The Craving (13 page)

“Just to see if it has any relevance to my case, but I doubt it does.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do at North? Aren’t you working on that Washington Heights shooting?”

Geri didn’t appreciate being talked down to. “Let me rephrase that,” she said. “Give me the phone number or I’m going to talk to my CO about taking over the whole case and, just for the hell of it, maybe a couple of other cases you’re working on.”

Mangel gave her Coles’s phone number. Then, glancing at his phone again, he said, “Is there anything else? ’Cause maybe
you
have a lot of free time on your hands to work on cases that’re going nowhere, but I don’t.”

Geri did have to get back uptown. Besides, she’d gotten all she could out of Mangel.

As she stood, Mangel got up too and said, “I’ll walk you out.”

Mangel held his hand out, as if saying,
After you
, and, as she walked ahead, Geri felt his gaze on her ass again.

Walking alongside her in the hallway, Mangel said, “Just want to apologize again for being so, what’s the word? … Aloof. Yeah, aloof. I mean, I hope you don’t hold it against me or anything.”

Remembering how Mangel had acted like a total dick before he’d met her in person, Geri said, “No big deal. Thanks for taking the time out to talk today.”

“So maybe we can get together again sometime,” Mangel said. “I mean another time just to, you know, talk shop. There’s this little bar I sometimes hit after work, the Subway Inn off Lex. You know where it is?”

Wow, he was inviting her out to a dive bar. Did this guy have class or what?

She didn’t want to lead him on to what would definitely be a dead end, but at the same time she wanted to keep him around, in case she needed some more info. How did that expression go? Keep your enemies closer? Well, the same thing applied to sleazeball cops.

“Sounds like a plan,” she said. “Let’s definitely keep in touch.”

On the street, she called the number Mangel had given her. After four rings, she got Diane Coles’s voice mail. She was going to leave a message, but decided to just call back later.

Driving back uptown to meet up with Shawn, Geri wasn’t sure what to make of the Olivia Becker case. There were still a lot of unanswered questions, but just because there were questions didn’t mean there had to be answers. Becker could be alive and well—in New York or some other city. Just because she’d been having some kind of breakdown didn’t mean she was suicidal. Maybe she ran away, started a new life. Or if Mangel was right and she’d jumped off a bridge, or
off a boat in the ocean, there was a chance her body would never be found. Who knows? Maybe she left the city, went to Hawaii, and dived into a volcano. And even if her body was found, it didn’t mean she was killed, or that it had anything to do with Michael Hartman or Simon Burns.

But something still felt off about the case to Geri. Becker’s friend had claimed that she’d seen Becker turn into an animal? What the hell was that all about?

Back at Manhattan North, Geri met up with Shawn, and the rest of the day her major focus was the Washington Heights shooting. Several new tips had come in, but nothing sounded very hopeful.

Around five o’clock, Dan McCarthy came by Geri’s office and said, “Guess who I just got off the phone with.”

Had Mangel called him and told him she’d come by to talk to him?

Ready to get blasted, Geri asked, “Who?”

“The police commissioner,” Dan said. “As you can imagine, he wasn’t thrilled to hear that it didn’t work out with Carlita Morales. He’s losing patience and I am too.”

“So what do you want me to do,” Geri said, “arrest the wrong guy just to make you look good?”

“No,” Dan said. “I want you to arrest the right guy to make me look good.”

Geri updated Dan on the latest with the investigation, which was pretty much where the investigation had been from the get-go—nowhere.

“Look, I have faith in you,” Dan said. “I really do. I know you’re great at what you do and you’ll eventually get a break, so please don’t take this the wrong way. I just have to cover my own ass on this thing too.”

Geri didn’t get it. “What do you—”

“Rob and Derrick are gonna be working with you and Shawn,” Dan said.

Why wasn’t Geri surprised? Rob Santoro was Dan’s golf buddy. Derrick Reese was Rob’s partner.

“What’s this,” Geri said, “my punishment for making a few calls about the Olivia Becker case?”

