Sacred Evil (Krewe of Hunters) Page 8

  The apartment was designed in an ell, and they followed Andrew through the kitchen and dining room to the room that had once been the extra, or guest, bedroom and was now his father’s library.

  He noted that his dad didn’t show Whitney his old room, now kind of a back parlor and not much different than it had been. Apparently, Andrew had silently decided that whatever Jude wanted to tell Whitney about his father’s place and his own was Jude’s call.

  There was a large accountant’s desk in the center of the room, a number of overstuffed chairs and the walls were lined floor to ceiling with books. One wall contained fiction, his father’s favorites, from Poe and H. G. Wells down to more contemporary authors like Robert McCammon and F. Paul Wilson. He had a fine collection of works by Dickens, Defoe and others as well; this wall also contained his fictionalized history.

  The back wall was totally dedicated to fiction and nonfiction on the city and state of New York, while the last wall offered books on American and world history.

  “Wow,” Whitney murmured.

  “Books—my weakness,” Andrew told her, looking through his titles. “Here! The House of Spiritualism. It’s a first edition, written by a fellow named Magnor Honeywell in 1910. He was on the police force in Lower Manhattan from 1880 to 1905. He had firsthand experience of everything going on in the city, and he was there during the final days of the Five Points dismantling. This book can at least give you an insight into what was going on back then.”

  “This is fabulous!” Whitney said. “It’s a first edition, though—”

  “And it’s nothing, if it can help,” Andrew assured her. “Besides, I’ll bet you take care of your books.”

  Whitney immediately started thumbing through it and let out a pleased cry, scanning information here and there. “It’s the best description I’ve seen on Carrie Brown,” she said. She looked at Jude. “She was—”

  “I know who she was,” Jude said. “She was a prostitute found dead in room 31 of the East River Hotel, mutilated—in the manner that Jack the Ripper’s victims had been mutilated. Since she was found on April 24, 1891, it was easy for the reporters camped out on Mulberry Street to determine that the Ripper had left London after his horrendous mutilation of Mary Kelly at the end of 1888, and come to America. Oh, by the way, check my exact figures on this, but I believe she was something like the forty-fifth person to die violently that year—even with the Five Points region having been cleaned up. A man named Ameer Ben Ali—aka Frenchy—was arrested and convicted of the murder, and later exonerated. Chief Inspector Thomas Byrnes made an ass of himself, since he’d claimed that if the Ripper ever came to America, he’d catch him in twenty-four hours. Byrnes practiced a form of psychological torture on criminals that really created the term the third degree. He was supposedly larger than life, but totally corrupt, amassing a fortune of over a quarter-million dollars when he was only making a salary of about two thousand. He was forced to resign in 1895 when a new president of the New York City Police Commission came in—Theodore Roosevelt. Whether Carrie Brown’s murder was or wasn’t the work of the Jack the Ripper, he was never caught.”

  Whitney stared at him, smiling slowly.

  “Don’t be too impressed. He went to a police symposium in Britain, kind of like a look at how to improve things for detectives on both sides of the briny,” Andrew said, but Jude saw that his father was grinning. He smiled in return. His father was a good man; at seventy, he was spry and dignified, almost as tall as Jude and straight as an arrow. “Keep flipping those pages, and you’ll find info on the House of Spiritualism itself,” he told Whitney. “I’m going to set out dinner.”

  “I can help,” Whitney said.

  “I’m sure you can. It’s just pasta. You read,” Andrew told her. He left them both, heading to the kitchen.

  “He’s an impressive man,” Whitney told Jude.

  “Thanks.”

  She started reading, sinking into one of the chairs. Jude excused himself, walked back out to the living room and pulled out his phone to put through another call to Ellis Sayer.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Do you know how many people were on that set during the day?” Sayer asked him over the wires.

  Jude liked Ellis Sayer. He was the most thorough man Jude had ever met; he was glad to have him on the task force because he was so anal that he checked out every little tiny detail—and that sometimes mattered.

