Saints Of New York (45 page)

Radick
received a call from Larry Temple a little after three. They were no more than
a minute or two on the phone, and then Radick went to find Parrish.

'He
said that someone came back with the same film title as the one Landry found.'

'Anything
on who would have made the film, where we could get a copy?' Parrish asked.

Radick
sat down. 'Temple said to tell you it was supposed to be a ghost. He said you'd
know what that meant.'

Parrish closed
his eyes and shook his head.

'What is that?
What's a ghost?'

'It's
what they call a film that is supposed to be a snuff movie. They film the whole
thing - the beating, the torture, whatever they do, but they cut it off before
they actually kill the girl. The cut version goes out as a regular SM
flick, but the long version, the one where the girl is murdered . . . well,
that is sold on in an entirely different way.'

'Jesus . . .'

Parrish
exhaled slowly. He leaned back and looked out of the window. 'Makes sense,
doesn't it? Based on what we have. They're kidnapped, abducted, whatever.
They're drugged, forced into sex acts which are filmed. They are then strangled
on camera. The bodies are dumped in motel rooms, trash cans, dumpsters,
on
stairwells,
and in the case of Rebecca she is strangled and left in her brother's
apartment. Danny is then shot in an alleyway.'

'Suggests
that she got away, maybe?'

'No.
I think she was filmed in Danny's apartment, and they strangled her there.
Laking put the apartment as primary. We're not dealing with Stanley Kubrick
here. The quality of the cinematic experience is not first on their list of
priorities. We're dealing with real lowlifes, scumbags extraordinaire. I think
they made the film there, they strangled her, Danny comes back, sees what's
happened, does a runner. They chase him down, shoot him, and it's all over.'

'And
you think McKee could have done this?'

'I
think McKee could be our supplier. He's the one inside Family Welfare. He knows
what the girls look like. He has a picture. He can even visit with them, for
fuck's sake. Sometimes adoptive parents and children in care are seen so many
times by so many people they don't remember who the fuck they've spoken to.
Even if he didn't see them in person he knew where they were, he knew where
they lived. He could have followed them, taken more pictures, filmed them on
his cell phone, for God's sake. Then he passes them over to whoever, and they do
the abduction, the film, the killing. He gets a finder's fee, he's not directly
implicated in anything but a circumstantial way, and no-one's the wiser. The
only connection between them is the red nail varnish, the change of clothes,
the fact that they were adopted, and welfare. It's a thin link, and thus it has
gone on for at least two years without anyone being aware of it.'

'Maybe,'
Radick said.

Parrish
smiled sardonically. 'Like I said, it's always a maybe until it's not.'

'So
we need to get into his house.'

'Which
we're not going to do without substantive, probative, probable cause-type
evidence. Like you said, all we have right now is a maybe.'

'We
get Lavelle to give us the names of the cases McKee is working on currently—'

'He's
too smart. He's not going to go for anyone that he's directly connected to,
that's for sure. I think where he has had some direct connection to any of
these girls - meeting with the
prospective
parents, reviewing a case file for a colleague - all of those have been
coincidental. I think he stays well away from the cases he's assigned.'

'So
where?'

'To
tell you the truth, I don't know right now, but I'm working on it, Jimmy, I'm
working on it.'

'Never
seem to be investigating the death of a rich guy's daughter, do we? All victims
are not created equal, right?'

Parrish
frowned. 'Where do you hear that?'

'I
don't know . . . heard it somewhere along the line. Why?'

'No
reason. It was something my father used to say. Fire Department says the same
thing. They never seem to be putting out fires in rich folks' houses.'

'We
made the society—'

'Made
a fucking mess of it is what we did.'

'No
argument there, Frank, no argument there.'

Seven
o'clock and Parrish was frayed at the edges, torn at the corners. He'd sent
Radick home an hour or so before. He called Eve from the office. Her voicemail
spoke to him once more. He had not spoken back for two weeks. He wondered
whether she'd finally had enough of his shit and was screening out his calls.
Going over there was out of the question. She was working, that was all. She
was hard at work, doing what she did, saving her money for the time she'd move
out to Tuscarora and grow phloxes behind a white picket fence. Parrish smiled
to himself. As if.

He
stopped at Clay's en route home. He had a couple of shots, a single glass of
beer. He walked to a pizza place and ordered a pepperoni, Monterey Jack,
jalapeno. He ate half of it in the kitchen at home without even removing his
jacket. By eight- thirty he knew where he was going. It had never really been
in question; it had simply been a matter of how long he would wait before he
did it. He called the precinct, got a message from the desk. The priest had
called again. Third time. What the fuck was his problem? Parrish got a uniform
to find McKee's address for him. He lived down on Sackett Street, maybe eight
or nine blocks from Kelly. The fact that McKee was half that distance from
Caitlin raised the hairs on the nape of Parrish's neck, and it was that
reaction - the definite feeling that he seemed to be looking at something with
substance - that gave him the motivation to look further.

