The Anniversary Man (15 page)

Irving took the phone number, called the Herald, and asked for Costello.

′He doesn′t have an extension,′ the receptionist told him.

′I was there earlier,′ Irving said. ′Detective Irving.′

′Yes, of course. Hi there. How are you?′

′I′m fine, just fine, but I need to speak to John Costello.′

′Then I can send a message down and have him call you back, or I might see him when he finishes for the day.′

′When is that?′ Irving glanced at his watch. It was quarter past two.

′Five maybe. Perhaps five-thirty.′

′You gonna be there then?′

′Sure I am. I′m on ′til six.′

Irving paused for a moment. ′I′m sorry, but I didn′t get your name?′

′Emma,′ the receptionist said. ′Emma Scott.′

′I wanna do something, Emma. I wanna come down there about quarter of five and wait for Mr Costello to come out, and when he does I want you to tell me who he is and then I can talk to him right away.′

′Is he . . . well, is he in some kind of trouble?′

′No, not at all, quite the opposite. I think he could save me a lot of trouble. He did some research on something and I need his advice.′

′And this is all legal, right? I′m not going to get—′

′It′s completely fine, Emma. I just need you to point him out so I can speak with him.′

′Okay,′ she said hesitantly. ′Okay . . . I s′pose that′d be fine, Detective Irving. You come down here about quarter of five then and I′ll introduce you to John.′

′Appreciated, Emma . . . see you then.′

 

The Inter-State Archive Requisition Transfer Mandate was a nine-page document in close-type, single-space, font-size ten. He knew the names and dates of the previous victims, but only from Karen Langley′s draft newspaper article. He didn′t know divisions, departments, or names of detectives - more than likely long-since retired, or dead. He had seen the Roy Green transcript in Langley′s office, the name of the interrogator at the top, but for the life of him he could not recall it. Tempted to call Langley and ask her, he resisted. He didn′t want her help, he didn′t want her to feel that she had contributed in any way to this case. The City Herald had shown up the police department. The City Herald intended to tell New York something that the police department did not know. How? Because of John Costello, whoever the hell he was.

Of course, Irving′s first thought was for Costello as the perp. Anniversary killings. Only days after the fact, a proposed newspaper story makes the connection. Unlikely, even in the best of worlds. From what little Irving understood of serial killers, he knew many of them were in it for the publicity. I have a tiny dick, I have no social life, I cannot get laid by any other means than threat with a deadly weapon, and when I′m done I will destroy the evidence of my wrongdoing. I was abused as a child. I am a sorry motherfucker for whom everyone should feel sympathy and compassion. I had to kill them all because they were all really my mother. I have important work to do, a business venture if you like . . . why not invest your daughter? I am a fucking nutcase.

Enough already.

Irving smiled to himself, went back to the paperwork.

R
ay Irving was rarely caught off-guard. There were, in fact, very few people who could confound him, or so he believed.

John Costello did just that, and he did it in a way that Irving would never have expected.

′I cannot speak with you,′ were the first words that Costello said as Irving approached him in the foyer of the New York City Herald offices on 31st and Ninth.

John Costello looked no different from a hundred thousand other men in their late thirties who worked the offices and banks and computer stations of New York. His haircut, his clothes - dark pants, a pale blue open-neck shirt, a sport jacket, the dark brown attaché case he carried; the way he held open the door to let a female colleague pass ahead of him; the way he nodded and smiled when she thanked him; his seemingly relaxed manner . . . All of these things made it easy for Irving to reach out and touch John Costello′s arm, to say his name, to introduce himself: Mr Costello, my name is Detective Ray Irving, Fourth Precinct. Wondered if you had a moment—

And Costello cut him short with five words: I cannot speak with you.

Irving smiled. ′I understand you′re in a hurry to get home—′

Costello shook his head, kind of half-smiled, and said, ′A man stands in the middle of the road. He′s dressed in black from head to foot. Has on a black ski mask, wears sunglasses, black gloves. All the streetlights are broken, and yet a car traveling at eighty miles an hour with its headlights off manages to see him and swerve. How does this happen?′

′I′m sorry,′ Irving replied. ′I don′t understand—′

′It′s a riddle,′ Costello said. ′You know the answer?′

Irving shook his head. ′I wasn′t really listening—′

′It′s daylight,′ Costello said. ′You assumed it was night when I mentioned the broken streetlights, but it′s daytime. The driver of the car can see the man because it′s daytime. There is an old saw about assumption, something to do with fuck-ups.′ Costello tilted his head to one side and smiled.

′Yes . . . yes, of course,′ Irving said, and took a sideways step toward the exit as if to pre-empt Costello.

′You have assumed I′m available, yet I′m not. I′m sure whatever you have to discuss with me is very important, Detective Irving, but I have an appointment. I cannot speak with you now, you understand.′ Costello glanced at his watch. ′I must go.′

′Okay, yes . . . I understand, Mr Costello. Perhaps I could speak with you after your appointment. Perhaps I could come to your house?′

Costello smiled. ′No,′ he said, and said it with such firm finality that Irving was left momentarily speechless.

′You want to speak with me about the draft article,′ Costello said matter-of-factly.

Irving nodded. ′Yes,′ he said. ′The article about—′

′We both know which article, Detective Irving, but not now.′ He glanced at his watch again. ′Now I really have to go. I′m sorry.′

Before Irving had a chance to formulate a reply, Costello had stepped by him and disappeared through the door.

Irving glanced up at Emma Scott. She was engaged in conversation with a middle-aged woman. He looked toward the street, and in a moment of sheer impulsiveness decided to follow John Costello.

