that baby sleeping pills.”

Jennifer stared at her in horror.

Michael Moretti sat at his desk, facing the seven men he had summoned. He had already given instructions to the first three.

He turned to Thomas Colfax. “Tom, I want you to use your connections. Go down and see Captain Notaras and have him pull the package on Frank Jackson. I want everything they’ve got on him.”

“We’re wasting a good connection, Mike. I don’t think—”

“Don’t argue! Just do it.”

Colfax said stiffly, “Very well.”

Michael turned to Nick Vito. “Check out the gas station where Jackson worked. Find out if he hung around any of the bars there, if he had any friends.”

To Salvatore Fiore and Joseph Colella: “Get over to Jackson’s motel. He’s probably gone by now, but find out if he
palled around with anyone. I want to know who his buddies were.” He looked at his watch. “It’s midnight. I’m giving you eight hours to find Jackson.”

The men started out the door.

Michael called after them, “I don’t want anything to happen to the kid. Keep calling in. I’ll be waiting.”

Michael Moretti watched them leave, then picked up one of the telephones on his desk and began to dial.

1:00
A.M.

The motel room was not large, but it was very neat. Frank Jackson liked things neat. He felt it was part of being brought up properly. The venetian blinds were rolled down and slanted so that no one could see into the room. The door was locked and chained, and he had pressed a chair against it. He walked over to the bed where Joshua lay. Frank Jackson had forced three sleeping pills down the boy’s throat, and he was still sleeping soundly. Still, Jackson prided himself on being a man who took no chances, so Joshua’s hands and feet were tightly bound together with the same kind of wire that had been used to tie up the old lady in the house. Jackson looked down at the sleeping boy and he was filled with a sense of sadness.

Why in God’s name did people keep forcing him to do these terrible things? He was a gentle, peaceful man, but when everyone was against you, when everyone attacked you, you had to defend yourself. The trouble with everybody was that they always underestimated him. They failed to realize until too late that he was smarter than all of them.

He had known the police were coming for him half an hour before they arrived. He had been filling the tank of a Chevrolet Camaro and had seen his boss go inside the office to answer the telephone. Jackson had not been able to hear the conversation, but it was not necessary. He saw the covert looks his boss gave him as he whispered into the telephone. Frank Jackson
knew immediately what was happening. The police were coming for him. The Parker bitch had double-crossed him, had told the police to lock him up. She was like all the rest of them. His boss was still talking on the telephone when Frank Jackson grabbed his jacket and disappeared. It had taken him less than three minutes to find an unlocked car on the street and hot-wire it, and moments later he was headed for Jennifer Parker’s house.

Jackson really had to admire his own intelligence. Who else would have thought of following her to find out where she lived? He had done that the day she had gotten him out on bail. He had parked across the street from her house and had been surprised when Jennifer had been met at the gate by a little boy. He had watched them together and sensed even then that the kid might come in handy. He was an unexpected bonus, what the poets called a hostage to fate.

Jackson smiled to himself at how terrified the old bitch of a housekeeper had been. He had enjoyed twisting the wire into her wrists and ankles. No, not enjoyed, really. He was being too hard on himself. It had been
necessary.
The housekeeper had thought he was going to rape her. She disgusted him. All women did, except for his sainted mother. Women were dirty, unclean, even his whore of a sister. It was only the children who were pure. He thought of the last little girl he had taken. She had been beautiful, with long blond curls, but she had had to pay for her mother’s sins. Her mother had had Jackson fired from his job. People tried to keep you from earning an honest living and then punished you when you broke their stupid laws. The men were bad enough, but the women were worse. Pigs who wanted to soil the temple of your body. Like the waitress, Clara, he was going to take to Canada. She was in love with him. She thought he was such a gentleman because he had never touched her. If she only knew! The idea of making love to her sickened him. But he was going to take her out of the country with him because the police would be looking
for a man alone. He would shave off his beard and trim his hair, and when he crossed the border he would get rid of Clara. That would give him great pleasure.

Frank Jackson walked over to a battered cardboard suitcase on a luggage rack, opened it and took out a tool kit. From it he removed nails and a hammer. He laid them on the bedside table next to the sleeping boy. Then he went into the bathroom and lifted a two-gallon gasoline can from the bathtub. He carried it into the bedroom and set the can on the floor. Joshua was going to go up in flames. But that would be
after
the crucifixion.

2:00
A.M.

