Oliver Stark - American Devil

Harper reached into his backpack and handed her a green hunting hat with ear flaps. Denise pulled the hat over her head and tied it under her chin, then turned to Harper. He nodded in approval. ‘You look like Kyle from South Park.’

‘God, you know how to make a woman feel special,’ said Denise.

He raised his eyebrows and looked out to the ocean.

‘Listen, Tom, at least tell me what happened,’ she said, reaching out and putting her hand on his arm for comfort.

‘I got moved off the case. That’s it. I got moved off the damn case.’

Denise felt a lump in her throat but controlled it. ‘Remember what I taught you about revealing the detail, Tom?’

Harper’s head shook slowly. ‘The detail is I failed. The detail is that this maniac killer just duped us all and got me and half the team canned. So they’re going to start again with a new lead. Someone from Manhattan South. It’ll take them weeks to catch up. The killer’s going to be laughing. I feel so fucking useless, Denise, if you want the truth. So fucking impotent. And more women will die because of this.’

‘The killer set you up?’

‘Yeah, but we don’t know how, exactly. It looks like Winston Carlisle was being controlled and manipulated by someone. Witnesses saw another man visiting Carlisle on several occasions. Winston is a little vague himself but said he thought he was a doctor from the hospital. This guy, who we presume is the American Devil, sent Winston this list of instructions about how and when to stalk Kitty. Winston followed them to the letter. Let’s face it, I called the chase at the subway and it was the wrong guy.’

‘You didn’t fail, you took a chance. What do they want, police by numbers?’

‘That’s exactly what they want. Statistics don’t lie. We’ve got a serial killer in Manhattan, they asked me to catch him and I didn’t close the deal. I’m embarrassing some serious players up at the top of the tree.’

‘They want him caught in under three weeks? What the hell do they expect?’

‘Kitty Hunyardi died when we were busy interrogating an innocent man. The way it looks, we went way, way down the wrong track.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I made a mistake. I’ve been going over it in my head. I don’t know where it happened.’ Tom looked across at Denise. ‘I’m sorry for what I said about the profile. You were right to doubt Carlisle. I was pumped up. I saw what Sebastian wanted me to see.’

Levene stared up to catch his expression. ‘How did this Carlisle guy get caught up with Sebastian?’

‘Carlisle had a history of minor sexual assaults, and my guess is he made a good ringer. The killer must’ve come across him in the hospital on Ward’s Island somehow. They’re looking into it, but Winston said that the first time he saw this guy was at the halfway house. Sebastian chose him to make us look like fools. He could’ve left us to stew for a while, but he went for Kitty as soon as he could. I think he got jealous of all the attention Winston was getting. Maybe he had to show the world that the great killer was still top dog. And that the cops had fucked up.’

‘What was Erin Nash’s part?’

‘Sebastian met her in a bar, told her he was a cop, fed her information and ended up in her bed. He set that up too. He wanted the world to know what he was doing in all the detail.’

‘How is she? Quite a shock to discover you’ve been sleeping with a killer.’

‘Yeah, the shock lasted a good ten minutes, then she realized that she was sitting on a gold mine. You could see the book title running before her eyes: My Nights With a Killer by Erin Nash.’

Denise shook her head and started to pound her feet on the ground to keep warm. ‘Is there a cafe around here?’

‘Not at this time of year.’

‘Hell, it’s freezing.’ She stood up and they began moving on. ‘My thoughts on the profile have changed a little, Tom. He’s not going to be like the statistical norm, he’s one of the pathfinders. An original.’

‘It’s not my case any more, Denise. You’ll have to find another cop.’

‘Come on. Don’t give in so easily. What about the girl in the dumpster? Any leads on her?’

‘We identified her as far as we could. She had two tattoos that people recognized. We think her name is Lottie Bixley. She was a hooker. She went missing for four days and then turned up dead. No one thinks it’s his kill. It’s not his style. There’s no prints, no DNA, nothing.’

‘What about you, what do you think?’

‘I can’t quite believe it’s nothing to do with Sebastian. I found a cherry blossom petal in the dirt by the dumpster. You don’t find much cherry blossom in New York in November. Everyone else thinks I’ve lost it.’

‘It needs explaining.’

‘I know, and it’s one of three things. Either it’s one of life’s strange but random coincidences, one of us contaminated the scene or Sebastian was somehow involved in her death.’

‘Where would you put your money?’

‘She’s a hooker and there are no other similarities, but I would bet on Sebastian’s involvement.’

‘She was missing for four days. He’s not done that before, has he?’ Denise said.

‘Well, maybe I’m just reading too much into things. It’s only a petal.’

‘Unless Sebastian changed his MO radically because of some changed circumstance, like his wife and family were away for a few days and he couldn’t let himself miss the opportunity. It’s worth a look, isn’t it? Maybe he had an opportunity to keep one at his house for a while. Maybe he dumped her quickly because something disturbed him.’

‘I’d look at it, Denise, but, as I said, it’s not my case.’

‘You can’t give up, Tom.’

They walked along the sand until Tom stopped and his arm reached across to halt Denise. ‘Wait up one second.’ He put his binoculars to his eyes and felt a warm thrill reach right down to his stomach. ‘She’s a damn beauty. Take a look at that.’

Denise took the binoculars. It took her a second to find what Harper wanted her to see. There it was, sitting on a heap of white rocks, the wind buffeting its white feathers.

‘That’s what I came for. Isn’t it the finest thing you ever saw?’ said Harper, taking the glasses back.

‘What is it?’ said Denise.

Harper laughed. ‘That city-girl act is no act, is it?’ Denise shook her head. ‘It’s a snowy owl,’ he said and stared again at the yellow eyes, the ripple of black markings and the end of its hooked beak. ‘Looks beautiful, but it’s got some serious talons under those pretty feathers.’

The Jersey Bar, Harlem

November 26, 10.35 p.m.

The interior of the Jersey Bar looked just like Harper felt and that was how he wanted it. He sat on a red velvet barstool with a rip right across the centre and looked into the dim lights peering from beneath old yellowing shades. There wasn’t a barman in sight, only the streaks of dried beer running the length of the counter. Up back, a small wooden dance floor stood empty and looked as sad as a three-legged dog. Four other customers in various shades of lonely were stowed away in darkened booths and none of them looked like they wanted to talk, which was just about perfect. Tom slumped his whole weight against the bar and waited for someone to serve him.

They’d driven back over from Long Island in the warmth of her little Honda with the dog licking his neck the whole way. They’d talked a little more about the case in sentences that seemed to get lost in the sound of the traffic, and at some point she realized that he wasn’t listening and the case drifted away into the darkness. She let him out just over the Triborough Bridge, but he only managed two or three steps towards his apartment before he felt the old familiar sense of dread. The horrible fact of being alone was that you went home dog tired but as soon as you were through the door the bright lights in your heart flickered on and you were trapped with your own carousel of memories. Home was a place you sometimes didn’t want to get to.