Costello, a fast walker, turned right, away from the building and headed up Ninth toward St Michael′s. Here he turned left along West 33rd, and Irving - hanging back as best he could without losing sight of the man - followed him to Eleventh, where Costello turned right toward the Javits Center, but before he reached it he turned right again onto 37th, paused for a moment to look into his attaché case, and then hurried up the steps of a building and through the door.

By the time Irving caught up, there was no sign of his quarry. He looked at the building. A short flight of stone steps, an ornate miniature streetlamp on each side of the wide doorway, and painted in discreet letters on the glass fanlight above, the words Winterbourne Hotel.

Irving hesitated, wondered whether he should just turn around and head back to the precinct. He glanced at his watch: it was twenty past five. He crossed over to the other side of the street and looked up at the hotel′s facade. There were lights in several windows - three floors in all, two windows to each floor. Assuming that there were also rooms to the back of the building, there would be twelve rooms in all. The Winterbourne Hotel. Irving had never heard of it, but then there was no reason why he should have.

It was close to six by the time he decided to go in there. In his mind he′d considered many scenarios. He had no idea where Costello lived. Always the assumption that people owned houses or rented apartments, but no, some people lived in hotels. People went to hotels for dinner, for sexual encounters, for private rendezvous that they felt could not be conducted at home. People visited other people who were staying in hotels . . .

Irving could not presume to know what Costello was doing in the hotel. He either went in there and asked, or he went away.

He chose the former.

The man behind the desk was elderly, late sixties, perhaps, or early seventies. He smiled warmly when Irving approached, his face creased like a paper bag.

′You′re the detective,′ the old man said.

Irving stopped suddenly, started laughing - an awkward, nervous reaction.

′Mr Costello left a message for you.′

′A message?′

The old man smiled again, produced a folded slip of paper.

Irving took it, opened it up, and saw printed in a fastidiously neat script, Carnegie′s Delicatessen, 7th Avenue at 55th Street. 8.00 pm.

Irving′s eyes widened. He experienced a strange sensation, as if something was crawling up his spine toward the back of his neck. He shuddered visibly, turned away from the desk, hesitated, turned back.

′Sir?′ the old man said.

′Mr Costello left this for me?′ Irving asked, still finding it hard to believe, let alone understand.

′Yes sir, Mr Costello.′

′Tell me, does he live here?′

′Oh no, sir, he doesn′t live here, just comes here for the meetings. They all do. Second Monday of every month. Have for as long as I can remember.′

′Meetings?′ Irving asked. ′What meetings?′

The old man shook his head. ′I′m sorry, sir, I′m not permitted to tell you.′

Irving shook his head, incredulous. He felt as if he′d walked into some funhouse reflection of real life. ′You′re not allowed to tell me?′

′No, sir.′

′What . . . it′s like Alcoholics Anonymous or something?′

′Or something. Yes, I s′pose you could say it was something.′

′I′m sorry, I don′t understand. Mr Costello comes here for a meeting on the second Monday of every month, and you′re not permitted to tell me what those meetings are.′

′That′s right, sir.′

′And other people come too?′

′I cannot say.′

′But you said it was a meeting, right? You can′t have a meeting by yourself, can you?′

′I suppose not, sir, no.′

′So other people must come to these meetings.′

′I can′t say.′

′This is ludicrous,′ Irving said. ′What′s your name?′

′I′m Gerald, sir.′

′Gerald . . . Gerald what?′

′Gerald Ford.′

Irving nodded, and then he stopped. ′Gerald Ford. Like President Gerald Ford, right?′

The old man smiled with such sincerity Irving was taken aback. ′Exactly right, sir, like President Gerald Ford.′

′You′re kidding me.′

′Not at all, sir. That′s my name.′

′And you own this hotel?′

′No, sir, I don′t own this hotel. I just work here.′

′And how long do these meetings go on for?′

Ford shook his head.

′You can′t tell me, right?′

′That′s right, sir.′

′This is crazy . . . this is just utterly crazy.′

Ford nodded, smiled again. ′I s′pose it is, sir.′

Irving looked back at the piece of paper, the address of the restaurant he frequented almost daily, and wondered if any aspect of what he was dealing with was a true coincidence, or . . .

′Okay,′ he said. ′Okay . . . tell Mr Costello I got his message and I will meet him at eight.′

′Very good, sir.′

Irving took a step toward the front door, paused, looked back at the old man behind the desk, and then made his way out and down the steps to the street.

For a moment he was uncertain of what to do, and then he decided to walk back to his office through the Garment District. He could have taken the subway, but he wanted time to think. He didn′t understand what had happened at the Winterbourne Hotel. He didn′t understand the brief words he had shared with Costello in the foyer of the City Herald. He felt out of his depth, and did not understand why he should feel such a thing. Nothing made sense. Nothing at all.

Back at the precinct house, Irving learned that Farraday had left for the day. He was somewhat relieved; he didn′t want to try and explain something that he did not understand himself. Instinct told him that, despite the fact that he had nothing but circumstantial suspicion, he should drag John Costello in for questioning - interrogate him, find out how he′d supposedly put two and two together on these murders, but the thought of Karen Langley stayed his hand. There was already one proposed newspaper article, and one was more than sufficient.

There were no messages on his desk, and he assumed there had been no agreement reached on a collaborative investigation between the different precincts involved. Once again there was no proof, not even circumstantial evidence of any probative nature, that these recent murders were linked. There was no more than an article, written by Karen Langley and researched by John Costello.