Victims Read online

  Victims

  A Novel

  Dorothy Uhnak

  This book is dedicated with love and deep affection to three of the most constant, supportive and dependable people in my life:

  To Dennis Power

  To Sam Schmerler

  And especially to my dear old, forever young Swanie

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  SHE HAD FORGOTTEN TO lock the door on the passenger’s side. Even through the pounding headache, Anna Grace followed routine procedures. She slipped the key into the lock, gave it a quick half turn, checked the door handle, then let the car keys fall into her shoulder bag. In her right hand she held the house keys. The key to the apartment was positioned between her thumb and forefinger.

  She sensed him before she heard or saw him: a heavy-smelling damp physical mass, large and ill-defined. He crowded her, forced her without actually touching her with his hands, just by his presence, moving into her, against the warm metal of her car. She twisted around to face him, to face the barrage of unintelligible words, directed at her. He was talking, whispering, leaning into her, ferociously insistent.

  “What? What is it? What do you—”

  His voice dropped to a growl as he grabbed her shoulder. Her hand went up automatically, to protect her face.

  “Money? Do you want money? Here, take this—”

  He slammed her across the face, but it didn’t feel like a blow. It was a sharp clean tearing sensation. Her hand caught the next peculiar pain: so sharp and intense across the palm and down her arm.

  She pushed at him, pulled herself away from the car, from his grasping hand, his slashing hand. She swung out with her shoulder bag, swung wildly, felt the impact, heard him roar, screaming at her, furious that she had struck back.

  “Oh my God help me help me help me please someone he’s hurting me...”

  His hand, strong, incredibly strong, clamped on her neck as he leaned into her. He was talking to her: she caught a word, a phrase.

  “No, no. A mistake. I don’t know you, please you’re making a—”

  There were a series of blows, each thud felt dull and strangely without pain. And yet she knew he was stabbing her with a sharp long-bladed knife, his arm rising, punching down at her, delivering new and unimaginable wounds.

  She screamed as loudly as she could. That would stop him. The noise would frighten him. They were standing in the middle of the brightly lit street. She cried out to all the people at all the windows in the apartment buildings on both sides of the street. From the bottom of the canyon created by the buildings, she called out to them.

  They heard her. She saw them, watching. She pushed at the heavy wetness covering her face, knew that it was blood, that he was ripping at her with each new blow. She was beginning to feel oddly hollow. Shell-like. Empty and emptier, lighter and lighter, flowing and fading away.

  He was making as much noise as she was. His own screams of rage, anger, fought hers of anguish and terror. And then, in one surprisingly quiet moment, he backed off and let his hands dangle at his sides. He lowered his head, glared at her, studied her as though deciding what to do next.

  In that silent split second, Anna Grace felt a scream of agony rise from some reservoir of life-force energy. It was her final cry for help, and it was electrifying.

  He froze, listened, looked around as though for the first time aware of where they were—in the middle of a well-lit street, surrounded by apartment buildings, people at the windows, watching. Seeing everything.

  He turned and ran and was gone.

  Her cries were low-pitched now, very soft, but audible in the stillness of the night. She raised her face, looked around, saw the buildings shimmer and blur. She moved carefully toward the lamppost. It was her immediate goal, and she reached it, leaned against it, cried softly, then felt her body slide down slowly, carefully, landing in a sitting position. She brought her knees up, felt her head fall back, heard one last softly mourning cry: a final animal sigh of despair and sorrow.

  Then Anna Grace felt her head fall forward, and her last thought was about all the blood she was losing. Someone better start applying some pressure pretty soon...

  Anna Grace was a nurse, so it was logical that her last thought should be of the medical action necessary to save her life.

  1

  IF MIKE STEIN HAD waited until morning to drive home from the beach house in Bridgehampton, he would never have become involved in the case. He would simply have added the name Anna Grace to the body count of violent deaths in New York City in the lower right-hand corner of his twice weekly column in the New York Post. The details would have been left to whoever was covering Queens that night.

  Queens, to Stein, was a place to drive through on the way to the Island, or to hurry past in the back of a cab on the way to the airports. It was almost as unknown as Brooklyn, though a little less remote than Staten Island. The Bronx of his boyhood was memoryland: it had been burned and pillaged and systematically destroyed beyond recognition through the years. Occasionally, his column was a sad, nostalgic journey into what it had been like to grow up in the Bronx in the thirties. It read like ancient history.

  New York was Manhattan, and Manhattan was home, and he was gratified by the light traffic on Grand Central Parkway. It would take him no more than twenty to twenty-five minutes to reach his apartment. His ex-wife, Julie, had given him a week to come up with a solution. It was his fault. His attorney had told him ten years ago, when he bought the beach house in both names, “You want to give your child bride a gift, make it jewelry or a car or a new wardrobe. But not half interest in a house. That is serious stuff: a well-meant gesture that will one day blow up in your face.”

