The Battle of Jericho Page 8

  Jericho finally pulled away. “We can’t,” he said.

  “I know.”

  They sat there breathing heavily. He was still hard. She was still wet.

  “Look,” Maria said. “The car windows are all fogged up.”

  “Yeah, like we’re two high school kids makin’ out.”

  “This is what we used to do in high school,” Maria said. She wrote “M” on the fogged up window and drew a heart around it.

  Then Jericho drew “J.” And after hesitating, he surrounded it with a heart. “I guess this means I’m taking you to the prom.”

  “You better.”

  They both laughed.

  “Listen, Detective,” Maria said. “You think now I could call you by your first name?”

  Jericho didn’t respond.

  “I know it’s Neil,” she went on. “I saw it on the duty roster.”

  “I never use it.”

  “How come?”

  “I just don’t like it,” Jericho said. “And I think it would be better if…if you didn’t use it either. We have to be careful…not to give the impression…”

  “We have to keep things…professional.”

  “Yes. What we did…what we felt…it’s not against regulations, but it is frowned upon. And POs don’t generally work with detectives — I’m sure there’s some resentment in the detective squad. Plus, the fact that you’re a woman…”

  “They must be great detectives if they figured that out,” Maria said.

  Jericho laughed.

  “Well,” Maria said. “I guess I’ll get going.”

  Jericho nodded.

  Maria kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Jericho said. “Goodnight…Salazar.”

  “Goodnight…Jericho.”

  She laughed softly, got out of the car, and disappeared into the night.

  As Jericho watched her go, he realized this was the first time since Susannah that he felt a real connection with a woman. And it felt good.

  CHAPTER 24

  Aaron Platt got up at eight AM to get ready for school. After putting on his clothes, he noticed his laptop was missing from his desk. His cell wasn’t on the nightstand either. His TV was gone. He fumed, realizing his mother the bitch had confiscated all of it.

  He bounded down the stairs and confronted her in the kitchen. “Ma, what the hell?”

  “Watch your mouth!”

  He looked at her with loathing. She glared back, her hair in plastic rollers, her pink satin housecoat bulging with her oversized breasts. God, he hated those tits!

  “You took all my stuff,” he shouted.

  “Hey, you took my stuff too — my sneaker and a shoe tree from my Manolo Blahnik flats.”

  “Okay. But you have no right…”

  “I have every right — I’m your mother. If your father was alive he’d beat the bejesus out of you. Your behavior is out of control. You steal, you lie, you write weird letters to the police, you wised off at that detective. And, God help me, you may have had something to do with the deaths of those women.”

  “That’s bullshit. Whatd’ya think I am, some kinda perv?”

  “The detective said I should deal with you in my own way, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. You’re gonna do nothing but go to school and come home and think about changing your behavior.”

  “C’mon, Ma.”

  “I’ve taken all your electronic toys, your video games, your bike, your TV, and I’ve locked them all down in the basement.”

  She pointed to a key hanging from a braided leather lanyard around her neck. “I’ve got the key right here, where you can’t get it.”

  “And when is this fascist regime gonna end?”

  “When I say so. Your juice and cereal is on the table. You better eat fast because you’re walking to school today.”

  Rage boiled inside Aaron. The situation had become intolerable. Something had to be done. He’d think about it on his long hike to school — until he came up with a plan.

  Down the block from the Platt house, Officers Brian Koster and Les Nicholson were on surveillance duty in a nondescript Honda sedan. Their shift started at seven AM and the boredom was already getting to them.

  “We shoulda brought more coffee,” Koster said.

  “Yeah. And donuts. No wonder it’s a cliché cops always eat donuts on surveillance. At least it gives you somethin’ to do.”

  “I don’t get this,” Nicholson said. “What’s to stop the kid from slippin’ out the back?”

  “I asked the Chief about that. He said there’s no reason for the kid to sneak out, long as he doesn’t know he’s bein’ watched.”

  For a while they sat there in tedious silence.

  Then Koster spoke up. “Look — there he is. Must be on his way to school. Duck down!”

  The two cops slid themselves down out of sight.

  “Wait one minute then we can follow him,” Koster whispered.

  “What the hell you whispering for?”

  Koster looked at the second hand on his watch. After a minute he said, “Go!”

  Nicholson started the car and spoke as they drove slowly. “The Chief says the kid might be a serial killer. He doesn’t look like that to me.”

  “Hey, Son of Sam looked like a fat CPA.”

  Aaron trudged down the street, resigned to walking the three miles to East Hampton High. He’d seen the Honda parked down the street when he left the house. Now he glanced furtively behind him and saw the car cruising slowly. He shook his head. Re-tards in blue!

  “Jesus,” said Koster. “I think he made us!”

  “Maybe. But keep goin’.”

  “We better not tell the Chief the kid made us,” Koster said. “It’ll be our ass.”

  “Agreed.”

  Aaron had History, Math, and English in the morning. He didn’t pay much attention; he was preoccupied with figuring out a course of action.

  At lunchtime he sat with his pal Richie Chang. Richie looked more Goth than Aaron. His black hair was spiked with mousse and he had four tiny rings on one ear. He was cultivating a Fu Manchu mustache, which suited him since he was Chinese-American. But it wasn’t cultivating very well.

