The Shoulders of Giants (23 page)

“That’s crazy. What does it mean?”

“They think he’s stopped. They say it’s a ‘murder spree’”

“Do you think he’s stopped?”

“Spree killers usually kill themselves or end up in a shootout with the cops. Five days isn’t a long time between victims for a serial killer.”

“The time between murders does usually get shorter, rather than longer.” I typed.

“That’s what they said.”

“Who’s they?”

“FBI.”

“So what does that mean to the investigation?”

I had to wait several minutes for the next response. While I waited I flipped on the television and watched the lunchtime news. Unless I’d missed it, there was nothing on the ‘Zorro’ killer.

“Sorry, had to answer the phone,” said Scott’s next message when it arrived. “It means they’ve cut our resources. The brass take the Feds at their word that there’ll be no more murders, so it’s not so urgent anymore.”

“Do you think you’ll catch him?”

“Who knows? They never caught the Tylenol killer, but we might get lucky. Gotta go. Speak to you later.”

“K.” I replied.

I sat back, and thought about calling Abby. Maybe it was too soon. I didn’t want to seem needy, but I wanted to speak to her. Or at least let her know I was thinking of her. I looked at my watch, and decided that she would probably be at lunch anyway, and I shouldn’t call just yet. Instead, I found Harrison and Duke’s website, got hold of her email address, and started typing an email to her.

Abby,

Just wanted to let you know I had a great time last night.

Then I got writer’s block. I was going for cool, charming and sensitive, but I didn’t feel I’d really pulled it off. After trying several different endings, I went with:

I hope we can do it again.

Love

Jake

x

I sent it, and tried not to think about whether the kiss was too much.

I got a hot dog from a street vendor, and ate it on the way to my car. As I drove towards the airport, I thought about Scott’s email, and momentarily considered giving up. If the Feds were convinced the killer had stopped, maybe they were right. If the cops couldn’t catch the guy, what chance did I have? What else did I really have to do after Calvin Walsh’s old neighbors and Grant Foster’s old fiancée had told me stuff I already knew? That left just a few loose ends to tie up, and I felt like I didn’t have the energy to keep at it.

The self doubt didn’t last long - just until around Division Street. Then my ego kicked in, and started trying to convince me I had just as much chance as the cops of cracking the case. After all, I was coming at it from a different angle. Fresh. With fewer preconceptions. Maybe that’s what it needed. If I got nothing from these interviews, I would take a day or two off to relax and clear my mind - no rush if the killings had stopped - maybe see Abby again, and then I’d pick two of the other victims, and learn what I could about them. Perhaps then something would fall into place. And I would keep at it, until it was done.

Calvin Walsh’s old place was much like his new one, but further away from the factory where he worked. I went straight upstairs and knocked on the door of the apartment next to Walsh’s. A man opened the door wearing a T-shirt and shorts and a toweling robe. It was Billy from the factory. He wore the same blank expression he had when he brought Pez and me coffee, and when I had interviewed him. There was no indication in his face that he knew who I was.

“Billy, right?” I asked, just to make sure.

“Uh huh.” He confirmed.

“You remember me, Billy?”

“Uh huh.”

“Not at the factory today?” I was speaking slightly louder and slower than usual, the way people speak to foreigners in an effort to be more easily understood.

“Nope.”

“Why’s that?”

“Day off.”

“Well, okay then. I can see I’ve disturbed your thinking time, so I’ll leave you to it.”

Billy shut the door.

The occupant of the apartment on the other side of Walsh’s, was a woman who looked very much like Walter Matthau, but was wearing curlers in her hair, and bedroom slippers. She didn’t want to give me her name.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked. Some people, I was learning, have no respect for a Photostat of a P.I. license. I didn’t really have an answer, so I bypassed the question.

“Actually, I was more interested in what you could tell me about Calvin Walsh.”

“He used to live next door. Now he’s dead.”

“Yeah, I know. Did you know him well?”

