Page 98 of Kill For Me Kill For You
Mr. Blue-eyes had not re-surfaced since the attack on Ruth Gelman, more than ten years ago. Farrow often wondered what had happened to him. Maybe he was in prison for something else? Maybe he was dead?
Farrow couldn’t say what had happened to make the killings stop. The one possibility he feared the most was this – what if the killings hadn’t stopped, and he was simply missing those victims, not connecting them to the first two murders and the failed attack on Ruth Gelman? He knew Mr. Blue-eyes had been interrupted during Ruth’s attack – he’d heard sirens and fled the scene before finishing off the victim. Maybe he was too scared to do it again?
Or maybe he stepped up his game afterwards, and took pains to better hide his victims, change his MO.
That’s why Farrow put out a standing order to all dispatchers. Any homicide or attempted homicides involving home invasion in the Manhattan area – Hernandez and Farrow got a courtesy call. Sometimes it was clear before they even went to the scene that it was unconnected – sometimes they got an incorrect call, like Quinn, where the victim was male; sometimes it wasn’t exactly clear whether it was related to Mr. Blue-eyes or not. Out of the calls he and Hernandez had attended in the last ten years – maybe two could’ve been Mr. Blue-eyes, maybe none. Hernandez always complained about it – thought it was a waste of time, and an opportunity for Farrow to pick up more cases that they didn’t need.
He knew that he took those additional cases because he could close them. And in doing so he could get some release. Some relief from the cold files that hung around his feet like ghosts.
He stared at the blue eyes on the cover for a while, shook his head. He had another old case gathering heat, and he somehow wanted that to start warming up Mr. Blue-eyes, melting that magic marker on the file.
He sighed, rubbed his temples and got back to work. He spent the shift with his head buried in reports, statements and then went home. He ate a turkey club, in honor of Thanksgiving, watched a game on TV, then went to bed.
Back pain woke Farrow the next morning just after four a.m. Slowly, he turned over on his side, clenching his teeth with the pain. His bladder was calling him to the bathroom, but it would have to wait. With great effort, Farrow swung his body over to lie on his front.
He panted, rhythmically, filling his lungs before his next move. Breathing hurt. Lying down hurt. Everything hurt. Swinging his feet clear of the bed, his toes found the floor. Then he began to push himself up into a standing position. Straightening up was a slow process. One he had to do in stages. Four minutes later, he stood by the bed, the pain manageable. It was two steps to the nightstand and his glass of water and a bottle of OxyContin. Those steps were halting and slow, as if each one brought a baseball bat across his spine.
He drank first to wet this throat, then again to swallow the pills.
They would take a half hour to kick in. About as long as it would take him to get downstairs and make coffee. They would take the edge off the pain and any dulling effect on his mind would have worn off by the time his shift began. He got into the shower, turned the water up as hot as he could bear and let the jet pound his back. It helped loosen him up. After that, he dressed in a clean blue shirt, and navy suit. He had a device he’d ordered from one of the shopping channels to help him put on his socks. His shoes were slip-ons, and he was able to work his feet into them. He unplugged his phone from the charger and put it in his pants pocket. Leaving the suit jacket and tie in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, he went into the kitchen and started to grind coffee beans.
He’d just hit the plunger on the French press when his cell phone rang.
The time on the phone read five fifty a.m. Never a good sign when the phone rings at that time of the morning.
‘Did I wake you?’ said Hernandez.
‘Nope, I was already awake and doing my hot yoga exercises.’
‘I can’t picture you in spandex. This is a good thing for me.’
‘You’re up early. Did you have a nice holiday yesterday?’
‘It was boring as hell. I watched the parade on TV, ate dry turkey and harassed the forensic techs.’
‘They find anything on Quinn’s computer yet?’
‘They’re still looking. Apparently, he has state-of-the-art security.’
‘His tax returns just say he’s a consultant. Is he some kind of security specialist?’
‘Could be, but we’ll find out soon enough. I did get something back on the cell phone found in the tool shed, though,’ said Hernandez.
‘Something good, I hope.’
‘It’s a burner – disposable. The batch number was traced to an order from a smalltime store in midtown. I got the owner yesterday at home. She’s got good records. She’d ordered five of those phones. She’s got three in stock. Two were bought last week.’
‘She remember the buyers?’
‘We’re not that lucky, but she did tell us that it wasn’t two buyers, it was one. Both phones are recorded as sold in a single transaction. Are you coming in today?’ asked Hernandez.
‘I’m going to try to find Amanda. I didn’t get her on Thanksgiving Eve and when I went by her apartment yesterday morning there was no answer. I left her a voicemail. Asked her to come in.’
‘And you think she’ll do that?’
‘I think so. I didn’t tell her what it was about. Not exactly the kind of thing you can lay out in a voicemail. She’ll come in. She trusts me.’
‘How do you think she’ll react?’
