REVENGE Read online

  “See I’m not good at this. I don’t belong here. Besides, I’m going back to work. Internal Affairs took their own sweet time, but after a friggin week they finally decide my shot was good. You understand what I’m saying, girlie? I’m not coming back.”

  This time, not bothering to wait for a response, he left the hospital.

  He needed a drink.

  ***

  Gallagher’s Bar and Grill sat on the corner of Main and Third, a block from Sammy’s Deli. Sean O’Shay ran the cop bar like it was his own. Truth be known, old man Gallagher hitting ninety, with no kin, planned to leave the bar to Sean when he passed on to his reward. Everyone in town knew that as fact. Sean didn’t believe it. He stewed from day to day about what was going to happen to him. Most folks thought with all the worrying Sean did, Gallagher might out-live him. Sean hit seventy his last birthday so the possibility was there.

  Cops liked the bar because Sean, enmeshed in his own problems, paid little attention to their talk. Besides, he made the best corned beef sandwich this side of Ireland, and never served an ounce of booze beyond what he deemed a guy’s limit. No one left Gallagher’s drunk. At least not as far as Sean was concerned.

  Devlin slid onto the corner stool at the end of the bar, back to the wall, facing the door. Several off duty cops, gathered around the pool table, nodded their greeting when he entered, then went back to their game. He ordered an Irish whiskey straight up. “Make it a double, Sean.”

  Sean put an oversized shot glass on the bar in front of him, grabbed a bottle of Bushmills from the back bar and poured the drink.

  Devlin watched the amber liquid flow from the silver spigot topping the bottle into the glass. His hand trembled. His mouth watered in anticipation. As soon as Sean turned away he grabbed the glass and brought it to his lips, threw back his head and tossed the double shot down in one gulp. He’d really needed that.

  “You want a sandwich?” Sean asked. “I’m about ready to shut down the grill, but if you want I’ll make you one.”

  “Yeah sure, and another one of these before you go.” Devlin handed him his empty shot glass.

  Brian Banks, his one time partner, flipped a dark strand of unruly hair off his forehead, gave him a boyish grin, and clasped him by the shoulder. “Hey man, I hear IA cleared you.” He put a squeeze on the shoulder.

  Devlin shrugged the hand away and took a sip of whisky. No sense letting Brian see how much he wanted to down the shot as he had his first. “Internal Affairs had nothing to clear. My shot was good.”

  “I always said you were one lucky s.o.b.”

  “That’s what you think, Brian?” Devlin ran a finger around the rim of the shot glass. At the station, everyone went by last names. Devlin knew this was a means of sorting out the Bill, John, and Mary’s, but he also saw it as a means of respect. It had been that way with him and Brian Banks, at first. Now he only addressed Banks as Brian. Outsiders would think his form of address friendly, but he and every other cop on the force knew the true meaning: Former Detective Torrin Devlin didn’t like or trust Detective Brian Banks.

  “Don’t let it get you down, man.” Brian slid his five foot eight frame onto the stool next to him. “Shooting when you did, saved your life. It’s not your fault you got your shot off too late to do much good for the rookie.”

  Devlin wanted to smash the whisky glass in his arrogant face, but it would be a waste of good liquor.

  There was one like Brian in every precinct—the know-it-all cocky s.o.b. who wasn’t above turning on his partner or dropping a bloody glove if his case warranted it. The man was an ass when they rode together and from what he’d heard, hadn’t changed much since.

  “Too bad about the rookie though,” Brian persisted, not willing to let his remark go unnoticed. “Thing like that can mess up your life more than it is already.”

  “So much for good luck.” Devlin raised his glass in salute, and was rewarded with a little heat gracing Brian’s face.

  The detective stared at him, waiting.

  It was easy to see his ex-partner expected more of a reaction from him. In the old days, Devlin would have obliged. Brian would have been on the floor by now looking up at the ceiling. That was then. Now was now, and Devlin didn’t feel like wasting his energy on Brian Banks. He sipped the Bushmills instead.

  Sean put the corned beef sandwich down in front of him. “Anything else?” he asked, looking from the near empty shot glass to Brian.

