Saints Of New York

  'You know yourself better than you let on, Frank. I think you like to project that persona - the troublemaker, the loner, the outsider, the difficult one that no-one can get rid of because he's too good at his job.'

  'I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that I was too good at my job.'

  'And that's the other part of it right there - this false humility. You know how good you are, you just believe that talking about it diminishes the effect it has on others.'

  'I don't know what the hell you're trying to say here.'

  'I'm saying that you want the world to believe that you're this lonely -

  'Sure I'm lonely. Who isn't these days? I have enough loneliness to open a store.'

  'Of course you do.'

  'What? You're laughing at me now?'

  'I'm not laughing at you, Frank, I'm laughing with you.'

  'That's just such a full-of-shit thing to say. I'm laughing with you. I'm not laughing. Did you happen to notice that?'

  'I'm sorry, Frank. I just hear you say one thing and I know you're really saying another.'

  'Well, I suppose that's where a psychology major comes in handy, 'cause it feels to me that what I say and what I mean are precisely the same thing.'

  'Okay, agreed. What you say is what you mean.'

  'Now you just sound patronizing.'

  'I'm sorry. I apologize. I certainly don't mean to sound that way.'

  'So what now? We're done for today?'

  'You think we're done?'

  'Christ, what is it with this can't-answer-a-question-without- asking-another-question bullshit? Far as I'm concerned, we were done the first day I came here.'

  'I've upset you, Frank, and I'm sorry. I've said I'm sorry. I know you're on edge—'

  'I'm on edge because I've got Jimmy Radick over at this woman's house and I'm not there. I think he'll be fine, but I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I was there, too.'

  'I don't want to hold you up from your work, Frank, but it seems to me that what we're doing is a way to make you work better. And you have to learn to delegate. You're not going to always be there. At some point you're going to have to stop doing this, and there have to be some people left behind that can do this job as well as you. If Jimmy Radick can't organize searching someone's house then he has no place as a homicide detective, right?'

  'Right, yeah. Sure.'

  'So sit back for a minute. Just relax, okay? A few more minutes of your time isn't going to affect what happens out there one way or the other.'

  'Okay, okay. So what do you want to ask me now?'

  'I want to know what you'll do if there's nothing at the house?'

  'What I'll do? I've got a trace going on with someone at Archives for any footage or pictures of these girls in their files. I'm going to have to find a way to get into McKee's SUV. I need to look at his finance records, see if he's received any unusual amounts of money—'

  'In case he's being paid for information about these girls from their files?'

  'Right. And I need to look at his work attendance records. I need to know if he was at work when these girls were supposedly abducted, or if there were days he was absent from work after they went missing . . . this kind of thing. I just need to start building up a much better picture of the kind of person I'm dealing with.'

  'And if he's not your man? If you're spending all this time looking in the wrong direction?'

  'Hell, that's police work. That's what being a detective is all about. You keep on looking and looking until there's nothing left to see, and then you look somewhere else. Right now he's the only contender I've got, and until I prove that he's not the one, then he continues to be my main source of interest.'

  'And do you have a gut feeling?'

  'Yes.'

  'And what would that be?'

  'He's involved. I feel that much. I don't know if he's the killer,but I feel he is involved. Hell, he could be involved in something else that makes him look guilty, but there's a feeling about this that I can't shake off.'

  'And you trust that feeling?'

  'I have to. Few times it's been the only thing that's got me through a case.'

  'Okay, Frank, we'll leave it for today. I want you to think about how you're approaching this. I want you to avoid obsessing on it, take a few minutes every once in a while to remember that there are other things going on in your life that are just as important as Richard McKee—'

  'Such as?'

  'Well, if you have to ask me that then I see that we still have a great deal more work to do.'

  'Good enough. If that's the way it is then that's the way it is. For me, at this moment, there isn't anything else as important as Richard McKee. The only thing that could come close is Caitlin, and I don't think that she'd even give me the time of day right now. That's something I'll deal with when this thing is finished.'

  'And if it doesn't finish?'

  'Oh, I think it'll finish, Doctor Griffin. One way or the other it's going to finish.'

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  It was eleven by the time Parrish arrived at Carole Paretski'shome. Across Broadway and east two blocks and he would be outside the home of Karen Pulaski.

  Radick was in one of the bedrooms with a uniform. When Parrish reached the top of the stairs he heard Carole Paretski's voice somewhere in the background. It sounded like she was talking on a cell phone.

  Radick nodded at Parrish, looked up at the corner of the room and pointed.

  Parrish followed his line of sight and saw nothing but a small hole that sat immediately in the corner. It was no bigger than a cent.

  'This is the daughter's room,' he said. 'And that hole is man- made. I stuck a pen in it and it goes right through.'

  'You're thinking what I'm thinking?' Parrish asked.

  'Could well be.'

  Radick was out on the landing as Carole came off the phone. 'We need to get up there,' he said, and indicated the attic.

  Carole backed up and showed Radick the trap in the ceiling outside the bathroom door, it's only half-boarded,' she said. 'He started it, never finished it. There was some bullshit about the permit. Be careful or you'll come through.'

