The Stray

Nocturne

Kenney was busy consulting with his partner, Mason could see him gesticulating nervously in the streetlight, his rain-soaked black curls drawing arabesques on his forehead. Behind them, a sergeant kept the team in line. The officers Mason had brought in ended up there too: two freshmen and two veterans with an easy right and wasted patience. It was the best he could get.

There were too many crimes in New York for Martelli to deprive himself of his best men.

The heavy rain drummed on the cars, on the thick fabric of the caps, on Kenney's restrained expletives.

Handicott, the partner, noticed Mason and nodded to him. A copious trickle slipped from the brim of his hat. Only then did Mason Stone get out of the car.

"Good evening, gentlemen." he ignored the puddles and the water.

"Stone." merely said Kenney. Given the joy it was clear that the reinforcements, consisting of Mason and his people, had not been asked for by him.

"Nice night for an outing," Handicott greeted him, giving him a comforting pat. Splashes rose from his jacket, which were immediately confused with rain.

"My favourite."

"Who did you bring us?"

"Santos, Koontz, Peterson and Cob."

"Santos? But that's great! As long as that one doesn't stop the discipline, he's a hoot!" Handicott was half polemic for its own sake and half sarcasm.

"See if you can rein him in, Stone. I don't want any messes tonight," Kenney cut Kenney short.

"How do we go about this?" asked Mason.

"We'll split into three teams: me and five of my guys go in the front; Kenney and five others go through the back while you and yours watch the perimeter," Handicott explained.

He had gone all that way to hold up the snot.

"Who's the stockman?" he asked. There was a little boy in a mackintosh and hat, strutting beside one of the patrol cars, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"Oh, that one? That's Clarkson, or Chalkson. He works at the Daily. There's an air of scoop about this investigation and you know how it is: the bosses don't want to miss a chance." replied Handicott.

"Does he come in with either team?"

"We've been clear on that: he can't get near it until it's all over."

"Do I have to vouch for him?"

"Just try not to shoot him."

Stone rolled up the lapels of his raincoat and went to the sergeant who, with an iron fist and a grim look, held the troops. He asked to confer with his officers: he wanted to calm the minds of the most violent and investigate the state of mind of the other two. For Peterson and Cob it was their first night-time operation. They were usually assigned to traffic and neighbourhood watch. The recruits were never given an area that was too dangerous, they were always given the less hot areas. Not that there were many in those years, not even that warm. There was Washington Square, Gramercy Park and Grand Central, oases of comfort in the midst of endless deserts of misery. Koontz and Santos, on the other hand, had been in Homicide with Mason for about two years, and they had done their homework. Perhaps too much: Santos had hardened himself to such a point that, with difficulty, he could be distinguished from one of those individuals he was hunting. They called him the 'hound', because of his boxer's grunt and his bull-like size. Koontz, on the other hand, was a cold-hearted tough guy who never stopped before the end, cunning and quick of thought, sharp and fleeting in his features.

"Shall we go, boss?" asked Santos, anxiously. "I'm freezing. I need to get some exercise."

"Not tonight, sorry."

"How?"

"We're here in support."

"Not operational?" intervened Koontz.

"That's right."

"Can't these half-breeds get by without calling us to watch that they don't get too dirty while they eat?"

"That's right, Santos."

"Orders, sir?" asked Peterson.

"The orders are to stay behind me. I don't want any cowboys. If you see anything that Detective Handicott or Kenney's team missed, report it to me. Nothing else."

"What a rip-off." complained Santos again.

"Yeah, starvation pay, no booze and now brothels under lockdown. Hard times," Mason commented sarcastically.

In Harlem Bridge, between Second Avenue and East 124th Street, in the vicinity of Cuvillier Park, Kenney and Handicott had been working for months on a luxury prostitution ring which, according to the investigation, included, among the many prestigious names of New York high society, also bigwigs from the worlds of finance and politics. A business that converged on the building which twenty Manhattan agents were observing that evening in a mixture of tension, euphoria and adrenalin.

