Alex Barclay - The Caller

Joe followed Anna through the restaurant but he couldn’t avoid stopping at one table.

‘Oh. Hey, boss,’ said Joe. ‘How you doing?’

‘Joe,’ said Rufo, sliding his hand away from his date’s. ‘Good. I’m doing good.’

Joe nodded and looked towards the door where he could see Anna standing on the corner about to step out onto the cobbled street to hail a cab.

‘This is my… this is Barbara Stenson,’ said Rufo. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Barbara, Detective Joe Lucchesi.’

Joe turned back to them, hovering.

‘Hi,’ said Barbara. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Likewise. Great place for dinner.’

‘One of the best,’ said Rufo.

‘We like it.’ Barbara nodded.

‘You on your own?’ said Rufo.

‘Uh, no,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve had to rush off. I just left Danny Markey and Gina on their dessert.’ He stared at Barbara as he spoke. She held his gaze.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘After this, we were going to take a walk, have dessert somewhere else.’

Rufo frowned. ‘We were?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘My little surprise.’

Rufo looked like the happiest man alive.

‘Catch you later,’ said Joe, nodding.

‘Take care,’ said Rufo.

Joe didn’t tell him he had sauce on his tie. And he definitely didn’t tell him Danny had slept with his girlfriend.

Joe shared the elevator to the sixth floor with Irene, who he knew only from her name badge; black backing, gold print. They had never spoken. She had thin lips, flossy grey hair and sharp metal glasses. Joe pitied anyone who had to go through Irene to get what they wanted. They had taken the elevator with babies, bouquets of flowers, beautiful people, singing people, even a clown, and none of them had cracked her. She represented a day he hoped he wouldn’t have.

The smell of Colombian coffee filled the office, but when he went to get some, both pots were empty. The detectives in the task force corner all had fresh cups.

Denis Cullen sat alone at his desk.

‘Yes,’ he said suddenly, slamming his hands onto the desk. He stood up. ‘Everyone? I’ve got the perp’s way in.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Joe.

‘He’s got something the vics want,’ said Cullen.

He cleared his throat. ‘All the vics cancelled their credit cards a week or two before they died.’

Some of the men nodded. Others waited for more.

‘Right, OK,’ said Joe. ‘So they all had their wallets stolen. That would explain Lowry’s two wallets. He got the cards re-issued. Then he gets his original one back. The night he died.’

Cullen nodded. ‘Perp’s got their wallet means he has their address, phone number, place of work. Calls them up, they’re so grateful. And hey, everyone’s going to trust the guy who’s honest enough to return a wallet.’

‘He can spend as long as he likes with it beforehand,’ said Joe, ‘thinking about the victim’s potential, looking through their things, checking where they shop. He can call the house at different times, see whether there’s always someone home. He might rule someone out if they’ve kids, someone with kids is going to have photos in the wallet-’

‘Lowry had a kid,’ said Rencher.

‘Yeah,’ said Joe, ‘but every Sunday they went to her ma’s. The perp could have noticed that, Lowry could have mentioned it on the phone, we don’t know.’

‘Also,’ said Cullen. ‘He can take a wallet and never choose that person as a victim. He could have wallets of people he’s never called.’

‘Bobby, Pace – you were on the phone records, right?’ said Joe. ‘No-one noticed they all must have got an incoming call the night they died?’

‘That’s not for sure,’ said Bobby.

‘Well, did you notice anything unusual in the incoming phone records?’ said Joe.

‘We would have said,’ said Pace.

‘Do you mind if I take a look at them?’ said Cullen.

‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Bobby. ‘Knock yourself out.’

Joe was walking away when the phone on his desk rang.

‘Detective Lucchesi? Joe Lucchesi?’

‘Yeah.’

‘My name is Preston Blake.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I… uh… is this confidential?’

‘If that’s what you want, sure,’ said Joe.

There was silence at the other end. Then faint breathing, deep, but quiet.

‘Sir? What can I do for you?’ said Joe.

‘You’re working on The Caller case. I saw your name in the paper.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I think… The Caller…’ He inhaled, long and slow.

Joe waited.

‘He tried to kill me.’

Joe sat down. ‘Kill you?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Six months ago.’

‘Mr Blake, have you been following all the media reports on the investigation?’

‘Yes… but that’s not why I’m calling. This is real. This really happened.’

‘Is this your first time getting in touch with us, Mr Blake?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Joe. ‘Please, tell me what makes you think it was The Caller.’

‘I let him into my home, he stripped me naked and beat my face and pulled a gun on me.’

‘How did you get away?’

‘I overpowered him and he ran.’

‘Are you sure it was the same guy?’

‘Did any of the victims have… was there a phone near them…?’

This time Joe went silent.

‘Mr Blake, can I take some of your details? My partner and I would like to pay a visit to your house, talk to you a bit more, if that’s all right with you.’

‘I… don’t know if it is.’

‘Let me start with getting a few details, OK? Your name again.’

‘Preston. P-R-E-S-T-O-N Blake.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘04/16/72.’

‘And where do you live?’ said Joe.

‘1890 Willow Street in Brooklyn Heights.’

‘Me and my partner would like to drop by. You home this afternoon?’

‘I don’t know if I can do this. I… no-one has been here since… no-one.’

‘You’ve made this call, Mr Blake. That means you want to help. We’re not going to do anything to make things worse for you. I can promise you that. We’ll stop by, ask you some questions and then we’ll be outta there. If this is the killer, you’d like to see him caught, right?’

Blake sucked in a deep breath. ‘You must have seen what he did to his victims. You must have seen their corpses… the living proof might be harder to take.’

Brooklyn Heights was a quiet upper middle class neighborhood, one subway stop – but a world away – from Wall Street. At three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, the main action on the residential streets was nannies with strollers taking kids to the tiny playground by the promenade.

‘These are some very nice houses,’ said Joe.

He took a left onto Willow Street, lined with trees and perfectly kept terraced brownstones. Preston Blake’s house was on the right-hand side, close to the corner, a narrow, three-storey over-basement Anglo-Italianate design with an antique black door.

Joe rang the bell and spoke into the intercom. ‘Mr Blake? It’s Detectives Joe Lucchesi, Danny Markey.’ They held their badges up to a small security camera mounted in the right-hand corner above the door. After several seconds, they heard a series of muted beeps from inside. They waited, then counted the halting slide of bolts that ran from the top of the door to its base. The door opened inwards, but was hinged on the same side as the keyhole. Joe and Danny exchanged glances. No-one appeared. Joe pushed the door gently and walked inside. His chest was hit with a constricting spasm as he took in the vast white expanse around him. Suspended from the ceiling by thick steel cables were evenly spaced rows of six-foot tall, two-foot wide white perspex bookshelves. White, high-gloss floor tiles shone with the reflected overkill of hundreds of shelf-mounted spotlights. Joe stepped forward and felt a surge of regret. Every book title was a desperate search for relief, a net cast wide across disciplines; acupuncture, angels, auras, Buddhism, meditation, reflexology, reiki, yoga. Joe and Danny hovered, emotional intruders. They turned to the man who didn’t look like he’d found an answer in any of these pages.