  'Did Richard go up there a lot?' Parrish asked her.

  'Often enough. He kept a lot of paperwork up there, things from work that he needed to refer to.'

  'And why keep them in the attic?'

  'Security, he said. Didn't want them lying around the house.'

  Radick looked at Parrish. Parrish shook his head almost imperceptibly. Say nothing, the gesture said. Not yet.

  In the crawl space they found it just as Carole had said.

  Half-boarded, dusty, cramped. Parrish made his way to the corner where the hole had been pushed through. He lay down, unconcerned about the state of his clothes, and managed to get his eye close enough to the hole to see through it. Right down into the girl's bedroom, no question. Radick had a torch. He scanned along the rafters, found small staple-holes every once in a while.

  'A cable feed,' he said. 'You reckon he had a camera up here?'

  Parrish was up on his haunches, keeping his head low so as not to hit the roof-beams. 'Christ only knows,' he said matter-of- factly. 'But I'm starting to think that maybe we have a live one here. You like him for filming his own daughter, maybe her friends as well. Daughter has girlfriends around for a sleepover. Dad's up here with a fucking video camera?'

  Radick said nothing. He backed up and started down the ladder. Parrish followed him, took a moment to brush himself down. He looked like he'd been dragged backwards through a tornado.

  'Something?' Carole asked.

  'Nothing to get excited about,' Parrish said, though he was excited. He could feel it in his lower gut, in the way his fists involuntarily clenched and unclenched, the way his pulse was moving a little faster, the way the sweat had broken out across his scalp. He itched with anticipation. He believed he had McKee - if not for the deaths of the girls, but for involvement, some sort of involvement for sure.

&nb
sp; 'They won't be much longer,' Parrish told her. 'The uniforms. Jimmy's going to stay here until they're done, and make sure they leave everything as we found it.'

  Parrish started towards the stairs. Radick hung back, but Carole followed Parrish down to the kitchen. She cornered him by the back door.

  'You think he's . . .'

  Parrish smiled wryly, and shook his head. 'I think nothing, Mrs Paretski, I think nothing. In this game I either know or I don't.'

  'But you have your suspicions. You have to have suspicions otherwise there'd never be anything to follow up.' She looked anxious; if not concerned for her own welfare, then for the welfare of her kids. Even the suspicion, even the rumor that their father was involved in something like this could have potentially devastating consequences for their well-being and safety. This was the kind of thing that impelled families to move state and change their name.

  Parrish hesitated for a moment, and then he said, 'Can we sit down for a moment?'

  Carole Paretski backed up to the kitchen table and sat down. Parrish followed suit. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'there are certain things you can say, and once you've said them there's no going back. I could say a lot of things right now, and frankly none of them would serve any purpose.' He smiled, looked away for a moment. 'My wife used to accuse me of not listening. But I was. That's what I do. I look, and I listen. I pay attention to everything that's going on around me, and sometimes it takes a good while before I see or hear anything that connects with something else.' Parrish paused; there were tears in Carole Paretski's eyes. 'I don't know if he's done anything, Carole. I really don't. All I know is that I have a number of dead girls, and the circumstances and nature of their deaths suggests very strongly that they are linked. Aside from that there is only one other connection, and that takes us to Family Welfare. Now, it may be that Richard has nothing to do with this at all - I have no evidence right now that he does - but I'm looking at the people there, and I'm listening to what they're saying, and I'm trying to find one thing that connects to another thing. From there maybe I'll find one piece of this puzzle, and that will give me an idea of the picture I might end up with. You understand me?'

  'You want me to say nothing, right? You want me to carry on like nothing has happened? You want me to let him come over here and take the kids away . . .'

  'I can only assume that this arrangement was sanctioned by the courts in your divorce?'

  'Yes, it was.'

  'Then you have no choice, and if you have no choice then . . .'

  'But, what if . . .'

  'What if means nothing, Carole. I can't tell you anything because there is nothing to tell you. If Richard is involved in this thing, directly or indirectly - and right now it's only an if - then all I can tell you is that I will do everything in my power to make sure that he does not harm you, and he does not harm the children. But any indication you give him that we've been here - and I have to stress this with the utmost importance . . . any clue he gets that we have been here will only make my job a lot harder. All I can tell you is that I will work as hard as I can and as fast as I can, and if I find anything that makes me believe you or your children are in danger, then I will act decisively to prevent that from happening. Beyond that, I will also let you know when we have confirmed that he is not involved so your mind can be at rest on the subject, okay?'

  Carole Paretski didn't speak for a while, and when she looked up at Parrish there was something in her expression that he saw all too rarely.

  'How do you do this?' she asked. 'You have kids. Okay, they're older now. They're more independent than mine, but you are a father. You must feel what everyone else feels. You must see what other people are going through.'

  'There's an old saying. It's about working in Homicide. It goes along the lines of "When your day ends, my day starts."'

  'That's terrible. I can't even begin to understand what this job must do to you.'

  Parrish smiled. 'I can't understand it either, and these days I try not to.' He started to get up.