“He was a bum. He came home late at night, drunk, usually with a girl. He made a lot of noise. That’s all I know.” With that she slammed the door, and probably went back to watching
Days Of Our Lives
. It was looking more and more likely that I would get those days off.

It was a short drive to Camille Nicholls’ apartment, but not knowing the area, I got lost on the way, so it took twice as long as it should. She lived in a first floor apartment in an old brownstone that looked like it could do with some work.

What struck me first was how much she looked like Emma McKinley. Her hair was totally different, but the similarity in her facial features was striking. Foster definitely had a type. When I told her why I was there, she invited me in.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “This is tidy compared to mine.”

She smiled, and sat down, and gestured to me that I should do the same. A cat appeared from the other room, and started brushing up against my legs.

“I understand you and Grant were engaged.” I continued.

“Three years, almost.”

“When was this?”

She thought for a moment. “Around Christmas of ’99 to October or so of 2002”

The cat leapt on to my lap, and I started scratching him behind the ears. He purred loudly.

“What happened?”

“I left him.” she said. “But only because he didn’t have the guts to leave me”

“Did he cheat on you?”

“He might as well have done. The casino was his mistress, you might say. Half the time I don’t know where he got the money from. The other half he stole from me. He used to drive out to Atlantic City on occasional weekends, then it got to be every weekend, and pretty soon he stopped coming home in the week.”

“He drove out every weekend?”

“Yeah, at first. Then he had to start taking the Greyhound.”

“Why was that?” I asked.

“He sold my car.” Camille said.

“Wow. That must have pissed you off.”

“You know, it really didn’t. I mean, it does now, obviously, but back then I was just so crazy about him, and I felt kind of like I owed him. I was a waitress in a coffee shop when I met Grant. An aspiring actress trying to earn enough money to go and be a waitress in LA while I aspired some more. Grant introduced me to some people, set me up with a few auditions, and now I’m an actress. I’m not rich, but I make a living at it, which is more than most. If it wasn’t for Grant, I don’t know if I’d be where I am today.”

“Do you know if he had more than one bookie he might have owed money to?” I asked.

“He probably owed money to everyone he came into contact with, his whole adult life. I know he used to go to the OTB on Jackson, but they don’t give credit.”

“Well, I guess that’s all I have,” I said, standing up out of my chair. “Thanks for your time. Sounds like you were right to get out when you did.”

She started walking me to the door. “Yeah. It could have been a whole lot worse. I could have ended up like one of his other fiancées.”

“What do you mean?”

“The girl he was seeing a couple of years before we got together. After we broke up, a mutual friend told me the story. It seems Grant didn’t have the guts to break up with her either, so instead he cleared out their joint bank account and took off without a word while she was in hospital.

“Do you remember her name, by any chance?”

“Jeez. Sally something, I think.” she said.

“Could it be Shelley?”

“Shelley, yeah, that’s it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

Chapter 35

At least two people had been lying to me. Lee Connors and now Shelley Ryan. It seemed she and Grant hadn’t merely ‘drifted apart’. Perhaps that was what led up to Grant leaving with all her money, and not telling her. Perhaps she hadn’t told me because she was embarrassed. Either way, she hadn’t given me the whole truth, and it warranted another visit to her studio. Maybe not right now, though.

Parked in the street behind my Saab was a large black Lincoln with tinted windows. Standing next to it was Tattoo, the man who had patted me down at Castelletti’s restaurant. He opened the car door.

“Mr Castelletti would like to speak with you.”

“In the car?”

He shook his head. “At the restaurant.”

“Mind if I ask what it’s about?”

He didn’t answer, but his expression said he minded. I got in the car. We didn’t talk much on the ride to Taylor Street. I did my best, but I don’t think we had much in common. Frankly, it was a relief when we arrived and he got out to hold the door for me. We went in through the front door and headed straight for the storeroom. He lifted my arms, took my two guns and put them in his jacket pocket. Then he searched me again to make sure I didn’t have a third. He knocked on the door at the back of the storeroom and we went in.

