Текст книги "The Chill of Night"

Автор книги: James Hayman

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Thirty-Six

At exactly 10:32 A.M. four PPD vehicles pulled up around the corner from 342 Brackett Street. Uniformed cops emerged from two black-and-white units and slipped around the back and sides of the building to keep Andy Barker from sneaking out. When they were in position, McCabe and Maggie, along with evidence techs Bill Jacobi, Jeff Feeney, and Carla Morrisey, entered the building. Jacobi and Feeney lugged two silver-colored metal suitcases filled with electronic equipment up to the second floor. Maggie limped up behind them, and they all waited silently on the landing. Downstairs McCabe knocked on the door to apartment 1F. ‘Barker?’ he called out.

There was no answer, but McCabe could hear the sound of someone shuffling around inside.

He knocked again. ‘Andrew Barker? This is the police. Please open the door now.’

He heard more scurrying on the other side.

‘Mr Barker. We have a warrant to search your apartment. If you don’t open the door now, I’ll be forced to have it removed.’

Another few seconds passed. The door opened an inch or two, a gold-colored security chain stretched across the opening. Barker peered out. ‘You again. Why won’t you people leave me alone? What do you want now?’

McCabe held up a sheet of paper. ‘I have a warrant signed by Judge Harold Krickstein of the district court authorizing a search of your premises. Please open the door now.’

‘What if I say no?’

‘Trust me, Mr Barker, I don’t think you want to do that.’

There was a moment’s further hesitation; then Barker slipped off the chain and opened the door. He was unshaven and wearing a dark blue terrycloth bathrobe. Probably had nothing on underneath. Skinny white legs wearing black ankle socks protruded from under the robe. From upstairs, McCabe could hear Maggie and the three techs unlocking Goff’s apartment and going in.

Barker frowned at the sound. ‘Who’s that up there?’

McCabe ignored the question and moved past Barker into the room. A wave of hot air hit him. It had to be over eighty degrees, and the place stank of sweat, garbage, and dirty laundry.

Barker eyed McCabe warily. ‘Who’s upstairs?’

‘Move away from the door, Mr Barker,’ said McCabe. ‘Come in and close it.’

Barker didn’t argue. McCabe looked around. Almost every surface was covered with something. Clothing, videos, and magazines. A fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV dominated one wall. A single La-Z-Boy recliner covered in stained brown corduroy faced the screen; a copy of a publication called Boobz lay open on the seat, its cover graced by a naked woman with the biggest breasts McCabe had ever seen. Behind the recliner were a couple more chairs and an old-fashioned couch covered in a brown gingham check.

‘Who’s upstairs?’ Barker asked again.

McCabe pointed to the gingham couch. ‘Sit over there, Andy. We need to talk.’

Barker sat. McCabe stood over him and showed him a piece of paper. ‘This is a warrant to search your apartment.’

‘I know. You told me. So what are they doing upstairs?’

‘Detective Savage and a team of police technicians are sweeping apartment 2F for hidden cameras and microphones, Andy. The ones you used to spy on Elaine Goff.’

Barker started to rise, his face red with rage. ‘They can’t . . . What the hell?’

McCabe pushed him gently back down. ‘I think you better stay right where you are, little Andy-Man, and tell me all about your video collection.’

Barker’s rage turned to fear. His eyes started blinking rapidly, perhaps uncontrollably. His hands were shaking. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, sure you do, Andy. The spycam videos you took of Lainie. You liked watching her, didn’t you, Andy? Better looking than those gals in Boobz magazine, don’t you think? Y’know, I can just see you now, sitting there in your La-Z-Boy getting off on watching Lainie when she didn’t know you were looking. What did you like best? Watching her getting undressed? Or maybe taking a bath? Or maybe your best fun was watching her have sex with somebody? You watched it all, didn’t you? Right there on your super duper fifty-two-inch high-definition plasma TV. Or is it an LCD? I always get them mixed up.’