On your marks!" said Kenney, reaching the back of the building with his men. At the same moment, Handicott's team also snuck under the first-floor windows. Synchronizing the break-in, ten officers and two detectives catapulted inside. The rain could not fully cover the din of smashing doors, surprised screams, and shuffling escapes. The front of the building lit up like a Christmas tree.

"A hell of an operation," commented Santos, standing next to him, disappointedly. Without replying, Mason continued to scan the rain-slicked darkness.

"When you can't work with your hands, you work with your mouth, Santos. That's your problem," Koontz replied.

"You want to know who I learned to work with my mouth from?"

"I don't think this is the time for..." tried to make Cob listen to him.

"No one asked you, it seems!" scolded Santos.

"Don't mind him: he hates getting wet. His uniform gets soaked and itchy," said Koontz.

"What's that over there, sir?" Peterson sought Stone's attention.

"You all seem a little nervous. Smoke a few cartons of cigarettes each before you come to work. Koontz is well stocked; he'll get them for you. Anyway, gentlemen, if you're cold, now's your chance." Mason pointed to the team two black shadows on the outline of the building come down clinging to the eaves. "Santos, you take Cob and Peterson and join the gentlemen who are fighting it out. Koontz and I will go around and cut them off."

The three set off at full speed, irons in hand. The first fugitive, having landed on the lawn, had climbed over the fence and disappeared from view. Peterson pounced on the second, making him lose his grip on the gutter, while Santos, who could have been in charge of the arrest, continued the hunt. Mason and Koontz, on the other hand, continued with their backs to the wall. Koontz, who had drawn his revolver, followed Mason, flattened against the wall. They both crouched under a window. The light was out: neither wanted to give an easy target to an agent with a sensitive trigger and an anxious hand.

"Shall we continue?" asked Koontz, improving his grip on the gun.

"One moment."

"The coast is clear," he insisted.

"The light's out."

"There's no one there."

"It's a raid, Koontz. Everything must be checked. It's the fundamentals."

"Maybe they haven't gotten in yet.

"That's the ground floor. You don't leave a floor until you've cleared it. That's a mistake that can cost you."

"That's not our job."

"My job is to get home tonight, preferably without a ball in my back. Check my left, I'll cover your right. Wait for my signal."

At the same moment that Mason was preparing to start the sweep a low squeak came to him from inside. He looked at Koontz and realised he hadn't imagined it. What is more suspicious than a sinister sound is the silence that follows it.

"Are you able to kick in the lock?"

"Sure."

"Perfect. You break through and I'll come in."

Koontz blew out the window with a shoulder strike and Mason jumped in, the iron flush. Thanks to the glow of the night behind him he could make out the outline of the bed, the ruffled sheets, the second-hand furniture filled with bottles of perfume and ampoules of ointments. If the mouse had not gone to hide under the bed, the room was safe. Before he could signal Koontz to follow him in, the bathroom door handle, ajar, returned his reflection. Certain that a puff of wind had not moved it, Mason approached in silence. He didn't have time to wonder why that room had escaped the search of Handicott and Kenney's men, for a groan came from it. Koontz peeped out. Mason warned him not to make a sound.

"Can you hear me? I'm Detective Stone, New York Police Department. If it's not too much trouble, I'd come in. I'm armed and this cold gives my fingers a little tremble."

There was no answer. Mason opened the cabinet door with the toe of his shoe and, despite the prevailing darkness, checked the corners. Less than a metre from him was a massive figure. It seemed to be holding a weight. Measuring the space by eye, he realised that, in a firefight, the situation could quickly escalate. He raised his revolver.

"How about putting down what you've got there?"

"You'd be much better off getting out, closing the door behind you and forgetting what you think you saw," the man said. Stone understood the consistency of the huge bundle, and how the man was trying to disguise his voice.

"Doing what's best has never been my strong suit," he said, flipping the switch he'd found by feeling the wall. As the brim of the hat shielded him from the glare, the annoyance was only of the other holding back, too frightened to struggle. The man's arm was around her neck, his hand pressed over her mouth, his lipstick smudged and his make-up smeared. Blinded, the man swung a left in Mason's direction but caught it with a glancing blow. With the momentum of that dodge Mason threw himself at him and a fist went into his stomach. The grip on the girl suddenly lost conviction.

