Manner of Cruelty
author: bebe (bebe0216[at]hotmail.com)
rating: pg-13
acknowledgements: Thanks once again to my fantastic beta, made to suffer through a sluggish, unedited hack job I called "the draft before this one." She is sooo awesome.
author's note: Wow, thanks for the stellar reviews! I am sorry that my updating pace is slow--if I were that good at writing that I could update every day, I would.
For today's part of the story, I want to clarify something: Detective Sergeant is an actual rank used by the Colonie Police. As silly as it sounds, it's for real: I looked it up on their website. They also have a "Special Investigations" unit; the characters in this story are fictional members. I wanted to get that out of the way so that nobody looked and said "huh? This is stupid." The fact is, I like to use real details, so for the most part, unless it's got to do with an OC, it's "pulled-from-the- headlines" or "I-saw-it-on-my-ride-home" real. Additionally, I do not share Sean Grady's views. I heard them expressed by a person I know, and felt that they fit the persona of the character. I do not endorse what he says; I also strongly discourage smoking, but not self-caffeinating. That's fine by me.
I'll be posting status reports on this story and any future ones (this is gonna be a series, donchaknow) on my author page here on ff.net, so if you are curious, you can check there for when the update will be. Now bust out the popcorn; on with the show!
(Edited 6/20/04--removed MAJOR error.)
Chapter 2
"Well, they built this place recently," Olivia announced as the pair of detectives disembarked.
Elliot looked at his partner quizzically for a minute. He wasn't yet awake; if it hadn't been for the sharp lurch as they'd pulled into the station, he'd still be sleeping happily and bound for Montreal.
"Used to be just one big waiting room, with a greasy spoon in the corner masquerading as an 'upscale eatery,'" she laughed, looking up at the modern high ceiling as the two walked toward the exit door. She caught her partner's confused look and added, "you know, back when I would take the train home on my breaks from Siena."
"Right, right," mumbled Elliot. He felt sticky; he rubbed his eyes; he walked smack into a man.
"'Ey, man, watch where you goin'!"
Olivia looked at her partner with muted surprise. "You all right?" she asked as they stepped out through the large, tinted safety glass doors.
They were nearly blasted back by the heat. Over every car, over the pavement, and out through the trees and across the Hudson toward the Albany skyline, the background wobbled in the haze. The blacktop was like an oven burner, and they could feel it through the soles of their shoes.
"Wow," Elliot managed. "It's, ah, a little hot out here."
Olivia held one hand up to block the sun and scanned the area. At the edge of the lot was a bus shelter packed with teens and one morbidly obese man in a tank top and shorts. Beyond that, traffic was at a standstill, with a lone police cruiser inching along on the shoulder to get around the jam. The teens were roughhousing one another and the man was hunched over on the bench, trying to avoid them. Elliot, too, had his hand up to shade his eyes. He was watching the teens.
"Elliot."
"What?" he asked, his attention unwavering.
"Don't stare."
Elliot turned and grinned. It was his disarming grin, the one that always worked on her to get her to grin back--and she did, for a brief second. But her expression turned serious and she laid a hand on his arm. He didn't flinch; her hands were cool and he didn't really mind where she put them.
"I mean it, Elliot. This is as rough a place as the City; trust me on that. What are you doing with your guard down?"
"My guard is not down," he protested, punctuating the remark by looking directly into her eyes.
She met his gaze. "Yes, it is. No New Yorker bumps into people. Ever."
Elliot shifted his weight to his right foot and back to his left; Olivia pushed her hair out of her face. The sun burned their skin and their scalps but neither broke eye contact. The cruiser edged around the corner into the parking lot and pulled up next to them.
A large, ruddy-faced man with a farmer's tan and stubbly red hair and eyebrows climbed out of the passenger's side of the police car. He had an unbuttoned white oxford shirt on over a white t-shirt and navy blue pants. The holster for his gun was visible; the gun itself bent awkwardly under his potbelly. The cruiser's engine sputtered off and the driver stepped out: a tall, dark-skinned African-American man with a bald head and cut figure, wearing a tan dress shirt--fully buttoned, perfectly creased--and white trousers.
"I'm Detective Sergeant Sean Grady; this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Mike Williams, Colonie Special Investigations," offered the pudgy one, extending his hand.
Olivia turned first. "Detective Olivia Benson; my partner, Detective Elliot Stabler, Manhattan Special Victims." She took the man's outstretched hand and shook it; he squeezed hard, but she didn't wince.
"Nice to be special, isn't it?" he joked, turning to Elliot. No one laughed. "Anyway, I'm glad you guys are here. Sorry to be late, but we had a lot of calls this morning. The squad, I mean. This is supposed to be my day off--I just got up."
"Lucky you," said Elliot, and ignored Grady's hurt expression.
At the bus stop, the teens were getting raucous. One of them caught sight of the cruiser.
"Pigs!" they shouted.