Barker just kept blinking.

‘In fact, you’re a regular little Peeping Andy, aren’t you?’

Barker closed his eyes and began repeating his mantra. ‘I have the right to remain silent –’

‘Andy, Andy.’ McCabe held up a hand like a traffic cop stopping a line of cars. ‘Please don’t start that again. We all know that song.’

‘I have the right to remain silent,’ Barker began again. ‘Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. I have the right to have an attorney present during questioning –’

‘Yes, you do, Andy, but hold on. When you hear what I have to offer, maybe you won’t want to remain silent.’

Barker just looked at him.

McCabe’s cell rang. ‘Yes? Yes. Good. Thank you.’

He put the phone away and turned back to Barker. ‘That was the folks upstairs. They found your cameras hidden in the old ceiling light fixtures. One in the bedroom. One in the bathroom. One in the living room.’ McCabe looked at his watch. ‘Took them about ten minutes start to finish. They’re just double-checking now to make sure there aren’t any more.’

Barker took a deep breath and looked toward the TV. ‘What do you want?’

‘Now, since you wouldn’t want all that good stuff you were watching to go to waste, my guess is you were recording videos. My other guess is you have them right here in this apartment.’

McCabe paused for a response. There was none, so he continued. ‘Since we have this search warrant, we can rip this place apart until we find your stash, wherever it is, and then go back to Middle Street and sit there watching your dirty movies till we find what we’re looking for. Then again that seems like a lot of unnecessary work, don’t you think, Andy, when you can just point us to the right ones?’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘The video of the guy who searched Lainie’s apartment Friday night before I got there. Plus any other video that shows her talking to a man, maybe the same man, either in person or over the phone.’

‘What do I get out of it?’

‘You hand them over and you get charged with a Violation of Privacy. A Class D offense. Max sentence only one year, which you’d probably serve in the county jail and not state prison. In fact, if you have a clean record and no priors, you might get off with no jail time at all. Just probation.’

‘What if I don’t hand them over?’

‘That becomes what I call helping the bad guys and what the Maine statutes call Hindering Apprehension. A Class B crime. Up to ten years in the state prison. Even without priors, you’ll do at least four. And it’s hard time, Andy. In a place where a cute little fella like you might not do very well. So it’s no jail time if you help. Four to ten if you don’t. Sounds like a good deal to me, but it’s your call. Take it or leave it.’

‘Can I think about it?’

‘Sure. You’ve got one minute.’

‘Can I get it in writing?’

‘It already is in writing. Just check the Maine statutes. Violation of Privacy versus Hindering Apprehension.’

‘Do I get to keep my other videos?’

‘You mean of Lainie?’

‘Yes.’

McCabe did his best to keep a straight face. Who was this goofball? ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

Barker sighed, got up, and walked to a DVD machine on a table next to the television. He took one video off the top. Then he hit POWER, pressed EJECT, and took out a second disk. He handed both to McCabe. ‘I think these are what you’re looking for.’

‘Where are the rest of them?’

‘Back of the closet. There’s a false panel. It slips right out. You just have to find the latch. There’s a box in there. That’s where I keep them.’

Thirty-Seven

Word of the spycams spread fast. By the time McCabe and Maggie walked in with the box of videos, the conference room was full, everyone gathered and waiting. All of McCabe’s detectives plus Starbucks and Bill Fortier. Even Shockley was there, seated at the head of the table, impatience written all over his face.

Maggie found a chair between Fortier and Tasco. Sturgis slid a foam rubber seat cushion across the table. ‘Here you go, Savage. I heard you weren’t as much of a hard-ass as I thought. I figured this might help.’

‘Why, thank you, Carl,’ said Maggie, slipping the cushion under her. ‘How very thoughtful of you.’

McCabe waited for them to settle, then ran through the two-minute drill on what he hoped to find on the two disks they were about to watch. Brian Cleary volunteered to review the rest of Barker’s stash. On the house. No overtime. McCabe declined. Maggie rolled her eyes. Shockley glared.