  “Yeah. A ton. I’ve got the lists.”

  “Hundreds. We’ve sifted through the caterers, and eliminated them from being on set past six o’clock. Most of the actors were gone by seven, the designers, camera crew, lighting…they were all out by eight-thirty. Here’s the thing, of course—they could have come back. You met with the director—Angus Avery?”

  “Yeah. The ghost of the Ripper killed her, according to him. He’s convinced that evil lurks on that construction site—Jack the Ripper did come to America, and was buried there, and has now been dug up with the demolition of the building. And the ghost is pissed.”

  “Yep, that’s what he told me, too. But I knew you’d want to speak with him yourself. I’ve spoken with the principal actors, and limos picked them both up early. But I’m sure you want to speak with them, too. They’ll be at the station tomorrow.”

  Jude rubbed his forehead. “Yes, that’s going to be important,” he said.

  Sayer was silent for a minute. “Jude, we’re not going to get this guy tonight, that’s for sure. I’m not going to call Fullbright again…he’ll never answer my calls again if I do. All he’ll tell me is that she was butchered like a Ripper victim. I think Fullbright is actually excited about the possibility. Scary. But I guess he spends his days with bodies. That’s what’s so scary to me—people are excited by this murder. You’d think the movies would be enough for them,” Ellis added with disgust.

  “Do you know, by the way, if Captain Tyler went to a shelter?” Jude asked.

  “The old vet who saw a man in a dark cloak and stovepipe hat, carrying a medical bag?” Sayer asked dryly.

  “Hey, it’s the only description we’ve gotten of anyone in the vicinity,” Jude said.

  “Except for Captain Tyler himself, who admits to being there,” Sayer reminded him. “But, yes, the old guy is fine. He agreed that he might need a breathing treatment, so he’s at a place that’s kind of a halfway house for vets—it offers some medical assistance, and rooms with more of a homelike atmosphere. Hannah did some research on the place, and she seemed to like it best. She said he could be happy there—not living in the midst of the urine and antiseptic smell of a shelter.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Jude said.

  “He’s really our only suspect.”

  “No. If you didn’t see him, you didn’t see how his hands trembled. No way he could have held a knife and carried out the murder,” Jude told him.

  “I haven’t seen him. The deputy chief filled me in on him. So, he’s not a viable suspect. Okay, so I’m looking for Jack the Ripper?” Sayer asked.

  “More or less. Keep your men questioning cast and crew,” Jude told him.

  “That’ll be a full-time job for the team.”

  “We’ve got patrol cars doubled up down there, right?” Jude asked.

  “Please! Come on, you asked for me because I’m good,” Sayer told him.

  “Thanks, Ellis. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  When Jude hung up, he heard his father call, “Chow’s on. And, hey, you want to be good at your jobs—you got to fuel the human engine.”

  Whitney joined him from the library as he headed for the dining room. Andrew had set out the pasta and a salad and bottles of red wine and soda. “Didn’t know if you wanted to indulge in a glass of wine this evening,” he said gruffly.

  “I’d indulge in a lot more,” Jude said, but he reached over to pour them each a glass of cabernet. “Thanks, Dad. This is a nice break. We do have to eat.”

  “Mangia, mangia!” Andrew
said. “I had an Italian grandmother,” he told Whitney.

