Should Have Looked Away (18 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

As Will scurried
down the street back to the subway station, he glanced briefly back at the detectives’ car. Much to his relief, they were now pulling away. He carried on walking.

He had been slightly economical with the truth to Detective Roberts, in that the receptionist
had
told him about Di Mucci. She had told him that he had stayed there several times in the past, and whenever he booked he always requested Room 205.

A gust of wind caught Will as he crossed a street. What was so special about room 205? He pondered over this again as he settled down in the hard plastic seat of the D train.  Maybe he should somehow check out this room: why would somebody request the same room every time they stayed in a hotel?

He knew that some people were creatures of habit: he himself had come across people who went to the same place year after year on vacation, maybe staying at the same hotel. But not the same room.

He and Chrissy did that once. Before the kids were born, they took a trip to Cancun, Mexico: a beautiful resort a couple of miles outside the city. The following year, knowing that Chrissy was pregnant with Jake and that vacations such as that would be off the agenda for a few years, they decided to return to the same resort, same hotel. A different room, though, he was sure.

That aside, although they both enjoyed the second vacation, something was missing. It was not as they had remembered it from the first time. Or maybe it never had been as they remembered it. Funny thing, memories.

Now the train was pulling into 81
st
Street and the Museum of Natural History. Soon they would be passing underneath Columbus Circle, where it all began. Will decided: he needed to check out Room 205. It seemed a crazy thing to do, but he felt he had to do something proactive: he still felt his family had been threatened, and there was only so much the police could or would do. In any case, only one of the attackers was in custody: how could he be sure that the police would be able to get to the second before something else happened?

Once back at work, he touched based quickly with the others. Dan was out of the office, Eddie was busy on the telephone, and May was back in. Will had a brief conversation with her, asked how she was and said how glad he was she was better and back with them, then sat down at his desk. He glanced through the four messages he had then checked his diaries, both for work and at home. He had nothing on the next few days - no time like the present.

He got onto the Comfort Zone website once more and checked availability at the 173
rd
Street hotel. He was just about to make a booking online then paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He could not use the internet, as they would send him an email confirming the booking. He needed to do this in a way that neither Chrissy nor the people at work would find out. If Dan found out, he would tell Jia, and Jia would tell Chrissy.

He got up and quietly closed his office door. He got the direct line for the 173
rd
Street hotel and called, praying it would not be the receptionist he spoke to earlier. It was a different voice.

The hotel had rooms free for that night. Saying he was superstitious, Will asked if he could have Room 205, as that was his lucky number. The employee sounded as if she was suppressing a giggle, and said she was sorry, but that room was taken.

‘Oh,’ said Will, not sure where to go next.

‘Hold the line, sir.’ The voice returned momentarily. ‘Sir, I can see the person who has 205 is due to check out tomorrow morning. I can book it for you for tomorrow night, if you wish.’

‘That would be great.’

Will said he only needed one night, listened to the conditions of the booking, when he was able check in, by what time the next morning he had to check out and where he could park his car. He gave the employee his credit card number, and got the booking confirmed.

After hanging up, he sat back, satisfied. He had booked the room for one night, but would not need to spend the night there. Chrissy would never need to know. They had separate credit card accounts too, so she would never see the booking on his statement. He could check in any time after 2
pm, so
could go over there tomorrow afternoon and have a few hours there, even if it cost him a hundred bucks. He had until noon the next day to check out, although he could do so that night if he was done there.

He walked over and opened his office door. Wandered into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. As he stirred the drink, he thought about what he would be looking for. He had no idea; just why the room was so special.

Maybe he’d find out tomorrow.

THIRTY-NINE

‘
Let’s head back
to the hospital,’ Roberts said as they pulled away from the hotel.

‘Why? You think he’ll have woken up by now?’ Alvarez asked.

‘I’ve heard nothing from uniform, but even if he hasn’t, his mother might know who his partner in crime is.’

‘If she’s willing to talk.’

‘She seems the kind of person who might; you know, not holding any grudges.’

‘We didn’t push him, Jules.’

‘
You
didn’t.’

‘Neither did you. You were on the fire escape; he was climbing up the ladder.’

‘She might not see it that way.’ Roberts paused as she watched the passing traffic. ‘Let’s hope she does.’

When they arrived at Bronx-Lebanon they headed directly to the room where Breed had been sleeping. Roberts slowly opened the door and looked in. He was still sleeping. The nurse they had left in the room earlier was still there, still in the same chair, but sat upright when they entered.