‘Can we get moving here, people?’ asked McCabe. ‘The clock is ticking.’

The two disks Barker had handed McCabe were differentiated by a letter code and dates handwritten across the top in red marker. Seemed Barker was an organized guy. One was marked LR-1/3/07. That would have been last Tuesday. The day of Lainie’s death. The other read LR-12/20/06. Two weeks earlier. He figured LR stood for living room as opposed to bedroom or bathroom. Jacobi told him Barker’s spycams were motion activated. That was good. There’d be no need to waste time looking at nothing happening.

McCabe slid the disk from January third into the machine and hit PLAY. The room went quiet. No gossip. No cracking jokes. Nobody nibbled on a sandwich or even sipped a cup of coffee. At first all they could see was a blank screen, then black, then a flash of white, then a view of Goff’s living room as the apartment door swung open, activating the camera. A shaft of light from the hallway hit the Angela Adams rug, the glass coffee table, the white chairs and couch. A fish-eye view looking down from the ceiling. The time code read 2:33:19 AM 1/03/07. The middle of the night. Or, more accurately, very early morning, the Tuesday of the murder. A dark figure entered, dressed in a dark hooded coat. The same kind of coat they’d seen fleeing Leanna Barnes’s apartment. It was impossible to tell whether the figure inside the coat was John Kelly or someone else. All they could see was a hood pulled up over the head and a pair of shoulders. The intruder turned, closed the door. The image went black, then lightened as the lens automatically adjusted to the ambient light entering through the windows.

The intruder turned on a flashlight and scanned the beam around the room, the lens once again adjusting the aperture to available light. He went through the living room and disappeared into the hall between the kitchen and bedroom, making sure, McCabe guessed, that the place was empty. Ten seconds later he was back.

‘Alright, you’re alone,’ McCabe murmured to the figure on the screen. ‘Now take off the hood and show us who you are.’

Almost as if reacting to the request, the guy reached up, put a hand on the dark cowl, and held it there.

‘C’mon, baby, just pull it off.’

The guy paused. There wasn’t a sound in the conference room. They were all holding their breath. The intruder dropped his hand.

There were moans and grumbling from around the table.

Still hooded, the intruder walked to the bookcase on the right side of the room. He shined the light at the top shelf. The camera angle was down and at his back, and you couldn’t see a damned thing except the coat and hood and the flashlight beam running along the row of books. The light stopped at one of the books. Then another. Then it went back to the first and stayed there. He reached up and pulled it down from the shelf. It was an oversized volume, maybe an art or travel book. He set the flashlight carefully on one of the lower shelves and rotated his body to the right. A thin sliver of face became visible. But not enough. You could tell he was a white guy, but that was it. He stood there, angling the book so the light was pointed directly at the pages. Happily, so was the spycam.

They watched him riffle through the pages until he found what he was looking for. A nine-by-twelve orange envelope. He removed the envelope, closed the book, returned it to its space on the top shelf. He turned the envelope in his gloved hands. Once. Twice. He paused.

McCabe could make out something written in the upper left-hand corner, where a return address would go. He froze the image, then moved ahead one frame at a time, but it was impossible to read what the words said. Palmer Milliken? Maybe. Maybe Starbucks could enlarge it and play with the focus so they could read it. Maybe not. McCabe hit play again. The guy turned the envelope over again. Probably debating whether to open it here and now or wait till later. Apparently here and now won, because he removed the leather glove from his right hand and slid a bare finger under the seal. He reached inside and pulled out what looked like a stack of black-and-white photographs. McCabe again froze the image and advanced the frames one by one. He couldn’t tell what the pictures were of. Again he’d have to depend on Starbucks to manipulate the images. The intruder slid the pictures back in the envelope and folded it lengthwise and pushed it into his coat pocket, not seeming to care if he bent the pictures. The pictures must have been what he was looking for, because he took his flashlight, headed for the door, and left. The time code read 2:36:15. He’d been in the apartment less than three minutes. He’d turned out no drawers. Dumped nothing on the floor. McCabe was certain it wasn’t the same guy who tossed the apartment night before last. This guy had found what he wanted. That guy hadn’t. McCabe fast-forwarded through the rest of the disk. It was empty. He hit eject, and it slid out.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ asked Shockley. ‘Is that your murderer?’