Throughout New York and around the country, the word was spreading. It started in bars and flophouses. A cautious word here and there, dropped into a willing ear. It began as a trickle and spread to cheap restaurants and noisy discotheques and all-night newsstands. It was picked up by taxi drivers and truckers and girls working the midnight streets. It was like a pebble dropped into a deep, dark lake, with the ripples beginning to widen and spread. Within a couple of hours everyone on the street knew that Michael Moretti wanted some information and wanted it fast. Not many people were given a chance to do a favor for Michael Moretti. This was a golden opportunity for somebody, because Moretti was a man who knew how to show his appreciation. The word was that he was looking for a thin blond guy who looked like Jesus. People began searching their memories.

2:15
A.M.

Joshua Adam Parker stirred in his sleep and Frank Jackson moved to his side. He had not yet removed the boy’s pajamas. Jackson checked to make sure that the hammer and nails were in place and ready. It was important to be meticulous about these things. He was going to nail the boy’s hands and feet to
the floor before he set the room on fire. He could have done it while the boy was asleep, but that would have been wrong. It was important that the boy be awake to see what was happening, to know he was being punished for the sins of his mother. Frank Jackson looked at his watch. Clara was coming to the motel to pick him up at seven-thirty. Five hours and fifteen minutes left. Plenty of time.

Frank Jackson sat down and studied Joshua, and once he tenderly fondled an errant lock of the small boy’s hair.

3:00
A.M.

The first of the telephone calls began coming in.

There were two telephones on Michael Moretti’s desk and it seemed that the moment he picked up one, the other started ringing.

“I got a line on the guy, Mike. A couple years ago he was workin’ a scam in Kansas City with Big Joe Ziegler and Mel Cohen.”

“Fuck what he was doing a couple of years ago. Where is he
now
?”

“Big Joe says he ain’t heard from him in about six months. I’m tryin’ to get hold of Mel Cohen.”

“Do it!”

The next phone call was no more productive.

“I went over to Jackson’s motel room. He checked out. He was carryin’ a brown suitcase and a two-gallon can that coulda had gasoline in it. The clerk has no idea where he went.”

“What about the neighborhood bars?”

“One of the bartenders recognized his description, but he says he wasn’t a regular. He went in two or three times after work.”

“Alone?”

“Accordin’ to the bartender, yeah. He didn’t seem interested in the girls there.”

“Check out the gay bars.”

The telephone rang again almost as soon as Michael had hung up. It was Salvatore Fiore.

“Colfax talked to Captain Notaras. The police property clerk got a record of a pawn ticket in Frank Jackson’s personal effects. I got the number of the ticket and the name of the pawn shop. It’s owned by a Greek, Gus Stavros, who fences hot rocks.”

“Did you check it out?”

“We can’t check it out until mornin’, Mike. The place is closed. I—”

Michael Moretti exploded. “We can’t
wait
until morning! Get your ass down there!”

There was a telephone call from Joliet. It was hard for Michael to follow the conversation because his caller had had a laryngectomy and his voice sounded as if it was coming from the bottom of a box.

“Jackson’s cellmate was a man named Mickey Nicola. They were pretty tight.”

“Any idea where Nicola is now?”

“Last I heard he was back east somewhere. He’s a friend of Jackson’s sister. We have no address on her.”

“What was Nicola sent up for?”

“They nailed him on a jewelry heist.”

3:30
A.M.

The pawnshop was located in Spanish Harlem at Second Avenue and 124th Street. It was in an unloved two-story building, with the shop downstairs and living quarters upstairs.

Gus Stavros was awakened by a flashlight shining in his face. He instinctively started to reach for the alarm button at the side of his bed.

“I wouldn’t,” a voice said.

The flashlight moved away and Gus Stavros sat up in bed. He looked at the two men standing on either side of him and knew he had been given good advice. A giant and a midget. Stavros could feel an asthma attack coming on.

“Go downstairs and take whatever you want,” he wheezed. “I won’t make a move.”

The giant, Joseph Colella said, “Get up. Slow.”

Gus Stavros rose from his bed, cautious not to make any sudden movements.

The small man, Salvatore Fiore, shoved a piece of paper under his nose. “This is the number of a pawn ticket. We want to see the merchandise.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gus Stavros walked downstairs, followed by the two men. Stavros had installed an elaborate alarm system only six months earlier. There were bells he could have pushed and secret places on the floor he could have stepped on and help would be on its way. He did none of those things because his instincts told him he would be dead before anyone could reach him. He knew that his only chance lay in giving the two men what they wanted. He only prayed he would not die from a goddamned asthma attack before he got rid of them.

He turned on the downstairs lights and they all moved toward the front of the shop. Gus Stavros had no idea what was going on, but he knew it could have been a great deal worse. If these men had come merely to rob him, they could have cleaned out the pawn shop and been gone by now. It seemed they were only interested in one piece of merchandise. He wondered how they had circumvented the elaborate new alarms on the doors and windows, but he decided not to ask.