"Hey cop, shoot any people today?" screamed one. They made obscene gestures, most of which were fortunately obscured by the heat haze.
"We should go serve our warrant," said Elliot, once again watching the teens.
Grady cast a wary eye over to the stop. "Sorry about this, detectives. Ever since that bystander got killed by a ricochet bullet, we've got nothing but crap from just about everybody. It wasn't even us-- it was Albany police--but they don't care."
"Sounds about right," said Elliot. "We get it all the time."
"Well, I hate to keep apologizing, but we haven't exactly got you guys a car yet, so we're gonna have to all go in the cruiser. Got some guys'll bring one over to the scene so you can drive in your doer."
"Nobody's picked up the guy yet?" asked Olivia as Grady opened the rear door.
"'Fraid not; like I said, we had a lot of calls this morning."
Williams climbed in the driver's seat; Elliot stepped toward the open door but Grady stopped him.
"Ladies first," he said, and bowed for Olivia.
Elliot suppressed a grunt as his partner flashed him a sideways grin. He climbed around the car and took his place behind Williams and multiple layers of Plexiglas.
-----
Albany looks, from a distance, like a cardboard miniature from a cheap B-movie set. There are four identical boxy skyscrapers, all in a row, and one anemic Empire State Building knockoff alongside them. But what draws the eye is the alien spaceship, touched down in the center and set up high: a giant, dirty, white, ovoid flying saucer. Elliot knew that it was actually a theater--Grady was only telling him something he already knew quite well--but that didn't change the fact that he always felt, coming into this city, the same uncomfortable apprehensiveness.
Grady's commentary didn't help any.
"I know you detectives down in the City think you've got it rough, but believe me: Albany County--" he took a sip from his coffee and with his other hand, flicked ashes from his cigarette out the window "--has the highest crime rate in the state."
Olivia watched him through the rear view mirror. Yes, he was drinking coffee. The lid was off the cup and she could see it was pale from the cream in it. The smell filtered back--it had sugar in it, too. He was drinking coffee with cream and sugar, and it was 102 degrees outside, or so the sign by the bank said--and it was in the shade. He'd even opened the window to let the smoke from his cigarette get out, and that side of his neck had little beads of perspiration. Elliot noticed this, too; he also noticed how Williams seemed completely disinterested, unperturbed by the smell, the heat and the unholy union of the two.
Grady continued, oblivious to the reactions of his audience. "It makes sense, too, when you think about it. All these crazies running around: politicians, lawyers, lobbyists, old money rich bastards, you know. And it's set up like Manhattan used to be. Used to be you guys dealt with over six hundred murders a year. Now, your population is up in the millions, and you have, what, a hundred? And I know the reason: gentrification. Make your muggers move out."
Williams rolled his eyes, used to his partner's spiel. Olivia and Elliot listened, vaguely reminded of Munch, if Munch were a fat chain-smoking Irish Catholic with bad grammar whose waistband was wider than his mind.
"Yeah, well, we're not here to solve the city's underlying social ills," Olivia huffed. "We've got a rape case and an old kidnapping."
Grady looked sullen. He had that kind of puffy face that lent itself easily to comic over expression, which was probably why so many people laughed at him when he got upset. Elliot and Olivia had met men like that before--jovial, but with a temper not to be underestimated.
"Detective Grady, I'm having trouble understanding why we're on this case," offered Elliot, in an attempt to defuse the situation. He leaned back, put his arms up, and rested his head on the seat back. "Now, we had an incident about three years ago where a girl disappeared, most likely kidnapped. It got sent over to us, since Missing Persons figured the disappearance was related to the fact that the girl was raped. Now, we didn't get anywhere with the investigation, and the church relocated up the river. My understanding is that a girl from Troy and one from--" he paused to recollect the strange name "--Watervliet disappeared later under similar circumstances: raped and vanished before it was reported."
"We see the relationship here, but this case doesn't seem to fit the way it's been made out. The only connection is the church," Olivia finished.
"Cult," corrected Grady.
"Where do you fit in, Detective?" she asked.
They'd reached Colonie, where there were strip malls and car dealerships with plastic and asphalt looking ready to melt into one another. It reminded Elliot of some areas of Queens.
"I've been investigating that damned G.O.U.D. cult for years," Grady grumbled. Ashes were falling in his coffee, which he drank without noticing. "You don't understand. They don't hold a weekly worship service like a normal church. No, they have this monthly thing, a big conference, and they always have it in Colonie. Like we want them around. Every time, it's at one of the big name hotels on Wolf Road. They come in like a pack of vultures. We always get calls. They harass the guests, you know? Walk up to couples and ask if they're married. Hand out ponchos to women at the pool. Knock on doors and invite people to their service. Leave copies of their amended Bible with that crazy fifth Gospel they made up in it. Nobody wants them around, but the hotels--well, I guess they pay a lot to reserve them, so they don't mind; they won't lose any business."