  This was the day. Julie, just turned thirty, twenty years his junior, had come in from California. She had the West Coast look, thin but firm, long loose blond hair, tanned skin, free of even the most ordinary lines—not even a laugh wrinkle.

  Her new lover made her feel old, she confided. He was four years younger than she was. Mike could sympathize with that. In theory.

  He had two choices, she told him. First choice, put the house on the market. She’d checked around. They could ask for three hundred thou. Probably get two hundred and fifty thou. Or, second choice, he could buy her out. She would be more than fair. For a hundred thousand dollars, he could make the house all his. Which was what it should have been all along.

  He did not want to put the house on the market. It was the only place he had ever truly loved. It was where he went when the alternative was to go crazy.

  What Julie could not understand was why he couldn’t come up with a hundred thousand dollars. He’d made a killing on his novel about the Korean War. The movie sale alone had been in the six figures, plus the book club rights and the paperback. And what about all the money he’d made a few years ago, when he won the Pulitzer Prize for that book about that murder—or whatever—in Vietnam? Didn’t that book make a lot of money?

  Yes and no, he sai
d. The novel about Korea was a long time ago. Okay, he’d made a lot of money. And spent a lot. He had four kids to support before he met Julie. And the Pulitzer—that bestowed more prestige than cash. The timing was wrong; no one wanted to read a horror story about a young American soldier murdered by other Americans who passed it off as a war death.

  Listen, did she think he wrote two columns a week because he loved to wallow in the slow and certain destruction of life of the New Yorker? Yes, he was syndicated in over a hundred newspapers. Yes, she did read him in L.A. But it did not pay enough for him to do anything but meet expenses. That was why he did the lecture circuit from time to time: for money. She didn’t forget, did she, that they, between them, had a nine-year-old son? That Mike had to pay his tuition, among other set responsibilities?

  Now Julie, who had been his response to turning forty, had a new man in her life. He was just getting his production company together, and she wanted to buy in. The hundred thousand from the beach house would do for openers.

  As though she could not bear to let it pass, she mentioned his upcoming birthday casually. Fifty, Mike. Wow!

  But what Julie really wanted to talk about, what she talked about incessantly, was money. Why hadn’t he stayed in L.A. when he was hot? Did he realize how much money was floating around?

  The two-day stay at Bridgehampton ended the way it began, and what he had to do was find a way to come up with a hundred thousand dollars to buy back from her what was already his.

  He hadn’t been listening to the blips and static and metallic drone of information being broadcast over the police radio. It was his background music, the way kids who walked around with earphones clamped to their heads became oblivious to the sounds being forced into their brains. It was purely coincidental that within two miles of the Grand Central Parkway exit to Forest Hills Mike yawned and decided to not think about Julie or money or the Hamptons or Hollywood or young producers who made his former child bride feel old, because what the hell did that make him?

  “On Barclay Street, Forest Hills, between Sixty-ninth Avenue and Sixty-eighth Avenue, female on sidewalk obviously injured described as covered with blood...”

  Once he caught the first few words, the message seemed clear of distracting noise. A long time ago, he had wondered how cops could ever understand any of the messages directed toward them, but it was something subliminal. When it was meant for you, you got it, and this message was directed to him. Acting on it, Mike swung to the right and followed the ramp which led to the Sixty-ninth Avenue exit.

  He knew where he was going, but he didn’t know where he was. Years ago he had attended the tennis matches at Forest Hills Tennis Stadium, which was more or less the location given on the police call. The area had been all low buildings and empty lots, but that was more than twenty years ago. Driving across Queens was like drifting through an unknown, unimagined city. Queens Boulevard looked like a reasonable facsimile of Third Avenue. It had that new-town quality, as though all the buildings had been put up within a month of each other.

  He remembered, vaguely, that the eight- or ten-lane Queens Boulevard had been lined with six-story apartment buildings set between large used-car lots. It had crossed his mind, years ago, that a great deal of valuable land was waiting to be developed. Now it was all twenty- or thirty-story buildings. The six-story buildings had been plowed under and the vacant lots had been built on, and for a moment it was difficult to tell exactly where he was. No landmarks until he spotted Continental Avenue: gateway to the real, old Forest Hills Gardens.

  He drove down past the crowded collection of shops that lined both sides of the street, until he reached the underpass of the Long Island Railroad, and then it came as a surprise. It was like driving into a still-existing past: there was the cobbled brick square around which had been built the Forest Hills Inn. He sat for a moment and it was as he remembered it. Archways led to quiet streets of large, expensive houses. It was all still there, had been preserved as if existing in some sort of time warp. It was intensely quiet, and the old-fashioned lanterns on the privately owned streets glowed brighter than he remembered. There were signs warning that Forest Hills Gardens was not a parking lot; violators would be towed away.

  Now on every other privately owned lamppost was a neat metal sign: THIS AREA IS PATROLLED BY GUARDIAN SECURITY PERSONNEL/TRAINED SECURITY WATCHDOGS. That took the Disneylike cast off the setting; it was indeed modern times.