  Brian shook his head.

  “I’m fine,” Devlin said. “Want half?” He slid the plate toward his former partner.

  You’d think he’d offered the man a plate full of poison by the speed his old friend Brian slipped off the stool. Razzing an old partner in front of his fellow officers might be acceptable in the eyes of their colleagues, but sharing a meal with the station cur could be a disaster for a smart, middle-aged dick like Brian who had his eye on the political trail.

  “Ah, I got a bet riding on Gonzales,” he hedged.

  Devlin glanced over at the players clustered around the pool table. Gonzales never missed a shot. He smiled. “Still going for the sure thing, huh?”

  Brian’s eyes narrowed. He clenched his fist, but made no move to act.

  Guess he didn’t have the energy for a fight either.

  “See you around, Torrin.” He sauntered away.

  Devlin bit into his sandwich. Shrugged. If things had gone differently back when—he wouldn’t be sitting alone at the bar munching on corned beef, nursing a shot. But like his old man had so often said … “He’d never learn to keep his nose out of other peoples business.”

  TWO

  Back a year ago they had a Jane Doe.

  By virtue of the time—4:02 pm—at which the report of a dead body came in, Devlin and Brian drew the case.

  A group of kids playing in the culvert under the thruway found the db on a Saturday afternoon. She was fully clothed in a navy blue men’s suit, a very feminine silk blouse, with undergarments to match. Small golden earrings were her only adornments. All the labels had been cut from the clothing. Her undergarments were strictly Victoria’s Secret. Sheer navy stockings, with not so much as a snag, and one high-heeled dark blue Jimmy Choo, completed her wardrobe. They never found the other shoe.

  At five hundred bucks a pop—he knew this because his wife, Tracie had once lusted over a pair of Jimmy Choo high-heels. They had bought a recliner instead. Devlin wondered what happened to the other shoe. Had it been lost or had the perp taken it as a souvenir?

  He estimated her age between twenty-five and thirty. Her dark brown hair was shoulder length; precision cut, straight across the back and sides. She wore makeup that even in death enhanced her cloudy dark eyes and full lips. Her manicured finger and toenails were polished French style. A woman of means, he concluded. A woman who would be missed.

  In a town the size of Grandview, New York, population hovering around 12,000, it was pretty darn hard to commit a minor infraction of the law without a witness or two. Other than the magnitude of this crime, what was different? Why hadn’t anyone come forward? Jane Doe’s picture had graced the front page of the two local newspapers and had flashed across the TV screens of both national and local newscasts for several days.

  No one came forward. No one admitted to knowing Jane Doe. No one claimed her body.

  Devlin had made a direct plea via the local news asking for any information, vowing not to give up until Jane Doe’s identity was known, and her killer brought to justice. It didn’t help. Jane Doe remained a mystery. Her case unsolved.

  A dump, they’d thought. Murdered somewhere other than Grandview and dumped in the culvert. On closer examination that scenario didn’t fly. The culvert was too hard to get to from the highway, especially carrying a body. Whoever put her in the culvert had to know the area. Besides, if the killer had just wanted to get rid of the body, all he or she would have to do was toss it along the side of the road. Instead, he had poised Jane Doe in the culvert, leaving her leaning against the wall, her legs splayed, waiting to be discovered.

  What passed as a CSI team, two off duty cops and a lab tech from the local hospital: taped, measured, photographed, and bagged all the debris. They vacuumed for fibers and trace evidence, found nothing of significance except for a smear of blood on the suit, which they later determined came from the victim. That was it.

  The autopsy placed time of death at approximately twenty-four hours before the kids found her. It showed the perp had attempted to strangle her before slashing her throat. Devlin found this fact interesting. Most victims, when being strangled, clawed at their attacker. Jane Doe’s nails showed no sign of that happening. They produced no foreign skin or debris. They were not chipped or broken. The medical examiner believed she was unconscious and that was why she hadn’t fought. The question which remained was why had her attacker stop strangling her, short of death, to use the knife?

  Her seductive pose was determined to be staging, shock value for whoever found her, as there was no vaginal trauma, no semen, and no rape.

