“You okay?” Thibodaux said, snapping his fingers to break Bowen’s trance.
The deputy exhaled quickly, coming back to the present. “I am outstanding,” he said. “Thanks for asking.” He left the bloody bat where he’d found it.
The apartment was small, consisting of a living room and kitchen just inside the front door. The bathroom was tucked in behind the kitchen, adjacent to a single bedroom. The kitchen was tiny — what Bowen’s Coast Guardsman father called a one-butt galley. Thibodaux alone took up the entire space. Considering the piles of dirty laundry, porn magazines, and video games that covered the floor, the bedroom was too small for both men to stand in at the same time.
“Gallons of blood here,” Bowen said, looking across the empty apartment toward the door. “And blood on the garbage chute.”
“I know,” Thibodaux said. The big Cajun gave a sour grimace, as if he was sick to his stomach. “I guess we should go look in the basement. What you wanna bet we’re gonna find our shitbird down there with his head stove in…”
The darkness of the basement was greasy with diesel fuel and the sour stench of garbage from the twenty-four apartments on the floors above. Deputy Bowen reached around with his left hand to search inside for a light switch, pistol at waist level and standing outside the fatal funnel of the metal threshold. Jacques Thibodaux was two steps behind him. Some people liked to search an unknown area with flashlights, but in most cases, Bowen preferred to throw as much light on the matter as possible right from the beginning. The odds that anyone would hide where they’d dumped a body were long, but Bowen had never walked into any dark basement including his own without feeling there was something lurking in the shadows.
And there was — a black rat the size of a small dog. The thing looked up with pointed eyes and made a little phhht sound that Bowen imagined was the sound rats made when they were disgusted. It didn’t seem too fazed by their presence but waddled off, raising its tail toward the two men in what must have been the rat version of flipping them the bird.
“I hate rats,” Thibodaux muttered.
“I got more blood,” Bowen said, pointing with a bladed hand to the garbage chute above a rusty, powder-blue dumpster as soon as his eyes adjusted to the light.
They made a quick sweep of the room before stopping to investigate the blood, checking the double doors across from the Dumpster where the garbage truck would back up from the alley. It was secured with a padlock, but the dented metal man-door beside it swung freely, with nothing but a hole where the knob was supposed to be.
“Puddles of blood, rats, and lord knows what else,” Jacques said, taking a quick peek into the alley. “This place is spooky as shit. Apparently, the management feels that no one in his right mind would come in here to steal anything.”
Satisfied they were safe from ambush, Bowen held his breath and leaned over the lip of the Dumpster to find two bodies partially wrapped in blood-soaked sheets.
“Neither one of these looks like Petyr,” he said.
“Holy hell.” Thibodaux came up behind him to see for himself. He gulped, eyes glued to the carnage. “Neither one of ’em look much like anybody anymore,” he said.
The Cajun was right. Whoever bludgeoned the two men had left little to identify their faces. It was no wonder there was so much evidence of a violent death upstairs in Petyr’s apartment.
“I’m pretty sure they’re dudes,” Thibodaux said, regaining his composure by slow degree. “Middle Eastern maybe, but that’s about as far as it goes. Let’s get a couple of photo—”
The almost imperceptible scuff of a footfall on concrete drew both men’s attention toward the stairs. Thibodaux put a finger to his lips and drew his Kimber and pointed it toward the doorway. Bowen’s Glock was already in his hand. Bowen nodded that he understood and took up a position to the right of the door while the Marine stepped to the left, angled to avoid crossfire. Pistol muzzles angled toward the floor, both men froze, waiting. Bowen knew it was likely the super or someone else connected with the building but after seeing the bludgeoned faces, neither he nor Thibodaux was willing to take any chances.
The scuff of another footstep whispered down from the stairwell, followed a few seconds later by a third — then silence. Bowen was just beginning to wish he’d left the lights off when the point of a leather boot, followed by a knee, crept slowly into view.
Because of their angles, Thibodaux was closest. He gave Bowen a wink, and nodded to the Glock while he holstered his Kimber. Bowen understood immediately that he would provide lethal cover while the big Marine, one of the strongest men the deputy had ever seen, would grab whoever came through the door.
They didn’t have to wait long.
A glimpse of brown flashed through the doorway. Thibodaux pounced, snatching what appeared to be a sleeve. He ended up with nothing but an empty corduroy jacket. Whoever was on the other end turned and tore back up the stairs, heavy boots slapping the concrete steps in an all-out sprint.
“Cochons!” Thibodaux said, drawing his pistol and doing a quick peek around the threshold before bolting through the door and up the stairs. Bowen followed a half a step behind, catching just a glimpse of a bearded runner before he rounded the landing above, swinging himself around the steel railing with one hand as a pivot.
“I… hate… stairs…” Thibodaux ranted as he ran, in perfect time with his feet hitting the steps.
The bearded man hit the fire door hard at the top of the landing, shoved it open and ran onto the roof. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, echoing in the concrete well like a gunshot.
Faced with the closed door, both Bowen and Thibodaux slowed. Each knew better than to rush out into the unknown. The metal door opened outward. Crouching in the stairwell, Bowen tipped his head toward an exit sign above and frowned.
“Fire exit,” he said, catching his breath.
“Great,” Thibodaux said. “Our turd’s just waltzin’ his way down the fire escape while we’re trying not to get ourselves killed.”
“Or he’s waiting right outside the door to shoot us,” Bowen whispered. He glanced at the door handle, which was nearest to where Thibodaux stood. “What do you think?”
The Marine flung open the door in answer. Bowen did a quick buttonhook, rolling around the threshold to allow Thibodaux fast access behind him. It was too easy to get bunched up and play Keystone cops going through a door with a man as large as the big Cajun.
Through the blue darkness between the night sky and the black tar roof, the arched supports of a rusted fire escape ladder over the lip of the building squeaked and moved under the load of someone climbing to the ground. Bowen ran to the edge and peered over, just in time to see the bearded man jump into the passenger side of a dark sedan that waited on the street below. They sped away without any lights.
“Tell me you got a good look at him,” Bowen said as Thibodaux came up beside him.
“Oh, hell yes, I did,” Thibodaux sighed.
“It wasn’t Petyr,” Bowen said, waiting for Thibodaux to confirm what he already knew.
“Not unless he’s grown a black beard, lost fifty pounds, and turned into a track star.”
Bowen bounced his fist on the lip of the waist-high cinderblock parapet that ran around the edge of the roof. “I’ll get with NYPD. They may have some cameras down on the stree—”
The metallic squeak of the stairwell door sent a chill down Bowen’s spine. He froze, shooting a sideways glance at Thibodaux and held his breath. The quarry gone, both men had relaxed too quickly.