  He made a right turn onto Barclay Street, which was one long uninterrupted stretch along the deserted fenced-in tennis courts on the left. On the right was a slightly raised embankment leading to the fenced-in Long Island Railroad. Barclay Street continued right out of the elite, private, Forest Hills Gardens. As it made a turn and swung into Sixty-ninth Avenue to the left and continued Barclay Street to the right, it was just plain Forest Hills, and it was as he remembered it.

  Barclay Street was lined on both sides with pre-World War II six-story apartment buildings with Tudor façades. Courtyards faced courtyards. There were neat little lawns, low, precisely clipped hedges, clean sidewalks. It formed an old-fashioned enclave of a middle-class neighborhood. The past was sitting on a fortune of real estate that someone had missed for the time being.

  Mike Stein drove slowly past the collecting crowd, getting a quick overall view. There was only one patrol car on the scene, although the night was filling with those awful wailing, rising and falling sounds of approaching cop cars that reminded him of movie Nazis. He pulled up and parked and walked slowly back up the block.

  He stood back in the crowd, carefully getting oriented to the event at the center of which was a small, bloody body, seated, leaning in death against the base of the lamppost. She glowed under the orange light, which was designed to simulate perpetual daylight so as to discourage crime on the streets. After a quick glance at the body, he turned his attention to the crowd.

  This wasn’t the normal scene of a normal everyday, every-night killing in the city of New York. The difference wasn’t in the victim. She was bloody enough and dead enough. The crowd was made up of white faces—that was the immediately discernible variation from the norm. Street crime scenes are usually dark brown in color.

  There was an absence of children at the scene. This was a white middle-class street. Children did not stay out on the street alone at night, not even on a summer night. They were not habitual witnesses to casual violence. The few children present at the periphery of the crowd were held fast by a parent’s hand and were hustled away once the reality of a bloody death on their sidewalk faced the parent with a problem of explanation.

  The street sounds were different. Instead of heavy and continuous noise from shoulder-resting ghetto blasters, loud voices, inappropriate laughter and hooting, an occasional scream echoed by some cruel imitation of expressed anguish, there was a palpable silence. The soft and far-off sounds of television sets or indoor radios, the hum of air conditioners, provided a low-keyed background for the arrival of the police cars. The motors being sharply shut off, doors opening and being slammed shut, could be clearly heard cutting through the near-silence.

  Overhead, the surprisingly close-you-can-almost-touch-it sound of jets, unnoticed by the residents of Barclay Street. This had always been a pathway to both Kennedy and La Guardia. This was normal and accustomed noise, as was the low rumble of the Long Island Railroad train which could be felt vibrating through the soles of his shoes.

  Mike Stein turned his attention to the policeman guarding the body. Technically, he had to be at least twenty-one years old, but with his smooth cheeks, light-yellow hair, thick light eyelashes blinking nervously, tongue darting out over dry lips, hands shaking slightly, he looked no more than twelve. He tried to be cool. He stood tall and straight, unaware of how incongruous his skinny six-foot frame appeared inside a police uniform. But he did his job, which was to keep the neighbors away from the body. He lost his supposed cool for one split second as two other police officers arrived, older, more settled into
themselves and their responsibilities. He actually said, the young cop, what he had been thinking. It was doubtful he was even aware of having spoken. What he said was, “Thank Christ! Am I glad to see you guys!” It was a thought spoken aloud, and it seemed improbable to Stein that anyone else actually heard him.

  On command, the gathering crowd did what it was told to do: stand back, make some room here. As if to allow the victim some air, a chance to breathe. Then the crowd did as expected. They leaned forward to see the effect. There was none. The young woman was unquestionably dead.

  This was a crowd of neighbors, and it was easy for Stein to drift around, pretending to be one of them. He looked enough like someone you’d see every day walking the dog, waiting for the elevator, checking the mail, carrying a bag of groceries. He could fit in and be mistaken for the neighbor down the hall whom you saw occasionally, nodded to maybe, but never really noticed. That’s what neighbors were: vaguely familiar faces or forms, people who were seen but rarely known. People you never actually talked to except on special occasions: an accident, a blackout, a car slamming into another car in the middle of the block, an elevator caught between floors, an ambulance pulling up, a heart-attack victim hustled out expertly by the professionals who handle such things, a death of an elderly lady who used to sit in the window on the ground floor. A few older women and some retired men knew more than they let on. They could put names to the faces and weave relationships: married sons and daughters, college students who dropped out or graduated; a job lost, a career changed. They were here, too, the older people. They didn’t press too close. They stayed together and waited and watched.

  “Who is she? She’s familiar a little bit.”

  “I thought she was, you know, that girl who...”

  “Yeah, that’s who I thought, but now...”

  “When she cried out...”

  “Did you hear that, too?”

  The question was directed toward Mike Stein, and he shrugged vaguely and gestured over his shoulder, indicating he lived at the other end of the street.