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

  ‘And you know what to do if he does.’ He began eating – he was famished.

  ‘He’s a bully. He’s always been a bully. I should have seen it right from the start. I kept telling myself it would get better, but it never did. And now – it is what it is. I live with it. The two boys live with it. They know to keep out of his way when he’s in a bad mood, but I don’t have that luxury.’

  ‘I could leave you my gun.’

  ‘And don’t think I wouldn’t use it either. I have a thousand dreams and a million plans about how I could get rid of him. The trouble is though, that all of those dreams and plans end up as nightmares. I’d be in prison, Barney and Dino would be taken into care, and they’d have to live their whole lives with the knowledge that they were the children of a murderer. No, things are fine just the way they are.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I do, dad.’

  He shook his head, but let it drop. ‘So, tell me what else occupies your time.’

  ‘Besides two crazy kids and an abusive husband, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, besides them.’

  ‘I have lots of friends. We’re all in the same lifeboat one way or another. We help each other through the difficult times.’

  ‘I could hire someone . . .’

  ‘Stop, dad.’ She began crying. ‘I know I disappoint you, but I have no more fight left in me. When you get involved, it just makes things worse not better . . .’

  He moved to the sofa and pulled her to him. ‘You’ll never disappoint me, Misty.’ He wished Cassie was there right now. She’d know what to say and do. ‘If anyone has disappointed me – it’s Curtis, but I think he knows that now.’

  ‘You took his shoes and socks?’

  ‘Seemed like the right thing to do.’

  She laughed through the tears. ‘He’s going to be really pissed.’

  ‘That was the idea. I left his car outside the Spunky Puddle if he asks. And when it came down to it, when I held the gun against his head and pulled the trigger – he puked, pissed and shit himself like the coward he is, and then blubbered like a baby.’

  ‘I would have paid good money to see that.’

  He held her until she fell asleep. Twenty years ago he would have carried her upstairs and put her to bed, but in the intervening years she had added a few pounds, and he had lost the ability to lift heavy weights.

  ‘Come on,’ he said shaking her. ‘Go to bed.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine sleeping on the sofa.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She went to bed, and he knew it would probably be the last time he would ever see her. He didn’t plan to be there when the children woke up. What did he know about children? What would he say to them? Any conversation would be awkward with Misty in the morning. No, he’d leave at first light. He’d done what he came to do, and now it was time to leave.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saturday, October 13

  There was barely a hint of light when he crept out of Misty’s house. He left five hundred dollars under the kettle with a note to buy Barney and Dino a present each. There was so much more he could have said, but in the end all he wrote was:

  I have to go.

  Thanks for supper, speak to you soon.

  Love Dad.

  Once he’d crossed the Arthur Kill over the Goethals Bridge and into Staten Island, he pulled into a diner for breakfast and to use the toilets so that he could freshen up. It would do until he got home.

  He wanted to be at the airport by midday, so that he could get back to the hotel by at least five o’clock. What Sally had said about being there worried him. Why had she said that? She wouldn’t have said it unless something was going to happen – but what? He had no choice but to be there, which gave him about three hours to find and talk to the three suspects before he had to leave.

  The first suspect – although none of them could be considered suspects now that he knew Tony Dreyfus had probably killed Joseph Fowler on the orders of Maurice Stern – was a man called Stuart Trigg. He lived on Otis Avenue in what turned out to be a halfway house for people with mental health and substance abuse issues.

  A large black man wearing a white shirt and trousers opened the door. According to his badge he was called Eric, and he could easily have been employed as one of Mike Tyson’s minders.

  ‘Kin I do for ya?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Stuart Trigg if possible.’

  ‘Officer of the law?’

  He brandished his ID card. ‘PI from St Augustine.’

  ‘Long ways.’ He led him into a carpeted reception area. ‘You’re lucky, he’s makin’ some sense today. I’ll take you to him. Don’t give him no money though, no matter how much he begs and pleads for it.’

  Tom nodded.

  They walked along a corridor.

  ‘He’s in the breakfast room tryin’ to keep something down, but it’s not long since he started the programme.’

  ‘Crystal Meth?’

  ‘All the way, man. He’d kill his own baby for a hit of ICE right now.’

  That was one thing to be thankful for at least, he thought, neither of his daughters had become drug users. He had seen users literally climbing the walls on the streets of St Augustine, and watched them going cold turkey in the cage at the station.

  ‘Stuart,’ Eric said to a skeletal man sitting at a table. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’ In front of him stood a bowl of nondescript splodge with a plastic orange spoon sticking out of it.

  Trigg lifted his head, but his eyes were focused somewhere a million miles away.

  Eric turned to Tom. ‘Five minutes.’

  Tom nodded. ‘A couple of questions is all I’ve got.’

  ‘Luck with that,’ he said as he left.

  Tom sat down on the other side of the table. ‘My name’s Tom Gabriel, Stuart.’

  ‘Are you from the government?’ He was shaking as if the epicentre of an earthquake had been identified directly underneath him.

