Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2) Read online

‘Have you ever heard of a woman called Blanche Rainey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about a law firm called Greiner, Tibbs & Myrick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rosalind Winter?’

  ‘Isn’t she the granddaughter of the trucking tycoon Clarence Winter?’

  ‘Yes. Have you or your husband had any dealings with her or Winter Trucking?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. I remember reading that she never goes out in public – is that true?’

  ‘That’s my understanding.’

  ‘How strange.’

  ‘Do you know if your husband has a safe-deposit box?’

  ‘What in God’s name for? He has a few investments, and he keep the details of those in the safe, but nothing that would justify renting a safe deposit box. Unless you’re telling me something different?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything at all, Mrs Harrison. I’m simply trying to make sense of your husband’s disappearance, but I’m not having much luck at the moment.’

  ‘Is that what you rely on – luck?’

  ‘Merely a figure of speech.’

  ‘Have you found something out about Roger that I don’t know about, Mr Gabriel?’

  ‘Fragments of his life, but I’d rather keep them to myself for the time being.’

  ‘Is he having an affair with either of those two women?’

  ‘I can honestly say he is not. Blanche Rainey died a month ago, and she may simply be a client. And, as you yourself have pointed out, Rosalind Winter is a recluse and never ventures beyond the confines of her estate.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I promise you, as soon as I have anything worth passing onto you – I will.’

  ‘It’s been a week since he went missing.’

  ‘And I’ve only been trying to find him since Tuesday.’

  ‘I know . . . Do you think he’s dead, Mr Gabriel?’

  ‘Let’s think positive, shall we? I don’t get the feeling that he’s dead, and I also don’t think he was abducted either.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘There’s something else going on, but I haven’t been able to put my finger on it yet.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll just have to wait to hear from you then, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t need to know that he wouldn’t be around for a couple of days. All she needed to know was that he was still on the case.

  Friday, October 12

  As the crow flies, it would have taken him two hours to fly from Jacksonville to Newark Liberty Airport, but when everything was taken into consideration – from door to door – it took him three and a half hours.

  At the local Hertz he rented a Buick LaCrosse for two days, and headed down the Interstate 95 to the New Jersey Turnpike and then over the Goethals Bridge to Staten Island.

  He climbed the steps and walked through the blue double doors of 122nd Precinct on Hylan Boulevard at two fifteen. The building was a concrete and glass monstrosity with a flat roof, and all anybody could ever say about it was that it was functional.

  ‘Yes?’ the bald-headed desk Sergeant asked him. With bloodshot eyes and greasy skin he looked as though he’d had a full day and a half already.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Detective Gerry McCullough, please.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Used to be a Detective Sergeant in St Augustine, Florida. I’m following up on an old case that I think he might know something about.’

  ‘She,’ he said.

  ‘She what?’

  ‘Gerry is short for Geraldine, not Gerald.’

  ‘Who’d have thought it?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He rolled his eyes as if he was dealing with someone who’d just slithered out of Springfield Creek. ‘Anyway, take a load off and I’ll see if she’s available.’

  It was fifteen minutes before a woman in her late thirties appeared. She had short brown hair, a weathered face and looked for all the world like she might burst into tears at any moment.

  ‘Mr Gabriel?’

  He stood up and shook the proffered hand. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ she said. ‘If you’re still here after that I call security.’

  ‘Security! That’s a new one on me. Are the police . . . ?’

  ‘I hate it when I have to explain jokes. Follow me.’ She led him up the stairs to her desk. ‘Sit.’

  He sat. ‘You look as though you’ve had enough,’ he said, trying to make conversation.

  She ignored him. ‘Well, what’s this old case of yours I might know something about?’

  Based on what he’d seen of Detective McCullough so far, he thought it was probably best to get right to the point. ‘The murder of Joseph Fowler.’

  ‘I know as much about that as I do about calculus.’ She stood up, walked over to a bank of filing cabinets, found a file in a drawer and returned with it. ‘There you are,’ she said, tossing the file onto the desk in front of him. ‘Take a read. He was shot with a nine millimeter at two in the morning. Ballistics didn’t find a match with anything on the database. Nobody saw or heard a thing. We questioned the likely suspects who’d had dealings with Fowler – nothing. In the end, it wasn’t worth the time, effort and money to solve it. He was a low-life who won’t be missed. There’s a father somewhere, but we couldn’t track him down.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I take a look at the crime scene and talk to the suspects, do you?’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  He read the one page report. ‘Any chance of getting a copy of this?’

  ‘Tell me what this old case of yours is about,’ she said, leaning back in her chair and interlocking her fingers in her lap.

  He noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. ‘Child trafficking.’

  ‘And you think Fowler was involved in that?’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s what I’d like to find out. I was given his name by a reliable source, so here I am. You heard about Senator Raeburn getting killed in St Augustine?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘That was me.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  He cracked a wry smile. ‘No. Although, I came close. I thought he was heading up a child trafficking business, but it turns out he was just another cog in the machine. I think he was killed to stop him from talking.’

