The Recruiter (A Thriller) (20 page)

Samuel’s eyeballs are on fire. Red-rimmed and scratchy. A lack of sleep, a lack of food, and the fumes from the bleach he’d used to scrub the bathtub and bathroom floor have all combined to make him look like a pothead who’s just smoked a foot-long doobie.

His overall state of mind isn’t in great shape either. He’s tired. Actually, he’s beyond tired. Fatigued to the point of collapse. His neck and shoulders are so tense they feel the consistency of granite.

He’s simply dead on his feet.

At his desk, the phone silent by his side, the computer’s blank screen awaiting his instructions, and a few sheets of paper on his desk, he has a moment’s peace. He’s nearly immobile with fatigue. He’s scared to shut his eyes for fear he’ll simply fall asleep.

But no one is bothering him. Giacalone is in her office with the door closed. Paul Rodgers working the phones. When Rodgers’ is not receiving calls, he’s making them, paying no attention to Samuel. And foot traffic is nonexistent.

Samuel takes a pen and pretends to scribble a note on the top sheet of paper in front of him. But his mind is racing back to his apartment, going over things, trying to figure out if he’s forgotten anything. He knows that if crime scene technicians scoured his apartment, he’d be a dead man. There’s no way he can completely eliminate all traces of Peter Forbes. He’d have to burn down the whole fucking building, and even then, he’s not sure every trace of evidence would be destroyed.

The key is to avoid being targeted by the police in the first place.

Beth is his alibi. He was with her most of the night; he can fudge the hours a little bit. When he’d arrived to work this morning, he’d been the first one in. This was good: he could fudge that time to the cops as well. Beth is the key.

The phone rings and he picks it up, ready to launch into his recruiting spiel. It will be good to get out of the office and meet a potential recruit. Maybe he can wrap it up quickly and find a park for a quick nap. He’s supposed to go to Julie’s tonight after work. He’s guessing he won’t get much sleep there either.

He snatches up the phone and instantly freezes.

The voice on the other end is not a recruit.

It belongs to a policeman.

A Detective Esposito.

The idea of food is repulsive to Samuel, even though he realizes his stomach is beyond empty. The hunger is not helping matters. He’s already lightheaded and disoriented. Killing somebody, chopping up their body, and discarding their remains into local dumpsters tends to leave one unsettled, and Samuel is no exception.

P.F. Chang’s is a trendy restaurant at the Somerset shopping complex in Troy, a few miles from the recruiting office. Nestled in among Nieman-Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Lord & Taylor, it’s a popular feeding trough during the week for wives with time to kill and money to spend.

Samuel pulls the Taurus into the parking lot, shuts the car off, locks the doors, and walks through the dragon-like entranceway. There is a bar directly ahead, and tables scattered around it. A few people are at the bar. The bartender is a woman with jet-black hair pulled back into a bun. She’s Eurasian and glances up at Samuel, offering a brief smile.

Samuel scans the people at the bar but sees no one who resembles a cop. The phrase echoes in his mind:
a fucking cop.
He’s just finished thinking how important it is to avoid the attention of the cops, and a minute later a Detroit homicide cop is on the phone, inviting him to lunch. How could he say no?

Just play it cool, have some lunch, and get the hell out of here.

“Samuel Ackerman?” a voice from behind says.

Samuel jumps slightly, startled. He turns and sees a short, squat Hispanic in a white shirt and horrible striped tie. The eyes are big and brown. Almost doelike if it weren’t for the quick intelligence lurking in their depths.

Samuel recovers and offers the cop his hand. They shake, and a waiter shows them to a table.

“Thanks for coming, Samuel.”

“No problem. I’ve never been here but heard the food is good. Especially the veggie wrap.”

“My favorite,” Esposito says, nodding.

When the waiter returns, a tall, thin Asian with acne splattered on his cheeks and neck like an avant-garde painting, the two order veggie wraps and diet Cokes.

After the waiter leaves, Esposito looks directly at Samuel.

“Let’s chat about Peter Forbes.”

Julie Giacalone unabashedly studies the face between her legs. Samuel has never looked more attractive to her. His brow knitted in concentration. His intense, blue eyes alternately closed and open as his tongue darts and probes with studied efficiency.