  ‘No. I’m a PI from Florida.’

  ‘They’re after me.’

  ‘Did you know Joe Fowler?’

  ‘They killed him.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The government.’

  ‘Why would the government kill Joe?’

  ‘He knew too much.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Got any money?’

  ‘No. Eric wouldn’t let me see you until I gave him all my money.’

  ‘Fucking bastard. He knows I need money.’

  ‘What did Joe know too much about?’

  ‘You’re from the government – you should know.’

  ‘No, I’m not from the government. I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you here to kill me?’

  ‘No. I’d like to know about Joe.’

  ‘Knew too much. I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. The cops thought I killed him. I didn’t kill him. He used to give me money.’

  ‘Why did he give you money?’

  ‘I did things for him.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘You know – things.’

  It was like trying to suck water out of a stone with a straw. ‘No, I don’t know. Can you tell me?’

  ‘Got any money?’

  ‘Eric took it.’

  ‘He’s one of them, you know.’

  ‘What things did you do for Joe?’

  ‘Looked after the crates.’

  ‘What crates.’

  ‘In the warehouse.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Chemical Lane.’

  ‘What was in the crates?’

  Eric appeared. ‘Okay man, time’s up.’

  ‘Just a few . . .’

  ‘Time’s up, man. You can see he’s in a bad way. I been more than generous with you.’

  Tom nodded. ‘You’re right. I apologise.’ He stood up to leave.

  �
��You don’t want to know what was inside those crates?’

  Tom looked at Eric.

  ‘Humour him,’ Eric said.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  Stuart stuffed his clasped hands between his thighs and started sobbing. ‘Please give me some money, Eric. I promise I’ll buy some fruit with it.’

  Eric laughed. ‘Yeah, man.’ He put his hand on Trigg’s shoulder and pointed to a book shelf against a wall. ‘Bowl of fruit on top of that there bookcase if you hankering after fruit, my man.’ He turned to Tom. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Children,’ Stuart whispered. ‘In the crates. Joe said never to open the crates, but I had to know. I opened one – just a crack. I wish I hadn’t. There were children in there – that’s what was in those crates – living fucking children. I should have said something to someone, but I didn’t. May God forgive me.’

  ‘You know what he’s rambling about?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Got what you came for?’

  ‘Couldn’t get any sense out of him.’

  ‘Be about right.’

  At the door he said to Eric, ‘Thanks for letting me see him.’

  ‘Welcome. Sorry you leaving empty-handed.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘The way it goes.’

  ‘Sure is.’

  He walked back to his car. The more he unravelled Joseph Fowler’s life, the more he realised that he could be the key to it all.

  In St Augustine he and Rae had discovered three recently used camp beds with blankets in a basement room of the Antonio de Natali Art Gallery. They’d also found an assortment of boys’ and girls’ clothing – t-shirts, jeans, shorts, dresses and underwear – and a pink backpack containing a diary with a pony on the front stuffed between the wall and an old wood cupboard belonging to Katherine Everett, aged eight and three-quarters. But what came into his mind was the sounds he and Rae had heard while they were stuck in a room waiting to escape. Those sounds, he now realised, were crates being loaded onto the back of a truck through the rolling door at the back of the gallery.

  His next “suspect” was a man called Henry Cole who lived in a townhouse at 675 Fairbanks Avenue. The street led down to the salt marshes and was a good place to live for nature lovers.

  He rang the bell.

  A middle-aged woman with greasy black hair, large un-tethered breasts beneath a blue Brooklyn Dodgers t-shirt and a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth opened the door. ‘Yeah?’

  He showed his ID. ‘Tom Gabriel. Could I speak to Henry Cole, please.’

  She turned her head and shouted, ‘HENRY.’ Instead of inviting him in, she left him standing there on the porch. The door banged shut.

  He leaned against the wall and waited.

  Eventually, the door opened again. A muscular unshaven man with long blonde hair swept back from his forehead was standing there. ‘What does a PI from Florida want with me?’

  ‘Joe Fowler?’

  ‘The bastard. Owed me fifteen hundred bucks. It’s a good job he’s dead, otherwise I would have killed him myself.’

  ‘What did he owe you the money for?’

  ‘Poker. He had a bit of a habit. Liked to think he was Brett Maverick on a good day. Trouble was, his face told you what he had in his hand every time – pathetic.’

  ‘Any idea where he worked?’

  ‘I heard he did some work for Maurice Stern.’

  ‘At Alpine Dry Cleaners?’

  Cole laughed. ‘No. He did other work for Stern, but don’t ask me what. Used to say him and Stern were best buddies, but I took it with a pinch of salt.’

  ‘Do you know Tony Dreyfus?’

  ‘All I know is he works for Stern.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me about Joe?’

  ‘Such as?’

  Tom shrugged.

  ‘If you don’t know why should I?’

  The door closed.

