Chapter 3: Cleave
She took a deep breath and pressed 1 on her speed dial.
He answered halfway through the second ring. "Goren."
"Hey, it's me."
"Hi. How's the case going?"
"We might have a lead. The flyers we put out got a hit: a bakery chef who might have seen our mystery man the day before he died."
"Good." He paused, trying to think of something to offer. "I hope Ross isn't driving you crazy now that he doesn't have me to pick on."
She gave a forced laugh to the forced joke. It was a good sign that he was at least attempting humor. "He's fine. I'm actually on the way to question the witness now. I'm stuck in traffic so I thought I'd check in." A passing car honked its horn, and she winced, wondering if he could tell from the noise over the phone that she was actually parked on the side of the road with the car turned off. She'd just arrived at the bakery, and decided it was a good time to call him. "What are you up to?" A casual, conversational way to ask if he was all right.
"I'm...I'm looking for my brother." On his end of the line, Goren glanced around at a backstreet homeless community. He'd been questioning one when his cellphone rang. He held the most recent picture of his brother in his other hand.
"Any luck?"
"I've talked to some people who say they saw him a couple of weeks ago, but...it's not easy."
Eames didn't say anything. She didn't want to offer words of hope, since he would hear in her voice how little hope she thought there was. "Good luck," she finally said.
"Thanks." He was glad she couldn't see him, because though his voice was grateful, his face was pained, as though he'd just been seared by something. Luck. Why did she keep using that word? What did luck have to do with his mother's death? "Call me...I'll call you, okay?"
"Right. Later."
As soon as the sound from her end of the phone fell silent, Goren wished it hadn't. That connection with that world, the world of the criminal investigation, with its distracting challenges and rewards, and the sound of her voice had been like a golden thread, thin but solid, to hold on to against the inner blizzard of his emotions. He turned back to the search for his brother, wondering how long he would go before he gave up.
Eames stepped inside Fodor Bistro. There was a customer in almost every table at this time of day. She walked up to the counter, and smiled at the tall, plump man behind it. "Luis Fodor? I'm Detective Alex Eames."
He smiled back. His wide grin made the dark, wiry hairs of his neatly trimmed beard bristle. "They didn't tell me they were sending their pretty detective."
She smiled pleasantly, though a little annoyed. "Can you tell me, Mr. Fodor, is this the man you saw in here on Monday?" She slipped out John Doe's headshot.
Mr. Fodor looked down and suddenly lost any trace of levity. "Yes. That's him. He was in here every morning for almost a week, then, two days ago, he doesn't show up. Mm, that kind of thing can really make one lose one's appetite."
"Do you remember his name?"
"He never told me his name. He just came in, ordered a pastry and coffee, paid with cash, sat down and ate. Last Saturday he was in here with a girl. She didn't order anything. She came in, sat down, and they talked for a few minutes, then she leaves."
"What did they talk about?"
He shook his head. "It was in Spanish," he said apologetically.
"Do you remember anything? Any one word they used?"
"No. Then she left by taxi and he walked, like he always did."
"Which way did he go?"
"He turned left. South. He came from that direction, every day."
"What did the girl look like?"
"Petite, very pretty, very dark skinned. She had very long black hair. That's all I can tell you."
"Thank you, Mr. Fodor, you've been very helpful." She handed him her card. "Call me if you think of anything else."
"Don't worry, Miss. I will."
Eames walked outside. It was a warm spring day, and the sunlight lit the gentle green canopy of old trees lining the sidewalk. John Doe had been staying within walking distance of here, to the south. She called Ross to tell him her next move, then began walking in that direction. She looked at the windows above the shops, and at the clutter in the alleys. It reminded her of her days in Vice, searching for how and where someone lived. He'd been clean-shaven when he was found. The ME's report indicated there had been about twelve hours between when the first cuts were inflicted and the time of death, and it was doubtful a fresh shave was part of the torture. He hadn't been living on the street; he'd been staying in a hotel or a house. She went in each business she walked by, showed the photo around and asked if they'd seen the man.
Finally she came to a cheap hotel. "Have you seen this man?" she asked the clerk behind the front desk.
The clerk looked at the photo. He'd already seen Eames' badge, and his face showed he was worried. "He stayed here last week."