‘No change then?’ Roberts asked quietly.

The nurse shook her head. Roberts looked around the room: one of the three other beds was now empty, and the patients in the other two were both asleep as well.

‘Let’s go find the mother,’ she muttered to Alvarez.

Mitchell Breed’s mother was still in the waiting lounge with the uniformed officer. The officer stood up when he saw the two detectives arrive; Roberts nodded him to come over.

‘How is she?’ Roberts asked him. ‘Her son hasn’t woken yet.’

The officer shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. She’s been quite calm. I’ve said does she want somebody to take her home, stay with her, but she says she wants to stay here till Mitch wakes up.’

‘Apparently there’s a younger brother. Has she mentioned him?’

‘She did call somebody on her cell. Said it was a neighbour. Asked them to let the brother in if she wasn’t home by the time he got home from school.’

‘What did she tell the neighbour? About why she was here, I mean.’

‘Sorry, Detective. I didn’t hear. I went to the drinks machine to give her some privacy.’

‘What about the father?’ Alvarez asked.

‘There isn’t one. What I mean is, when I asked her whether she wanted me to get hold of his father, she said he walked out on them years ago.’

Roberts said, ‘We need to speak with her about any friends he has. There were two of them.’

The officer nodded and stepped aside. Roberts walked over to Mrs Breed and sat on the chair next to her.

‘How are you doing?’ she asked her.

Mrs Breed looked at her. ‘You’re the policewoman who came to my apartment. You were asking about my Mitchell.’

‘That’s right. Mrs Breed, I’m very sorry about all this, but the truth is your son fell from the building where he works when we went to talk to him. Have you any idea why he would run when he saw us?’

‘He hasn’t done anything bad. He’s a good boy; he has a very responsible job.’

‘He has no record, that’s true. We only wanted to talk to him, so why do you think he would run?’

‘I don’t know, Officer.’

Roberts shifted in her chair and tried another approach.

‘Does Mitchell have any particular friends?’

Mrs Breed looked up. ‘Not really.’

‘Nobody at all?’

‘Well, there is that Walter Ackerman, but I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.’

‘Walter Ackerman,’ Roberts repeated, looking up at Alvarez. ‘And where does he live?’

Mrs Breed shook her head. ‘Don’t rightly know. Not far from us, I guess, but I don’t know his address.’ She looked up at Alvarez. ‘Can I see my boy now?’

Alvarez turned to the uniformed officer. ‘Can you go check?’

Roberts waited until the officer had left, then asked, ‘Do you know where Mitchell was Sunday last?’

Mrs Breed pulled out a Kleenex and blew her nose. ‘Not sure. He wouldn’t have been at work. Seeing Walter maybe. I don’t recall.’

‘With a girlfriend maybe?’ suggested Alvarez.

Mrs Breed puffed up her chest slightly. ‘My Mitchell’s far too busy to have time for girls. He has a very responsible job. He’s only young, though; plenty of time to find a nice girl, settle down and have kids.’

Roberts asked, ‘So, where do you think we can find Walter?  Where do they hang out? Any special place? A bar, maybe?’

Mrs Breed blew her nose again and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know.’

The uniformed officer returned, this time with the doctor they had seen earlier.

‘Well?’ Roberts asked the officer, but the doctor replied before the officer could answer.

‘Mr Breed hasn’t woken yet. There’s no change in his condition. I told you earlier we’re going to carry out an MRI scan this afternoon, but Mrs Breed, as his next of kin, I need your consent.’

‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

‘It’s like an x-ray,’ the doctor explained. ‘Mitchell hit his head when he fell, and we want to make sure there’s no damage.’ As he said
damage
, the doctor put his hand on the back of his head to indicate where he meant.

‘Whatever you think best, Doctor,’ Mrs Breed said weakly. ‘Do I need to sign anything?’

The doctor held out a clipboard containing some documents. He pointed out to Mrs Breed where to sign. She took the board and signed, not reading the document.

‘Thank you very much,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ll keep you up to date with what’s going on. Is there anything you need?’

She shook her head.

Roberts spoke to the officer. ‘Can you call in; request a female officer to come and sit with Mrs Breed. That might be better if it’s going to be a while.’

The officer picked up his radio; Roberts got up and followed the doctor, who was now leaving the lounge area.

