The Anniversary Man (54 page)

Farraday smiled wryly. ′There is no-one else to head up this thing.′

′Well then, they′re gonna have a fucking problem on their hands, aren′t they?′

Farraday was silent for some time. Eventually he said, ′So there′s no other route? This is what you want to do?′

′That′s what I want to do . . . that′s what I believe we should do.′

′Because it′s the best course of action, or because it′s the only course of action?′

′The latter,′ Irving said.

′So put something together for me, but when you write it I need it to read like this is the best course, okay?′

′I can do that.′

Farraday looked at his watch again. ′Nine twenty-five. Get it back to me by eleven. You need the precinct shrink?′

′You think I need to see a shrink?′

′For the article. For the wording of the article, you dumb motherfucker. I′m thinking we put a hook in the statement to get the guy interested.′

′What? Like we tell the world he′s a faggot or he′s got a two and a half inch dick, that sort of thing?′ Irving shook his head. ′God, no. I don′t want this guy any more pissed at the world than he already is. And anyhow, what shrinks actually know about human behavior I could write on a postage stamp.′

Farraday said nothing, but he smiled knowingly. ′So go,′ he said. ′Give me something I can use today.′

T
he ability to wait was a skill, perhaps even an art. Either way, it was not something Irving had mastered.

He wrote the statement. He put together the body of a newspaper article. He didn′t do these things out of familiarity or previous experience, but out of sheer necessity. Because, in all truth, it seemed that no-one else but himself and the men he directed were truly determined to see this thing to its close. Those who haunted the edges of this thing - representatives from the Mayor′s office, those in press relations, even the federal agencies - wanted the killer, but they didn′t want the work. The police were there. Taxes paid for the police. The police always knew precisely what to do, and got it done.

Like hell they did.

Hudson and Gifford went after the PI, Karl Roberts. They found his offices and his apartment empty. They secured photographs of him and put out an APB. What they did not do was put his face on TV in case he was still alive, the opinion being that such an action could only serve to make him a potential victim.

Irving believed, however, that the man had perhaps unearthed some information regarding Mia Grant′s killer. If that was the case, there was a strong possibility that Karl Roberts was already dead.

Irving spoke to Anthony Grant again, questioned him extensively about anything that Roberts might have said about the death of Mia, what leads he was following, the lines he was pursuing. Grant knew nothing of any great significance. He said that Roberts was a serious man, almost humorless, but evidently focused, committed, professional in his approach. Grant said that Roberts appeared to be sufficiently familiar with police procedure to suggest that he might have been ex-PD. Such a thing was not uncommon. Irving had Hudson and Gifford trawl the PD databases - past, present, other nearby states. There was a Carl Roberts on the Upper West Side, a Karl Robertson in New Jersey. That was all they got.

Five days elapsed. It was Monday the 20th by the time the NYPD′s press office came back with an approved statement and article. It went to The Times, the City Herald, the Daily News, in hard copy, on websites. It was picked up by NBC, ABC and CBS and WNET. Chief Ellmann delegated the public statements to his deputy. He had no wish to be remembered as the face who delivered bad news.

New Yorkers learned that they had been plagued by a killer for five months. To date, all of seventeen killings had been attributed to this individual. The victims′ faces were printed, displayed on websites. A hotline was established to receive calls from anyone who recognized the victims, anyone who had seen them in the hours or days before their deaths, anyone who was in possession of information they believed the police should know.

Ellmann and Farraday drafted in fifteen additional staff to man the phones. By four-thirty on Monday afternoon they were already overwhelmed. There was an underlying sense of panic, both inside and outside the department. Gifford, Hudson, Saxon, O′Reilly, Goldman and Vogel were reined in again. Farraday briefed them in Irving′s presence. Three detectives were loaned from the Seventh to deal with the routine traffic at the Fourth while the homicide detectives were deployed to address the follow-up on every call that wasn′t obviously and blatantly a crank. Ellmann concurred with Farraday′s view that men already familiar with the case should continue working on it, thereby circumventing the necessity to start from scratch with those temporarily delegated.

By seven that evening there were three hundred and fourteen further leads that had not even been considered. By nine o′clock the figure exceeded five hundred. The newspapers ran with assumptions and misleading reports. The sense of panic increased. Irving couldn′t decide if it was imagination or reality, but every time he left the precinct house the city′s atmosphere felt charged.

At ten Irving called Karen Langley and left her a message.

′Karen, it′s Ray. I have over five hundred leads backing up on this thing. Get John to call me, tell him I need his help. This is now beyond anything personal, you understand? This has to do with other peoples′ lives. Tell him that from me. Tell him if he doesn′t come and help me—′

The line clicked suddenly and he heard Karen Langley′s voice.

′Ray?′

′Karen . . . I was just leaving you a message.′

′I heard the message, Ray. He′s disappeared.′

′What?′

′John. He′s disappeared—′

Irving felt the hairs rise on the nape of his neck. ′What d′you mean, disappeared?′

′What I fucking said. It′s not hard to understand. He′s disappeared.′

′Since when?′

′Last saw him Friday afternoon. He asked if he could leave early, and then he didn′t show up this morning and there′s no answer on his phone. Nothing. I even sent someone round there to see if there were any lights on at his place, but there′s nothing.′

Irving felt sick. He felt disturbed.