"Stop! I am the mayor..." the man managed to shout before the policeman's right hand reached his face. At the same moment a flash of lightning snapped behind them and was followed by the sound of a small deflagration. Mason dropped the man who had taken to covering his face and grabbed the woman still in shock.

"What the hell did you do?" reaching him, Koontz, had brought company with him: the Daily's rookie, his target levelled.

The mayor, lying beside Stone's feet, blinked and gasped like a freshly caught tuna. Since Koontz had entered the scene, the pulled, violent expression had disappeared.

"You beat up the mayor!"

Regardless, Mason took care to cover the half-naked girl who was too scared even to say thank you. "Put handcuffs on this man," he said instead.

"Mr. Reimer, you're under arrest."

The first citizen's protests were to no avail: Koontz did not show him any special treatment.

"You saw that man attack me! I am the mayor!"

"Sure, sure, sir. He's going to file a complaint with the district. Now follow me, please."

"He'll pay for this! Tell me the name of that cop!" he ranted as Koontz escorted him toward one of the patrol cars. A small crowd had gathered outside the building and as the rookie captured what had happened, Reimer turned one last time to look at Mason Stone.

Only then did the detective see the angry man he had confronted again. In front of the crowd, the mayor ranted about the abuse of police power and the violence of some officers who, instead of serving and protecting, were a threat to the community they were supposed to be defending. He promised that such incidents would not happen again.

Mason listened patiently for two hours to Kenney's rant and Handicott's rebuke, which understood his reasons but did not justify the method. Neither was able to answer, however, for the failure to search the room. They both railed on the vague concepts of 'flawed procedures', 'oversight' and 'this is what we have'.

The girl did not press charges against Reimer. For the life she led and the prejudice of public opinion, Stone could not blame her.

The next day, no newspaper reported on the Cuvillier Park raid, the mayor's involvement or the fight against prostitution. The Daily opened with the beating of the mayor by an NYPD detective. There was no mention of the circumstances. There was an invective-laden editorial and four long pages of reporting by no fewer than five journalists who combed through Mason Stone's private life and described him as an angry, repressed man consumed by a violent hatred of white collar workers.

Even the failure of his marriage was traced to his frequent outbursts. The front-page photo, later reprinted and circulated by every newspaper in the city, showed him from behind, his arm still outstretched and his fist on the mayor's twisted jaw. The girl did not appear in the frame, hidden by his back.

It took the police chief four days, three more than he expected, to disbar him and kick him to the curb. The precinct needed to regain lost confidence, to send a signal, to calm down. A few heads had to roll.

The witness

Mason Stone still had a few questions left before he left the building.

The doorman ushered him into his tiny flat, next to the boiler room.

"I know why you're here."

"If you do, you'll save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any coffee?" he asked, looking around. She needed to get rid of that headache.

"It's because of what happened to Mrs Perkins. Just like all the others," the small, scrawny man gave him a stern, exhausted look. To him, they were all jackals now, ready to pounce on the few remains of a stripped-down prey. He probably hadn't been able to sleep much either in the last few days. "Would you like some sugar?" she continued, handing him a steaming cup.

"No, thank you." Mason wet his lips. The coffee was bad, but the day hadn't been any better, so he was content. "What do you remember about that day?"

"What I told the other cops, dozens and dozens of times. They kept me a whole night in that little room full of mirrors. Journalists came to me, too. They must have filled our bay with this story. Don't you read the papers?"

"The press is dead."

"Well, like I said, there wasn't much action that day. The lady came home around thirteen. That was the last time I saw her."

"How did she look?"

"I don't know, I just caught a glimpse of her. But I think I'm not wrong in saying that she's been more taciturn than usual over the last few days. Maybe she had some thoughts. I didn't mind, after all its normal when the end of the week is approaching and the salary is what it is, right?!"

"She didn't say goodbye?"

"She didn't stop that day. But she usually looked out at the guardhouse to ask me if I needed anything. Do you understand me? She was the one who worried about me! She was a good girl."

"Were you on good terms with Samuel?"