  They spoke quietly in the din of the crowded cafeteria. “Listen, dude,” Richie said harshly. “Yesterday you told me to bring cash to the shack and I did. I waited for two fucking hours and you never fucking showed. I’m pissed.”

  “Yeah, sorry, Chango,” Aaron said. “Stuff came up.”

  “What stuff?”

  “The cops…they found out I wrote those letters.”

  “How?”

  “They say they found my fingerprints.”

  “I thought you wore gloves.”

  “I did. Guess I fucked up.”

  “I told you not to write them,” Richie said. “I thought we agreed, after the swastika thing — to be extra, extra careful pulling off another stunt.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. They nailed me, not you.”

  “So how come you didn’t get arrested?”

  “I talked my way out of it — you know me,” he said. “But this detective, he’s sharp. He wants my ass. You know the po-lice — they’ll stick some coke in your backpack, then bust you for possession. I’ll be a two-time loser and they’ll send me up to Attica.”

  “Christ,” Richie said. “Did he ask you about your mom’s sneaker?”

  “Yeah,” Aaron said. “I said I did it. I had to.”

  “I told you not to do that either.”

  “I told him it was a joke.”

  “Why the hell do you have to make a game out of everything?”

  “What else is there?” Aaron said. “Either you play or you get played.”

  “Sure, but enough is enough…”

  “Look, Richie,” Aaron said. “I gotta, like, get outta town right away.”

  “Where you gonna go, dude?”

  “Phantasmago
ria Club in Amityville. Remember we went there last summer?”

  “Yeah, it was awesome. Remember those two emo chicks?”

  “I’ll hook up with some other Goth kids who can show me the ropes — y’know, how to live on the street. Then I’ll just play it by ear.”

  “Cool.”

  “I’m gonna need some bread.”

  “That’s what you said the last time…”

  “I know. I’m sorry. C’mon, Chango!”

  Richie sighed. “All right, all right.”

  “How much money you got?”

  “’Bout a thou. I’ve been raidin’ my dad’s wallet for about a year now. I’ll give you, like…three Benjamins.”

  “Can you spare four?”

  “Forget it, dude.”

  “Okay. Meet you at the shack around eleven tonight. Can you get outta the house?”

  “Shit, yeah,” Richie said. “You’re gonna be there this time?”

  “Shit, yeah.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Jericho was in Starbucks having his morning coffee when his cell phone dinged, indicating an e-mail. It was from Alvarez.

  We got a DNA match from the dead skin cell sample you sent over. We can now confirm that foot number two definitely belongs to Ann Richman.

  No news yet from NY Forensics Anthro Lab regarding the nature of fibula and tibia cuts on foots number one and two. Hope to hear today.

  Stand by.

  The Chief was in his office when his secretary buzzed him. “Lefkowitz from the East Hampton Patch is on the line.”

  Krauss groaned. “Put him through.”

  “Chief?”

  “Yeah, Sam.”

  “Guy named Richman called in. Says his wife is missing. Says he reported it to the police. Can you confirm?”

  “Uh, uh, no comment,” Krauss said. “But can you not print it, Sammy? We’re in the middle of an investigation.”

  “He took a full-page ad offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who had information about her.”

  “You gotta kill it.”

  “Sorry, Sid,” Lefkowitz said. “It’s a paid-for ad. He placed it in The Star as well. And you know we’re a daily, so we’re scooping The Star on this.”

  “C’mon, Sam…”

  “Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” The reporter hung up.

  Krauss was furious. Publicity could only screw up the investigation, make him look ineffectual. He phoned Jericho and ranted about Lefkowitz.

  “Chief,” Jericho said, “Richman’s within his rights. He was angry and frustrated when we interviewed him. I guess he felt he had to do something.”

  “It’s us who have to do something!” Krauss yelled into the phone.

  Jericho answered him calmly. “What you have to do is give the press the story on the second foot. And say there’s no evidence at this point to connect it to the first foot.”

  “And what are you doing?”

  “We’re doing our work,” Jericho said. “Look, there are two possibilities here. Either Richman took these ads because he’s genuinely concerned, or — since it’s possible he killed his wife — he did it to make it look like he’s concerned.”

  “So which is it? Did Richman kill his wife?”

  “Look, Sid,” Jericho said patiently, “if his wife is a homicide victim, the husband is always a suspect. But right now we don’t know her cause of death. If her foot was cut off by a person, clearly she was murdered. But if it was bitten off by a fish, we can’t be sure. I’m hoping forensics will clarify things.”

  “What about the Platt kid?” Krauss said. “Could he have killed Mrs. Richman?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly. Possibly. That’s all you keep saying to me.”

  “How ’bout — maybe, conceivably, perhaps, perchance?”

  “Goddammit!” Krauss bellowed so loudly Jericho had to hold the phone away from his ear. “You’re sayin’ Richman coulda done it, or the Platt kid coulda done it — thank God I’ve got him under surveillance. And what about the first murder? Did one of them do it? Or was it somebody else entirely — somebody who killed both women?”

