Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“Why you?”

“I was his distributor.”

Driscoll leaned back in his chair and reflected on what he had just been told. He had his suspicions, but he still wasn’t sure why Novak was turning on Sanderson. “The guy into anything else?”

“There was a rumor he had a Web site. For what, I haven’t a clue. But it musta been another way of making money. It’d be an even bet he’s still using it. That guy could squeeze mercury out of a dime.”

“And the twins? How’d they play into this?”

“Beats the hell outta me. All I can tell ya is they were attached to him like a Vise-Grip. The guy’d go to take a piss, and they’d hafta tag along.”

“So they knew about the loft?”

“Musta. Where he went, they went.” Novak scratched his head. He looked puzzled. “You’re really liking them for the killings?”

“You know otherwise?”

“No. Nothing like that. It’s just that when I knew them, they were nice kids. I don’t think either of them was a fan of the leash, but from what I saw, they were both nice kids.”

“One more question, Novak. Why tell me all this?”

He grinned. “Sanderson was one cheap bastard. Had tons of money. All of it cash. Stashed it under the floorboards in his loft.”

So that’s where they were getting the money for their killing spree. Sure, the Crenshaw girl said the bills smelled of horses! A perfect place to store it, too. Right in the middle of their killing field.

“I doubt if Uncle Sam ever saw one nickel of the money. But a lot of that cash was mine. He cut me off when the judge pounded the gavel. Why go and do that? He coulda easily got it to me in here. But he didn’t. So, my compensation is seeing to it the guy gets busted.”

Revenge. Powerful motivator. “You said the stable was on East Sixtieth under the FDR?”

“Looks like a two-car garage. Sits across from a small park on Marginal Street. Painted battleship gray, the last time I saw it. Had a rusted sign hangin’ overhead. ‘No Vacancies.’”

The man grew silent.

“That it?”

“I doubt you’ll need more.”

The prisoner whistled, as he watched Driscoll stand, summon a guard, and head for the door.

As soon as Driscoll stepped outside the building, he called Margaret. “The con thinks their father’s still alive. Says his name is Gus Sanderson and that he operated a hansom cab inside Central Park across from the Plaza. Give the media a heads-up on the name and put a call in to the sheriff’s office in Carbondale. See if they have anything on a Gus Sanderson, then send someone up to the park.”

“On it.”

“I’m betting the father’s dead and that the twins are holed up inside a stable on East Sixtieth under the FDR. It’ll resemble a two-car garage. Some sort of loft up top. Painted gray. Call it in to Manhattan North. They’re to have the Nineteenth Precinct cordon off the area. No one moves in or out. The FDR skirts the river. Have the Harbor Unit send up two boats. And get a hold of Aviation. I want two choppers circling. They spot any pair in the vicinity, they’re to point them out so someone can intercept. Anybody comes within five hundred feet of that stable is to be intercepted as well. Let’s hope they’re home this time. I’ll be heading back with full lights and siren. Forty-five minutes. An hour, tops. If there’s no movement, I wanna be there when we go in.”

“You got it.”

“Where’s Cedric?”

“Sitting on Shewster.”

“Good. Fill him in on what’s going down.”

“Will do.”

Driscoll hesitated, not sure how she’d react to his next order. But he gave it. “I want a SWAT team onsite. Shooters in position.” He was sure he heard her take a breath. He held his, waited two seconds, then heard her say, “Done.”

Thoughts collided inside the Lieutenant’s head as he raced south on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Although Novak raised the possibility that Sanderson might still be alive, it’d be unlikely the twins would seek refuge in their father’s building if he were still in the picture, and every instinct told Driscoll that’s where they were. But were they alone? These two were psychos. Angus said the old man was dead but he didn’t say buried. Driscoll hoped they hadn’t pulled a Norman Bates or a Jeffrey Dahmer. Then there was Novak, who had confessed to pushing drugs. That couldn’t go unreported. Put an end to the killings first, wisdom suggested. The inmate’s not going anywhere.

“You’d like to see the sights of old New York, would ya?” Timothy Alfreds beckoned to a strolling couple, in his best histrionic cockney. The closest he’d come to London’s East End, though, was his being born on East Seventeenth Street, long before Starbucks opened at both ends of the block. Alfreds felt the accent added to the flavor and tranquility of the horse-drawn carriage ride through the park.

While he was fluffing the passenger pillows behind him, he heard a woman’s voice. When he turned about, a gold shield and a police ID were six inches from his nose.

“Jesus! What now?”

“I’m Detective Butler. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Detective First Grade Liz Butler was part of Driscoll’s task force. She was a no-nonsense, top-notch police officer who was good at retrieving information. From anybody.

Although Alfreds was suspicious of all investigators, he was relieved she wasn’t from the Department of Consumer Affairs, or worse, the Department of Citywide Administrative Services, who had the annoying habit of sending out an inspector to examine the carriage, its license, the laminated card that displayed the maximum charges, along with the horse. They did this, without notice, once every four months.

“It’s always a pleasure to help the authorities,” said Alfreds. “What is it you’d like to know?”

“Gus Sanderson. You know him?”

Butler caught his answer before he spoke it. The twitch of his left eye said he knew Sanderson. It also said Alfreds would weigh his words. There was a simple remedy for that. All men loved a flirt and she’d know when to turn it on.

“You’re looking at the only friend he had in New York,” said Alfreds. “He and I worked this circle for the past seven years.”

Her knack at gravitating to just the right person boggled her fellow officers. She claimed she was gifted. “The only friend he had in New York? As in past tense?”

“I guess we’re still friends, but I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

No twitch. “Why’s that?”

“He headed south.”

“South Carolina? South America?”

Alfreds grinned. “You never met Gus. Am I right?”

“What gives me away?”

“Gus wasn’t much of a traveler. He knew a hundred ways of making money. But a thousand ways to keep it.”

“No crime in that. How far south did his buck take him?”

“Pennsylvania.”

Alfreds was becoming less reticent. Butler was pleased. “Why Pennsylvania?”

“We,” he said, motioning in the direction of a handful of drivers, “have a friend there.”

“You and the other drivers?”

“Me and the other horses.”

Cute. “What kind of friend? Two footed or four?”

The man smiled. “You’re quick-witted. And it suits you.”

“Thanks,” said Butler, extending an open palm to the man’s horse.

“It might take Molly a minute or two to warm up to ya. The time would be cut in half if you had an apple in that hand.”

“Passed a few fruit vendors on the way up. None of them looked like they could make it through the alphabet. I hate it when I have to use my hands to illustrate what a pound of grapes looks like.”

“You’ve got a way with words, too. I’m guessin’ all your denim is made in America.”