“I see.” Gannon knew she was on the brink of sharing what he needed. “And you’ve got his address there?”
“Uh-huh.” She blinked thoughtfully.
Greta reached for a notepad, clicked her ballpoint pen and jotted down an address, tore the sheet and gave it to Gannon.
“It’s about four blocks,” she said.
“Thank you.” Gannon tucked the information in his pocket.
“Be careful,” she said.
“Why?”
“He’s very strange.”
Oren nodded in wholehearted agreement.
“That’s why we’re helping you,” Greta said. “We think he needs help.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once I heard him in the store arguing with disturbing intensity.”
“Who was he arguing with?”
“No one.”
Gannon’s heart sank as he started walking to the address.
In minutes he’d gone from the high of finding his source, to the low of finding out that he was a whack job. Taking stock of all the energy he’d invested exhausted him, but he would see this through. Like a losing team, Gannon would play out the clock, he thought as he came to Shaw’s building. It was an eighteen-story apartment complex built in the 1970s with blond brick in the vintage of industrial eastern European blandness. To Gannon it bordered on Section 8 housing.
In the secure glass-walled lobby he went to the tenant directory and pressed the intercom button for number 1021, Shaw’s apartment, according to the video-store information.
No response.
As expected.
He tried two more times without success. When two white-haired women arrived from the elevator to exit, Gannon inquired about Harlee Shaw.
“Never heard of him,” one of them snapped.
The women eyed Gannon from head to toe and were careful to ensure the security door locked behind them before they left. Gannon didn’t care. He’d come too far to give up. He returned to the directory, pressed number 402—the button for the super. Within ten seconds the intercom speaker came to life.
“Yes?” A woman’s hurried voice.
“I’m Jack Gannon—”
“Are you here for a rental?” The woman cut him off.
“No. I’m concerned about a tenant.” Gannon glanced up at the camera recording him.
“Which one?”
“Harlee Shaw, in 1021. I have business with him and I’m concerned for his safety. I haven’t heard from him. He doesn’t answer his phone. It’s been a few days. I really need to check on his welfare.”
Gannon counted the seconds passing and got to five.
“Who are you?”
“Jack Gannon. I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance.” Gannon held up his photo ID to the camera.
“Step inside, please, and wait. I’ll be right there.”
The lock on the interior glass door buzzed and Gannon stepped into the lobby. A few minutes later, to the jangle of keys, a fast-walking woman of about fifty, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, arrived.
She looked Gannon over after they’d stepped into the elevator.
“A reporter, huh?”
“What do you know about Harlee?” Gannon asked.
“He lives alone and keeps to himself. Bet you hear that a lot.” As the car rose, she picked her way along her key ring. “I’m sure you know there are a ton of laws and policies about entering an apartment without permission.”
“I know.”
“But I have discretion if I think it’s an emergency,” she said. “Mr. Shaw’s late with his rent. He’s never late and I ain’t seen him. He hasn’t answered my calls on the phone and at his door, or picked up his mail. And now you’re here with a concern. I’m likely wrong, but I consider that an emergency and reason to check on his welfare. My name’s Shelly.”
“Jack Gannon.”
“Yeah, I saw that on your ID.”
The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. Shelly led the way to unit 1021 and knocked hard on the door.
“Mr. Shaw! Mr. Shaw, are you okay?” Shelly called.
Again, she rapped loudly then pressed her ear to the door. She turned to Gannon, shook her head, then inserted her key. As the door cracked, Gannon detected an odor. Then saw the security chain.
This is not good, he thought.
Shelly surprised Gannon when she produced a telescopic metal hook. She extended it, and with one expert move, used it to unfasten the chain, as though she’d done this before.
“Mr. Shaw!”
Noise from near and distant units, TVs and voices, filled the hallway, but inside everything was silent. The odor grew more intense as Shelly pushed the door open.
As they went down the apartment’s hallway, Gannon glimpsed the small kitchen, saw the table cluttered with take-out-food wrappers. A mountain of filthy dishes rose from the sink. Bugs feasted on the garbage strewn on the floor. It was hard to breathe.
“Mr. Shaw!”
As they entered the edge of the small living room, Shelly seized Gannon’s arm and released a guttural wail.
“Jeezus!”
Within a split second Gannon’s skin tingled, his mind struggled to comprehend what he tried to process as an elaborate joke.
It had to be a joke.
Something was waiting for them on a sofa chair. He saw a pair of boots, pants above them. Feet and legs in the boots, a T-shirt, a bare arm with an empty hand curled like a claw; another arm with the hand clamped on the end of a long-barreled gun pointed to where a head would be. A broom handle was inserted into the trigger guard of the gun. The head had been divided by a powerful explosion, the way a cannonball would plow through a pumpkin, propelling glops of cranial tissue in a volcanic eruption to the wall, the ceiling, the sofa arms, the table beside it.
Gannon fought to breathe normally, to think.
Shelly recoiled to the nearest wall, biting her fingers between spurts of, “Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ!”
Gannon turned to her.
“Listen to me, Shelly. Do not touch anything. Go now to the nearest phone, not the phone here, and alert police. It looks like a suicide.”
She started nodding.
“Do it now, Shelly! I’ll wait here.”
Gannon did not want the 911 call on his cell phone. He wanted the super to make the call. The instant she left, Gannon battled the roaring blood rushing in his ears. His heart was racing as he worked to gain control.
He only had a short time.
The apartment would be sealed once the NYPD arrived.
He reached into his pocket for his digital camera and began taking pictures of everything, including the blood-spattered note on the table. It looked as if it was written in ballpoint.
I never meant for this to happen.I am so sorry, Harlee.
Gannon took pictures of the note.
Then he flipped the camera to video mode. This was his only chance to look for answers about Harlee Shaw, his anonymous caller. Without touching a thing, Gannon recorded all that he could.
When he heard the sirens, he left the apartment and stepped into the hall. Shelly was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, hugging herself and cursing softly between pulls on her cigarette.
32
Queens, New York / Bridgeport, Connecticut
Lisa opened her closet.
Hanger hooks scraped on the rod as she rifled deep into her never-wear stuff and pulled out the dress, still protected in a Spring Breeze Cleaners plastic bag.
A chill shot through her.
She’d only worn it once.
I can’t do this. Yes, you can. You need to do this.
Lisa looked at the dress, swallowed and began rolling off the plastic.