Elliot only half-listened to Grady's rant. They had turned down a tree-lined street, but up ahead he could see a change of scenery to a scrapped rail yard and old brick buildings. Williams was stone-faced and Grady teary-eyed as he continued.
"Those girls...those were good little girls. Went to Catholic High like my little girl, but their parents were really with that cult. When they disappeared, of course it went to Troy and Watervliet PD. Not our jurisdiction, but, you know. I was interested. Got a list of all the members; I ran background checks on every last one of them and you know what I came up with? Squat. Nothing. Then, last night, I'm listening to the scanner, and I hear this call out of Albany proper--teen girl, missing. I recognize the address somehow and I check my list and--bam!--I know it's number four. Nothing I can do about it--until we get the call this morning for your warrant, and whaddaya know, he's here in Colonie. All this time!"
Olivia looked at Elliot, who was rubbing his hands together in his lap to take the clamminess of sweat and air conditioning off. He noticed the angle of her eyes and shot back a playful raised eyebrow. She gave him a disgusted look, and went back to staring out the window.
"So I hang up after Mikey calls me with the news, and I call down to the office the warrant came out of. Now, here's you gonna ice this guy. And to top it all off, do you know who this kid is?"
Elliot looked over at Grady. "Nicholas Jeremy, engineering student at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, former member of the G.O.U.D. cult?"
"The nephew of its founder, and onetime record keeper." Grady's eyes twinkled. "He knew all four girls."
-----
It was two o'clock in the afternoon; one o'clock by the sun. Casey pulled the napkin wad from her purse and peeled it apart, exposing the contents: a fat cranberry muffin in layers of now-transparent paper. She'd regretted being unable to stick around and chat with Detective Munch; it wasn't every day that someone took an interest in her political exploits. He'd been so nice, giving her the last éclair--which she had eaten on the way to court--and this muffin, which she decided to eat now that she was back in her office.
But it was not to be. A knock at the frame of her open door and she saw Aaron van Hoek standing in it.
"Sorry to bother you, Casey," he said. He looked tired and his gray hair, normally tidily combed in a severe left-side part, stuck out in all directions.
"Aaron. It's been a long time." She stood, attempting to sweep the muffin behind her desk's overflowing inbox, but he saw it anyway and smiled at her.
"Still on the see-food diet?" he joked.
She shrugged and deflected. "How're you coping?"
"Fine," he lied. He slumped into a semi-comfortable chair next to the window. "I just wish I'd seen this coming."
"If it's any consolation, I don't think Tara did, either."
The older man looked agitated. "I got another call this morning, after I asked you to put your detectives on this case. Some cop up in Colonie saw the same thing I did--so you no longer have to worry about how I'm 'abusing' my privileges as former DA."
"We all know there's nothing wrong with calling in favors," said Casey reassuringly.
"Then you won't mind if I ask one from you."
Casey's face fell. "What kind of favor?"
She looked across the table at her friend and studied his face.
"Tara shut her phone--phones--off. All of her phones. If you get any news about Jessi..." his voice trailed as he reached into his shirt pocket. "Tara goes to Pilates at seven. This is a guest pass to her gym." His eyes twinkled. "It should erase the guilt from the muffin."
Casey opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off. He placed the card in front of her; she recognized the name. It was upscale--a haven for the city's buff-from-riches--and women-only.
"I know you have your differences, but you know as well as I that her party's New York headquarters is an impregnable fortress. This is the only way I can think of to get her any updates."
"Aaron--"
"Casey. I obviously can't go; besides, she already knows I had the case handed off to you. And before you ask, yes, she was mad. But I knew we had to get this guy back here. She doesn't seem to understand the harm she's doing to our daughter by putting her with homicidal cult members."
"You think the girls were murdered."
He stood up and paced around, his hands clasped behind his back. This case was torturing him; Casey knew that. His only daughter, from Tara, the would-be trophy wife--he wanted to see her grow up. He just wouldn't say that aloud. His mouth opened and closed a few times but he didn't address her.
"Aaron, you can say what's on your mind," she assured him, standing and reaching over, beckoning for him to sit back down.
"I think Tara's involved in this!" he blurted.
The room flipped upside down.
"Are you all right?" the former DA gasped, diving for Casey as she fell backward. His hands caught her elbow and she snapped into reality.
"Fine, fine," she sputtered. "Listen, Aaron?"
He raised an eyebrow and released her arm.
"I'm going to give you a number, and I want you to call it. It's one of my detectives, all right?"
He nodded; she scribbled.
"And Aaron? I will definitely be there."
"Seven o'clock."
They nodded parting and van Hoek turned to leave just as the phone rang.
"ADA Casey Novak."
For the second time in two minutes, Casey felt the floor give beneath her, and she collapsed into her chair.
"Oh, my God..."
-----
One-forty-five in the afternoon; Detective Sergeant Williams pulled the car up in front of a three-story brick building. Elliot and Olivia exchanged glances.
"You sure this is the address?" Olivia asked.