Everything was the same as last time. Same genial silver haired gentleman in the antique leather chair, same large scary gentleman beside the desk.

“Mr Abraham. How good of you to join us. I hope you didn’t mind me sending a car for you.”

“Mind? Why would I mind?”

“Excellent. I asked you to come here so that I could express my gratitude. You have recently, I believe, been integral in the downfall of a competitor of mine.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I said. I did know what he meant. I hadn’t been integral in that many downfalls. So much for my name being kept out of it.

“Come now, Mr Abraham. Let’s not be coy.”

“You first.”

He glanced at Tattoo, who was now standing guard by the door.

“He’s clean,” he confirmed.

“Very well,” continued Castelletti. “Thomas Byrne. He was a thorn in my side.”

“Just call me Androcles.”

“And, like the lion, I wish to show my appreciation.”

“How does Byrne’s removal help you? He was part of a larger organization. Someone else will just take his place.”

Castelletti shook his head. “The Irish Mob are smart enough not to involve themselves at that level. Thomas Byrne was an idiot who married well. Mr Coughlin only let him ply his trade to placate his daughter. He played at a level with a high risk and a low return.”

“But you’re not smart enough to leave it alone?”

“I am infinitely smarter, Mr Abraham. I have never been engaged in the sale of illicit substances. I am merely a financier. An investor. My clients wish to buy in bulk, but do not have the resources. I provide them, for a small consideration.”

“You make loans,” I said.

“Of a sort.”

“And Byrne going away means your clients can expand into his area.”

“Which ultimately increases my profits,” he confirmed, smiling. “Now. There is someone I would like you to meet.”

Tattoo opened the door and in came a red haired man who, judging by his nose, had once been a boxer. Maybe he just fell down a lot. Castelletti introduced him as Owen Madigan, and said he had something to tell me. He sure did.

“Gregory Patterson was framed.”

“What?”

“Patterson wasn’t the leak in the department. The leak was Deputy Chief Hennessy.”

“That’s convenient,” I said. “Given that Hennessy’s dead. You know this how?”

“I used to work for Michael Coughlin. Hennessy told Coughlin the location of the safehouse. Coughlin had orders to find out where the witness was being held.”

“And I suppose you can prove this,” I said, not supposing any such thing.

“I have the tape,” he said, like it was nothing. That threw me.

“The…”

“The tape. Of the phone conversation. The police will be able to verify the voices are Hennessy and Coughlin, and that it hasn’t been tampered with. And I’ll testify about when it was made.”

This was too good. Too easy. Something had to give.

“Why now? Why didn’t you come forward with this a year ago?”

“If I had, my entire family would be dead. Hennessy was a bad man.”

“So now what, you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart? You’re not afraid of Coughlin?”

“Sure I am.” He looked at Castelletti. “Mr Castelletti impressed upon me the importance of doing the right thing.”

“Meaning he threatened you if you didn’t talk?”

“No. He has assured me my family will be protected. That I will be protected. If I cooperate.”

I looked at Castelletti. He raised his eyebrows.

“It was the least I could do,” he said.

Chapter 36

The phone woke me at nine. I hadn’t set my alarm the night before. It was Scott.

“Al says to stop delivering mob informants to our front door,” he said. “We’ve got this serial killer thing going on and we’re kind of busy.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but they keep falling into my lap. Did you listen to the tape”

“Sounds good. The lab has it now. Have you told Patterson yet?”

“Don’t want to get his hopes up.”

“Nothing new from ‘Zorro’, by the way.”

“It’s been almost a week.”

“Well, it was a ‘spree’, remember? Lou says that if we don’t have any good leads in a week, he’s going to start assigning us other cases. Thing is, everything’s going to take longer now that we don’t have the manpower we did before.”

“Did you guys ever talk to Shelley Ryan?”

“Let’s see. One of Foster’s exes, right? Photographer?”

“That’s the one.”

“I think we sent a uniform round there when we got desperate for people to talk to.”

“And?”

“And what?”