Please, said Anna. Email me the details.
Of course. Done. Darling, thank you. Thank you so much.
Joe leaned into the mirror in the mens room, snipping away the nasal hair that had spent three hours soaking up the smell of death. He never figured out if it was a practical or a psychological routine or both. He didnt like seeing his face up close, seeing the new lines around his eyes, the extra grey hairs at the side of his head; more things that were out of his control. He went to his locker and grabbed a bottle of tea-tree shower gel that Anna had given him. He got undressed and threw his suit into a plastic bag.
The smell of that crap, said Danny walking in. I think Ill go back to the autopsy.
Screw you, said Joe. Id rather smell-
Like weird-ass tea-
Like clean, than how you go out with your cheap foaming shit that doesnt cover up nothing.
If a woman cant handle the smell of death from a man-
She cant go out with a deadbeat.
Shit, said Danny, closing his locker door. Im all out of shower gel. Give me some of that crap.
Joe went back to his desk and checked his email. Danny walked over a few minutes later, smelling the back of his hand and frowning.
Get over the fucking shower gel, said Joe.
Let me pull that file, said Danny. The one I told you about Aneto.
Joe made space on his desk, laying a stack of files on the floor beside him. Danny came back and opened William Anetos file in front of him. Aneto was thirty-one, slightly built, handsome, with collar-length black hair. Joe looked at his head shot and saw a TV actors face; the four-line max guy, two or three steps back from the main action. His role in a Spanish language soap opera was the friend of the brother of the leading man. He was killed almost a year earlier, his body discovered in his Upper West Side apartment by a female friend. The case had quickly gone cold. As a victim, William fell into the high-risk category, promiscuous on the gay scene, known for disappearing at the end of a night with a stranger. Danny and Martinez had interviewed hundreds of Anetos friends, acquaintances and lovers and had gotten nowhere. His murder was down as a hook-up gone bad.
Joe pulled out the next photos and laid them in rows on the table in front of him. Danny stood beside him. Like Ethan Lowry, the body was found in the hallway. But behind William Aneto, hair smears of blood curved across the grey tiled floor like tracks through red paint from a dried brush.
Yeah. Its all coming back to me, said Danny. Most of the action happened in the kitchen. He was killed there and then dragged to the front door to be finished off. Wait til you see the kitchen. Hand prints, foot prints, all over the floor, up the wall kindergarten art class. You know if all the paint was red. And the children were Damian.
Joe studied the photos of the kitchen. He pointed to the bloodied corner of a granite counter top. So Im the perp, standing here behind the vic, bashing his face off this. Blood was spattered onto the wall, the counter, the floor, misted across the granite.
Danny nodded. Yup.
They looked at a wide shot of the hallway the crumpled corpse, the spatter of a gunshot wound, the pooled blood under his head.
William Anetos face was more damaged than Ethan Lowrys, destroyed by injuries that left the entire surface pulped and bloodied. His right eye socket was completely impacted from one of the blows, obliterating the entry wound from the bullet that, based on the autopsy results, followed a similar trajectory to Lowrys.
Yeah. Its a no-brainer, said Danny.
The caliber was too low, said Joe.
Funny guy. Shit, the phone look, said Danny, pointing to the tiny silver cell phone beside Anetos body. I forgot about that.
Like Ethan Lowry, it looked like William Aneto could have made a call just before he died. Joe flipped through the file to a statement from a Mrs Aneto.
Yeah, said Danny. His mother said the call was just to say goodnight.
Maybe you should talk to Mrs Aneto again.
She no likey me, said Danny, making a face. Maybe Martinez could warm her up again.
Yeah, thats one I wont be tagging along for.
Whys that?
Maybe you should ask Martinez, said Joe.
What the hells that supposed to mean?
See how he looks at me? Im a homewrecker. He had eleven good months with you, I show up, you take me back, the guys life is over.
Danny shook his head.
He gets that glint in his eye when youre around, said Joe.
Screw you. What you are seeing is professional admiration.
Come on. Lets go talk to Rufo.
Gentlemen, said Rufo when they walked in.
We got a link, said Joe. Between Ethan Lowry and William Aneto.
Rufo frowned. The guy Ive been getting all these calls about this week?
Danny nodded. Yeah. The year-anniversary-still-no-answers thing.
Interesting timing, said Rufo. Tell me more.
Both happened at home, no sign of forced entry, similar facial injuries, similar twenty-two caliber gunshot wound, phone found beside both of them, bodies left in the hallway behind the door.
Rufo nodded. Thats good enough for me.
Shaun Lucchesi lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. The stereo blasted the same lyrics over and over: left behind/left behind/left behind. It had been almost a year since his girlfriend, Katie Lawson, was murdered. They had met on the first day in school when he arrived in Ireland and they had been inseparable until she died. What made things worse was that Shaun had started out as the prime suspect, convicted by most of the small village until they learned the truth.