Half the windows were bricked up, a third were boarded up, and the remainder were open. A sign reading "No Trespassing" was posted out on the dark green Victorian door. But the front of the building was nicely landscaped; the bushes were pruned, and the wrought iron recently painted black; there was a neat set of mailboxes out front, and a call box in the door arch.
"A lot of college kids live out here," said Williams. "Rent's cheap."
The four detectives climbed out of the car into the heat. As they did, they saw two uniformed men climb out of black sedans with blurry edges and move to join them. Olivia and Elliot adjusted their guns, and Elliot brandished the warrant. All six converged on the door.
"How should we play this?" asked Olivia, scanning the call box for a Jeremy. She found it--third floor, number 3B.
Elliot looked at the door frame, not sure how to answer yet.
"Evidently we're on the honor system with the sign here. Door's open, no lock."
"Go up. We'll be right behind you," offered Grady.
"Think the guy's dangerous?" asked Olivia.
"Ask Jessi Shiler," Grady replied.
Olivia wordlessly pushed open the door. The inside was dark; evidently, the boarded-up and bricked windows faced the hallway and staircases. She felt along the wall for a light switch; finding one, she flipped it and nothing happened.
"Bulb's burned out," she muttered. "And there's no air conditioning, either. This place is a sauna."
"You know, those never relax me," said Elliot.
"I do prefer a bubble bath, myself," said Olivia with a smirk.
Elliot chuckled. He slipped past his partner and began climbing the stairs. Something crunched under his feet.
"Watch yourself," he whispered, placing a hand back in warning. His fingertips brushed against her shoulder, which was damp with perspiration-- or maybe it was his hand that was damp; it was impossible to tell.
"Look out, broken glass," intoned Grady, climbing behind them. The stairs creaked under his weight.
"This does not look good," said Olivia.
They reached the second floor landing, turned, and headed down the hall. Cracks between the window boards lit the way. A uniform at the rear passed forward a Maglite; Elliot took it and shined it on the ground. There was glass everywhere, covering the full width of the corridor. Elliot swept it to the side with his foot.
"We might need a unit here," he muttered as they turned up the second flight of stairs.
Olivia leaned on the wall, trying to get a look around the corner at the top of the stairs before she stepped into the hallway. Elliot shined the light beam down in each direction: nothing but empty halls with broken glass on the floor. One door read 3A; they passed it and found 3B. They could hear Grady in the stairwell breathing heavily, shifting his weight with the floorboards groaning in protest.
Elliot knocked on the apartment door.
"Nick Jeremy?" he called, resting his elbow on the frame. When there was no answer, he knocked again.
"I hear something coming from inside," Olivia whispered.
Elliot lowered the flashlight. He could barely see his partner's face as both leaned in, their ears near the door. Sure enough, it sounded like a television: a sitcom, maybe a game show. The bursts of canned laughter were almost insulting. Elliot's grip on the light faltered from the sweat on his hands.
Olivia banged her fist on the door. "Nick Jeremy, this is the police! Open up or we will open the door for you!"
Elliot repositioned himself, lowering his hand to reach for his gun. The light beam trailed along the door seam.
"Elliot!" Olivia gasped, grabbing his hand and the Maglite in it. "Look!"
Blood. There were two drops, right on the floor below the knob.
Elliot muttered a curse and turned the flashlight on the door. There were red streaks where someone had wiped it clean. The next thing anyone knew, he had smashed it open.
"Oh, my God," Grady managed.
Elliot darted in; Olivia flanking him, she took the room to the right. The door was open; the walls plastered with posters and sketches. Where was their perp? If he was in here--
Behind her, the Colonie officers were bellowing "Police! Freeze!"
But she froze instead, surveying the images that covered the wall: cartoon women in various compromised positions, rape in full detail. Magazines were piled in cardboard boxes. Two had bloody handprints and above them was a smear on the wall, leading down over the bed. She ducked down, gun ready.
There was no one in the bed, and no one behind it.
She checked the closet--nothing, but there was a trail of blood on the floor and she followed it. Her eyes fell on the bathroom door and she steadied her gun as she approached.
The room was empty, but the sink and floor were smeared reddish brown. So were the shower and a sopping towel stuffed behind the toilet.
"Olivia!"
She felt her heart pound and turned, ducking back into the living room where they'd entered. Grady was on his knees beside the blood at the door; Williams was on the radio and a uniform was holding his mouth shut. Her eyes scanned the room.
"Where are you?" she called to her partner.
He stepped in through a side door, pushing it open. A huge, smeared handprint was on the reverse side. He gestured for her to enter, and she did, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. They were in the kitchen: a meat cleaver soaked in blood lay in a pool on the table; there were puddles on the floor and the rear window to the fire escape was open.
The blood smears continued all the way down.
Olivia looked at Elliot. The expression on his face was unreadable.
"I guess we have our DNA sample," he said flatly.
His partner took out her cell phone, pressed a button and swallowed hard.
"ADA Casey Novak."