′Ray?′

′Yes?′

′I′m worried about him . . . like he might go and do something.′

′You think he′s that unstable?′ Irving asked.

′Jesus, Ray, I don′t know what to think, except my absolute certainty that he has nothing to do with these killings. I know that you′re still suspicious.′

′I wasn′t, Karen . . . I′d got over that, and then I saw his apartment. That made me think . . . God, I don′t know what it made me think.′

′I just see it as his way of dealing with what happened to him, like everything else that doesn′t make sense about him.′

′Says a great deal for how different we are,′ Irving said.

′We′re not that different, Ray. You′re just more ignorant and self-centered, and not quite as bright as me.′

Irving smiled. It was difficult under such circumstances to retain any humor, but here she was - Karen Langley - reminding him once again that there was something to life outside of the Fourth Precinct.

′So what are you going to do?′ she asked.

′I′m gonna find him, Karen. I have to now. It′s gone a little beyond curiosity about where he′s at into a necessity for us to really determine if he′s involved.′

′I really—′

′I know, Karen, I know, and I hope to hell that he has absolutely nothing to do with this, but I have to be completely certain. There are too many things at stake to let it rest.′

′I understand.′

′Thank you for picking up the phone.′

′You take care, Ray Irving.′

′Same back to you.′

The line went dead. Irving hung up, hesitated for a moment, and then he lifted the phone and called for Hudson and Gifford.

′APB on John Costello,′ he told them. ′Whatever it takes, he has to be found, understand?′

T
he world seemed to stop for three days. Within the walls of the Fourth Precinct there was pandemonium and chaos. A constantly changing army of telephone operators monitored and routed all the irrelevances, suppositions, assumptions and inconsistencies of a publicized investigation. For every fifty calls there were a half dozen leads to follow down. The uniforms, Vogel, O′Reilly, Goldman and Saxon, were out in cars; the detectives, Hudson and Gifford, worked on locating Karl Roberts and Costello.

The newspapers and news stations started turning on the department. Why was this still going on? Where were the taxpayers′ dollars being spent? Despite citywide coverage and seemingly endless resources were they still no closer to catching the man who was terrorizing New York?

The world and all it possessed gave them nothing until the morning of Thursday the 23rd of November, and when it did it was the very last thing that Irving had expected.

Seven a.m., minutes after, Irving was seated at his desk in the incident room. He′d been at the precinct house for two hours already, having left a little after one that same morning. Barely three hours′ sleep, and he was walking the edge of the abyss once more.

Three days since the story had broken. Twenty-four hours for New York to absorb it, twenty-four hours for the instinctive backlash against the police and the current civil administration. The next twenty-four saw the onset of public paranoia. People were either tough, cynical, or terrified.

That morning Irving almost didn′t answer the phone. He was reading through the previous four hours of reports that had accumulated in his absence. There had been two messages from the same person, a woman who sounded frightened, who had communicated something to two different operators that implied an eyewitness possibility for the Allen killings. She lived two streets east, had a friend who lived opposite the Allens. She had visited there until late that night, had walked to the end of the street just as a dark pick-up came around the corner and slowed. She had hurried on, self-conscious, aware of the lateness of the hour in a dark and now deserted street, and the fact that despite the short distance to her own house, it would only take a moment for someone to exit a vehicle . . .

She had remembered three of the digits on the license plate. Why? Because they were three of the digits of her sister′s birthday. 116. January 16th. A dark pick-up - black, perhaps midnight blue, more than likely a Ford - with 116 on the plate.

And then the phone rang, and Irving reached for it, but paused halfway. The additional lines brought in for the incident room had overloaded the system and thrown so many curves into it, and too many times incorrect routing had given him a call for an entirely different department.

But after the phone rang a third and fourth time there was something about its seeming insistence that compelled him, and so he reached again, lifted the receiver, and raised it to his ear to hear the duty desk sergeant say, ′Ray . . . there′s a call from someone who says you′ve been looking for him,′ and that was all it took.

Irving knew it was John Costello, and when he said, ′Yes, hello . . .′ he expected Costello′s voice, and was preparing for the raft of apologies he would now have to give the man, to say whatever was needed to corral the guy back into the field and bring him to the precinct.

But the voice that responded, the single word that was uttered, was so clearly not John Costello, that Irving felt a chill throughout the entirety of his body.

′Detective.′

′Yes . . . hello there . . . who is this?′

′I think you′ve been looking for me.′

′Looking for you?′ Irving felt his nostrils clear as if he′d smelled ammonia. Every single hair on the nape of his neck stood to attention. He shuddered, imperceptibly to anyone who might have seen him there at the desk, but it was there, and he felt it so strongly, and he didn′t know whether or not he was capable of speaking again.

′I′m scared, Detective . . . truly scared . . . I have been in hiding for a while . . .′

′Scared? Who is this?′ Irving said.

′I′m the person you′ve been looking for. I′ve heard things from people I know—′

′What people? What have you heard?′

′I′m the investigator,′ the voice. ′Karl Roberts.′

The rush of relief flooded through Irving.

He believed he had never felt such a conflict of emotions in his life.

The sense of overwhelming fear that he could have been on the phone to the anniversary killer . . . the all-too-real possibility that the egotistical son-of-a-bitch could have actually called him up to taunt him, to challenge him . . . Against that the sense of disappointment - no, something far deeper than disappointment - that it was not the killer, that whatever Roberts may have found would lead them nowhere . . .