shops. It’s one rule for us and another for them. They’re squeezing guys like you out. Good guys like you. They’re the Neanderthals, they’re trying to destroy America from within, trying to fuck up our gene pool. Infected, they are, infected with this ape-gene. I love this country, man. I love it. But it’s got a disease right here under the skin and it’s carried by all those fucking types.’
Heming took another beer and pressed the cool bottle to his cheek. His pale blue shirt was stained with sweat under both arms. He carried three days of stubble and his eyes glowed red from staring into the dark, night after night, alone with his mind-rotting theories.
Karl reached out towards a chipped wooden bench and felt for a wrench. He found it and moved across to the open hood of an old car. He leaned into the engine. Heming watched for a moment. ‘These people have tentacles. They control Wall Street — and if they control finance, they control government — right? They’ve got us wrapped around their fingers. And what else? Out there, in the world, we were once a proud nation. Now we’re drowning in shit with our reputation dying because they got us into a war with the whole rest of the fucking world. Playing second fiddle, maybe even third fiddle.’
Martin remained by the open fridge letting the cool air dance around his heated face. He drank in quick gulps. Then he turned to the car that was absorbing Karl Leer more than he was managing to do.
‘You see, Karl, you got to go to the top of the mountain to see the lay of the land. The spread, the forces at work. You’ve got your head stuck down in the valley. Heh, listen to me, don’t be getting distracted by the fucking car.’
‘I’m working, Heming, I got rent to pay. You don’t work, you’ve got it easy, you got time to get all worked up. You should do something positive.’
‘Don’t tell me what I’ve got. They’ve taken the lot. My wife, my money, my freedom. Don’t tell me what to think, Karl, they took it all and they’ll take it from you too, if you sit back and let them. This government is destroying us. Our own government is infected with their thinking. We need to do something.’
Martin wandered back to his seat with another cool one. He twisted open the bottle and put it to his lips. The cold beer passed across his tongue and down his throat. He wiped his mouth. ‘I should do something positive, you’re right. You’re right, Karl, I got to do something real positive. Not wait around for the fucking world to change. Do something. You hear that? We got to do something. You got that fucking right.’
Chapter Fifty-Four
Harper walked out of the investigation room, leaving Denise to work on the profile. He took two more codeine pills, knowing that in fifteen minutes he’d feel the subtle change of mood, a feeling of peace — happiness even. It was low enough, background enough to carry on working.
He felt in his pocket for the small piece of card. What did he do now? He pulled out the card. Erin Nash’s name in red lettering. She knew something and was interested in what was happening out there. She would sense what was going on. Erin Nash would maybe write an article that could help them to steer things.
There was plenty to write about, Carney had been clear about it. There was hate crime all over. Maybe Erin could upset the ship a little, warn the public about this freak. Maybe get Heming’s picture out there.
He dialed her number. Erin answered immediately. ‘Who’s calling?’
‘Detective Harper, NYPD.’
‘So formal. Tom, good to hear from you. I’ll book us a nice cosy table in Greenwich Village.’
‘What?’
‘You want to talk to me about this serial killer, I’m guessing, so why not talk somewhere comfortable?’
‘How did you know what I want?’
‘I’ve got many friends. They all like to talk to me. Some like more than that.’
‘What are they telling you?’
‘That Harper thinks there’s a hate killer out there. A pattern killer. Maybe a killer with a racial motivation.’
‘You work this out?’
‘I heard about the new body on Lower East Side. I also heard you were looking into the Esther Haeber murder. That’s three dead Jews, Harper. I can count, you know. That makes a series.’
‘How do you get all this information?’
‘I don’t know — I think it’s something to do with my nature. People just like to open up to me.’
‘I know your nature and you’ll do whatever you have to in order to get information, including debasing yourself.’
‘Nothing debased in sleeping with a cop, Detective. You should have more self-esteem.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Come on, Harper, lighten up. I like you, let’s get together. See what happens.’
‘To talk about the case.’
‘And that too,’ said Erin.
‘Two Jewish women and one Jewish man got shot. But there’s no real connection. I might be way off- track.’
‘That’s not your style, you’re usually spot on. Of course, you might not have been calling about the case at all. Let’s consider that for a moment. I look forward to seeing you, Tom. Be nice working together — unless, of course, it’s something else you’re after.’
‘What’s the restaurant?’
‘Little deli. Nice place. Mosha’s.’ She gave him the address. ‘See you in one hour.’
Harper ended the call. Erin Nash was used to using people, but in this case, Harper had an idea, a way of getting a great big spotlight turned on these murders. He needed Nash, because he needed the public to start giving him information.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Mosha’s was a simple table-screwed-to-the-floor Jewish deli that had once had a reputation for the best something or other, but had long since stopped giving a damn for quality just so long as things were served quickly and people were happy.
Jake Mosh, the owner, still worked the front desk. Harper arrived before Erin Nash and waved towards a seat. ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ he called across to Jake.
‘No way you wait for someone. You order something. This is not a bus stop.’
‘Get me a coffee.’
‘Coffee is not good for you, a man needs to eat. I get you a waiting plate.’
‘Okay.’
‘One waiting plate for the cop.’
Harper looked around.
‘What? You think you look like you write novels in Greenwich Village? You got that cop look, always checking out all the things. Cops have the wandering eye.’
‘You always like this?’
‘Like what? Like noticing things?’
Harper sidled into a tight space in a corner. A cop seat. No one behind him, a good view of the whole deli. He was only just in his seat when a teenager with dark hair put a coffee cup in front of him.
‘Taste it. Best coffee in the world.’