‘Doctor,’ she said as she caught up with him, ‘I know I’ve asked this before, but have you any idea when he’ll be able to talk to us?’

The doctor looked at Roberts then turned his gaze back to Mrs Breed. ‘As I’ve said before: we can’t tell yet. But if and when he is in a position to talk, it’ll be to his mother first.’

FORTY

‘I need a
cigarette,’ Roberts snapped as she and Alvarez stood outside the main hospital doors. Alvarez’s eyes squinted in the strong sunshine as she pulled out a packet of Marlboro and her lighter.

Alvarez pointed over to a sign on the wall. ‘You can’t do that here. I saw a group of white coats go down to the street earlier.’

‘Whatever,’ she replied. Clearly pissed off, she strode across the parking lot to the street. Once on the sidewalk, she lit up and took a long drag. ‘“It’ll be to his mother first.” Pompous asshole.’ She took another long drag, lifting her head up and blowing a long jet of smoke into the air.

‘Better for that?’ he asked facetiously.

Grinning, she nodded, and perched herself on the edge of the small hedged wall bordering the parking lot.

He put both hands in his pockets and leaned on the nearby streetlight. ‘While he’s sleeping and we can’t talk to him, we need to get a hold of what was his name? Walter Ackerman.’

Roberts took one more drag and tossed the butt into the street. ‘Can you call the Desk, and get them to run Ackerman through NCIC. Then call us back.’

‘Sure.’

While he made the call, Roberts pulled out the pack of Marlboros, opened it, and stared at the five unused sticks. Deciding against smoking another, she put the pack away. ‘Well?’ she asked, looking up at Alvarez.

He still had the phone to his ear. ‘They’re doing it now,’ he mouthed.

Nodding, she stood up and stretched. Walked twenty or thirty feet down the street and back again, just to stretch her legs. She had been sitting in the car for hours. Normally, last night she would have made one of her four times a week visits to the gym near home, but it was too late after she had finished all the damned paperwork she had to do.

She was walking down the street a third time when she heard Alvarez speak. She swung round and walked back. ‘Well?’

‘That’s perfect. Thanks.’ Alvarez hung up. ‘We got a result.’

‘And?’

‘Walter Ackerman has a record. He did eighteen months for a liquor store hold up a few years back.’

‘Only eighteen months?’

‘He was just the lookout, apparently. Stayed in the car outside. And he turned State’s Evidence to get a reduction in sentence.’

‘The loyal type, then?’

‘U-huh. But we got an address. It’s coming through now.’ He looked at his phone as a text message came through. ‘Decatur Avenue.’

‘Decatur Avenue? Where the hell’s that?’

‘I’ll check the GPS, but I’ll take book it’s not far from where Breed lives.’

They climbed over the low hedge and walked back across the parking lot. As they neared the car Roberts said, ‘If we can get a hold of Ackerman, then Mitchell Breed staying hospitalized won’t be so much of a problem.’

‘Especially,’ added Alvarez, ‘if he’s got form in grassing up his friends.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Once back in the car, Alvarez typed in the address and zip code. ‘I know where it is,’ he said.

Roberts settled down in the passenger seat. ‘Good. Let’s go.’

The address was 11400 Decatur. Apartment 326. It was a five floor red brick building, sandwiched between a dry cleaners and a closed, boarded up jewellers. They walked up the stairs to the third floor. On the third floor landing, they looked along the corridor. Apartment 320 was the first door, painted dark brown, matching the other doors and skirting board. The corridor was carpeted with a worn, dirty, even darker brown covering. The ceiling was stained yellow from years of smoke; two light bulbs hung down, one by the landing, and one halfway down the corridor. The walls were covered with old wallpaper, which seemed to have once had a floral design, but this had faded with the years and the grime. They could hear a variety of sounds: a pair of voices talking; another arguing; a baby crying, and the sound of a television at full volume. Walking down to door 326, they could tell the sound of the baby crying was coming from here. Roberts knocked loudly on the door.

After a few moments, the door opened slowly, and a young, black face peered through.

Roberts held up her badge. Before she could introduce them, the door closed again. They heard the sound of the chain being released, and then the door opened again. She was in her early twenties, and was clutching a young baby, who was crying.

‘Detectives Roberts and Alvarez, Midtown North. I’m sorry to bother you. Does Walter Ackerman live here?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t know anybody of that name.’