The pleasure is there, but it’s mild this time, and Julie Giacalone makes the decision that it’s time to fake an orgasm. Something she’s done many times, but never with Samuel.

Tonight, however, things are different.

She lifts her legs higher, arches her back and begins the soft, guttural moans, letting them build until she grabs Samuel’s hair and pushes his face hard against her sex. She lets the moans turn into deep growls and then drops back onto the pillow and pulls Samuel on top of her.

He mounts her and fucks her with a fluid grace she’s come to expect. He’s a wonderful lover, but tonight, she simply isn’t quite as appreciative.

When he finishes and flops down next to her, she lets her hand trail on his flat stomach, drawing light patterns on the washboard muscles, stroking the thick hair on his chest.

“Samuel, do you know what a beat sheet is?” she says.

“No, but I’m game for anything,” he says.

She forces a smile. “No, I’m talking about the one- or two-page description of a sailor’s career to date. You know, the high points.”

“Never heard of it.”

“A lot of COs do it as a shortcut. If there’s ever a promotion or a transfer, it speeds the process. The new CO doesn’t have to wade through twenty pages of paperwork to find out about a new sailor in his command.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“I always try to keep up-to-date beat sheets for all of my team. That way, I’m not under the gun if someone leaves. It’s already done for the most part.”

“Uh-huh,” Samuel says.

Whether it’s from the sex, the excitement of him being so near, or the subject she’s about to bring up, she doesn’t know. But her heart is threatening to pound its way right out of her chest.

“I worked on yours today.”

“Must’ve been pretty boring.”

“Actually, I found something very interesting. I wondered if you were even aware of it.”

“What’s that?”

The fan over Julie’s bed is on the lowest setting, and the slight breeze it creates cools the now thin line of sweat along her forehead. She even feels a thin sheen of sweat on her palms. Why is she so nervous?

“Do you remember a Larry Nevens?”

Samuel’s hand, playfully drawing circles around her breasts, doesn’t falter for a moment.

“The BUD/S instructor?”

She nods in the darkness. She’s about to speak, thinking he didn’t see her, but he responds.

“I remember him. As much as I can. I was in a daze for most of it. Sleep deprivation. Shock from the cold. Total fatigue.” He pauses then asks, “Why?”

“Someone murdered him.”

“You’re kidding. Nevens? Impossible. He seemed like a tough bastard. He had to be.”

“It happened on a deserted stretch of beach early in the morning. They think he was there with someone else, maybe having sex.”

“Maybe he made himself…vulnerable.”

There’s a brief silence in the room, disturbed only by the faint mechanism of the ceiling fan.

“What’s that got to do with my beat sheet?”

“Well, as weird as Nevens’ murder is, it gets even stranger. A Petty Officer Third Class in Pensacola…Wilkins was his name—”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that. He got crushed in some sort of accident. A chain broke?”

“That’s what they say.”

Suddenly, Samuel turns on his side and faces Julie. “Oh my God, are you trying to tell me that you think I had something to do with—”

“No, no, no.”

Samuel lays his head down next to Julie’s shoulder. She can feel the soft, warm breath on her shoulder.

“Why are you telling me all this, Julie?”

“I just thought it was disturbing. It’s like death is following you around. Should I be worried?” she asks. “According to your beat sheet, I would be the next one to die. You’re like the archaeologists who discovered the tomb of King Tut and supposedly brought its curse upon themselves. They all died of mysterious circumstances a little later. Is there a curse on you?”

“Not that I know of. Someone might have a voodoo doll of me. Poke needles into my ass now and then just to make me jump.”

She smiles again and starts to reconsider her suspicions. He just seems so calm. Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with the deaths.

Has she been a fool? Too many crime novels, an imagination spurred on by boredom and too much time alone?

Samuel is stroking her hair and she closes her eyes, totally relaxed, for the first time in days. She feels sleepy. The possibility that she was wrong, that she imagined—

Samuel’s hands free themselves from her hair. She feels something tickle her neck, the slight feel of leather.

He’s getting kinky.

Just as a low, savage snarl sounds from Samuel’s throat, she feels something tight around her neck. She opens her eyes and sees Samuel staring at her. She gags. Samuel’s teeth are bared.