  ‘And all you’ve got left is a dead nobody?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Okay. Even though it’ll decimate my budget, I’ll make a copy for you.’

  ‘I can pay if it’ll help?’

  She stared at him for a handful of seconds. ‘Don’t they do humour in St Augustine?’

  ‘Maybe I’m getting old.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  His lip curled up. ‘Yeah, I thought that was funny.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be.’ She moved away. He saw her disappear into a room, which he presumed had the copier in it, because she came out five minutes later with the original and a copy of Joseph Fowler’s sparse file.

  ‘That’ll be ten bucks.’

  He made a move towards the wallet in the back pocket of his chinos.

  ‘Humour just bounces off you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I knew you were joking that time. I was just playing along.’

  ‘Of course you were. You could take me out for a meal later as recompense.’

  He felt guilty. ‘I’d love to, but I’m driving down to Philly to see my daughter later – she’s about your age.’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘Now, that was funny.’

  She gave him an exasperated smile. ‘At last, we’re singing from the same song sheet.’ She stood up. ‘Well, if you’re back this way at all, you know where I am.’

  He picked up the file and made his own way out of 122nd Precinct..

  Chapter Thirteen

  She couldn’t believe that Tom had employed an office manager – and a young woman as well, with an MBA from Harvard. What was he thinking? Sh
e was being pushed out. He was replacing her with a better model – not newer or younger, but better.

  What was she going to do now? She was his Girl Friday. They were a team, partners, yin and yang, Dumb and Dumber – he was obviously Dumber. But that would mean she was Dumb. No, she didn’t like that. Bonnie and Clyde maybe, or Batman and Catwoman, or . . . Anyway, he’d made her surplus to requirements.

  He was right though, he had his job and she had hers. MBA Lou was a wedge between them. Soon, he’d have no more use for Butterfly Raeburn the investigative journalist, the oddball.

  She had a good mind to go right over to Tom’s office and tell this MBA Lou exactly what she thought of her.

  How could he employ someone with an MBA from Harvard? Someone who knew more than she did? Someone . . .

  Her cell vibrated – an unknown caller.

  ‘Raeburn.’ She could have said, “Butterfly Raeburn”, but she didn’t want people to know her first name unless it was absolutely necessary.

  ‘Is the offer of a two hundred and fifty dollar reward for real?’ a male voice asked.

  ‘It is if you’ve got something worthwhile for me.’

  ‘I drove the dead man from Palatka train station to Villano Beach.’

  ‘You say that as if you believe it. What proof do I have that you’re telling the truth?’

  ‘He left an old book in my cab.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Otto Rubik.’

  ‘Any relation to the guy who invented the cube?’

  ‘You think I’d be driving a cab if there was?’

  ‘Maybe. So, you work for the Yellow Cab Company?’

  ‘That’s right. When I was going off shift this morning, I saw the poster that you’d left in the office and took down your number.’

  ‘What type of old book?’

  ‘A really old one with fancy pictures. The Ruby of Omar or something like that.’

  ‘Have you got it there with you?’

  ‘No, I threw it in the trunk of my cab with all the other junk people leave behind and expect me to clean up after them. Do you know, I once found a full condom and a laptop computer that a couple of passengers had left on the back seat. Not at the same time, of course. And just my luck, somebody came back for the laptop.’

  ‘And where are you now?’

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘In bed?’

  ‘I’ve been on shift all night, lady. Now, I’m going to sleep.’

  ‘Of course. Well, I’d like to take a look at that book.’

  ‘Come over about three o’clock this afternoon, I should be awake by then, and . . . bring the money.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Kirby Street. Number 97, Apartment 16 – opposite West View Cemetery.’ He gave her the Zip Code for her satnav. She had one of the old ones that had to be plugged into the cigarette lighter and stuck on the windscreen with a plastic sucker and lashings of spittle.

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  ‘See you then.’

  The call ended.

  She rang Tom.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s me – the one without the MBA. Where are you?’

  ‘I’d say about thirty thousand feet somewhere over Baltimore.’

  ‘I’ve got the book.’

  ‘I’m very pleased for you. What book?’

  ‘Remember I left the poster up in the cab office offering a reward . . . ?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty bucks? I remember.’

  ‘Somebody just called me. He said the dead man left a book in his cab.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘He said it was a really old book called The Ruby of Omar, or something like that.’

  ‘Khayyam.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. That’s what it’s called. It’s a book of poems remember, and . . . our friend Omar was Persian.’

  ‘Lillian Taylor said that Tamám Shud is Persian.’

  ‘That’s right, so the cab driver is probably telling the truth. What else did he tell you about the book?’

  ‘Nothing. He was on shift last night and has gone to bed today. The book is in the trunk of his cab. I can’t pick it up until three o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh well!’

