New York Night Page 3

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘Cops don’t carry guns in England? How does that work? What do you do if someone pulls a gun on you?’

  ‘I did carry a gun. I was an armed cop. But only specially trained police are armed, and they get called out when there’s a problem.’

  Horowitz frowned. ‘I don’t get that,’ he said. ‘A cop stumbles across a robbery. What does he do? Ask the perp to wait until reinforcements arrive.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘Pretty much, yeah. It sounds crazy but it works. Plus, most of our criminals don’t carry guns.’

  A waitress showed them to a booth by the window, handed them menus and asked them what they wanted to drink. They all asked for coffee and she headed for the counter. Horowitz and Perez sat opposite him.

  ‘And now you’re a PI?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t have a licence in the States.’

  ‘That’s not the issue, licence or not we’re not supposed to talk to private investigators.’ He looked over at Perez and for the first time he smiled. ‘Unless they’re family.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘He’s my honorary big brother,’ said Perez. ‘We worked Robbery Homicide together a few years ago.’

  ‘My first time out of uniform,’ said Horowitz. ‘She kept me on the straight and narrow.’ He looked back at Nightingale. ‘So, I’m happy enough to help family, but I’m not sure how helpful I can be because the Kate Walker case is still wide open.’

  ‘Is it your case?’

  Horowitz shook his head. ‘No, but I reached out to the guys who caught it. Between you and me I think they’d be grateful for any help.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘It was a third floor loft in 95th Street. Girl called Kate Walker. Sixteen years old. High school cheerleader, dad’s in real estate, in fact he was trying to sell the loft. We think that’s how she got access. The body was found within twenty-four hours of her death by one of his partners. She opened the door and Kate was lying in the middle of the main room in a pool of blood.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Blood loss. Multiple wounds and by multiple I mean a lot. More than fifty cuts and stab wounds, at least half a dozen of which would have been fatal.’

  The waitress came over and they ordered. Horowitz wanted pancakes, Perez ordered an omelette and Nightingale asked for toast.

  ‘No eggs, hun?’ asked the waitress. Nightingale shook his head and she went off to the counter where a short-order cook was scraping scrambled eggs across a hotplate.

  ‘Any motive? Sexual?’

  ‘No signs of sexual contact, no violence in that area.’

  ‘But she was naked?’

  Horowitz nodded. ‘Her clothes were in a pile in the kitchen.’

  ‘So she’d taken them off?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Under duress?’

  ‘There were some defence wounds on her hands but no blood on the clothes, so we’re assuming the attack came after she undressed.’

  ‘Forensics?’

  Horowitz shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Do you have a theory?’

  ‘Murdered by person or persons unknown.’

  ‘But she knew her killer, right?’

  Horowitz’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Her dad was selling the flat so she must have taken the killer there.’

  ‘Or she went around and disturbed him.’

  ‘Evidence for that?’

  Horowitz flashed him a tight smile. ‘Supposition,’ he said. ‘Same as your supposition that she knew her killer.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Nightingale. ‘But do you think a random killer is more likely?’

  Horowitz shrugged. ‘If I was a betting man I’d say it wasn’t random but we haven’t come up with a motive yet.’

  ‘Can you show me the crime scene?’

  The detective nodded. ‘I’ve brought the keys with me.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Horowitz drove them to the crime scene in a grey saloon. Perez sat up front and they chatted about old times for the fifteen minutes it took to get to the apartment building. They parked on the street and Horowitz let them in through a door sandwiched between a delicatessen and a discount shoe shop.

  The detective walked towards an old-fashioned delivery elevator. He pulled on a length of rope that lifted a wooden panel. Perez stepped in.

  ‘I’d prefer the stairs,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Say what?’ said Horowitz.

  ‘I’m not a big fan of lifts. Or elevators as you call them.’

  ‘It’s only the third floor,’ said Horowitz.

  ‘Can I walk up?’

  ‘There aren’t any internal stairs,’ he said. ‘There’s a fire escape running down the back of the building but you’ve got to go down an alley to reach it and even then I’m not sure you’ll be able to pull it down.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Jack?’

  ‘I just don’t like elevators. Never have done.’

  ‘Don’t see you’ve got a choice,’ said Perez.

  Nightingale sighed and stepped in. He took out his cigarettes but Perez shook her head. ‘Not indoors, Jack,’ she said. ‘Not in New York.’

  Horowitz pulled the door closed and pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator jerked and Nightingale yelped. Perez grinned as the elevator rattled upwards for almost thirty seconds before it shuddered to a stop. Horowitz opened the door and Nightingale hurried out.

  Perez followed him and Horowitz closed the door and took out a set of keys to open the door to the apartment.

  It was long and narrow with floor to ceiling windows to the left and an open-plan kitchen to the right. There was no furniture, just bare wooden floorboards. The sound of the traffic was like a dull throb in the background. Above their heads were black-painted pipes and wiring conduits.

  ‘Where was the body?’ asked Nightingale.

  Horowitz took a couple of crime scene photographs from his overcoat pocket, studied them and gestured towards the middle of the room.