"Casey? You might want to sit down..."
author: bebe (bebe0216[at]hotmail.com)
rating: pg-13
acknowledgements: Thanks once again to my fantastic beta, made to suffer through a sluggish, unedited hack job I called "the draft before this one." She is sooo awesome.
author's note: Wow, thanks for the stellar reviews! I am sorry that my updating pace is slow--if I were that good at writing that I could update every day, I would.
For today's part of the story, I want to clarify something: Detective Sergeant is an actual rank used by the Colonie Police. As silly as it sounds, it's for real: I looked it up on their website. They also have a "Special Investigations" unit; the characters in this story are fictional members. I wanted to get that out of the way so that nobody looked and said "huh? This is stupid." The fact is, I like to use real details, so for the most part, unless it's got to do with an OC, it's "pulled-from-the- headlines" or "I-saw-it-on-my-ride-home" real. Additionally, I do not share Sean Grady's views. I heard them expressed by a person I know, and felt that they fit the persona of the character. I do not endorse what he says; I also strongly discourage smoking, but not self-caffeinating. That's fine by me.
I'll be posting status reports on this story and any future ones (this is gonna be a series, donchaknow) on my author page here on ff.net, so if you are curious, you can check there for when the update will be. Now bust out the popcorn; on with the show!
(Edited 6/20/04--removed MAJOR error.)
Chapter 2
"Well, they built this place recently," Olivia announced as the pair of detectives disembarked.
Elliot looked at his partner quizzically for a minute. He wasn't yet awake; if it hadn't been for the sharp lurch as they'd pulled into the station, he'd still be sleeping happily and bound for Montreal.
"Used to be just one big waiting room, with a greasy spoon in the corner masquerading as an 'upscale eatery,'" she laughed, looking up at the modern high ceiling as the two walked toward the exit door. She caught her partner's confused look and added, "you know, back when I would take the train home on my breaks from Siena."
"Right, right," mumbled Elliot. He felt sticky; he rubbed his eyes; he walked smack into a man.
"'Ey, man, watch where you goin'!"
Olivia looked at her partner with muted surprise. "You all right?" she asked as they stepped out through the large, tinted safety glass doors.
They were nearly blasted back by the heat. Over every car, over the pavement, and out through the trees and across the Hudson toward the Albany skyline, the background wobbled in the haze. The blacktop was like an oven burner, and they could feel it through the soles of their shoes.
"Wow," Elliot managed. "It's, ah, a little hot out here."
Olivia held one hand up to block the sun and scanned the area. At the edge of the lot was a bus shelter packed with teens and one morbidly obese man in a tank top and shorts. Beyond that, traffic was at a standstill, with a lone police cruiser inching along on the shoulder to get around the jam. The teens were roughhousing one another and the man was hunched over on the bench, trying to avoid them. Elliot, too, had his hand up to shade his eyes. He was watching the teens.
"Elliot."
"What?" he asked, his attention unwavering.
"Don't stare."
Elliot turned and grinned. It was his disarming grin, the one that always worked on her to get her to grin back--and she did, for a brief second. But her expression turned serious and she laid a hand on his arm. He didn't flinch; her hands were cool and he didn't really mind where she put them.
"I mean it, Elliot. This is as rough a place as the City; trust me on that. What are you doing with your guard down?"
"My guard is not down," he protested, punctuating the remark by looking directly into her eyes.
She met his gaze. "Yes, it is. No New Yorker bumps into people. Ever."
Elliot shifted his weight to his right foot and back to his left; Olivia pushed her hair out of her face. The sun burned their skin and their scalps but neither broke eye contact. The cruiser edged around the corner into the parking lot and pulled up next to them.
A large, ruddy-faced man with a farmer's tan and stubbly red hair and eyebrows climbed out of the passenger's side of the police car. He had an unbuttoned white oxford shirt on over a white t-shirt and navy blue pants. The holster for his gun was visible; the gun itself bent awkwardly under his potbelly. The cruiser's engine sputtered off and the driver stepped out: a tall, dark-skinned African-American man with a bald head and cut figure, wearing a tan dress shirt--fully buttoned, perfectly creased--and white trousers.
"I'm Detective Sergeant Sean Grady; this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Mike Williams, Colonie Special Investigations," offered the pudgy one, extending his hand.
Olivia turned first. "Detective Olivia Benson; my partner, Detective Elliot Stabler, Manhattan Special Victims." She took the man's outstretched hand and shook it; he squeezed hard, but she didn't wince.
"Nice to be special, isn't it?" he joked, turning to Elliot. No one laughed. "Anyway, I'm glad you guys are here. Sorry to be late, but we had a lot of calls this morning. The squad, I mean. This is supposed to be my day off--I just got up."
"Lucky you," said Elliot, and ignored Grady's hurt expression.
At the bus stop, the teens were getting raucous. One of them caught sight of the cruiser.
"Pigs!" they shouted.
"Hey cop, shoot any people today?" screamed one. They made obscene gestures, most of which were fortunately obscured by the heat haze.