Julie jerks upright, but the thing around her neck is too tight. She tries to raise her arms, but Samuel is on top of her and his knees pin her arms down just above the elbow. She thrashes, lights exploding her head. It all becomes too clear to her. The deaths. The BUD/S instructor, murdered. Petty Officer Third Class Wilkins, murdered. By Samuel.

The look on his face.
I was right,
she thinks as the blanket of blackness lowers itself over her mind. She was right. And he’s going to kill again. What was that girl’s name? The one he’s almost got recruited?

Beth something.

The darkness swallows her up, as one last thought confirms itself in her mind.

Goddamnit. I was right.

The coffee burns in Esposito’s belly. The early morning bellyache is as much a part of his routine as tying his shoes and taking a shit.

He’s tried everything. Changing what he eats for breakfast—it used to be a bowl of oatmeal, then it was cereal, then it was toast, now he’s back to oatmeal. He’s eaten earlier. He’s eaten later. He’s added a big glass of skim milk.

But all to no avail.

Of course, the one thing he’s never tried—and never will try, God rest his soul—is to give up his coffee. He simply cannot function without it. And because of that, he imagines a big hole in the pit of his stomach; or maybe a bunch of them, like it was poked with the red-hot end of a cigar. And as the coffee goes through his stomach like a sieve, he can feel the heat and turmoil rising in giant, nauseous waves.

He sighs and, like a prisoner being led back to his cell, gulps the rest of the coffee.

The squad room is less noise and more smoke than later in the day. Less talking, but more smoking and more coffee guzzling as the cops and detectives prepare for another day.

Esposito has an especially full day ahead of him. Case in point: Alonzo Wolfen, boyfriend of Desree Jobs, claims he has no idea how their two-year-old son wound up in a shoe store’s trash compactor. So far, the beat cops haven’t been able to find any witnesses to put Alonzo at the scene, but all signs, including battery charges on Desree, point to Alonzo.

Additionally, a fifteen-year-old gangbanger known on the streets as T-Roc was gunned down late last night. No witnesses. No leads. No shit. Another murder no one knows anything about, soon to be followed by another one of the same kind, a retaliation by the people who will look Esposito in the eye and tell him they know absolutely nothing.

It’s the way of the street.

In the meantime, both cases are on Esposito’s desk. He stares at the blue folders, at each of their plastic tabs containing the name of the file. His belly burns hotter for a moment, and he wonders if he’ll have to make an emergency run to the bathroom. He hates using the public john here—it’s disgusting. He’s a home-based crapper, without a doubt.

The burst of nausea passes, and Esposito breathes a sigh of relief. Now in his fifteenth year as a Detroit homicide cop, he feels the years and the weight of what he’s seen and done.
Another day,
he thinks.

He leans forward and suddenly remembers that he had wanted to call Ackerman’s supervisor. Esposito searches his desk for the phone number of the recruiting office. As he looks under thick files and coffee-stained magazines, he thinks of Ackerman. The guy had come across as honest, sincere, and helpful. But Esposito could sense that, underneath it, there was something else. What, he wasn’t sure. But the guy had a weird light in his eyes. A glint of something. For some reason, Esposito finds himself wanting to take one more little peek under Samuel Ackerman.

He fishes out the number and punches it in.

Esposito looks into the bottom of his cup. Disgusting. The dark-brown rim at the bottom looks like filthy river water. He brings the cup to his mouth and drains it just as a voice says hello on the other end of the phone.

“This is Detective Esposito.” He searches for the proper military terminology. “Could I speak to the commanding officer?”

There’s a pause. “She’s not in yet. Can I take a message?”

“What time does she usually come in?” Esposito asks. He glances at the clock. It’s just past eight thirty.

“I don’t know,” the voice says. “She’s always in by now. This is the first time in five years I beat her into work.”

Esposito is about to say he’ll call back then write the whole thing off as a waste of time, but the gears are turning.

The day after he speaks to Ackerman, Ackerman’s supervisor is late for the first time in five years?

“May I have your name, please?” Esposito asks. He writes down the name “Paul Rodgers.” He then asks for the name of the superior officer. “Julie Giacalone.”

On a sudden flash of curiosity, he says, “Is Samuel Ackerman there?”

“Sure, let me transfer—”

“No, that’s all right,” Esposito says quickly. He gets the phone number for Giacalone, says goodbye to Paul Rodgers, then calls her.