"I'll need his credit card information, and the keys to his room."
"He used cash. He gave me a wad of hundred dollar bills and asked me how many days they would buy him."
"Did you get his name?"
"Hey, cash says I don't ask questions. I figured he was illegal. But I couldn't prove it," he added hastily, "so...Now I'm thinking maybe he was a dealer."
"You get a lot of those in here?" she asked just to see him squirm.
"No, of course not. I thought about calling the cops."
She couldn't resist a smile. "Just give me his room key."
He hastily found it and tossed it to her like a hot potato. She let it fall to the counter, pulled out latex gloves and an evidence bag, and smiled sweetly at him. "We'll need your fingerprints to rule you out. Don't go anywhere."
"No one's touched that room since the guy left, I swear. He still had five days left, and he told me not to let anybody go in," the clerk called after her.
She unlocked the door and eased it open. The room was a mess. It had obviously been thoroughly searched. Each drawar had been pulled out, the pillowcases had been slashed open, the TV, clock, and phone had been disassembled. "Great," she grumbled. A quick look around revealed the lock on the window was broken, and the bathroom was in just as bad shape as the bedroom. She sighed and called for the CSU techs to dust for prints.
While she was waiting for them to arrive, she heard a knock on the door. She saw the desk clerk through the peephole. "What is it?"
"There's a woman downstairs who insists on speaking to the man in the room. She told me he'd want to see her. I told her...Oh my God! What happened in there?" He looked past her at the room.
"What did you tell her?"
"That he...that he'd told me he didn't want any visitors, and I would check with him. I tried to call, but the phone must be off the hook. What should I tell her?"
"Did she give you her name?"
"Flora. But the way she said it makes me pretty sure it's not her real name."
"Send her up, but don't tell her I'm here."
He nodded and left. Eames waited by the door, watching the corridor through the peephole. A young Hispanic woman with long black hair came up the stairs, moving nervously. She looked around to make sure the corridor was empty before knocking.
Eames opened the door slowly. The young woman's eyes widened when she saw the state of the room, and her gasp was almost a scream when she saw Eames. She darted down the hall without a word.
"Wait! I'm a cop," Eames shouted as she darted after her. "Policia! Pare!"
The woman was very athletic, and she was almost to the ground floor by the time Eames reached the stairs. She was out the door in seconds.
Eames' had drawn her gun instrinctively as she ran. The woman turned down a dark alley. Then Eames heard a scream, and managed to put on another burst of speed. She turned a corner and saw the woman being dragged away by a man holding a gun to her head. Eames trained her gun on him. "Put the weapon down. I'm NYPD."
The man looked up. Alex saw him tense. She couldn't tell which of their guns fired first. It might have been simultaneous. She ran towards him as the woman fell to the ground. He ran away clutching his arm. "Stop and put your gun down!" she ordered.
He dropped his gun and turned slowly, hands raised. Eames fumbled for her handcuffs with one hand. "You're under arrest." When she was a few feet away from him, he suddenly exploded into action. Her gun fired again as he ripped it from her hand. She heard it clatter somewhere off in the shadows, but by then he had two knives in his hand, held pointed downward. Both knives flashed toward her in a flurry of reflected light and skin. She jumped back, and he jumped forward. Her arms rose defensively, and she felt bursts of pain. Her hand twisted forward and grabbed one of his wrists, and she ducked as the other knife arched toward her head. The wrist yanked out of her hand, putting the man off balance long enough for her to get a kick in, a powerful kick that knocked them both back. As she staggered backward, she grabbed the gun he'd dropped and pointed it at him. "Seriously, freeze," she panted.
He dropped his knives and put his hands in the air. "Don't shoot," he said. "We're done." His eyes shifted to the women he'd shot a moment before.
Eames glanced behind her, and only then realized the woman was still breathing, and blood oozed from her forehead in time with her heartbeat. The bleeding had to be stopped immediately, and an ambulance needed to be called. It took Alex only a second to make the choice. She stooped next to the woman, set the gun down withing easy reach, and put pressure on the wound with one hand as she pulled out her phone and called an ambulence with the other. She heard the suspect flee down the alley, just like she knew he would.