"We should go serve our warrant," said Elliot, once again watching the teens.
Grady cast a wary eye over to the stop. "Sorry about this, detectives. Ever since that bystander got killed by a ricochet bullet, we've got nothing but crap from just about everybody. It wasn't even us-- it was Albany police--but they don't care."
"Sounds about right," said Elliot. "We get it all the time."
"Well, I hate to keep apologizing, but we haven't exactly got you guys a car yet, so we're gonna have to all go in the cruiser. Got some guys'll bring one over to the scene so you can drive in your doer."
"Nobody's picked up the guy yet?" asked Olivia as Grady opened the rear door.
"'Fraid not; like I said, we had a lot of calls this morning."
Williams climbed in the driver's seat; Elliot stepped toward the open door but Grady stopped him.
"Ladies first," he said, and bowed for Olivia.
Elliot suppressed a grunt as his partner flashed him a sideways grin. He climbed around the car and took his place behind Williams and multiple layers of Plexiglas.
-----
Albany looks, from a distance, like a cardboard miniature from a cheap B-movie set. There are four identical boxy skyscrapers, all in a row, and one anemic Empire State Building knockoff alongside them. But what draws the eye is the alien spaceship, touched down in the center and set up high: a giant, dirty, white, ovoid flying saucer. Elliot knew that it was actually a theater--Grady was only telling him something he already knew quite well--but that didn't change the fact that he always felt, coming into this city, the same uncomfortable apprehensiveness.
Grady's commentary didn't help any.
"I know you detectives down in the City think you've got it rough, but believe me: Albany County--" he took a sip from his coffee and with his other hand, flicked ashes from his cigarette out the window "--has the highest crime rate in the state."
Olivia watched him through the rear view mirror. Yes, he was drinking coffee. The lid was off the cup and she could see it was pale from the cream in it. The smell filtered back--it had sugar in it, too. He was drinking coffee with cream and sugar, and it was 102 degrees outside, or so the sign by the bank said--and it was in the shade. He'd even opened the window to let the smoke from his cigarette get out, and that side of his neck had little beads of perspiration. Elliot noticed this, too; he also noticed how Williams seemed completely disinterested, unperturbed by the smell, the heat and the unholy union of the two.
Grady continued, oblivious to the reactions of his audience. "It makes sense, too, when you think about it. All these crazies running around: politicians, lawyers, lobbyists, old money rich bastards, you know. And it's set up like Manhattan used to be. Used to be you guys dealt with over six hundred murders a year. Now, your population is up in the millions, and you have, what, a hundred? And I know the reason: gentrification. Make your muggers move out."
Williams rolled his eyes, used to his partner's spiel. Olivia and Elliot listened, vaguely reminded of Munch, if Munch were a fat chain-smoking Irish Catholic with bad grammar whose waistband was wider than his mind.
"Yeah, well, we're not here to solve the city's underlying social ills," Olivia huffed. "We've got a rape case and an old kidnapping."
Grady looked sullen. He had that kind of puffy face that lent itself easily to comic over expression, which was probably why so many people laughed at him when he got upset. Elliot and Olivia had met men like that before--jovial, but with a temper not to be underestimated.
"Detective Grady, I'm having trouble understanding why we're on this case," offered Elliot, in an attempt to defuse the situation. He leaned back, put his arms up, and rested his head on the seat back. "Now, we had an incident about three years ago where a girl disappeared, most likely kidnapped. It got sent over to us, since Missing Persons figured the disappearance was related to the fact that the girl was raped. Now, we didn't get anywhere with the investigation, and the church relocated up the river. My understanding is that a girl from Troy and one from--" he paused to recollect the strange name "--Watervliet disappeared later under similar circumstances: raped and vanished before it was reported."
"We see the relationship here, but this case doesn't seem to fit the way it's been made out. The only connection is the church," Olivia finished.
"Cult," corrected Grady.
"Where do you fit in, Detective?" she asked.
They'd reached Colonie, where there were strip malls and car dealerships with plastic and asphalt looking ready to melt into one another. It reminded Elliot of some areas of Queens.
"I've been investigating that damned G.O.U.D. cult for years," Grady grumbled. Ashes were falling in his coffee, which he drank without noticing. "You don't understand. They don't hold a weekly worship service like a normal church. No, they have this monthly thing, a big conference, and they always have it in Colonie. Like we want them around. Every time, it's at one of the big name hotels on Wolf Road. They come in like a pack of vultures. We always get calls. They harass the guests, you know? Walk up to couples and ask if they're married. Hand out ponchos to women at the pool. Knock on doors and invite people to their service. Leave copies of their amended Bible with that crazy fifth Gospel they made up in it. Nobody wants them around, but the hotels--well, I guess they pay a lot to reserve them, so they don't mind; they won't lose any business."
