The Midtown Murderer (11 page)

Chapter 28

A
frigid wind whistled through the city. The clouds had parted in hard horizontal lines, as if sliced by a knife, revealing gashes of pink light.

Trent stood outside
of his office and admired the carpenter’s handiwork. Should work, he thought, running his fingertips across the gray metal door and steel frame. Bright yellow crime tape crisscrossed the door, and a message blazoned in thick black capitals had been spray-painted above the tape.

PIG BASTARD
!

LEAVE TOWN OR ELSE!

DEAD MEAT STINKS!

No signature, he thought
, stomping his feet against the cold. He read it again. Nice even letters. Trent reined in his temper and pulled off the tape. He was thinking that Wednesday had not been a very good day when he noticed a red-colored leaflet with a sinister-looking Santa Claus on it tucked into the doorframe.

He
unlocked the door and stepped inside with the wad of sticky police tape and the handout. “Hey there,” he called, scanning the office and bedroom for signs of life. “Is that rifle toting son-of-a-bitch here?”

Hearing no
thing and seeing no one, he wedged a dresser in front of the door and closed the blinds in case the killer had overtime fever and planed to stop by tonight.

Trent did a double take when he saw the angry mess. He leaned against the wall
, knowing he had to act quickly, because the killers wouldn’t rest until they were stopped. Or he was dead.

He found a bottle of beer that had rolled beneath the stove. With trembling hands
, he unscrewed the top and slurped it down. Then he studied the square of paper he’d brought inside; it was an invitation to a Christmas party.

“
If you missed our Halloween party, join us tonight for a very scary Christmas party at the Wire Tap Lounge . . .” he read aloud. “No one allowed inside without a costume . . . Prizes for the most original outfits . . . The party starts at eight and ends late! Hope to scare you there!”

Trent decided the lounge could be a safe place to hideout. He turned the paper over. A handwritten note had been scrawled in red
crayon across the back: IF YOU WANT TO LEARN HOW CORRUPT THE MIDTOWN POLICE ARE, GO TO THE PARTY.

He decided the perfect prescription to
calm his jangled nerves would be housework. It would also give him time to think about everything that had happened.

He started in the office. The killer had made a terrible mess of Winston as if he had exploded. He scoured the floor with steel wool and Comet that whitened the floorboards. Then he scraped and scrubbed Winston’s blood and meat off the walls. The bullets had gone out
through the walls so he plugged the holes with wads of aluminum foil.

In his
bedroom he righted the furniture and put the books and CDs back on the bookshelf. His thoughts churned and he decided that the informant at the Midtown Police Plaza could be several officers working in collusion-probably the ones in the interrogation room-and that they knew quite a bit about Chloe’s abduction and the Midtown Murderer.

Trent was sure that
Garcia had spoken profound truth. If he didn’t find the mole, Utah and his boys would pay him an unpleasant visit. The key to his survival, and finding Chloe, lay in uncovering the traitor. He felt he could trust Priest, but would have to present him with hard facts before he’d help.

He turned the situation over in his mind
. Maybe the Midtown Murderer killed Jack and abducted Chloe. Is it possible that he’s the same person who shot at me in the park? Damn right it’s possible.

But
Anima said that motorcycles roared off around the time Jack was shot. And if Garcia could be trusted, and the Apostles did not have Chloe, then Triple’s gang had been circling the park waiting to give the shooter a ride and they kidnapped her.

And how do McClure and Jake and Elwood
and the Kings figure into all this? Is the ‘object’ they are all searching for tied into this mess?

Trent
came to no solid conclusions as he returned to the chilling conversation he’d overheard in the interrogation room. Then his mind jolted forward with a rush of terror and a new thought that the Midtown Murderer himself could be one or more police officers working out of the Midtown Police Plaza.

He
was unable to conjure up a scenario that would explain the body he had found. The answers would have to wait until the corpse was identified, and then he’d see if those circumstances had any bearing on Chloe’s disappearance.

Trent glanced at his watch.
Eight o’clock sharp. Party time. He looked for something to take as a weapon and found a simple wooden box tucked into the corner of his closet. From it he took his old Japanese sword and held it up to admire the engraving on the shiny scabbard. The sword will work perfectly, he thought.

Dressing
himself as a sword-brandishing pirate, he slashed the air with the razor-sharp blade. Then he slid the edged weapon into its scabbard and left the apartment. The speckles of pink sky had faded into the gray of the approaching night.

He
pulled his bike even with the Wire Tap Lounge
.
The windows that faced Tenth Street
were decorated with red and green lights, snowflakes, and elfish looking figures. Christmas carols played from speakers and strobes pulsed from the roof, freeze-framing the costumed patrons standing in line.

A man
dressed as Santa was directing traffic around the back for parking, but when he spotted Trent, he waved him onto the sidewalk.

Trent secured his bike and took a spot behind a phalanx of grinning youngsters.
Cinderella was collecting admissions, and a nautically attired man with a yachtsman’s cap and arms like Popeye made sure no one stepped inside without a costume.

“How much?” asked Trent.

“Five dollars,” Cinderella said, holding out a plastic Santa Claus head.

Trent dropped the mon
ey and walked through the door. A stenciled number hung from the ceiling above each table. He was wondering what they were for as he scissored through the crowd toward the mirrored bar.

Chapter 29

Trent
waved to a bartender dressed as a high-ranking military officer from a third-world country. He had on a blue tailcoat replete with gold shoulder boards, gold frogging, and gold braided cuffs.

“Everything shipshape, Pirate?”
the bartender yelled over the frenzied noise of the crowd.