"Ever since they came to live here two years ago, they used to come to me for help with some repairs or errands. I have no complaints about Mr. Perkins. A hard worker, for sure."

"Did Elizabeth ever tell you anything personal? Something that, to the wrong ears, could have gotten her into trouble?"

"Elizabeth? I don't think anyone would ever hold it against her."

"And yet she's dead. How were things with her husband?"

"Working a lot, Samuel often came home late and most of the time their schedules didn't coincide. But they loved each other, I can assure you."

"How can you be sure?"

"I was married for more than forty years. I know certain looks and certain attentions."

The man's eyes ran, for a moment, to a photograph on the old sideboard in the living room. Mason got the impression of a small altar. It was the image of a smiling woman in a flowery dress.

"Can you tell me anything about Elizabeth's family?"

"Very little. For all I know, that girl could have been alone in the world. Maybe she wasn't even from New York."

"How do you know that? Something he said to her? The way he talked.? Any information could be useful to me."

At those words, the man recoiled, and an expression of embarrassment was painted on his face.

"No, mister, it was just an idea."

"I need facts, I have no use for your deductions! Stick to what you've seen," he blurted out, then the sight of the frail old man encouraged him to calm down. "What time did Mr. Perkins return that day?"

"Just before dawn. But I'm not quite sure. My son was on duty."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Not right now, I'm sorry. He's out of town this weekend. He'll be back in a couple of days. In any case, they questioned him as well. His statement was taken by Detective Matthews, I think his name is. Maybe you can talk to him."

"Perfect. Let's go back to that day, if you don't mind. Did anything else happen? Did you see Samuel Perkins leave?"

"Yes, but he was in a hurry."

"Maybe someone was waiting for him?"

"Perhaps he had overslept and was on his way to a grooming."

"Did you ever see him come back?"

"No, not me, Mr. Stone."

"Was there any unusual movement before Elizabeth was found?"

"Unusual... I don't think so, no."

"Anything 'usual' instead?"

"Around 4.00 P.M had a man come up, but it wasn't the first time."

"His name?"

"I don't remember. The police have the register."

"How often did you visit the Perkins'?"

"A couple of times a month, maybe more. It depended on Mr. Perkins."

"Were they in business together?"

"I beg your pardon? No, absolutely not."

"Try to explain yourself, then."

"I don't like to pry into other people's affairs."

"And who does." followed a moment of silence in which Mason didn't take his eyes off him.

"If Samuel Perkins left for work, or the bar, or wherever he was headed, there was a chance this gentleman would show up in the lobby no more than ten minutes later. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes with a package from a bakery, sometimes with a bottle."

"A suitor."

«Perhaps. But whether it was reciprocated I can't tell you."

"Did you hear Elizabeth complain about it? Generally, how long did she stay?"

"There were never any scenes. Sometimes she stayed for a few minutes, sometimes an hour. What is certain is that he never left with what he had brought."

"Could you describe him to me?"

"A distinguished, tidy fellow. A decent man."

"A man who can afford certain gifts."

"The suit was that of a well-paid man."

"Has there been anyone else after him?"

"Yes, a few deliveries, the couple on the third floor who called because their brat had clogged the sink, I brought the widower McArthur's groceries, the notary, the fuel for the boiler..."

"A notary?"

"Yeah."

"Who did he go to?"

"To the Perkins'."

"The Perkins', and you didn't think to mention that before?"

"I don't see why: I myself, a few days before...I gave the lady a package of documents. Registered mail. Very urgent."

"And you can't tell me what was in it, I suppose?"

"Sorry, I never open tenants' mail."

"And you couldn't read that many papers against the light, I understand. I bet you couldn't even tell me which firm it was."

"Certainly a big name! Unfortunately, I don't have the good memory I once had, mister."

"Did anything of this notary's impress you?"

"I remember thinking that he was very young. But perhaps it's habit; they're all generally too old and stooped, aren't they?"

"How young?"

"No more than forty."

"His appearance?"

"Black hair, pointed face, tall and serious looking. A handsome man."

"Anything else?"

"Only family stories left, are you interested?"