  Whitney thanked him for the meal, but couldn’t hold back her excitement over her reading. “Did you know, when the city started the demolition of the tenements in the Five Points region, a lot of plain old thugs became interested in the House of Spiritualism? The movement—or modern spiritualism—began to rise in 1848 with the Fox sisters claiming to communicate with the dead, and from then on, it grew. There were all kinds of charlatan mediums taking people for large sums, and that’s what went on mostly at the House of Spiritualism at first. But then it took a twist. By the later 1880s and into the 1890s, those who were less than scrupulous were joined by those who had downright devilish desires. It was still a time when orphaned and immigrant children were barely valued. Only occasionally did the papers mention that a child had disappeared, or a young woman. While the police suspected that a number of murderers and sadists were taking refuge at the society, they couldn’t prove anything. A raid in 1890 produced nothing at all. But, there was a rumor that Carrie Brown’s killer was a member of the so-called church, a mysterious newcomer who had arrived from Britain. It’s suspected that he died there, but everything about the man was rumor. There were no records of his arrival or even his existence, but the police heard that he was so sadistic that he scared the people there, and that they killed and buried him secretly somewhere on the property. They found Carrie Brown, but there were still nearby alleys and overcrowded tenements, and it’s believed he killed more victims, but in the overcrowding, constant crime and corruption of the time, they were probably immigrants and their bodies were decayed when discovered, and treated like refuse. Oh, you will like this. He went by the name of Jack. Jonathan Black.”

  “Sad, very sad,” Andrew said.

  “Right. Thank God corruption no longer exists,” Jude said.

  “Hey!” Andrew protested. “We’ve come a long way.”

  “Yes, we have. But, then again, as human beings, it seems that we haven’t come so far.” He hesitated. “Look at the victim we found today,” he said quietly. “And I don’t believe that we’ve unearthed the body or soul of Jonathan Black and that he’s terrorizing Lower Manhattan. There’s someone out there, a psychotic but organized killer, with an agenda.”

  “Agreed—but what if he is someone who knows all the history of the area?” Whitney asked. “Someone who is working to re-create the crimes.”

  “Angus Avery seems to know all about it,” Jude said.

  “And this will give his movie more publicity than money could ever buy,” Andrew noted.

  Don’t argue with the man! Whitney warned herself.

  Jude wanted to bring her back to Blair House after dinner; she didn’t have to stay up with him. He was just going to make the proper calls to assure himself that Angus Avery had indeed spoken at a dinner that took place in Midtown, and talk with the driver who had been assigned to get him around the city. He was going to have records pulled on the major players in the movie, and also get an interview with the ex-cop who had last been on duty at the site.

  “I don’t do shift work—I’m here to work the case,” Whitney told him.

  “I know. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty for the task force meeting,” he assured her. “I’m on to paperwork and phone work, mundane telephone stuff. There’s no reason for you not to settle in and get some sleep.”

  When they arrived at Blair House, though, he hesitated in the car.

  They’d passed several patrol cars—the police were making their presence known in the area.

  But Blair House was dark, except for the slender porch light, and the street lamps illuminating the construction site were sadly lacking in strength.

  “Hey, I’m not afraid of the dark,” she told him.

  “Maybe you should be.”

  Whitney grinned. “You don’t believe in ghosts, and they’re not going to bother me. And if there’s a real human threat, remember, I have a gun, and I know how to use it.”

  “No one is ever invulnerable,” he said.

  “I’m all right, really,” she assured him.

  As she was about to get out of the car, she felt her phone buzz. She paused to see the message she was receiving.

  Whitney sucked in her breath.

  “What?” Jude asked her.

  She passed him the phone. There was a likeness on the screen. “I know you have police artists, and that they’ve surely worked with what you have. But Jake Mallory is really a technical wizard. He’s worked every angle of the pictures I’ve sent him, and this is the likeness he has created from ‘Jane Doe wet’ that I sent him today.”

  Jude stared at the image. “You’ve got a computer in the house?”

  “Of course. And I have a mobile broadband card, so we can connect anywhere you like.”

  He seemed to be appraising her with new eyes; she had proven that the team might just be of use.

  “Let’s go.”

  She still had all the keys for the team on the band that the driver had given her, and it took her a minute to open the gate and then the front door to the house. Once inside, she told him that it would take her a minute to set up her computer, but he assured her that it was no problem. She moved quickly, racing upstairs to the room she had chosen, hurrying back down and finding that she could easily set up in the broad hallway at an old desk situated below the stairs. In another minute, she had the image on the large screen, and it was so good that it looked like a photograph. Jake had sent her a note next to the image: Naturally, don’t know about eye color, but from what you sent, computer said her hair was brown. Hope this helps; see you tomorrow.

