picked up three times a week. He liked to keep two full sets of clothes in his locker, but he was down to one. He was walking back to his desk when his phone rang.
‘Joe, it’s Giulio.’
‘Hi. Everything all right?’
‘Yes. I saw your name in the paper the other day.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. It’s a shame.’
‘What’s a shame?’
‘All that attention.’
‘What attention?’
‘Can’t they leave you out of it?’
‘Who?’
‘The media.’
‘Dad, I haven’t even spoken to one journalist. They do their thing. I’m someone who was involved in some prominent cases. They make something of it, that’s not my fault.’
‘What I mean is you’re in the spotlight again, people are dredging up what happened to you and Anna and Shaun. You’ve got to think what this is doing to the family every time you put yourself out there.’
‘Here we go,’ said Joe. ‘I am not “putting myself out there” for the hell of it. I am heading up an investigation. It’s not like I heard there was a few homicides and some media attention and I said, “Great, yeah, sign me up for that, please make me the case detective.”’
‘I’m just saying-’
‘I know what you’re saying. Your facts are wrong. You can’t control the whole world, OK?’
‘I’m… concerned.’
‘Yeah, great. Look, I gotta go.’
Joe put down the phone and walked over to the coffee machine. It stank of sour milk and burned coffee. There were rings on the surfaces and coffee grounds scattered on the floor.
‘Everyone, clean up, already,’ he shouted. ‘Stop leaving this for Ruthie to do. She cracks because she can’t stand the mess. It’s not her job. She is too busy doing every other fucking job for you lazy sons of bitches!’
‘Thank you, Joe!’ shouted Ruthie from the reception desk.
‘Sorry, Mom,’ shouted Martinez.
Joe grabbed a paper towel and started wiping the surfaces. He bent down to pick up a ball of paper that had missed the bin. It was a stray printout from the Pages program he used. He opened it out. Someone had written ‘Season’s Greetings’ across the top in red felt-tip pen and drawn Santa hats on all the victims. Handwritten under the photo of Gary Ortis was: ‘Greetings from the Ortis family. This year Gary was murdered! His battered body was found in his hallway! He spent hours being tortured! And his killer’s still on the loose! Haaappy Holidays!’
Joe looked around the room at the people who first came together on this case: Denis Cullen – a man who would rather stare at figures all day so he could save his energy for visiting his sick little girl. Tom Blazkow – tough and thorough, Aldos Martinez – dedicated, but narrow-minded, Roger Pace – nothing more than Bobby Nicotero’s long skinny shadow, Fred Rencher – good guy, but not too sharp. And then Bobby Nicotero – Joe glanced down at the page – and his girlie handwriting.
‘For Christ’s sake, Lucchesi, that’s your freakin’ phone,’ shouted Martinez from across the room.
Joe threw the paper back into the bin and went to his desk.
‘Detective Lucchesi? Preston Blake.’
Joe couldn’t tell whether it was the line that had a hiss in it or Preston Blake’s voice.
‘Oh, hi ‘You fucking asshole.’
‘Mr Blake?’ said Joe, sitting down.
‘You clueless son of a bitch.’ He was sobbing.
Joe looked around the room, but couldn’t find anyone to get eye contact with. His cell phone vibrated on the desk in front of him. It was Danny.
‘Mr Blake, could you hold a moment?’ said Joe, punching the button anyway.
‘Joe? It’s Danny. I’m on my way in. Have you seen the front page of the Post? Do not take a call from Preston Blake until you do.’
‘What the hell is going on? And you’re too late – I’ve got him on hold.’
‘Uh-oh. Go to Martinez’s desk. He’ll have a copy. Blake has been named by the press as “the one who got away”. How the hell did that happen?’
‘How do I know?’ said Joe, walking over to Martinez’s desk and picking up the newspaper. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘We were the only ones who knew. I mean, very few people knew I was there. Rencher, Martinez, me, you, Rufo.’
‘Think you can hang up on him? Think the line might be faulty?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Or tell him you think you hear someone at his front door.’
Joe laughed. ‘I’ll do the honorable thing…’
‘What? Put him through to Rufo?’
‘Something like that. Gotta go.’
‘Call me after.’
Joe took the handset back up. ‘My apologies, Mr Blake. Could you give me the opportunity to read through the article before we have this conversation?’
‘Let me save you the trouble. “ Preston Blake, seen here in happier times ” – insert smiling photo – “ before he became the alleged victim of The Caller, the only one lucky enough to survive his horrendous attack.” And “ Preston Blake has been living the life of a recluse in his luxury Brooklyn Heights brownstone, rumoured to be the location of his vicious assault six months ago. Mr Blake refused to comment on The Caller’s latest victim, following the discovery of the mutilated body of Ethan Lowry on September 7th.” And let’s skip down here: “ While unclear how prolonged his ordeal was at the hands of The Caller or how extensive his injuries, Mr Blake has been visited by Manhattan North Homicide Detective Joe Lucchesi for assistance in his inquiries. Detective Lucchesi came to prominence -” and then there’s a bit about your tale of suffering and woe. You have my sympathies for that, as do your wife and son, but I am furious here. I am betrayed and exposed.’
‘I feel for you, Mr Blake. I really do. But I can promise you I had nothing to do with this disclosure. I have respected your wishes throughout this whole process. Would you like us to have someone watch the house? Would you feel safer?’
‘No. I invited you into my home, Detective. Do you know how many people have been inside my home since the attack?’ He paused. ‘I don’t have visitors. I spend months, sequestered, happily, if that makes sense, you show up and the game is up. Did you see? I’ve made the news. “How ironic” people will think in the way that stupid people do not understand the meaning of the word ironic-’
‘I don’t know what happened here, but I can assure you this did not come from me or anyone involved in the investigation.’
‘I just don’t buy that. Because it sure as hell did not come from me. This should not have gotten out. Can you imagine how violated I feel? Violation after violation. Is that what I can expect from life now, Detective? Do I sit back and accept that fate?’
‘You don’t. This will pass. The press are more interested in the perp. Because they didn’t have a bright, shiny new victim this week, yours is the story they went for. How they got it, we don’t know, but they’ll move on.’
‘Just like me, Detective. I’ve nothing more to say. What you need to do now is read and re-read every word of what I told you the day I was foolish enough to let you into my home. And here’s hoping you’ll find enlightenment in those pages. Because my cooperation ends there.’
‘It can’t.’
‘Oh yes it can.’
‘But you’re the only one who has seen-’
‘I’ve told you everything. And honestly? I can’t imagine a time where I’m sitting on the stand pointing at The Caller across a courtroom. Because I can’t imagine a time where you will gain the insight to apprehend him. If you
