“Why don’t you come and take a shower? Then maybe you might want to eat some breakfast. Remember, we didn’t eat at all last night.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s the point. Why not shower? Maybe a shower will make you hungry.”
“Leave me alone,” Laurie snapped. “I don’t want to shower or eat. I just want to lie here.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “Meanwhile, I’m going downstairs to see how the police guy did with that call. Do you remember his name?”
“I never learned it in the first place,” Laurie commented, sounding like a true depressive, falling back onto the pillow. She would have loved to have slept, but she knew it was out of the question. She felt exhausted, depressed, and hopped-up all at the same time.
Jack went down the stairs to the first floor and knocked on the guest-room door. It was quickly opened. The plainclothes officer staying in the room immediately introduced himself. His name was Sergeant Edwin D. Gunner.
“It just dawned on me,” Jack said guiltily. “You haven’t had anything to eat. Would you like some breakfast?”
“Some coffee would be nice,” Edwin said. “I’m not much of a breakfast guy.”
“Did you catch that recent phone call? It was the kidnapper.”
“I did catch it,” Edwin said, following Jack back up the stairs.
“Could you trace it?” Jack asked.
“Absolutely,” Edwin said.
“To where?”
“To one of the remaining thousand or so public phones in the city. This one is in a twenty-four-hour Laundromat on the Lower East Side. Of course a squad car was dispatched as soon as the trace was completed, but don’t be optimistic. The kidnapper would have been long gone.”
“No doubt,” Jack answered. He quelled a fantasy about being there clutching something like a crowbar the moment the goon hung up the phone.
38
March 27, 2010
Saturday, 10:30 a.m.
Warren Wilson lived on the same block as Laurie and Jack but at the Columbus Avenue end. He’d taken the very first shift, starting at six a.m., to look for strangers watching Laurie and Jack’s building. Jack and Laurie’s building was several hundred yards in the direction of Central Park and stood out as one of the classiest buildings in the neighborhood, with neatly tended window boxes and a shiny brass knocker. At that time the window boxes were still filled with winter foliage.
To give himself a bit of cover, Warren had borrowed his downstairs neighbor’s dog. It was a pleasant little white thing that barked at everything, including cars. His name was Killer. Since there were so few people in the street at six a.m. on a Saturday, Warren had wanted some reason to be strolling up and down the block, and Killer was happy to oblige, as long as he was permitted to smell every tree and fire hydrant he and Warren encountered.
After Warren had left Laurie and Jack’s the previous night, he’d gone home and called five of his oldest friends, all of whom had lived in the neighborhood from birth. They all played basketball regularly and had gone to high school together. All were African-American like Warren. All worked and lived in the neighborhood and knew most residents by their first names.
Since it was Saturday they were more than willing to help. With good weather in the forecast, they’d already planned to spend the afternoon on the basketball court almost directly across the street from Laurie and Jack’s house.
Exactly a half-hour late for his stint, which was supposed to have started at ten a.m., Flash showed up. “Hey, man,” Warren said as Flash approached, slouched over, wearing dark glasses and hip-hop clothes. “You look a little worse for wear.”
“Don’t give me shit,” Flash said. “I don’t know why I agreed to this torture. Who am I looking for again, and why?”
Warren explained the situation as he’d done the night before. “Now don’t go to sleep on me,” Warren advised. “Because if you do, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“You and who else?” Flash joked.
For the four hours and thirty minutes Warren had stalked the neighborhood, he’d seen nothing at all suspicious. There had been surprisingly few pedestrians, and those he did see had expressed no interest in Laurie and Jack’s house. Nor had any particular vehicle driven up and down the block. In every way it had seemed like a normal early-spring Saturday morning on 106th Street, with chirping birds, a few dog walkers, and not much else.
As soon as he’d been relieved and had returned Killer to his owner, Warren went back to Columbus Avenue, picked up a Daily News at the Korean sundries store, and ducked into one of the many local coffee shops for a coffee and a bagel. He’d barely been able to read the headlines before his cell phone went off. Checking the screen, he could see that it was Flash.
Feeling annoyed that Flash was already bothering him, Warren answered the phone with his emotions apparent. All he said was “Yeah!”
“Pay dirt!” Flash said simply.
“What do you mean ‘pay dirt’?” Warren questioned with growing irritation. “You’ve only been there for fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t know how long it’s been, but I got a bozo here who’s looking might suspicious!”
“Really?” Warren questioned dubiously. “There’s no way you can tell if someone is a watcher in fifteen minutes.”
“This guy is acting awfully suspicious, acting like he’s here for the day, and I’ve never seen him before.”
“Yeah, well, you watch him! If he’s still acting suspicious after a period of time, then call me back.” Warren rolled his eyes and broke the connection. “Jesus Christ Almighty,” he said under his breath, tossing his phone aside as if it had been its fault for bothering him.
Fifteen minutes later, after Warren had eaten half his bagel, drunk half his coffee, and had breezed through an uninteresting sports section, his phone rang again. Again, it was Flash.
“Okay,” Warren said, still highly suspicious. “What’s happening?”
“He’s still acting weird. He’s a Jersey guy, or at least he’s got Jersey plates on the black Caddy Escalade he’s driving. It’s like he’s advertising he’s a watcher. At one point he suddenly climbed out, went through a routine of calisthenics.”
“Don’t get too close. People who are acting as watchers are hypersensitive to being watched themselves. In fact, how far away are you now?”
“Fifty feet or so. I’m across the street.”
“That’s too close. Move away and don’t look at him! I tell you what — go over to the basketball court. I’ll meet you there with a ball. We can pretend we’re practicing.”
“What if he moves his car? Do I follow?”
“No, if he moves just try to get the plate number without being obvious.”
“Got it.”
With a gulp Warren downed the rest of his coffee. Snapping up his paper, he ran out of the coffee shop. When he reached 106th Street, he purposely slowed to a walk. As he headed for his house, he could see Flash entering the playground. He could also see a black SUV parked on the playground side of the street.
“Where have you been?” his girlfriend Natalie questioned casually when Warren came through the apartment’s front door.
“Out!” Warren said, opening the hall closet to get one of his several outdoor basketballs.
“This early?” Natalie questioned. Saturday morning was the morning of the week that she and Warren generally lazed around. “What time did you go out?”
“Around six,” Warren said, coming into the living room and giving Natalie a peck on the cheek.
“Six? What on earth were you doing outside at six?”
“Walking Killer. But look, I’ll explain it later. Flash is out on the court. We’re going to practice a bit.”