  ‘Oh well what?’

  ‘I was just thinking that it probably won’t provide us with any more information anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Let’s say that the piece of paper that had Tamám Shud printed on it was torn from that particular book – what does that tell us?’

  ‘The man was Persian?’

  Tom grunted. ‘John Doe wasn’t Persian. If you recall, Lillian Taylor said that the two-word phrase was torn from the last page of a very rare first edition copy of Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.’

  ‘Of course! I’d forgotten about that. Well, maybe he was a terrorist.’

  ‘That’s certainly a possibility. Except that we’ve found nothing else to suggest he might be a terrorist.’

  ‘What about the screwdriver?’

  ‘Hardly conclusive evidence of terrorist activities.’

  ‘The magnifying glass?’

  ‘You’re clutching at straws now.’

  ‘Maybe we should call Homeland Security.’

  ‘And tell them what – that you’ve found a dead man with a book, a screwdriver and a magnifying glass? I’m sure they’ll rush right over and take the case off your hands.’

  ‘You don’t need to be sarcastic.’

  She ended the call.

  ***

  Joseph Fowler’s life had ended in an alleyway off Liberty Avenue – opposite the Staten Island University Hospital. There wasn’t much to see at the scene of the crime. The Medical Examiner’s photographs indicated where Fowler had met his maker, and also the position that the body was found in.

  During his working life Tom had seen over a hundred similar corpses, and there was nothing in the pictures to suggest that Fowler’s death was any different from all the others. The Anterior and Posterior drawing of a Full Body, Male illustrated on the official Staten Island ME’s autopsy report indicated that Fowler had been shot twice – once in the head, and once in the abdomen:

  Perforating GSW of abdomen with bullet going through skin, subcutaneous soft tissue, abdominal wall, large sigmoid colon, lower abdominal wall and exiting lower abdomen and groin.

  It didn’t specify whether Fowler had been shot first in the head or the abdomen, but Tom had seen similar executions. The shot to the abdomen was meant to cause maximum pain, the head shot was to kill. Not only that, the head shot was angled downwards, which suggested that Fowler had been on his knees when he received the coup de grace.

  There were a few trash cans against the right-hand wall of the alley, and a dozen or so boxes of rubbish had been stacked up next to them. He walked slowly up the alley looking all around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Once he reached the large fence at the far end, he turned round to make his way out of the alley. As he approached the boxes of rubbish they moved.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  Nobody answered.

  ‘Is somebody in there?’

  ‘No,’ a female voice said.

  ‘Then how come nobody’s talking?’

  ‘Ghosts?’

  ‘No such thing,’ he lied.

  ‘I seen them, Mister.’

  ‘At the bottom of a wine bottle.’

  ‘And aliens. People don’t think they’re here, but they’re here all right. I seen some things living on the street, I can tell you.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Got any money? I ain’t eaten for three days.’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  He took out his wallet and rustled a few dollar bills between his thumb and forefinger. ‘On whether you can help me, or not.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

 
‘Do you want to come out of there?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Men are all the same. They just want one thing, and I’m an attractive woman.’

  ‘I’m sure. I thought you were hungry.’

  ‘If I do come out, I don’t want you drooling at what you can’t have.’

  ‘I’ll try and control my primal urges.’

  The boxes began moving, and then spilled into the alley as a female hobo crawled out from behind them. She was wearing a tasselled low-cut mini-dress and a rain hat. Her hair hung in greasy clumps, her arms and legs were filthy, and her breasts were like empty shopping sacks. A tousle-haired bright-eyed mongrel dog followed her out and stood there wagging its tail.

  ‘If you ain’t got any food money for me, can you spare a dime for my Hank?’

  ‘If you put some clothes on, I’ll take you to the hot dog stand on Liberty Street.’

  ‘Are you making suggestions, Mister? I done got my clothes on.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  ‘You gonna feed Hank?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Both of you.’

  ‘You got yerself a date, Mister.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Yeah, always best to find out a lady’s name before you take ‘em for a romantic meal. Well, my name is Horty – short for Hortense – and you met Hank.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you both.’ He’d decided to buy Horty and Hank a meal whether they could help him or not.

  ‘So, what’s this you need my help with, Mister?’ Horty said as they turned right into Liberty Street and headed towards the hot dog stand.

  ‘If we’re going to have a romantic meal, then you’d better call me Tom.’

  ‘Tom huh. Yeah, you look like a Thomas. Got a wife?’

  ‘No, no wife.’

  ‘What’s your last name?’

  ‘Gabriel.’

  ‘My angel Thomas Gabriel.’ She linked his arm. Hank walked on the other side of him with his tail up. He looked like a cross between a Schnauzer and a Poodle – maybe a Schnoodle.

  He was glad they were in the open air. Horty reeked of God only knew what, but the dominant smell was of rotten fish.

  ‘That your alley?’