Oliver Stark - American Devil

She shook her head. Harper continued: ‘You just might be an accessory after the fact. Anyone who receives, relieves, comforts or assists an offender in order to hinder or prevent his apprehension, trial or punishment is an accessory after the fact. Do you understand? We’re going to arrest you, Erin. Now open your mouth. Who is it? Where did you get this? We need to know, Erin.’

‘Okay. I’ve been briefed by a cop in Homicide. One of your team, Detective Harper. One of your own fucking team.’

‘Who?’

‘A guy. We had a drink.’ She was twisting in her seat. How the fuck did she get out of this one? She had no idea. Maybe last night had marked the end of her career, not the beginning.

‘Sleep with him, did you, Erin?’

‘That’s not against the law, is it?’

‘Is that how you got the information? Sexual favours?’

‘Fuck you, I’m a grown-up, I can sleep with who I like.’

As he was about to speak, Harper’s cell phone buzzed. He picked up and listened. The room went deadly silent as Harper ’s face tensed, and then his eyes closed momentarily. The duty sergeant on the line had just got a call from the patrol at Kitty’s apartment. It wasn’t good news. They’d found Kitty Hunyardi’s body and she was posed just like Erin Nash’s article said, with her hands removed. But there was one important fact that Erin had missed. Kitty’s body was still warm and a copy of the Daily Echo was sitting by her head. She’d been killed after the paper had come out. Harper listened and then hung up. Kitty had only just died. Harper turned to Erin, his face very harsh.

‘Who’s your source, Erin? Believe me, this just got fucking serious.’

‘He said he worked on your team.’

‘I want a name, Erin.’

‘Mark Garcia. I looked him up. He’s authentic. He works your team.’

Harper pointed to the shocked cop standing at his side. ‘This is Mark Garcia. Was this the guy?’

‘No,’ Erin said, her voice trembling. ‘That’s not Mark Garcia. He was much taller, dark-haired, slightly grey.’ She stared at Harper’s face. ‘What is it? What’s with the look? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s happened?’

‘You slept with this guy? This fake cop? You let him in your apartment?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘About three weeks ago? We spent the night together a few times. He gets in touch by phone. We talk. He didn’t seem that interested in me. Who is it? Who the fuck is it?’

‘When did he last call?’

‘Yesterday evening. He told me all about Kitty’s murder. I just had to run with it.’

‘What can you tell us about him?’

‘It was a while ago. Like I said, he was nice-looking, had salt-and-pepper hair and was about six foot one or two. Tell me what the fuck’s going on, please!’

‘That call was from the precinct. Kitty Hunyardi has just been found murdered in her apartment. Her body’s still warm. How the hell did your source know about a murder before it had even been committed? How did you know?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t think.’

‘Then let me spell it out for you, Erin — there’s only one person in the world who can know about a murder before it’s been committed.’

Erin was shivering and shaking her head. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. She’d kissed the guy, slept with him. Jesus!

‘Your source, Erin, the man you brought back here to fuck around with. The man you let into your apartment. The man you’ve been helping all along.’

‘No, please!’ Erin Nash’s face drained of colour. She was completely still. Shock was paralysing her. She couldn’t speak.

‘It wasn’t Mark Garcia feeding you the information. It was the killer — the American Devil — he’s your fucking source, Erin. You’ve been sleeping with the American Devil.’

Rockaway Beach, Long Island

November 26, 3.12 p.m.

Out on Rockaway Beach, the Atlantic winds snapped across the two walkers’ faces in sharp icy bursts. Up above, the sky spread out bright and cloudless. ‘It’s cold as hell,’ shouted Denise Levene as she struggled along with her chin deep in her collar. Ahead, the athletic figure of Tom Harper continued to push its way along the edge of the surf, binoculars scanning left to right.

Kitty Hunyardi’s death had knocked everybody off their feet, including Harper. The investigation went from elation to sudden meltdown. Then it got worse. The press had been primed by the police commissioner to hunt for their victim down at North Manhattan Homicide and they descended like a swarm of angry bees. And Harper got stung, along with everyone else who worked Homicide that day. The public were frightened, the press were stoking the sense of outrage and wouldn’t let up. Winston Carlisle was not the American Devil. He was a set-up.

It had been a tough time for Tom, but worst of all was the horrible realization that the American Devil was still out there, planning his next kill. Harper found himself wishing that the battle-hardened Nate Williamson was at his side as they fielded press questions. Nate would’ve told it how it was. No soft soap, no apologies, just iron with a sprinkling of lead. He’s a maniac killer who’s trying to fuck the city up, confuse us and throw us patsies. It’s a fucking game to him — what do you think he would do, hand himself in? Tom heard Williamson’s voice in his head and couldn’t believe he missed the guy as much as he did.

And there was one other piece of bad news that Harper hadn’t yet told Denise. At the end of the twelve-to-four shift the previous day, Captain Lafayette had called Harper into his small glass office on the fourth floor and twisted his mouth sympathetically. That wasn’t a good sign. Harper saw it and shook his head. He was off the case. He was off Homicide. He was off active duty. Harper was asked to hand his shield and gun over. He did so in silence, the two men awkward and clumsy.

They needed a carcass to throw to the press pack and it was the lead detective first. They needed to say that a new lead was being given the ball. If that didn’t calm the situation down, the commissioner would just keep humping bodies out the door. Lafayette would be next. ‘I’m sorry,’ the captain had said. Harper had smiled thinly and walked out.

The long white sands reached out as far as they could see. From Jacob Riis Park all the way to Atlantic Beach, the sea rolled white crests over and over with a relentless crashing beat. The two friends were buttoned up against the wind, their hair flapping wildly. Denise’s spaniel was running all over the beach, his big soft ears flopping around in the wind. Denise had heard about the murder of Kitty Hunyardi on the news but could only guess how Harper was feeling. She tried to contact him all through Sunday, but he’d gone for a long walk.

‘I thought you wanted to talk,’ said Denise.

‘Yeah, but walking is better.’

‘Better to keep it all inside till it ruins you. Just what I would’ve recommended, as your psychologist. It’s a surefire way to mental health.’

‘Not much to say, Denise. I’m here for some R and R — and I want to show you something.’

‘There’s nothing here that could possibly be worth seeing.’

They walked up the low dunes that reached towards the streets running across Long Island. Tom stopped by a low sign cautioning against the tide.

‘The great unknown,’ said Tom, staring out across the vast ocean.

The grey water was churning and beating the shore with a frightening regularity. Denise pushed her hands into her coat and sat down. ‘You got a hat or something? My ears are gonna fall off.’ Fahrenheit appeared between Denise’s legs and placed his muzzle on her lap. She stroked his warm fur.