  Carole Paretski reached out and took his hand. 'Seriously,' she said, her voice urgent, emotional. 'Seriously ... if you find out that he's been involved in anything like this, I need you to tell me right away. That thing that happened . . . when that girl accused him of saying those things to her ... I think he did that. I believe he did that. He got away with it because it was her word against his, but I knew ... I looked in his face and I knew.' She let go of Parrish's hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. 'I don't know why I didn't leave him then . . . hell, yes I do. I didn't leave him because of the kids. They were eight and nine years old. I was still looking after them, hadn't gone back to work, and there was no way I could have supported them alone . . .' Her voice trailed away, as did her gaze. She looked through the window to the street. Parrish said nothing to interrupt her thoughts.

  When she turned back she appeared to have gathered herself together somewhat.

  'You need to go,' she said. 'Thank you for your time, and for understanding.' 'Trying to understand,' Parrish replied.

  'No,' she said, 'I know you understand, Detective Parrish. If you didn't you wouldn't be here.'

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Back at the precinct Parrish debriefed Valderas on where they were at.

  'I can't disagree with your suspicions, Frank, but essentially you have nothing.'

  'I'm aware of that. I just plan to keep on looking until I have something definite.'

  'Just get him back in here for more talking,' Valderas suggested. 'Get under his skin. When you ask the public to co-operate they're kind of obligated, aren't they? Otherwise they just end up looking guilty.'

  'I've thought of that. . .'

  'So do it. Don't push him too hard, but just enough so if there's something to give way it will. They always cave under pressure. It's just a matter of the pressure being so subtle they don't feel it until it's too late.'

  Parrish called Radick, told him to wind things up at the Paretski place and get back to the precinct. He then called Foley, got Lavelle, asked for them to let McKee go early once more. Lavelle didn't question Parrish's request, merely said that McKee could leave at lunchtime. Once Radick returned Parrish sent him over to pick McKee up, and when he arrived it was evident that McKee was on edge.

  'I don't know what you want from me,' were his first words when Parrish showed him through to an interview room. 'I've told you everything I know, everything I can remember about these cases, and I just don't see what else I can tell you.'

  Parrish said nothing for a few seconds. He took off his jacket and sat down. He asked if there was anything he could get for McKee.

  'I just want to go back to work, or go home,' McKee replied. 'What I do not want to do is sit here talking to you.'

  Parrish smiled. He nodded at Radick and Radick sat down on a chair near the door. He was behind McKee, a position designed solely to unnerve and unsettle the interviewee. McKee glanced over his shoulder at Radick. Radick smiled. McKee turned back to Parrish.

  'Tell me what happened in June of 2002, Richard.'

  'What? What the hell are you talking about?'

  'The little girl, Richard . . . the one in the playground.'

  'Oh for God's sake, you can't be serious. That was six years ago, and besides, nothing came of it. It was bullshit, and I don't know it was ever considered anything more than some ridiculous and unfounded fantasy by a naive little girl . . .'

  'Tell me what happened.'

  'What the hell for? If you know about it then it's on file, and it shouldn't be. I was never arrested, and there was no formal complaint, and I was not charged. It's irrelevant.'

  'Humor me, Richard.'

  McKee looked back at Radick. Radick was cold, expressionless.

  'I used to take the kids to the park. I used to take them every couple of days. I met a woman there, just someone who used to take her daughter. This woman's daughter and Sarah used to play together. This girl,
nine, ten years old perhaps, told her mother that I said something sexually provocative to her.'

  'What did you say?'

  'I didn't say anything, that was the whole point of it. I didn't say a goddamned thing.'

  'Okay then, what did the girl say you said to her?'

  'I don't like the intonation in your voice, Detective, I really don't.'

  'What intonation would that be?'

  'You know very well what I'm talking about. Your tone implies that what the girl said might have been true.'

  'I apologize, Richard. I didn't mean for it to sound like that. I wanted to know what this girl told her mother, that was all.'

  'It's disgusting. It repulses me to have to repeat it—'

  'Please, sir, if you don't mind.'

  'She said . . . she told her mother that. . . Jesus, do I really have to say this? I don't get why I'm here. I really am not very comfortable at all with this, Detective. I cannot see what possible motivation you might have for bringing me here. I am supposed to be at work. You're not charging me with anything, right? Right?'

  'No, Richard, we're not charging you with anything. Is there something that you feel we should be charging you with?'

  McKee laughed condescendingly. 'You're unreal. What the fuck did you say that for?' He shook his head. 'Enough already. You want me to answer any more questions then I want a lawyer here.'

  'This is the last thing we're asking of you, Richard. Just tell me what the little girl accused you of saying.'

  'I can't bring myself to say it. . .'

  'I read the reports, Richard,' Parrish interjected, all-too-aware that he himself was now lying. 'I read the complainant's statement.'

  'So you know what I'm supposed to have said. Why are you asking me to repeat it?'

  'Because if it's so untruthful, if you really didn't say those things, then I believe you could talk about it quite rationally, quite calmly, and though I appreciate that it might be distasteful to you, I still believe that we could discuss this quite amicably—'