“I’m not nearly as petty as you think I am,” Dan said. “As you’ve pointed out, we need as much manpower as possible on the Heights case, so I’m just giving you what you want. And don’t worry, you’re still lead detective—for now anyway.”

Dan left, and then Geri, muttering to herself, swiped some papers in front of her onto the floor. She wasn’t sure what she was more upset about: Dan butting into her case or using that word—
manpower
. Yeah, like that wasn’t intentional.

Apparently Dan hadn’t wasted much time getting the news to Santoro and Reese or—more likely—he’d told them they were on the case before he’d bothered to tell Geri—because Dan hadn’t been gone a minute when Santoro poked his head into Geri’s office and said, “Meeting in two in the conference room.” His expression was all business, but Geri sensed the smugness underneath.

Dan and Shawn also attended the meeting. Geri got everyone up to speed on the investigation. They all agreed that the idea that the shooting was DDP-related was still the most likely scenario. They also agreed that it was highly unlikely that James Arrojo was the killer, and Geri and Shawn expressed their concerns about Carlita Morales’s reliability as a witness. After Geri was through, Dan divvied up the investigative responsibilities on the case: Santoro and Reese would focus on questioning all known DDP associates in the area and in prison, especially at Rikers, while Geri and Phillips would
oversee the canvassing in the area. Geri wasn’t thrilled with this, as she felt it was likely the bust would come from a known entity, not a lead that fell from the sky, but she kept her mouth shut.

Maybe her feelings were obvious, though, because Dan said, “Something wrong, Geri?”

“No, everything’s perfect,” Geri said. “This isn’t an ego thing for me. Let’s just get this son of a bitch … today.”

Geri and Shawn spent the rest of the afternoon through the evening in Washington Heights, talking to everybody they could, but there were no breakthroughs. There was nothing from Santoro and Reese either. Geri had been working for seventeen hours, almost nonstop, and she was zonked.

At about eleven o’clock, she took the subway back down to Hell’s Kitchen and went to the diner on Tenth for her BLT and pea soup. Today no kids bothered her, and Carlos, at the counter, didn’t say anything about what had happened last time. They just had their usual chitchat in Spanglish and then Geri flipped though the
Daily News
. There was a story about the Washington Heights shooting, how the police hadn’t made an arrest and residents were concerned that there could be an increase in gang violence. Geri read part of the article but was too frustrated to finish it. She checked her phone to see if she’d missed any messages; nope, but while she had the phone out, she figured she’d try Diane Coles again.

The phone rang a few times, and Geri was expecting voice mail to pick up again. This time she’d leave a callback number, a short message.

Then a woman answered. “Hello? Can I help you?”

“Hi, my name’s Geri Rodriguez, I’m with the NYPD, homicide, I’m calling about—”

“We’ve had enough with detectives, okay?” The woman sounded
angry. “We told you everything we know and at this point I’d appreciate it if you respected our privacy.”

“This’ll only take a few minutes of your time and—”

“I told you, we’re not talking anymore. And did you say you were with the NYPD?”

“That’s right.”

“In New York?”

“Yes.”

“Why’re you calling here anyway? What does this have to do with you?”

“I just have some follow-up questions about an investigation you were already questioned about. It should only take a few minutes.”

“Now the NYPD wants to talk to us? This is unbelievable.”

“Ma’am, I—”

“Whatever this is about, I’m sure your colleagues with the Grosse Pointe police can fill you in because I’m through talking.”

“Grosse Pointe?” Geri was lost.

“Yes,” the woman said, “where did you think you were calling?”

“Manhattan,” Geri said. “Am I speaking with Diane Coles?”

The line was silent. Geri thought they might have been disconnected.

“Hello,” Geri said.

“This is Diane’s mother. I guess you didn’t hear.”

“Didn’t hear what?”

“My daughter’s dead. She was shot to death in our driveway three days ago.”

Geri let the news settle.
Dead? Shot to death? What did this mean?

“I … I’m so sorry for your loss,” Geri finally said.

“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” Diane’s mother clicked off.