  ‘Can I have a look?’ asked Nightingale, holding out his hand.

  ‘You can keep them,’ said Horowitz. ‘Cheryl said you’d want them.’

  Nightingale flicked through the photographs. They were all shots of the body, lying face down on the floor. He compared the pictures to the scene one by one, rotating them to match what he was seeing. The girl was face down, her back and legs a mass of cuts. He stared closely at the photographs but there was no way of making out the sigil among all the flayed flesh and blood.

  ‘He really went to work on her,’ said Horowitz. ‘It’s either a sadistic serial killer who gets off on torture, or it’s personal.’

  Nightingale’s Hush Puppies squeaked on the bare boards as he walked across the floor. He stopped when he saw the dried blood stain in the centre of the room. He stopped and stared down at the rust-red marks.

  ‘Did the guys who caught the case tell you much?’

  ‘Just that it was an unholy mess. The woman who found the body was in a right state. They found her outside, pale as a sheet and shaking.’

  Nightingale flicked through the photographs again. Perez walked over to stand next to him and she grimaced as she looked at the pictures. ‘What sort of sick fuck does that?’ she asked.

  Nightingale figured the question was rhetorical so he didn’t answer. ‘Was the knife left behind?’ he asked Horowitz.

  The detective nodded and then gestured at the kitchen area. ‘It was one of a set. They got decent prints off it and DNA but no match to anyone in the system.’

  ‘There was no furniture, you said?’

  ‘The guys who caught the case said there was just a wooden chair. That was taken for examination. Same prints and DNA.’

  ‘Her clothes?’

  ‘On the kitchen counter.’

  ‘And did anyone clean up after the body was taken away?’

  ‘I don’t see how they could have,
any professional cleaners would have gotten rid of the stain.’

  Nightingale crouched down and tilted his head from side to side.

  ‘Looking for something in particular?’ asked Perez.

  Nightingale ignored the question. ‘Had she been tied?’ he asked Horowitz.

  ‘Not that they could see. She’d been here a day before she was found so there was a fair bit of swelling, but there didn’t seem to be any evidence that she’d been bound.’

  ‘Defense wounds?’

  Horowitz nodded. ‘A few.’

  Nightingale stood up, moved a couple of feet to his right and squatted down again.

  ‘Looks to me like she knew her killer,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Like I said, that’s supposition,’ said Horowitz. ‘He could have got in somehow and she disturbed him. He grabs a knife. She fights back and goes into overkill mode.’

  ‘And tells her to remove her clothes?’

  ‘She was a pretty girl. Maybe he decides to rape her?’

  ‘At the diner you said there was no evidence of sexual assault.’

  ‘None. But he could have changed his mind. He’s here, hiding maybe. She lets herself in. He grabs a knife. Makes her undress. When she’s naked she panics and fights back. He kills her and rape is no longer an option.’

  ‘There’s no blood spatter. Just a pool.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So if there was a struggle they’d be blood spatter across the floor and the walls. There isn’t.’

  ‘So he hit her and she went down and he killed her.’ The detective frowned. ‘Do you have a different theory?’

  Nightingale stood up and shook his head. ‘I wish I did. What about a suspect?’

  ‘They’ve checked all the local CCTV but they don’t even have her arriving. There aren’t many cameras in this part of town and as you saw there’s nothing in the lobby. They’re canvasing the area with her photograph but no one remembers seeing her arrive. It’s frustrating having the killer’s fingerprints and DNA but not everyone is in the system.’

  ‘So the case has gone cold?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. But it’s not hot, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And what about looking at her family and friends, just in case it was someone she knew.’

  ‘She was a good, stay-at-home girl. No issues at school, no problems with drink or drugs. She had a boyfriend but he died three months ago.’

  ‘Died how?’

  ‘Boating accident. On the river in a canoe or a kayak or whatever they call them. He wasn’t wearing his life vest, overturned and the current dragged him away. It was in the papers. A tragic accident.’

  ‘And you checked the family?’

  ‘You’re thinking the father?’ Horowitz shook his head. ‘I asked the guys and it’s a definite no. He was devastated when they broke the news to him. He’s still in shock. Took it harder than the mother. And before you start jumping to any conclusions, he was with people the whole day, either in his office or with clients. He wasn’t alone for a single second. The mother was at home. She had a brother. A younger brother, Eddie. He was with friends all day. But that’s just ticking the boxes because it wasn’t a family member who did this.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The degree of violence. And the fact the body was naked. When family members kill each other it tends to be short and sweet. The mutilation here was so extreme that we’re looking for a psychopath. Someone who takes pleasure from causing pain.’

  ‘But most of the cuts were post mortem, right?’

  ‘According to the ME it was hard to tell. Some before, definitely. But the blood loss was so catastrophic she would have died quickly anyway. For sure he carried on cutting after she’d died.’

  ‘He? Definitely a man?’

  ‘Not many women kill like this, Jack. But I take your point. Could be either.’

  Nightingale nodded at the bedroom door. ‘Okay if I look there?’

  ‘The bedroom’s empty. But sure.’