“So far. Could I have a Heineken?”

“Four dollars,” the bartender said, touching his braid-crusted gold cap.

Trent gave him the money. “What’s with the numbers?” he
asked, pointing at the numbered signs hanging above each table.

“Telephones,” the bartender said.

“Telephones, huh?” Trent asked, noticing the black 1940s standup rotary-dial phones sitting on each table.

“We have an operator in the corner,” he said, waving his pistol at a woman working a switchboard. “Say you want to talk to a lady at table twenty-one
; pick up the phone and tell the operator what table you want.
Wire Tap,
get it?”

“
Got it.”

“Take a table. I bet you get a very important call.”

“I’m sure.” Trent wandered around the bar and admired the Christmas costumes and decorations; then he took an empty table and sipped his beer. He spotted the
The Wizard of Oz
cast and decided to place an anonymous call. “Table twelve, please.”

Scarecrow picked the phone up. “Hello?”
he asked in a friendly voice.

“Scarecrow,” Trent said, “is Dorothy married?”

“She’s engaged.”

“Too bad. Tell her she has a secret admirer
; have her call me.”

Trent hung up and watched them discuss the call. Tinman shook his oil can at a few likely callers. They had a good laugh and resumed sipping their drinks.

His phone rang; he figured Dorothy had found him. “It’s me. I’m your secret admirer.”

“Palmer,” a raspy voice said.

“Yes?”

“
The Midtown Police Plaza is a viper’s nest,” the voice said ominously.

Trent took a sip of beer before replying. “Tell someone in Internal Affairs.” He searched the
crowded bar for the caller.

“They’ll kill me
; there are corrupt cops at the very top of the department.”

“Know who
they are?” A laughing ghost wearing a flowing white sheet stopped in front of him and held out a jar filled with numbers.

“I have an idea
; but I won’t say.”

“Why tell me?” Trent
asked, picking a number. He nodded at the pale-faced ghost; the ghost stared at him with bloodshot eyes and yelled, “Woooooooo!”

“Because you have a problem. The
bent cops want to take you off the voting list.”

Got him, Trent t
hought, zeroing in on a guy waving his arm and talking on a telephone. He wore a silver chemical protection suit; a gasmask dangled below his neck. Like something out of a cheap sci-fi movie, Trent thought. “And how do you know that?”

“I watched you through the two-way mirror. You heisted
a GID report.”

Trent gasped
, his beer bottle slipping through his fingers.

“That’s right, Palmer,” the voice said. “I’m the real deal.
Garcia gave you the key to a deeply-buried department secret; the crooked cops will stop at nothing to protect it.”

Trent’s heart
pounded. “Who shot at me in the park? Who killed Winston in my apartment?”

“I do not know.”

“Are the crooked cops and the Midtown Murderer the same person?”

“Not in my opinion,” the voice said. “My money says the killer was looking for the information you bought from
Garcia. Hurry, Palmer. They won’t stop killing until someone stops them.”

“
Are they here tonight?” Trent asked urgently.

“I’ve said all I can.”

“What’s their secret?”

“Watch the TV report on meth labs
; it airs in ten minutes. Remember also that Clay has some fairly convincing reasons to suspect you. He’s having you followed.”

The
man hung up. The phone rang again. “Palmer, over here. It’s me,” Jake said, giving Trent a stiff-arm wave.

Trent
’s heart was still pounding when he spotted the cop killers seated at a small table in the corner. They were drinking beer from king-sized tumblers and were dressed in the same outfits with the same dark sunglasses as yesterday.

“
McClure give you any more trouble?”

“Not today.”

“OK, then, keep us in the loop.”

“
OK.”

When Trent replaced the receiver
, a waitress dressed as The Little Mermaid stopped beside him. She set down a silver bucket on the table and waved at a selection of icy-cold beers.

Trent gladly took a dark beer. “Thanks,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

The waitress gave Trent a knowing smile. “Dorothy thinks you called her.”

“It’s those sparkling red shoes,” he said, tipping her generously for the beer.

The waitress wandered away and Trent’s phone rang; he took a long sip of the heavy-tasting beer before answering it.

“Hello?”

“You are a very sexy pirate,” Dorothy said. She winked at Trent and hung up the phone.

His phone rang again. “Pirates aren’t sexy,” he said, “but when Dorothy clicks her heels
—”

Trent heard heavy breathing. “Shut up, you stupid pig,” said a chilling voice.

Goosebumps raked Trent’s flesh. “What—”

“You couldn’t keep your shitty nose out of our business,” the voice said over the screeching noise of the jukebox. “
For that you’ll die.”

“
Pussy.”

“Just so you know it’s me
; I’m shooting a Mauser SP 66 sniper rifle equipped with a high-powered scope. One of my hand-loaded Winchester rounds can easily lift a man off his feet. Next time I won’t miss.”

“
You harm Chloe I’ll kill you,” Trent said, trying to find the killer as costumed people crisscrossed in front of him. “I’ll track you down wherever you go.”

“Dream all you want, fuckface. You tell
Garcia to keep his mouth shut; or I’ll shut down his meth operation so quick he won’t know what hit him.”

Trent thought he had hung up
, but then he said, “You son-of-a-bitch. When I gut Chloe, I’ll kill her slow; she’ll scream for hours and beg for her life. Then I’ll finish off her bitch mother.”

“You’re nothing but a chickenshit coward. Meet me right now, face-to-face.”

The voice gave a snorting laugh. “Just remember this, clever Mr. Peoplefinder, anytime I want you, I’ll find you; when you least expect it, I’ll blow your brains out.”