Geri remained, phone to ear, listening to the silence.

“L
uke, I am your father.”

Simon was in the master bathroom in his apartment, looking in the mirror, practicing his James Earl Jones impression. It really was incredible how deep his voice could get. He used to have a normal tone, not particularly high or low—but now he spoke so deeply he could probably sing like Barry White.

Just for the hell of it, he crooned a couple of lines of the chorus of “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe.” Wow, not too shabby. He knew what he was singing the next time he went to a karaoke bar.

“Simon?” Alison was in the bedroom right outside the bathroom.

“Yeah?” Simon said, his face suddenly hot, like a teenager caught sneaking a drink from a liquor cabinet.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah, um, everything’s fine.” Simon turned on the sink. “I’m just, um, finishing up shaving.”

Actually Simon hadn’t started shaving yet, but he needed to badly. Although he’d shaved last night before bed, he already had what he used to consider about three days’ growth.

After shaving his face, he used the grooming feature on his razor to trim his chest hair. Then he cleaned up the little strands of hair from the floor and exited the bathroom. Alison was standing near the bed, fully dressed, in jeans and a thin leather jacket.

“Oh, you’re ready to go already,” Simon said. “Sorry, I guess I lost track of time. I’ll be ready in about two minutes.”

Simon took out a pair of jeans from the dresser drawer and pulled them on.

“Were you singing Barry White in there?”

There was no way to deny it. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I was.”

“Since when do you like Barry White?”

“What do you mean? I’ve always liked Barry White.”

“Really?” Alison said. “The last time I put on Barry White while we were having sex, I think it was last year, you didn’t seem to like him very much then. What’d you say? Oh right, ‘The music’s putting too much pressure on me.’”

Simon remembered that time when Alison, on advice from Dr. Hagan, their marriage counselor, had downloaded Barry White’s “Just Another Way to Say I Love You.” Hagan had suggested it as a way to create more romance and intimacy in their marriage.

“Well, I guess he grew on me,” Simon said.

Simon turned away from Alison, toward the closet, as he started to put on a sweater.

“I have another question for you.”

Oh no, had she noticed hair on his back? He didn’t have nearly as
much hair on his back as on his chest, but there was probably more than there used to be.

But she asked, “How did your voice get so deep?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Simon said, relieved they weren’t talking about back hair. “I guess it’s always been deep.”

“But I’ve heard you sing before,” Alison said. “You could never get nearly that low. You actually sounded a lot like Barry White just now.”

“I guess it’s never too late to discover new talent,” Simon said.

Seeming more fed up than confused, Alison left the bedroom.

Simon was aware that there was still a lot of tension in his marriage, but it didn’t affect his upbeat mood. Since the cab had hit him yesterday evening and he’d walked away pretty much unscathed, he’d been feeling pleasantly uplifted. Like anyone who has a near-death experience, he had a new appreciation for life and being alive, but he was also starting to fully understand the enormity of what he had become.

Pretty much all Simon knew about his condition was what Michael’s father, Volker Hartman, had told him, and it wasn’t much. Volker had come to Simon once, very briefly, downtown along the river near Battery Park to warn Simon about the threat Michael posed. He’d told Simon that werewolves—though he’d used the German word,
wolfe
, pronouncing it “vulf”—lived longer, and he explained to Simon that the only certain way to kill a werewolf was to rip its head open by tearing its jaw apart. Simon had confirmed that this method actually did work, as he’d used it to kill Olivia. Simon saw a flash of his hairy hands prying her jaw apart, and remembered the sound of her ligaments and bones snapping and the warm blood shooting against his face. God, how had he actually
done
that? After all, she’d been no slouch; Simon had seen her, or
it
, toss
Ramon and Charlie around, and even bite off a chunk of Charlie’s face, but Simon had somehow fought her off and had been able to reach into her mouth and grab her lower teeth in one hand and her upper teeth with the other. The teeth were sharp wolf teeth and cut into his skin, but he’d been so determined to stop her and save the guys that he was able to ignore the pain, or block it out, and continue his relentless assault.