‘I’m sure it was,’ said McCabe. ‘Unfortunately, we still don’t know if it was Kelly or someone else.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake McCabe, every piece of evidence we’ve got points to Kelly. Even the DNA says it’s him. I say we arraign the sonofabitch and stop screwing around watching TV shows.’

‘Let’s just see what’s on the next disk.’

He inserted the disk marked LR-12/20/06. The camera turned on when the top of Lainie Goff’s head entered frame. Same fish-eye view as before. The time code read 12/20/06. 8:34:44. Seventy-two hours before her abduction. Two weeks to the day before her death. Lainie turned on a table lamp, the sudden light creating a white flash in the upper corner of the frame. There was a knocking sound. She crossed the room, opened the door a crack, and peered out.

She said something to whoever was on the other side of the door. A male voice said something back. Both voices too far from the mike to make out what was being said. The male voice spoke again. Lainie seemed to hesitate, as if debating whether or not to let him in. She apparently decided she would and opened the door all the way. If she knew he was a killer, why would she do that?

The guy was wearing the same dark hooded coat as before, only this time the hood was down. Now you could see the top of his head but not his face. Still, it was enough to tell them it wasn’t John Kelly. This guy had neatly cut gray hair, parted on the left and combed across to the right. It looked like Henry Ogden’s hair. Like Wallace Stevens Albright’s hair. Even kind of like Kyle Lanahan’s, only a little shorter. In fact, it could have been any number of parties both known and unknown. Mr Gray Hair looked nervously around the room, then moved to the white couch and sat down. He was sitting almost directly under the lens, head down. Lainie sat across from him in one of the white chairs.

‘You enjoy inflicting pain, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Especially on girls who are young and defenseless.’ McCabe could hear better now. Not great but better. Her voice was distorted, and when she had her head down you could barely make out the words. Barker was obviously more interested in the quality of the video than the audio. Maggie and McCabe exchanged glances, a silent communication perfectly clear to both of them.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the man answered. At least that’s what McCabe thought he said. He hoped Starbucks could improve the sound.

‘Yes, you do, you bastard. There’s proof. There are pictures.’

‘What kind of pictures?’

‘Dirty pictures.’

‘How could there be pictures?’

‘Remote control mini camera. Amazing technology. Fit right inside her box of Camels. She just pointed it at the bed. Shoots in low light. Any light. Almost undetectable. Of course, you were so into your fun and games you never would have noticed anyway.’

A deep sigh was audible even on the lousy mike. ‘I need to see them,’ he said.

‘No. They’re in a safe place.’

Not safe enough, thought McCabe. Not safe at all, stuck in some book in her bookcase. She should have known that wasn’t safe. Goddammit, she would have known that. She couldn’t have been that careless. Maybe she hadn’t been. He hit STOP, and the image froze.

‘What are you doing now?’ asked Shockley.

‘Making a phone call.’

‘Right now?’

‘Yes. Right now.’ He punched in Janie Archer’s cell number. This time she answered.

‘What we talked about is cool?’ he said.

‘McCabe?’ said Archer.

‘We found your message on Lainie’s cell phone. When you thought she was in Aruba. You said, “What we talked about is cool.”’

‘Yeah. I guess. So?’

‘What was cool?’

‘She sent me an envelope. FedExed it the day before she was supposed to leave. She asked me to put it in a safe place.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this Friday night?’ ‘I don’t know. I was kinda wasted Friday. I didn’t think about it.’