For months after Katies death, Shaun had woken up with a void inside him that had ached like nothing else he had ever known. On the good days, he was lifted by memories. On the bad ones, he was trapped in a loop of images that started from the time he picked her up that night and ended at the last moment he saw her. Everything now seemed unimportant. He came back to New York and met his old friends and went to the old hangouts, but it was such a different life to the one he had with Katie, it was surreal. His life with her was stripped down to how they felt about each other, how they made each other laugh, how they lay on his bed wrapped around each other for hours, just talking or watching movies. It wasnt about who your friends were, where you went, what you owned, who you were sleeping with, who had the latest cell phone, who had the fastest car. Sometimes he was so overwhelmed at the thought of never being that happy again, he almost couldnt breathe. He turned off the stereo and went to his closet. From the top shelf, he pulled out a small, chunky round tin. A thin layer of wax coated the bottom of it and a short black wick twisted from the centre. It was Katies favourite candle Fresh Linen. He took a lighter from his drawer and lit it. He could only burn it for a few minutes at a time, it was so low. He couldnt bear the thought it would ever burn out completely.
Everyone else would remember the anniversary of Katies funeral three weeks from now. But this night, one year ago, was the night he nearly had sex with her for the first time. But then they had fought. And then she had run away from him. And then she was killed. He lay down on his bed, closed his eyes and, for half an hour, let the tears run down his face onto the pillow. Then he sat up and grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through his photos. Katie at school. Katie on the beach. Katie in his room. Delete. Delete. Delete.
FIVE
Joe sat at his desk, pressing his fingers against his forehead, pretending to read a report that had started to blur a few minutes earlier. His phone rang. It was Reuben Maller from the FBI, Eastern District the office that covered the whole east coast. They got on well since their first case together. The last one they worked was Donald Riggs.
Can you talk? said Maller.
Go ahead, said Joe.
How are you all doing?
Who? said Joe. You mean here? Manhattan North?
You, Anna Shaun. How are you holding up?
Joe paused. Were good why? Whats going on?
Maller let out a breath. OK, he said, lowering his voice. Off the record, I got some news from the Bureau in Texas. On Duke Rawlins.
Joe stopped breathing.
Before you say anything, Joe, its sketchy, I dont have a lot of details. And you do not know this.
Joe fought the nausea rising in his stomach. Tell me, he managed.
Duke Rawlins home town, Stingers Creek? Geoff Riggs Donald Riggs father said he had a visit last week from Rawlins. Geoff Riggs is in really bad shape, Joe. No-one knows the last time he was sober. He walks through town, railing about things, not making a lot of sense. Last week, he said to some young kid in the liquor store that Rawlins was out at his cabin the week before. The kid was freaked out and called the cops. They went to speak with Riggs. I have it written here verbatim. Geoff Riggs said, real calm: Sure, I had a visit from Dukey. He was wanting to say Hi, catch up. Been years. Wanted to take a look around Donnies bedroom. I said, Knock yourself out, buddy. Not a lot in there since yall turned it upsideways last year. So Dukey comes out, then he go on out to the shed out back where I keep my tools and I say, Sure you can, Dukey. Youre a good boy. He seemed kinda aggritated. Had some sort of bug in his bonnet. Anyways, last I saw of little Dukey.
Thats it? said Joe.
Yep.
Geoff Riggs didnt call the cops, nothing?
No this guys brain is so fried. That statement I just read to you took two hours to extract from him. My guess is Rawlins is taking advantage of the relaxed surveillance.
The no surveillance, said Joe.
Yeah, said Maller. Its been a year he hadnt shown anywhere anyone expected him to. And his visit to Geoff Riggs is only part one of the story. The second part is that a few days later, the custodian of the Stingers Creek cemetery was doing his rounds and when he got to Donald Riggs grave well, there was another one opened up right beside it.
Joe paused. Someone was dug up?
No. Someone had just dug a grave. It was empty. It was thoroughly searched and there was nothing or no-one in it.
Jesus Christ, said Joe.
What we have got to remember is everyone out there knows what Rawlins and Riggs did. And on the one hand, youve got people baying for blood. On the other, some of the officers from the sheriffs department who went to investigate this, spoke to a group of stoners who were all, Man, Duke Rawlins is, like, sick. In a good way. So it could have been an angry relative of a victim, it could have been a teenage prank.
Maller, why dont we cut the crap, here? You know what this is. Alcoholic witness or not. Its not a coincidence we hear Rawlins shows up, pays a visit to a tool shed and within days a grave is opened up next to his old buddy. Come on.