Elliot only half-listened to Grady's rant. They had turned down a tree-lined street, but up ahead he could see a change of scenery to a scrapped rail yard and old brick buildings. Williams was stone-faced and Grady teary-eyed as he continued.
"Those girls...those were good little girls. Went to Catholic High like my little girl, but their parents were really with that cult. When they disappeared, of course it went to Troy and Watervliet PD. Not our jurisdiction, but, you know. I was interested. Got a list of all the members; I ran background checks on every last one of them and you know what I came up with? Squat. Nothing. Then, last night, I'm listening to the scanner, and I hear this call out of Albany proper--teen girl, missing. I recognize the address somehow and I check my list and--bam!--I know it's number four. Nothing I can do about it--until we get the call this morning for your warrant, and whaddaya know, he's here in Colonie. All this time!"
Olivia looked at Elliot, who was rubbing his hands together in his lap to take the clamminess of sweat and air conditioning off. He noticed the angle of her eyes and shot back a playful raised eyebrow. She gave him a disgusted look, and went back to staring out the window.
"So I hang up after Mikey calls me with the news, and I call down to the office the warrant came out of. Now, here's you gonna ice this guy. And to top it all off, do you know who this kid is?"
Elliot looked over at Grady. "Nicholas Jeremy, engineering student at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, former member of the G.O.U.D. cult?"
"The nephew of its founder, and onetime record keeper." Grady's eyes twinkled. "He knew all four girls."
-----
It was two o'clock in the afternoon; one o'clock by the sun. Casey pulled the napkin wad from her purse and peeled it apart, exposing the contents: a fat cranberry muffin in layers of now-transparent paper. She'd regretted being unable to stick around and chat with Detective Munch; it wasn't every day that someone took an interest in her political exploits. He'd been so nice, giving her the last éclair--which she had eaten on the way to court--and this muffin, which she decided to eat now that she was back in her office.
But it was not to be. A knock at the frame of her open door and she saw Aaron van Hoek standing in it.
"Sorry to bother you, Casey," he said. He looked tired and his gray hair, normally tidily combed in a severe left-side part, stuck out in all directions.
"Aaron. It's been a long time." She stood, attempting to sweep the muffin behind her desk's overflowing inbox, but he saw it anyway and smiled at her.
"Still on the see-food diet?" he joked.
She shrugged and deflected. "How're you coping?"
"Fine," he lied. He slumped into a semi-comfortable chair next to the window. "I just wish I'd seen this coming."
"If it's any consolation, I don't think Tara did, either."
The older man looked agitated. "I got another call this morning, after I asked you to put your detectives on this case. Some cop up in Colonie saw the same thing I did--so you no longer have to worry about how I'm 'abusing' my privileges as former DA."
"We all know there's nothing wrong with calling in favors," said Casey reassuringly.
"Then you won't mind if I ask one from you."
Casey's face fell. "What kind of favor?"
She looked across the table at her friend and studied his face.
"Tara shut her phone--phones--off. All of her phones. If you get any news about Jessi..." his voice trailed as he reached into his shirt pocket. "Tara goes to Pilates at seven. This is a guest pass to her gym." His eyes twinkled. "It should erase the guilt from the muffin."
Casey opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off. He placed the card in front of her; she recognized the name. It was upscale--a haven for the city's buff-from-riches--and women-only.
"I know you have your differences, but you know as well as I that her party's New York headquarters is an impregnable fortress. This is the only way I can think of to get her any updates."
"Aaron--"
"Casey. I obviously can't go; besides, she already knows I had the case handed off to you. And before you ask, yes, she was mad. But I knew we had to get this guy back here. She doesn't seem to understand the harm she's doing to our daughter by putting her with homicidal cult members."
"You think the girls were murdered."
He stood up and paced around, his hands clasped behind his back. This case was torturing him; Casey knew that. His only daughter, from Tara, the would-be trophy wife--he wanted to see her grow up. He just wouldn't say that aloud. His mouth opened and closed a few times but he didn't address her.
"Aaron, you can say what's on your mind," she assured him, standing and reaching over, beckoning for him to sit back down.
"I think Tara's involved in this!" he blurted.
The room flipped upside down.
"Are you all right?" the former DA gasped, diving for Casey as she fell backward. His hands caught her elbow and she snapped into reality.
"Fine, fine," she sputtered. "Listen, Aaron?"
He raised an eyebrow and released her arm.
"I'm going to give you a number, and I want you to call it. It's one of my detectives, all right?"
He nodded; she scribbled.
"And Aaron? I will definitely be there."
"Seven o'clock."
They nodded parting and van Hoek turned to leave just as the phone rang.
"ADA Casey Novak."
For the second time in two minutes, Casey felt the floor give beneath her, and she collapsed into her chair.
"Oh, my God..."
-----
One-forty-five in the afternoon; Detective Sergeant Williams pulled the car up in front of a three-story brick building. Elliot and Olivia exchanged glances.
"You sure this is the address?" Olivia asked.