  His last port of call was Douglas Lindsay who lived at 197 Oakley Place, which appeared to be a pleasant neighbourhood. The lawns were cut, there was no rubbish piled up on the street and the cars looked to be recent models.

  He knocked.

  A man with neatly combed hair, wearing a pair of slacks and a checked short-sleeved shirt came to the door carrying a rifle. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Douglas Lindsay?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Tom showed his ID. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about Joseph Fowler.’

  He looked left and right. ‘You’d better come in then.’

  Inside, Lindsay propped the rifle up against an easy chair and said, ‘Beer?’

  ‘A bit early for me, but you go right ahead.’

  ‘Yes, I think I will.’

  The living room was small, but pleasant. There were expensive-looking ornaments, the carpet was a deep burnt orange pile, and a red and white flowery patterned fabric covered the sofa and the easy chairs. The only photographs on the mantelpiece, sideboard and tables were of a sour-faced old woman.

  He came back from the kitchen with an open bottle and sat in a chair facing the front door.

  ‘What’s with the gun?’

  ‘Bastards! Used to be a nice neighbourhood, but just when you think you’ve got it made they come along and destroy it.’

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘Gangs.’

  ‘I didn’t see any gangs outside.’

  ‘Just because you didn’t see them, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I know all about them – they wear colours; use secret hand signals; have their own beads, tattoos and graffiti tags. Oh yes, they exist all right. Already this month the Lighthouse Hill Gang have been responsible for a shooting, a stabbing, three burglaries and two armed robberies. I keep up to date with the statistics in this neighbourhood. And they’re kids as young as eight – do you believe that? The value of my house has hit rock-bottom. Well, I’m ready for them . . .’ He gripped the rifle and laid it across his knee. ‘They come in here, they won’t know what hit them.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long.’

  ‘What’s this about Fowler?’

  ‘I just wondered why you were a suspect in his murder.’

  ‘Do I look like the type of guy who goes round murdering guilty people?’

  ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Lindsay?’

  ‘Fifth grade school teacher.’

  ‘Not something I’d like to do.’

  ‘You said it.’

  ‘So, why do you call him guilty?’

  ‘He said he could get something for me. I gave him the money, but he didn’t deliver.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what. The only thing that mattered was that he broke his word and kept my money.’

  ‘And you wanted to kill him?’

  ‘I wanted either the goods or the money, but I received neither. And now he’s dead, it’s extremely unlikely that I ever will ever get either of them.’

  ‘And you can’t tell me what you paid him to get for you?’

  ‘It’s not that I “can’t”. A television – yes, that was what he was getting for me.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Lindsay.’

  ‘You want to get yourself one of these,’ he said waving the rifle like Geronimo on the warpath.

  ‘I’m making a run for it,’ he said.

  ‘Probably a wise decision. If it wasn’t for the house, I would too.’

  He made his way out.

  The Buick still had all four wheels, the satnav and the CD player. ‘Guess I was lucky,’ he mumbled as he pulled away from the kerb and headed toward Newark Liberty Airport.

  ***

  Her mouth was as dry as the Mojave desert. She felt dizzy. Everything kept spinning – round and round, round and round. Where was she? What had happened? Why were her hands tied behind her back? What did she have on her head? Why couldn’t she move her ankles?

  She tried to f
ocus, but the blackness enveloped her again.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  How long had she been here?

  Were those voices she could hear?

  ‘Help.’ Why was there no sound coming from her mouth? ‘Help.’

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Had she lost consciousness again? Where was she? Was there somebody in the room with her?

  ‘Help?’

  Why did nobody come?

  ‘Help.’

  She could hear scraping noises.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Where was she? Why was she so cold?

  She could hear water dripping. When the drops hit the floor they echoed. Was she underground?

  Why wasn’t she still in bed?

  How had she got here? Where was here?

  ‘Help.’

  But nobody came.

  Her tongue was swollen. She couldn’t move it round her mouth because it kept sticking everywhere. ‘Drink.’

  But nobody came.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Where was she?

  ‘Hello?’

  She heard someone walking towards her.

  A hand squeezing her breast.

  Cold metal running up her thigh.

  ‘Drink,’ she pleaded.

  Why couldn’t she hear herself talking?

  ‘Hello?’

  Nobody answered.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  What happened? Wasn’t she in bed? Where was she? What day was it? Why couldn’t she move? Oh God! She’d wet herself. Why was her mouth so dry?

  ‘Hello?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Is there anybody there?’

  Why couldn’t she hear her own voice?

  She could hear dripping water. ‘Water.’

  Where was she?

  She jumped as something or someone touched her leg.

  ‘Hello?’

  She felt a sharp pin-prick in her arm.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  ***

  After handing the car keys to the lady in the Hertz office and paying the outstanding charge, he checked in at the airport for the next available flight to Jacksonville. The US Airways 3727 was scheduled to leave in thirty minutes, so he made his way through baggage screening and into the boarding lounge. Time of arrival in Jacksonville was four-thirty and he expected to get back to the hotel between five and five-thirty.