He
took the subway through Pacific and down to Union Street. He walked Union and
took a right on Bond, a left onto Sackett, and found McKee's house. What he had
expected to see, he did not know. What he actually saw was a plain and
unremarkable building - red brick up to the lower window frames, wood beyond
that to the roof. Three steps up to a wooden canopy-type porch and the front
door. There were drapes in both lower windows, the single upper window too, and
Parrish presumed that there were two bedrooms, one of them looking out over the
rear of the property. There was no sign of a car, no incorporated garage, no
front yard to speak of. This was not a man with money; or it was a man with
money but very conservative and unimaginative tastes. This was the house of
someone who did not believe his home should make a statement, at least not to
the outside world. The feeling it gave Parrish was of a man who wanted to
remain anonymous, even invisible. Had Parrish not been looking for the property
he never would have noticed it.

Now
he believed he was creating all manner of things when there was nothing there.
He walked back to the end of the street. He buried his hands in his pockets and
looked back the way he'd come. All the houses were innocuous. In all truth,
there was no single building that stood out from the rest. Richard McKee was
nothing more than someone with a mild curiosity for younger girls, not so
uncommon for a man in his early forties who did not appear to have an ongoing
relationship. This was another assumption: neither he nor Radick had asked
McKee whether or not he was in a relationship. They had asked if he was
married, and he had said he was not, that he had been but was now divorced. He
had implied that he was single, but not directly said so. Yet Parrish had
assumed it to the point where he had written it in the notes. A simple mistake.
Simple, because McKee had not said what everyone says when asked such a
question.
No,
I
'm
not
married,
but
I
'm in a relationship . . . have been for
a while. We
talk
about getting married, but I
don't think either of us has the courage!

But
he hadn't said that. Hadn't said anything like it.

Parrish
walked back and looked at the house again. There were lights on in all three
front windows of McKee's house, two on
the
ground,
one above, the light beneath the porch canopy
also.
There was a storefront set back from the
sidewalk thirty yards
or
so
away, and here he waited for a while. He didn't know why
he
was there, he didn't see what good it
would serve, but the
mere
fact
that he was in the vicinity of Richard McKee gave him some sense of purpose.
What would he otherwise do? Sit home,
watch
TV,
drink? It struck him then that he had not been drunk
for a
while - a couple of days perhaps? A
couple of shots at Clay's, that was all he'd had. He hadn't bought a fifth en
route home, emptied it within the hour, gone out for another. Progress? Maybe.
Progress towards what? He hadn't a clue. Marie Griffin would be pleased, but
he wasn't in it to please Marie Griffin. Aside from the drinking there was the
other thing. The thing he'd felt, the thing he'd not expected, and that was
something he would speak to her about in the morning. Whatever she was doing to
him . . . well, it wasn't therapeutic from any perspective, except possibly the
simple benefit of talking to someone who listened. Sure, she asked too many
questions. Sure, she answered every answer with another damned question. But
when he spoke she was quiet. She didn't interrupt. She didn't seem to have an
agenda. She was perhaps the closest to a friend he had. Sad, really fucking
sad, but the truth.

When
the door opened and McKee came down the steps from the porch Parrish froze. He
hesitated for a second, and then he backed up and pressed himself into the
shadows. McKee was unaware of anything save where he was headed. No jacket,
just jeans and a sweater. Going out? Parrish didn't think so.

Parrish
waited until McKee was fifteen yards from the house, and then he went after
him. They walked for no more than a minute, and then McKee turned right into a
side street. Parrish crossed over. He looked back the way he'd come. Why, he
didn't know, but he did. He entered the side street slowly, tentatively. McKee
was out of sight. Parrish hurried down and reached the end. The alleyway opened
out into a complex of small garages. The SUV. This must be where McKee kept his
car. The light wasn't good, but Parrish heard the metallic sound of a door
being raised, the squeak of un-oiled hinges as it was slid back. Parrish moved
carefully. He caught sight of the open garage. He counted down. Right-hand side
of the block, fourth garage from the end.

McKee
backed out, reached up to pull the door down again. Parrish quickly retraced
his steps and was soon out on the street - breathless, anxious, even a little
frightened. He hadn't felt scared for a good while. But he did feel scared, for
real. He was still on pay-hold, he was still unable to drive, he was still
being watched every step of the way as he worked. Maybe even Radick was keeping
tabs on what he was doing and reporting up the lines.

To
be caught harassing a potential witness, a suspect in a murder case; to be seen
hanging around the guy's house, following him down to his lock-up . . . End of
story. He'd be looking for another job by the end of the month.

Parrish
left hurriedly. He was a block and a half away by the time McKee emerged onto
Sackett Street. Parrish took the subway home. It was only when he reached his
apartment that he realized what he had to do, why he had to do it, and what
would happen if he did. More to the point, what would happen if he didn't. He
wouldn't be able to live with himself. And considering that he lived alone,
well that would mean he was really fucked.

He
was wired. He knew he wouldn't sleep. He walked to the liquor store and bought
a bottle of Bushmills. He drank a third of it and lay on the couch watching
The West Wing.

'Well, just
describe it as best you can.'

'It's
real simple. It was like . . . well, it was like the feeling that someone was
relying on me.'

'But people rely
on you all the time, Frank.'