Half the windows were bricked up, a third were boarded up, and the remainder were open. A sign reading "No Trespassing" was posted out on the dark green Victorian door. But the front of the building was nicely landscaped; the bushes were pruned, and the wrought iron recently painted black; there was a neat set of mailboxes out front, and a call box in the door arch.
"A lot of college kids live out here," said Williams. "Rent's cheap."
The four detectives climbed out of the car into the heat. As they did, they saw two uniformed men climb out of black sedans with blurry edges and move to join them. Olivia and Elliot adjusted their guns, and Elliot brandished the warrant. All six converged on the door.
"How should we play this?" asked Olivia, scanning the call box for a Jeremy. She found it--third floor, number 3B.
Elliot looked at the door frame, not sure how to answer yet.
"Evidently we're on the honor system with the sign here. Door's open, no lock."
"Go up. We'll be right behind you," offered Grady.
"Think the guy's dangerous?" asked Olivia.
"Ask Jessi Shiler," Grady replied.
Olivia wordlessly pushed open the door. The inside was dark; evidently, the boarded-up and bricked windows faced the hallway and staircases. She felt along the wall for a light switch; finding one, she flipped it and nothing happened.
"Bulb's burned out," she muttered. "And there's no air conditioning, either. This place is a sauna."
"You know, those never relax me," said Elliot.
"I do prefer a bubble bath, myself," said Olivia with a smirk.
Elliot chuckled. He slipped past his partner and began climbing the stairs. Something crunched under his feet.
"Watch yourself," he whispered, placing a hand back in warning. His fingertips brushed against her shoulder, which was damp with perspiration-- or maybe it was his hand that was damp; it was impossible to tell.
"Look out, broken glass," intoned Grady, climbing behind them. The stairs creaked under his weight.
"This does not look good," said Olivia.
They reached the second floor landing, turned, and headed down the hall. Cracks between the window boards lit the way. A uniform at the rear passed forward a Maglite; Elliot took it and shined it on the ground. There was glass everywhere, covering the full width of the corridor. Elliot swept it to the side with his foot.
"We might need a unit here," he muttered as they turned up the second flight of stairs.
Olivia leaned on the wall, trying to get a look around the corner at the top of the stairs before she stepped into the hallway. Elliot shined the light beam down in each direction: nothing but empty halls with broken glass on the floor. One door read 3A; they passed it and found 3B. They could hear Grady in the stairwell breathing heavily, shifting his weight with the floorboards groaning in protest.
Elliot knocked on the apartment door.
"Nick Jeremy?" he called, resting his elbow on the frame. When there was no answer, he knocked again.
"I hear something coming from inside," Olivia whispered.
Elliot lowered the flashlight. He could barely see his partner's face as both leaned in, their ears near the door. Sure enough, it sounded like a television: a sitcom, maybe a game show. The bursts of canned laughter were almost insulting. Elliot's grip on the light faltered from the sweat on his hands.
Olivia banged her fist on the door. "Nick Jeremy, this is the police! Open up or we will open the door for you!"
Elliot repositioned himself, lowering his hand to reach for his gun. The light beam trailed along the door seam.
"Elliot!" Olivia gasped, grabbing his hand and the Maglite in it. "Look!"
Blood. There were two drops, right on the floor below the knob.
Elliot muttered a curse and turned the flashlight on the door. There were red streaks where someone had wiped it clean. The next thing anyone knew, he had smashed it open.
"Oh, my God," Grady managed.
Elliot darted in; Olivia flanking him, she took the room to the right. The door was open; the walls plastered with posters and sketches. Where was their perp? If he was in here--
Behind her, the Colonie officers were bellowing "Police! Freeze!"
But she froze instead, surveying the images that covered the wall: cartoon women in various compromised positions, rape in full detail. Magazines were piled in cardboard boxes. Two had bloody handprints and above them was a smear on the wall, leading down over the bed. She ducked down, gun ready.
There was no one in the bed, and no one behind it.
She checked the closet--nothing, but there was a trail of blood on the floor and she followed it. Her eyes fell on the bathroom door and she steadied her gun as she approached.
The room was empty, but the sink and floor were smeared reddish brown. So were the shower and a sopping towel stuffed behind the toilet.
"Olivia!"
She felt her heart pound and turned, ducking back into the living room where they'd entered. Grady was on his knees beside the blood at the door; Williams was on the radio and a uniform was holding his mouth shut. Her eyes scanned the room.
"Where are you?" she called to her partner.
He stepped in through a side door, pushing it open. A huge, smeared handprint was on the reverse side. He gestured for her to enter, and she did, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. They were in the kitchen: a meat cleaver soaked in blood lay in a pool on the table; there were puddles on the floor and the rear window to the fire escape was open.
The blood smears continued all the way down.
Olivia looked at Elliot. The expression on his face was unreadable.
"I guess we have our DNA sample," he said flatly.
His partner took out her cell phone, pressed a button and swallowed hard.
"ADA Casey Novak."
"Casey? You might want to sit down..."