  They had nothing until the lab identified the designer of the suit as Armani. Not many people in Grandview could afford such a garment. With the huge number of off the rack suits distributed to upscale stores, none of which were in Grandview, Devlin had started his search in New York City. After a week or so, they traced the suit through its manufacture lot number to Bergdorf Goodman. The suit had arrived in the store one month prior to Jane Doe showing up in the culvert.

  Such a suit cost a bundle, so why had the perp dressed the victim in it? Brian figured it was because of the blood smear they’d found on the sleeve of the jacket. Devlin could buy that. On the surface it sounded right, but he wasn’t so sure.

  They made a trip to New York. They flashed the victim’s picture around to some of the high-end boutiques and salons. No one remembered seeing her or having her as a client.

  The suit was another matter. The lot number led them to Lloyd De Mitt, manager of the men’s department at Bergdorf Goodman. He remembered selling the suit to a fair skinned man with a well-trimmed beard and a full head of brown hair.

  “It was a cash sale,” Lloyd said. The man didn’t live in New York and needed alterations made that day.”

  “Do you remember what they were?”

  “Not exactly, but I have a copy of the order on file. If you would follow me, please.” He went through a door off to their right and started to paw through a file cabinet. “Here it is.” He handed the work order to Devlin.

  “There’s no name or address,” Devlin commented.

  “That’s why I remember the sale. The gentleman insisted on waiting in our lounge.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “Alterations take time, Detective. When they are complete, we courier them to whatever hotel the gentleman is staying. This gentleman waited and took the suit home with him not necessitating the need for his name or address.”

  “Did you ask him for either?”

  “Detective Devlin, I’m sure you can understand that some of our customers have a need for privacy, therefore when personal information isn’t necessary, Bergdorf Goodman doesn’t pry.”

  “This slip says the jacket sleeves and trousers needed alterations.”

  Lloyd looked at the slip. “Yes. It was most unusual. As a rule when a gentleman has a slender frame he tends to have long arms and legs. That was not the case here. We cut three quarters of an inch from the sleeve and a half inch from the trousers. That would make the gentleman in question five foot five and three quarter inches tall.”

  Hair and beard along with height and the cash purchase were all the information Floyd had to offer.

  The Jane Doe case went cold, but continued to bug Devlin. He saw her in his dreams and couldn’t understand why no one had come forward to claim her remains. In his spare time he continued working the case. He figured someone had seen or heard something. In that department, his best bet was the kids and homeless people who hung out around the culvert.

  Neither group responded well to the police, but he kept trying. He re-questioned some of the down-and-outers who made their home under the bushes around the crime scene. No one claimed to have taken shelter inside the culvert, even though a fierce cold wind had blown the night of Jane Doe’s murder. They claimed they stayed out of the culvert at night. The drone of the traffic overhead was too loud for sleeping.

  Devlin doubted that. As a kid, he and his friends had played in the old culvert. Traffic sounds were audible, but dull. Of course, forty some odd years ago traffic wasn’t as heavy. Still he hadn’t believed the bums. He’d kept after them until King George, so dubbed because of the Burger King crown he wore on his head and the aluminum wand he carried in his hand, started mumbling that the Dark Prince put the queen in the culvert for safe keeping.

  Somewhere in George’s alcoholic mumbling, Devlin figured, laid a clue to Jane Doe’s identity, and her killer. All he had to do was find it. And find it he had. Or so he believed. Basic Murder 101—follow the money.

  In Grandview, that was easy. It led directly to the mansion on the hill, Jack Pellet the former mayor, and upcoming candidate for the state senate.

  Then the kicker. The commissioner, Ralph Mann not only had Devlin removed from the case, but demanded he stay out of it.

  What could he do? His nose wouldn’t stop itching until he scratched it. He had to poke around and find out why the commissioner wanted him off the case.

  At first, Brian had gone along with him. Then King George took them on a tour of the city and pointed out the Dark Prince, Jason Pellet, the great-great grandson of Horratio Grand, founder of the fair town of Grandview, and son to Jack.