"He was very kind, Mr. Cochrane. And patient. I bid you good day." Mason held out his hand to the old doorman and, taking his hat, left the room.

"You didn't tell me how the coffee was!"

"Hot, Mr. Cochrane.".

A taxi ride

He walked out of the Perkins' building and felt more tired than ever. The accumulating questions weighed heavy in his notebook. His sleepy, tired eyes, bothered by the light, were slits, his temples throbbed so much that if they didn't stop soon he might not be able to take off his hat. Instead of going to the car, he stopped a taxi. He told the driver his destination and said to take it easy, let him choose the route. An unusual phrase to say to someone who makes money on the time he takes to do his job.

Stone finished transcribing Mr Cochrane's words and dozed off. Not even the noise of rush hour, the driver's bad driving and the rancid smell of the interior disturbed his sleep.

The company where Elizabeth worked as a secretary, Lloyd & Wagon's, was located in the Bronx. The underground from her home took about an hour, and who knows how many people had seen her, noticed her, desired her in the battered and dilapidated carriages she took every day. Perhaps the girl had met her murderer there, perhaps she had been observed, watched, followed once she got off at the stop. Maybe they had started chatting with a trivial excuse, maybe he had picked up her handkerchief and offered her a cup of coffee. Maybe they had become friends.

The image of Elizabeth appeared in front of him. She was still alive: her pink cheeks, her bright eyes, her sincere smile. When the girl peeped into his dream, the detective woke up, looked out of the window and tried to figure out where she was. The traffic had softened the taxi driver's driving. At that speed they would be there in about ten minutes.

"Big traffic, mister," he justified himself.

"Never mind." Mason craned his neck and read the nameplate on the dashboard. "Tim...I told her not to rush."

"Sure...sure! patience is a great virtue! If everyone thought like her!"

"You'd be a millionaire, Tim!"

"Sure, sure! Are you from New York, mister?"

"Florida adopted me when I married my wife."

"She's lost the accent a bit, though!"

"Not only that, Tim."

"You said it, mister."

Tim was a big guy with full cheeks, muscular arms and a wide waist. Judging by the colour of his sparse, yellow teeth, he was an avid tobacco chewer.

"How are you finding the Sunshine Cab, Tim?"

"Huh?!"

"What?"

"Forgive me: that's not a question I get asked often. I'd say I'm fine. In the two years I've been there, there have never been any problems."

"Is the climate good?"

"The good thing about this job, coach, is that you don't have to agree with anyone and as long as you're happy with yourself you're a lucky man. Of course, every now and then we get a few nutcases up here..."

"What about colleagues?"

"What's with all the questions, man?"

"I like to get to know the people I travel with. I love your company, it's my favourite one. I know all the Sunshine taxi drivers now!"

"Ah, I know who you are! You could have told me right away! Carl and Peter talk about her all the time!" Mason knew that Tim the taxi driver was lying. We always tend to agree with someone who is disturbing us, who is strange to the point of frightening us, someone whose back we are turning and whose movements we can't keep an eye on.

"And Sam, how is he? I haven't had a run in with him in a while."

"Look, mister, I don't want any trouble," gone was the high jester's voice and the talkative manner, Tim had become a bundle of nerves.

"And you won't have any, but try to keep your eyes on the road. That's a good boy." Mason had moved closer to Tim's seat and was now speaking quietly.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a guy who takes corners better than you do."

"I don't know anything about Sam."

"I just want you to tell me what he's like. You work at Sunshine enough to know him."

"He was ok"

"Try to be a little more forthcoming, mate." Tim stopped chewing the dark mush, wiped his lips with his free hand and swallowed. He hadn't dared roll down his window to spit out the excess saliva. Mason thought that had been a very bitter pill to swallow.

"None of us have ever had a problem with Sam. He's not a chatterbox, he just gets on with it. He worked a lot of overtime and covered a lot of people's shifts. He did it on the side. The pay isn't much but it's enough for me, you know, I don't have anyone..."

"Let's save the story of your life for the second date, shall we?"

"Yes, sir. Excuse me."

"What did he do when he got off work?"

"When he got off, he always went straight home. Is it true what they say, the things he did to his wife?"