He gets voicemail.

Esposito drops the phone back in the cradle, snatches up the latest two case files, and heads for the door.

He’s already dreading the drive all the way out to Troy, but he has to do it.

Cops have to become psychologists; it’s an occupational necessity. As difficult as human nature is to pin down, there is constant exposure to the harsh realities of what people will do to each other when true emotions are unleashed. Cops by default see human beings as they really are. So when a cop meets someone, subconsciously they often wonder to themselves,
what is this person capable of?
And how easily can that person be motivated to do such a thing?

Fuck nurture over nature,
Esposito thinks. Like most cops, he doesn’t believe in the theory that environment creates monsters. It certainly doesn’t help, but he’s seen middle-class kids who would slit an old woman’s throat. And he’s seen kids in the ghetto with drug addicts as parents who have hearts of gold. You never know.

The mid-morning traffic isn’t bad at all. Esposito glances down at the address and commits it to memory. He recognizes the street name and a few minutes after exiting I-75, he’s rolling up in front of the small Cape Cod that is home to Julie Giacalone.

He parks the car in front of the small walk leading to the front steps. The wind has backed off, leaving just a slight chill and gray sky. Esposito takes in the house. It looks well kept and neat. Evergreen shrubs line the front of the house with a small porch complete with porch swing. Definitely the kind of place a successful military career woman would choose to live.

A quick glance around the neighboring homes confirms his perception. Most of the cars parked in the driveways are newer Hondas and Toyotas, with the occasional Volkswagen thrown in.

Esposito walks up the front walk, then mounts the porch, and stands at the front door. He presses the doorbell and waits.

A snowplow goes by, tossing salt onto the already bare streets.

He rings the doorbell again but hears nothing inside. He takes a few steps to the right and glances in the living room window. Nothing but a couch and recliner surrounding a coffee table piled high with magazines.

Esposito checks his watch. It’s nearly eleven. He’d called the recruiting office ten minutes ago and spoke to Paul Rodgers again. No sign of Julie Giacalone. And she hadn’t answered her phone.

He walks back down the front steps and turns left, heading up the driveway. As he walks past the side of the house, he tries to peek in the dining room windows but only sees the table and chairs. He gets to the garage and looks inside. Her car is there, matching the information he’d gotten from the secretary of state, right down to her license plate number.

Now Esposito’s worried. It could just be she’s in the shower—but for several hours? Maybe she overslept. He goes to the back door and tries it, but it’s locked. He looks through the window and sees a narrow hallway leading from the kitchen into the living room.

He walks back around the house to the front door. He turns the knob.

The door opens.

His breath catches in his throat.

An unlocked door is always bad news.

He slides the slip of paper where he’d written Julie Giacalone’s address into his shirt pocket and pulls out his Glock from the shoulder holster.

He steps inside the house.

Coffee, flowers, and carpet cleaner are the smells that he can detect. It’s quiet. No radio. No television.

The front entrance opens into a small foyer area, where an umbrella holder stands. It’s white, with different colored umbrellas painted on the side. The living room has beige carpeting, a leather couch, loveseat, recliner, and entertainment center.

Just off the living room is the dining room and, beyond that, the kitchen. Esposito glances in each.

“Anybody home?” he calls out.

No one answers.

The hallway to the left leads, he assumes, to the bathroom and bedrooms.

He walks down the hallway, his shoes tapping lightly on the oak floor. Family pictures line the wall, and he forces himself not to look.

The first door on the left is a bathroom, and it’s empty. The tub is dry.

He walks closer to the second door, which by its position would seem to be a guest room. It is. A small twin bed is pushed against the wall; an antique dresser and mirror take up the other wall.

Back in the hall, Esposito takes the final steps to the last door. The master bedroom.

He holds the Glock in front of him, firmly in both hands, and nudges the door open.

A light yellow splash of color. A ruffled bed sheet. Light from a window. And then something that makes Esposito’s blood run cold.

He nudges the door wide open.

Julie Giacalone’s face purple and distorted.

The belt cinched around her neck has been tied to the ceiling fan and with each rotation of the fan’s blades, her feet, raised four feet off the floor, seem to vibrate.

Goddamnit
, Esposito thinks, looking up at the dead woman.