O n Saturday evening, after he was sure Steve had left for one of his gigs, Howard Altman had let himself into Steve’s apartment. Carefully and skillfully, he had placed hidden cameras in the living room and bedroom. The video would be beamed directly into his computer.
Why didn’t I think of this sooner? he asked himself, as he set up the surveillance. Thanks, Steve, for making it so easy for me. Steve had left lights on in both rooms, as well as in the bathroom. Derek pays the gas and electric bill for him, Howard thought resentfully. He charges me for mine!
And Steve was a slob. His bed wasn’t made. A couple of those stupid costumes he wore to some of his gigs were piled on a chair. The hairpieces and wigs he used when he was acting out some of his characters were tossed in a cardboard box on the floor. Howard tried on one of them, a wig with long dark-brown hair. He stared at himself in the mirror, then ripped it off. He looked like a woman in it, and that made him think of that teacher who had once lived in this apartment and had been murdered.
I don’t know how Steve Hockney can live in a place that belonged to someone who was murdered, he thought. I have to get out of here.
On Monday morning, Howard went to pick up Mr. Olsen for one of their scheduled visits to the properties, but he wasn’t there. The super in that building told him that Olsen had already been picked up by a car service.
Deeply uneasy, Howard went to their usual first stop, the building where the Kramers were the supers. He was about to unlock the lobby door when it was flung open and a pretty young woman, tears streaming down her cheeks, ran past him.
Carolyn MacKenzie! he thought. What’s she doing here? He turned and raced after her, catching her a half block away as, remote in hand, she opened the lock on her car door. “Ms. MacKenzie, I’m Howard Altman. We met a couple of weeks ago when you were talking to the Kramers.” He spoke in a hurry, slightly out of breath.
He watched as she impatiently brushed away the tears that were still spilling from her eyes. “I’m afraid I really can’t talk right now,” she said.
“Look, I’ve been seeing your picture in the papers and reading all that stuff about your brother. That was before I worked for Mr. Olsen, but I wish I could help you somehow.”
“Thank you. I wish you could, too.”
“If the Kramers have upset you in any way, I’ll take care of them,” he promised.
She did not answer, but gave his arm a push to oblige him to get out of the way of the driver’s door. Howard stepped back, and with a quick movement, she had opened the door, closed it, and started the car. She did not look at him again as she backed up a few feet, turned the wheel, pulled out of the parking space, and was gone.
His face grim, Howard Altman headed straight for the Kramers’ apartment. They did not answer the insistent ringing of their doorbell. He tried to open the door with his key, but the security lock was on. “Gus and Lil, I have to talk to you,” he shouted.
“Go to hell,” Gus Kramer shouted from the other side of the door. “We’re out of here today. You can have this job and this apartment and everything that goes with it. And just so you know, Howie, you’d better watch your back. If Steve has anything to do with it, you’ll be looking for a place to live yourself. Now get lost.”
Standing there in the hallway, there was nothing Howard could do except leave. Was Steve making the rounds with Olsen? he wondered. Why else would Olsen have ordered a car service this morning?
There was one way he could find out for sure if Steve was around. Howard went back to his apartment and turned on his computer. Scanning the videocam footage, he noted Steve had been in and out of his apartment all day yesterday, but he was always alone. Now there was no one in his living room. So maybe he was out with Olsen, Howard thought, but then the bedroom camera showed Steve sitting in his underwear on the edge of the bed, trying on one after another of his wigs. The last one he selected was the one with the long brown hair. The camera caught him smiling at his image and blowing a kiss at the mirror. Then Steve turned and looked straight into the lens.
“Howie, I have my own security cameras installed here,” he said. “I need them. Some of my friends aren’t exactly trustworthy customers. If you’re watching this, or when you do watch it, have a nice day.”
With trembling fingers, Howard turned off his computer.
55
A t noon on Monday, Detective Bob Gaylor received a phone call from the young kitchen worker he’d met at the Mott Street shelter. “Hi, it’s Joan Coleman,” she said, sounding excited. “I promised to find out what I could about Zach.”
The squad room was noisy, but Gaylor blocked out everything but Joan Coleman’s voice. “Okay.” he said. “What can you tell me?”
“He’s on the streets for good. No more shelters, now that it’s warm. He showed up with his stuff near the Brooklyn Bridge last night, totally drunk. He was telling his friends that he might get a reward in the Leesey Andrews case.”
“He’s tried that. I don’t think it’s going to work.”
“My informant, Pete, is a young guy who just might make it. He’s an addict, but he keeps trying. He’s pretty clean right now, so I trust what he’s telling me.” She lowered her voice. “He says that Winters claims he has some kind of proof, but can’t show it because they’ll blame everything on him.”
“Okay. So, Winters was in the Brooklyn Bridge area last night?”
“Yes, near some kind of construction site, and he’s probably still around there. From what Pete told me, he has a lot to sleep off.”
“Joan, if you ever want a job in this department,” Gaylor said fervently, “you’ve got it!”
“No, thanks. I’ve got enough on my plate trying to do what I can for these poor guys.”
“Thanks again, Joan.”
Gaylor got up, went into Larry Ahearn’s office, and briefed him.
Ahearn listened quietly. “You thought Winters was holding back on us,” he said. “Looks as if you could be right. Find him and shake it out of him. Maybe he’ll still be drunk enough to spill his guts to you.”
“Have you heard any more from Leesey’s family?”
Ahearn leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I spoke to Gregg this morning. He’s keeping his father pretty sedated. He won’t leave him until this is resolved one way or the other.” He shrugged. “Having said that, you and I both understand that we may never know what happened, or what will happen to Leesey.”
“I don’t believe that,” Gaylor said. “You were right yesterday when you felt this guy wants attention.”
“I’m also beginning to believe he wants to be caught, but in a way that will be a spectacular blowup.” Ahearn’s hands curled into fists. “Gregg told me an hour ago that he feels so damn helpless. Well, so do I.”
As Gaylor turned to go, the phone rang again. Ahearn picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, and said, “Put him through.” Waving Gaylor back, he said, “It’s Gregg Andrews.”
Gaylor listened as Larry Ahearn said, “Of course if your father wants an appeal printed in the media, we’ll pass it on to them.” He sat down and picked up a pen. “It’s from the Bible. Okay.” He wrote as he held the phone to his ear, stopping Gregg Andrews once, to repeat something, then said, “I have it. I’ll take care of it.”
With a deep sigh, he put the receiver down. “This is what Dr. Andrews would like to have read on the television stations and printed in the newspapers so that Leesey’s abductor understands just how desperately he needs to have her returned to him safe and sound. It’s from the prophet Hosea:
“‘When you were a child I loved you…
It was I who taught you to walk, took you in my arms…
I was to you like those who lift infants to their cheeks.
I bent down and fed you…
How could I give you up?’”
Both men’s eyes glistened with tears as Detective Bob Gaylor left to search for Zach Winters.
Visions of dollar bills, stacks and stacks of them, were dancing in Zach Winters’s brain as he opened his eyes to see some guy standing over him. He had been curled up in one of his favorite spots, a construction site near the