"What do they say?"

"Well, that's why he ran away, isn't it?"

"Was there anywhere he used to hang out with you colleagues, just to take the stress off work, have a drink and a cigarette? A bar, for example?"

"Dude that's against the law!"

"Yeah, I got the word, but you know what? I don't believe in rumours. How about you, Tim?"

"No, sir."

"Then we get along great. I love MaC's. It's located in Jersey, do you know it?"

"No, mister."

"It's not bad, but don't order cognac: the real thing ran out over a year ago. Now it's just fuel and cough syrup. What do you recommend?"

"Tennant's. It's by the harbour, on the Hudson, I don't know if you know..."

"Clear."

"He wasn't a regular, he only came in from time to time and never stayed too long, he didn't drink or smoke. We used to drag him along. He wasn't a man of many words."

"What's the codeword?"

"What? Ah, Tammany."

"How much do I owe you for the ride, Tim?" Mason caught a glimpse of the Lloyd & Wagon's sign and was about to ask him to stop.

"Compliments of the company, mister," he said, relieved that that service was coming to an end.

"Take five dollars for the chat." Stone extended the money over Tim's shoulder, after he had pulled over, and got out. He crossed the street and reached the entrance to Lloyd & Wagon's. It was a low, two-storey building.

He was greeted on the threshold by a frantic Andrew Lloyd. The large windows on the first floor had announced Mason as having just stepped out of the taxi.

Stone advanced through the offices without waiting for his client, his hands buried in his raincoat, his gaze vaguely distracted as Lloyd entered his field of vision. Mason found him funny and more awkward than when he had first met him: he hopped around him, industrious as a bee, never ceasing to ask how the investigation was going, that he shouldn't bother so much but that he could contact him by phone. Mason Stone knew his business well enough to realise that Elizabeth's former employer was under intense stress. He studied the place, the environment, the atmosphere that Elizabeth Perkins had experienced while she was alive.

He found it cosy, not particularly baroque. Partly sad. As they passed by, the heads of the employees had popped out of their paperwork and loculi like springs from a broken clock.

Unfortunately, the visit proved fruitless.

He was able to inspect the girl's desk, although Matthews' team had already taken away all the interesting items. Except for a few items of stationery, the drawers were empty. On the table there was only a picture of her with Samuel. She asked Lloyd if she could keep it so that she would have no difficulty in recognising the man if she came across him. The department had not yet released the sketch. Maybe Lloyd had been right after all. Matthews and his people weren't losing any sleep over the girl.

As the boss's personal assistant, Elizabeth had few opportunities for dialogue with her colleagues. Everyone, however, thought she was a smart woman. She had not seemed strange to anyone in the last week, some said they had not noticed, others did not remember. Only one employee, Martha, Wagon's secretary, said that on a couple of occasions her eyes and nose had seemed red. She told Mason that she had let it go, believing it to be just a seasonal cold. She herself had had a fever the week before.

Mason avoided Andrew Lloyd's questions about her progress by asking if he could make a phone call. As long as he was on the suspect list, the fewer details he knew the less he could get in his way. Lloyd offered him the phone installed in his office, as if relieved that it was out of sight. After a few seconds, the switchboard connected him. April answered at the same time that Mason was pushing Lloyd away with his eyes. The man closed the door behind him.

"Stone, private investigation. Good evening, this is April."

"Mason."

"Ah, boss!"

"What are you still doing there?"

"I was closing up. How's it going?"

"Before you go, have there been any phone calls for me, any messages?"

"Captain Martelli has been looking for you."

"Splendid. What did he want?"

"He wanted to talk to you. When I told him you weren't there he seemed upset."

"I can understand that. The man is crazy about me. What time is he picking me up for the dance?"

"He said to stop meddling in the Perkins case. If you keep it up, he's going to put you in the slammer."

"Did you thank him for me?"

"What kind of case are you on, boss?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, April. Be careful going home."

"You want me to wait for you? I can stay if you need me to."

"Go ahead, thanks. I'll stop by the office tonight. I think I can manage on my own with the coffee."

"I'll make some before I go."