  “Calm down, Sid,” Jericho said. “Just remember, without bodies we’re flyin’ blind here.”

  “Okay, just give me your best guess on where we are in this investigation.”

  “Well, as Maria would say, quien sabe?”

  “Well, as I would say, figure it the fuck out.” The Chief slammed down the phone.

  Later Jericho got a call from the medical examiner. “Hey, Jericho. This is your favorite cut-up.”

  “What’s goin’ on, John?”

  “Interesting new development. It’s complicated, which is why I’m phoning you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Alvarez said. “When I examined the sock from Ann Richman’s foot, I found a tiny black human hair. I put it under the scope and brought in my colleague who’s a hair expert. He says it’s Asian hair — probably Indian or Chinese.”

  “Can you get DNA?”

  “There’s no follicle, so I can’t get nuclear — only mitochondrial. I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Well, hopefully we’ll find a suspect we can match it to.”

  “Yeah, but remember — it’ll only be a reference sample, nothing definitive.”

  “But it might help.”

  “You making any progress?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “I know the feeling. Talk to you later.”

  Jericho thought about that strand of hair. Alvarez said it could be Indian or Chinese. Wait a minute, there was a Chinese-American kid I busted with Aaron Platt on that spray-painting charge. What was his name? Oh, yeah — Richard Chang.

  Aaron and Richard were close friends. Together they’d committed a hate crime. Could they have killed Ann Richman together? Or could Chang have done it alone?

  Was Chief Krauss right (God forbid) — was this a thrill killing? Two kids bonded together like Leopold and Loeb, murdering in a sick desire to commit the perfect crime?

  And what about the first victim? Did they kill her too? I suppose it’s possible. (No wonder the Chief hates that word.)

  Jesus, slow down! I don’t even know if the hair is Chinese. It could also be Indian.

  Why am I getting ahead of myself? That’s not my style. Maybe what happened with Maria last night has made me lose focus.

  His mind drifted back to their kiss. Then he remembered the steamed-up car window, with the two hand-drawn hearts surrounding their initials. Jesus, he thought. I better Windex that windshield, just in case.

  It was then he knew for sure — he was definitely losing focus.

  CHAPTER 26

  At around ten at night Aaron lay on his bed listening to Death Metal Monsters through the speaker on his cell phone. His mother the bitch let him keep the cell so he could check in with her. It sounded like shit but at least he had music to occupy his time. Still, with the punishment she’d meted out, his life had become empty and his nerves were shot.

  The snare drum cracked relentlessly as the song “Monster Goth” was delivered in the gravelly voice of Ezekiel “Undead” Lassiter:

  “I’m a hard-hearted, black soul killer / Evil McKnievel in spades / Bringin’ death by hex, death by Lex, death by sex / Be very, very, very afraid.”

  Getaway plans whirled in Aaron’s mind, but his raw nerves made it hard to concentrate. I’ll walk to the LIRR station and take the train to Amityville. No, I might get spotted.

  He pulled his bedroom window curtain aside and peeked down at the street below. By the light of a street lamp he could see the same Honda sedan that had been surveilling him.

  Re-tards in blue, he thought. Watching me twenty-four/seven. WTF!

  I could sneak out the back door. Go through the woods. Is there a train tonight?

  He checked the printed LIRR schedule he kept in his desk. Shit! Nothing till eleven forty-three AM.

  I’ll steal my mom’s car and
drive there. No, her car keys are in her handbag, in her bedroom. And the cops might see me driving. Too dangerous. Best would be to go by bike — then I’d have a way to get around when I get there. But shit, it’s locked up in the cellar.

  He looked at his watch.

  Gotta get to the shack in an hour. Richie better fucking be there with the bread…

  Aaron turned off the music. He was feverish, hyperventilating — sure signs of an anxiety attack. It was because his mom had taken away his video games. That was like ripping away the essence of his life.

  He went to the bathroom medicine cabinet to take the Xanax the high school shrink had prescribed after the swastika incident. She’d told his mother Aaron suffered from narcissistic personality disorder, which his MTB promptly conveyed to Aaron. What a joke! If anybody was narcissistic it was the shrink, who thought she was hot shit. She suggested Aaron go to group therapy, to which Aaron replied, “Yeah, right.” She also wrote him a prescription for Xanax, but even that was dumb because the Xanax made him feel like a spaced-out zombie all day. So he quit it. Tonight, however, he had no choice — he was freaking.

  He grabbed the bottle of pills, went back into the bedroom, and took a couple without water — a skill he’d acquired three years ago when he began pill-popping. As he flopped down on the bed an idea formed in his brain. I knew I’d come up with something brilliant!

  He went downstairs to the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove to boil water. Meanwhile, he pulverized four two-mg Xanax pills in a paper napkin. He poured the hot water into a cup over a teabag of Sleepy Time herbal tea. After it steeped, he stirred in the Xanax, put the cup on a tray with some Social Tea biscuits, and brought it upstairs to his mother.

  She was in bed reading. Her hair was set in flexible plastic rollers, which she always slept with.

  “Brought you some tea, Ma. I know I been causin’ you grief. Maybe this’ll help you sleep.”