  Jack Pellet stood close to six feet tall, and weighed in at around two forty. Therefore, he couldn’t be the owner of the Armani. Jason, on the other hand, was Grandview High’s all round jock and top basketball hero. The kid had topped off at around five-six until he’d had a growth spurt a few months back. The suit could have been his. The question Devlin had to ask was why would the kid wear a disguise to purchase a suit? Armani or otherwise. And wouldn’t Lloyd have recognized his customer as a teenager even if he wore a fake hairpiece and beard? Or had the soon-to-be senator gotten to Lloyd?

  What’s the old saying? “Money talks—Evidence walks.” Devlin could never prove it, but he figured Jack Pellet had whispered a few threats or promises in his partner, Detective Brian Banks’ ear. Good old Brian made a deal. Why else would he feel the need to go whining to Commander Bill Greene about Devlin’s continued investigation, and his talking the housekeeper into letting him into Pellet’s home without a warrant?

  Devlin had known it was wrong, and anything he found probably would not be admissible evidence in a court of law, but at the time he had felt driven. Pellet was out of town and all Devlin wanted was a look at his kid’s room. No one would have known except for Brian. Devlin squirmed. His memories opening the old wound, filling him with the pain of betrayal.

  The pissant hadn’t even had the decency to stand up to what he had done. Instead, Brian had the nerve to come to him with a sad story about how Bev, his wife, had made him go to Greene because she feared he was jeopardizing his career and his chance to go on to bigger and better things. End of story. Except now, less than a year later, it looked like Brian was about to lose his wife, and he didn’t seem to care all that much. Guess he figured with Bev gone he could have his pick of the fair ladies of Grandview. With his dark good looks and buffed abs, maybe he could.

  At any rate that ended their partnership and soon after Devlin found himself embroiled in an IA investigation. Demotion soon followed. Jane Doe’s case ended up in the slush pile.

  Devlin finished his sandwich, downed the rest of his drink, and contemplated another. Deciding against it he pulled a wad of cash from his pocket.

  “Here, Sean. Buy the boys a round on me.” He walked out without glancing toward his former buddies clustered around the pool table. Engrossed in the game, no one yelled a good-bye.

  “Shitheads,” he said as the door closed behind him. With no place else to go he headed home.

  The block where he lived was lit up like a Christmas tree. A bright red fire engine blocked the entrance to his street.

  ***

  Devlin mingled with the crowd watching the flames shoot out the roof of the garage. “God, oh, God.” His home. Benny’s garage. Guilt pricked at the back of his head. Had he left the hot plate on when he’d boiled water for his morning coffee? Benny had told him he shouldn’t have the damn thing. It was against code. That’s why he always unplugged the plate after he used it. Why couldn’t he remember what he’d done this morning? Christ, this last week he was lucky if he remembered his own name. Too late to do anything about it now. He’d deal with it in the morning. Right now he had to find Benny.

  He kept his head down not wanting anyone to stop him as he made his way through the crowd. He had just about reached his car when he heard his name called. Running wouldn’t work. He turned to face the raspy voice.

  “Torrin,” the voice said again as his smoke blackened cousin limped toward him.

  “Dammit. Are you all right?” He stepped closer, not doubting for a minute that Benny had run into the burning building to save whatever he could.

  Benny stumbled. “Kids,” he gasped falling into Devlin’s arms.

  Devlin held him, feeling his cousin’s pounding heartbeat, smelling oil, smoke, and the sweet odor of meat cooking over a fire pit. “Damn, man. You’re burnt!”

  “Friggin son of a bitch torched the place.” Benny choked, tried to clear his throat without much success. “He threw Molotov cocktails into the bay.”

  “A kid?” If a kid torched the place that let Devlin off the hook. A wave of relief washed over him. “A kid did this?” he emphasized, making sure Benny knew what he was saying. “You saw him?”

  “Shit, man,” he wheezed. “I was down in the pit working on a car.” He gulped for air. “The bastard walked right up to the rim. By the time I figured out what he planned to do, it was too late.” Benny hacked out a black glob of phlegm. “I’m lucky I got out.” He started to shake uncontrollably.