  Jude leaned over her shoulder, staring at the image on the screen. The woman pictured appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She looked a little the worse for wear, as if she had spent long years abusing alcohol or drugs.

  “Just about thirty-five,” Jude said as if reading her thoughts. “That’s the age Fullbright estimated as well.” He looked at her. His face was close; the lamplight gave his skin a bronze cast. She felt a little tremor shoot through her. She liked his face. She wished that she didn’t.

  “Our next step,” he told her, “was going to be to remove the head, dissolve the flesh—Fullbright likes maggots, actually—and then send the skull to a woman down at the Smithsonian. But…may I?”

  “Of course.”

  She stood, letting him take the chair at the desk. She watched as he emailed the likeness to someone, typing, “I know it’s late. Use any newspaper contact. I need this out there—neighborhood websites, flyers, too. Copy should just read, ‘Do you know this woman?’”

  A second later, he got his reply. “On it, Jude. Not too late. I can get it in for tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you now.”

  “Hey, I was up. I’ve kind of got a guy, Jude. We have coffee. We chat. Who knows… I was on the phone with him when you emailed.”

  “Good for you, girl.”

  “But don’t worry—I’m always your girl first, Jude.”

  Jude replied, “You’re a good egg, Hannah.”

  “I’m the best.”

  He eased back in the chair, and then sat forward again, emailing the likeness to himself. Then he rose, looking at her strangely. “Thanks. Yes, we’ve had some sketches done. But…this is—detailed. It’s as if she could walk off the page. I don’t know if we can find out who she was, and if we do, if that can help us catch her killer, but…hey. Everyone deserves a burial, and no one deserves to die like that.”

  Whitney nodded. “Sure. I agree.”

  She felt as if they shared a bizarrely awkward moment. He had discovered that he didn’t dislike her and she just might be useful.

  She had just discovered that she liked way too much about him.

  “Listen, I have a two-bedroom place in Hell’s Kitchen and you’re more than welcome to come back with me. I’d appreciate it, actually. I don’t like thinking about you down here by yourself.”

  “You liv
e in Hell’s Kitchen, too?” she asked him.

  He laughed. “The apartment next to my father. He was bright enough to buy when things went co-op a couple of decades ago, and I just pay him a minimum rent—his pleasure money, as he calls it. I think he charges me because he knew I wouldn’t accept the place if I didn’t pay him something. And, hey, I’m sure he’d be happy to have you for the night, too.”

  She was tempted. Really tempted. She wasn’t afraid of Blair House, or of being alone. She was afraid that the more she was with him, the more she liked him, and the more she was close to him, the more she realized that he was really an attractive man—and she was attracted to him. Not a good thing on the first day of a new investigation.

  Whitney certainly had no desire to appear to be afraid just to be with him—or anyone.

  And he probably didn’t understand that she needed to be in the house by herself for the night.

  “I’m all right, honestly. Like I told you earlier, I’m not the fearful type. And I have some work to do tonight. I have to decide where I think we’ll need our camera equipment, and just what we may want to film or record on tape…”

  He stared at her blankly.

  “We always keep track of what happens around us,” she said. “And, of course, we’ll want to watch the property next door.”

  He still stared at her.

  “Oh. For shadows and ghosts and things?” he asked. His tone was polite.

  “For anything that’s going on,” she said. “Trust me—it’s good.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Good. And I’m okay, really. I’m not a fool.”

  He smiled, and it was a real smile.

  “Maybe not staying here would make you the intelligent type,” he told her.

  She grinned at that. “Thank you. Sincerely, thank you. But I have a phone. There are cruisers in the street tonight. I’m not going back out, and I’ll sleep with my gun under my pillow.”

  He nodded; her words were rational.

  “All right, then. I’ll be here at seven-thirty, sharp. You need a wake-up call or anything?”

  She laughed at that. “No, but thanks again. I have an alarm on my phone. I’ll be fine. Honestly.”