  Nightingale opened the door. Unlike the rest of the apartment the floor was carpeted. There was no furniture but there were built-in closets, all empty. Another door led to a bathroom, so pristine it looked as if it had never been used.

  ‘If she was here for sex, why not use the bedroom?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘There’s no bed,’ said Perez. ‘And you’re making assumptions again. If he forced her to remove her clothes, would he care which room he was in?’

  ‘The carpet has got to be a better choice than a wooden floor.’

  ‘Is that the voice of experience, Jack?’

  He flashed her a tight smile. ‘I’m just trying to get into the mind of whoever did this,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a fair point,’ said Horowitz at the doorway. ‘It’s all very organised. It didn’t look as if there was any sort of struggle prior to the attack. But if it was sex they came for Jack’s right, you’d go for the carpet. Less wear and tear on the knees.’ Perez turned to look at him and he shrugged. ‘It happens.’

  Perez shook her head sadly. ‘That’s far more information than I needed, Andy.’

  ‘Plus, if this was a social meeting, there’d be booze or drugs or something,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘The killer could have taken everything with them,’ said Perez.

  ‘Sure. But it was Kate’s father who was showing the place,’ said Horowitz. ‘We have to assume that if it was a social thing then she would have brought him here and not the other way around. That being the case, why would the killer take anything away?’

  ‘She could have bought a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses,’ said Perez. ‘Killer realised there’d be prints and took them with him.’

  ‘They checked nearby dumpsters,’ said Horowitz. ‘They didn’t find anything that had been dumped. And why take a bottle and glasses and leave the knife? We have his DNA and prints from that. So I’d say no, he didn’t take anything with him. Again, assuming it’s a he.’

  ‘So nothing strange in the dumpsters?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said the detective. ‘This is New York. But nothing that suggests it came from this crime scene.’

  Nightingale went back to the main room and over to the bloodstain. He bent down and moved his head from side to side. Perez grinned. ‘You know, give you a magnifying glass and a funny hat and you’d be the spitting image of Sherlock Holmes.’

  Nightingale didn’t say anything but walked around to the other side of the stain, squatted down, and peered at the floor again. Eventually he straightened up. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘Okay what?’ said Perez.

  ‘Okay we’re done here.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Horowitz dropped them off outside Perez’s office. Perez leant over and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks, I owe you one,’ she said.

  Horowitz laughed. ‘You owe me more than one,’ he replied.

  ‘If ever you need the services of a Private Eye, you know who to call,’ she said, opening the door.

  ‘Yeah, the Pinkertons. You be careful.’

  ‘Always,’ she said, climbing out.

  Nightingale thanked him and joined Perez on the sidewalk. Horowitz drove off, heading north. ‘Andy seems like a good guy,’ said Nightingale. ‘Very on the ball.’

  ‘He’s a good cop. A straight arrow.’ She looked at her watch. ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘There’s an Italian place around the corner.’

  As Nightingale walked with her, he lit a cigarette, taking care not to blow smoke in her direction. ‘I wish the cops in the UK were as helpful when it came to off-the-books help?’

  ‘We go back a long way,’ said Perez.

  ‘Former boyfriend?’

  She laughed. ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘I just thought there was – you know – heat.’

  ‘Heat?’

  ‘Between you.’

  She laughed louder a
nd shook her head. ‘If only you knew,’ she said.

  ‘Knew what?’

  They reached the coffee shop and he held the door open for her. She laughed. ‘British manners? I love it.’

  ‘Don’t New York men open doors?’

  ‘Not so much, and certainly not when they’re after coffee. A girl’s more likely to get trampled in the rush.’

  Nightingale followed her inside. ‘I’ll get them,’ he said.

  ‘Latte,’ she said.

  Nightingale went over to the counter as Perez threw her coat onto the back of a chair and sat down. He carried the coffees over on a tray. She smiled as she saw that he’d bought chocolate muffins. ‘To keep you sweet,’ he said.

  He sat down opposite her, broke a piece off his muffin and popped it into his mouth. ‘So, you were telling me about Andy…’

  ‘That’s not strictly speaking true.’

  ‘You said “if only I knew” as if there was something there.’

  She laughed and took a sip of her latte. ‘It’s none of your business, so I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, but he was best man at my wedding. My husband’s best friend. I mean best friends forever, they were next door neighbours, born in the same hospital ward on the same day. They joined the army together, served in Iraq together, became cops together, worked out of the same precinct. They were practically joined at the hip.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘What’s funny is that if things had gone differently, Andy and I could well have got married.’

  ‘Husband?’ said Nightingale, frowning. She wasn’t wearing a ring and hadn’t mentioned being married, but then they hadn’t had much in the way of chit-chat.

  ‘Ex-husband.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Dead husband, to be one hundred per cent accurate.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  She looked at him, her head tilted to one side. ‘Why are you sorry? You didn’t know him. You barely know me.’

  ‘I just meant.. you know. Sorry for your loss.’ He popped another piece of muffin into his mouth to cover his confusion.

  She nodded and took another sip of coffee. ‘I’m still a bit raw. But you can see that.’