‘Have you opened it?’

‘No. I was gonna look at it tomorrow. Then, if it seemed pertinent, call you.’

‘Why not look today?’

‘I can’t. Today’s Sunday. It’s in my safe deposit box. You know, like Lainie said? A safe place?’

‘What bank?’

‘Chase.’

‘What branch?’

‘Around the corner from here. First Ave and Seventy-second Street.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Home. My apartment. East Seventy-first. Between First and York.’

‘Alright. Stay there. I’m going to call a friend of mine on the NYPD. Lieutenant Art Astarita. He may be able to get you into the bank today. If he can, he’ll call you back, and you and he can go there together.’

Archer agreed to stay put. McCabe called Astarita, who said he’d try to track down the branch manager and see what they could do. McCabe gave Astarita Janie Archer’s number. Then he hit PLAY. The video picked up where it left off.

‘But you’ve seen them?’ asked the man.

‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen them.’

‘Graphic, I suppose.’

‘Extremely graphic. Disgusting, in fact.’

‘There’s nothing illegal. The girl was sixteen. The age of consent.’

‘Some of the others weren’t.’

‘You know about the others?’

‘Yes. She told me.’

‘But you don’t have pictures of the others, do you? Or any other kind of proof.’

Lainie said nothing.

‘Where are the pictures?’

‘I told you. In a safe place.’

The man got up and walked around the room, head down, face away from the camera. If they were going to arrest, if they were going to convict, they needed to see his face.

The man sat down again. ‘You’re bluffing. There are no pictures.’

‘You think so?’ Now there was a hard, mocking tone to Lainie’s voice. ‘Then call my bluff.’

The man hesitated as if he were thinking about doing just that. ‘Alright. What do you want?’ he finally asked.

‘I want you to leave Portland. I want you to leave Maine. I want you to have nothing more to do with kids, girls, boys, anyone, wherever you go. And wherever it is you do go, trust me, I’ll be watching. I’ll know.’

‘If I ignore you?’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t think I have enough to send you to jail. As you said, she’s sixteen.’

McCabe wondered if the girl they were talking about was Tara, the one with the fluffy white jacket on the porch at Sanctuary House. Kelly said she was sixteen. He could ask her. If she was still alive. If the guy hadn’t killed her like he killed Lainie Goff. And Callie Connor. And Leanna Barnes. McCabe wondered how long the list of victims might be. He took a deep breath and held it.

‘So what will you do?’ the man asked.

‘You know, it’s funny,’ Lainie said. ‘I’ve been dealing with self-righteous, hypocritical creeps like you all my life. My mother was married to one.’

Scratch Albright, thought McCabe.

‘What I only recently realized is that what you fear most is exposure. You know that, and now I know that. So here’s the deal. You disappear like I said, and I’ll keep the pictures to myself.’

‘If I don’t?’

‘Then you’ll be famous. I’ll publish them everywhere I can. On the Internet. In the newspapers. Maybe even Dateline will be interested. I’m a damned good lawyer, and if I bend my mind to it I may even figure out a way to send you to prison after all.’

‘I’m not going to prison, and you’re not going to publish anything.’

‘No. Because you’re going to go away quietly. Knowing your type, practically nothing would be as painful to you as public humiliation. I’m leaving Saturday for two weeks’ vacation. When I get back I expect you to be gone. I also expect you to let me know where you are and what you’re doing. If both those things don’t happen, I go public. Now get out of here before I puke. You’re stinking up my apartment.’

The guy made a guttural sound. Somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Barely loud enough to be picked up by Andy Barker’s lousy mike. He closed his eyes. Laid his head back on the back of the chair. And there he was.

McCabe froze the frame and stared at the image. It wasn’t full face, and the lighting was bad. But it was enough. McCabe knew they had to find Richard Wolfe and find him fast. He just hoped they weren’t too late.