Roberts looked up and down the corridor. ‘Do you mind if we come in? There’s nothing to worry about.’

The woman stepped back and let them in. Alvarez closed the door behind them.

‘I’m sorry about him,’ she said, bouncing the baby up and down in her arms. ‘He’s due a feed.’

Roberts glanced around the apartment. The décor matched that of the corridor outside. It was really just one room, with a door leading to a bathroom. There were a couple of chairs, a single bed next to a cot in one corner, a small cupboard. In front of the small window with grubby net curtains were a small sink and draining board, a two ring gas stove, and a small white refrigerator. A gas fire was fitted in the wall opposite the bed and cot. A small television was standing on the cupboard, playing a children’s show. On the floor between the two chairs was a deep red rug on which were scattered a few children’s toys.

Roberts half smiled. ‘Don’t mind us. We only need to ask you a couple of things.’

The girl picked up a small feeding bottle of milk and offered it to the baby, who started feeding hungrily.

Roberts asked, ‘So you don’t know anybody by the name of Walter Ackerman.’

‘No. Never heard the name, on my life.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘About six months. Just after he was born.’

‘Do you know where the people before went?’

She shook her head.

Alvarez asked, ‘Who owns the place? Who do you pay rent to?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I think they’re called Bronx Estates.’

‘Do you know where they’re based?’

She shook her head.

‘How do you pay your rent?’

‘A guy comes to collect it every Monday morning.’

Roberts nodded. ‘I see.’

‘Hold on a minute. I got a letter from them a couple of weeks back. When the rent went up.’ Still carrying the feeding baby, she walked over to the cupboard, rummaged around in the drawer, and fished out a sheet of paper. ‘Here; this is it,’ she said, passing it to Roberts.

Roberts held the letter out so they could both read it. ‘This is addressed to Hazelle Soremekun: that you?’ she asked.

The girl nodded.

They both scanned the letter. It merely advised that the rent was to go up to $350 a week. The name of the company was Bronx Estates Corporation. The address was a post box number.

‘Look at the zip code,’ Roberts muttered. ‘10036: that’s Lower Manhattan, isn’t it?’

‘I believe it is, yes,’ Alvarez replied.

‘At least we have a phone number.’ Roberts asked Hazelle, ‘Do you mind if we keep this letter?’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ replied Hazelle, adjusting the baby’s bottle.

Roberts passed the letter to Alvarez, who folded it up and slipped it into his inside pocket. ‘That’s all we need, Hazelle; thank you for your help.’

‘No problem.’  Still carrying the feeding baby, she showed them to the door. The two detectives said their goodbyes and left. Just before Hazelle could close the door, Roberts turned round, fishing into her back pocket.

‘That’s for him,’ she said, dropping two $20 bills on to the cupboard. She stared at Alvarez who mumbled something, got out his wallet and did the same.

‘Oh, no; I can’t,’ Hazelle spluttered.

‘Yes you can,’ Roberts said. ‘Remember to put the chain back on.’

As they walked back down to the car Roberts said, ‘We’ll call them, see if they have an address for Ackerman. Most likely they don’t, so then we’ll try to track him through social security. They might know where he lives, where he works.’

‘I’ll call them right now,’ Alvarez said.

‘Let’s go over there,’ said Roberts, pointing to a small park across the street. ‘I’m hungry.’

In the park, they both bought a hot dog, Roberts’ with mustard, Alvarez’s with ketchup. As they sat down on a wall eating, Roberts asked, ‘How’s Elena?’

‘She’s okay, thanks. Has good days, has bad days.’

‘And recently?’

‘Good, mainly.’

Roberts nodded. ‘Good,’ she said contemplatively. She quickly finished her hot dog then held out her hand. ‘Give me the letter. I’ll call them back at the station. You go home; I’ll finish off.’

Surprised, Alvarez asked, ‘You sure?’

‘Yes. Sure.’

‘What’s the plan tomorrow?’

‘Not sure yet. I’ll send you a text.’

‘Okay. I appreciate it, Jules.’

‘You deserve it. You’re owed hours anyway. Drive us back to the station house, then go kiss your wife.’

Shortly, they were parked outside the station.

‘See you in the morning,’ Alvarez said. ‘You know: this... and the cash you gave that girl: you’re quite a good one, really; in spite of what everyone says.’

‘Well, keep that to yourself,’ Roberts said, climbing the steps. ‘Night.’