Chapter 2
WESTFIELD, NJ AUGUST 2000
JOE CHECKED THE SIDE MIRROR, stuck his hand through the window and gave the guy in the BMW on his bumper the middle finger. “Keep blowing your horn, moron.” There wasn’t any way to pull around the old lady pushing a shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot of Wholesome Organics. Going organic for Joe was equivalent to flushing money down the toilet. Besides, the T-bone steak he planned to toss on the grill was on sale; it would be a change from frozen dinners, fast food and pizza he was surviving on since his wife left.
Driving Elaine’s ‘98 Volvo wagon was an adventure. He swore to the service manager at the dealership that turning the radio on caused the Swedish delight to misfire. Using the air-conditioner caused it to stall. Joe cursed the woman who took his five-year-old Explorer to Arizona as he turned the key for the umpteenth time. The engine coughed to life. He revved the oil-belching beast for another ten seconds for the prick in the BMW. Dr. Headcase would’ve been pleased. The behavior modification plan for his anger management issues paid its first dividend.
Fredericks’ Crown Victoria was back in the Swedge driveway. Joe stopped ten feet past the evergreens to get an angle to see the front door. A van belonging to Callahan Restoration, Inc. was parked with its sliding door on the passenger side facing the entrance. Ryan Callahan was a cousin of Christian Murphy. His business was removing the stench of death. Someone wasn’t wasting time. Joe wondered how long it would be until the Tudor was on the market.
Joe pulled the Volvo into the garage and carried the shopping bag through the door to the laundry room. Roxy pointed her nose in the direction of Angus heaven. “Patience girl,” Joe said, walking into the kitchen. He placed the bag on the counter.
The answer machine was blinking. Joe hit the play button. Call one: “It’s Elaine. I hope you remember to go to your appointment.” He hit the delete button. Call two: “Jozef, Harry is away for next three days. Call me, pleeze.” Joe laughed as he hit delete. The sultry voice, requiring no introduction, belonged to Alenia from down the block. The ex-pole dancer found her mark at a strip joint near the Elizabeth exit of the New Jersey Turnpike. She massaged the ego and other worldly parts of a man thirty years her senior, liberated his wallet and found a very comfortable life a world away from the dingy apartment in a suburb of Moscow. He’d let her wait. Call three: “Christian Murphy.” Joe turned up the volume. “Preston Swedge had a heart the size of a basketball with advanced coronary artery disease. I’m listing the cause of death as heart failure. That’s one for me. The other is for you. There wasn’t any lettuce in his gut.”
Joe opened the refrigerator door of the Maytag side-by-side, grabbed a can of Bud, and held it to his forehead. He limped into the den off the dining room. Joe scoffed at the description of the seven by ten room when they bought the house. A den in his mind was large enough to hold a pool table, an oversized leather recliner, and a monster projection television. The converted sewing room barely held a six-foot couch and a screw-it-together computer desk purchased at a bigbox wholesale club out on the highway. A thirteen-inch Sony rested on the corner of the desk.
Joe raised the blinds on the two windows behind the desk and sat on a Banker’s chair his father polished for thirty years as a N.Y.P.D. detective. A photo of Joe, his father, and grandfather in their N.Y.P.D. blues taken at Joe’s graduation from the police academy teetered on the edge of the desk. He booted up his notebook computer, clicking on the bookmarked site for Rutgers University.
“Hey Joe, where are you?” Dan Fredericks yelled.
Roxy bolted through her doggie door, running full tilt into Fredericks as he neared the kitchen. “Good to see you girl.”
“Grab a beer in the ‘fridge,” Joe yelled. “I’m in the den.”
Fredericks entered the den sans jacket and tie. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. Popping the tab on a beer, he collapsed on the couch. “The air-conditioning feels great.”
“I sorta like the smell of rotting flesh,” Joe said, holding his nose. “I should’ve saved some of the maggots for bait.”
Roxy pawed at Fredericks’ pant pocket where M&Ms were always in supply. He reached into the bag, giving her one. “I didn’t know you fished.”
“I’m thinking about taking it up.” Joe got a kick from goofing on Fredericks. “Murphy’s cousin doesn’t waste anytime. Who called him?”
Fredericks shifted on the couch. “Swedge must have known he was short on time. On the refrigerator were instructions to follow in the event of his death. I contacted his attorney and told him the facts. He asked if I knew someone who could clean up the mess.”
“Who’s the asshole?” Joe asked as he pounded the keyboard.
“Lester Hargrove.”
Joe stopped typing. “Never heard of him.”
Fredericks got off the couch to look over Joe’s shoulder. “Going back to school?”
Joe returned to typing. “I took an aptitude test and you know what I’m good for?” he asked as he filled out an online registration.
“Beer taster?” Fredericks guessed.
“Close. Customer service.”
“In a maximum security prison?” Fredericks laughed.
“Precisely. I told my shrink that I’ve been thinking about finishing my requirements for a master’s degree in history. He said go for it, but take it slow. He’s afraid I might crack under the pressure.” Joe said, waiting for the next information screen. “Did you check out the emergency alert?”
“It doesn’t work. I called the service. They don’t get a signal when it’s activated.”
“Preston oughta sue them posthumously. I’m sure Hargrove would take the case for thirty percent,” Joe quipped.
Fredericks nervously played with the tab on the can until it broke free. “I checked the wax paper for prints.” He walked over to what Joe’s daughter tabbed, The Wall of Honor: A 10 x 10 of Joe shaking hands with John Walsh, the host of America’s Most Wanted; Joe’s honorable discharge from the Marine Corps with his Purple Heart; and a plastic case with two crushed, quarter-size metal pieces, remains of the hollow point bullets that shattered his right leg. The case was mounted above a letter of appreciation from the U.S. Attorney General, for aiding in the elimination of the homicidal maniac who fired them. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases, holding military books detailing the campaigns of the Civil War, World Wars I and II, and Joe’s personal hell—the year he served in Vietnam.
Stalling, Fredericks pointed to the photo of Joe with John Walsh. “I never understood why I wasn’t in the picture. I was the guy who List was handcuffed to when we brought him back from Virginia.”
John List, a Westfield resident, gained national media attention by murdering his wife, mother in-law, and three kids in 1971. List, a God-fearing Sunday school teacher, was caught up in a failing marriage, a failing career, a mountain of debt, and kids perceived to be on the wrong side of the Good Book. For nearly eighteen years, List lived a life of lies until he was apprehended with the help of the TV show.
Joe completed the registration form and clicked the “finish” icon. He turned the chair toward Fredericks. “The case was ice cold. I convinced Walsh to put List’s face on the show,” he lectured. “Cheer up. If you’re lucky, a homicidal maniac will kill five or six poor slobs on your watch and provide the reason for you to call Walsh.”
Roxy sat at Fredericks’ feet waiting for more M&Ms. Fredericks abruptly stood. “Fuck you.”
Joe finished his beer. He fished through the desk’s pencil drawer, found a Marlboro and passed the cigarette under his nose. “Stale but serviceable.” He flicked the Zippo. Smoke rose to the ceiling. “What about the prints on the wax paper?”
“Most were too smudged to be of any value. There’s a thumbprint that is identifiable—Elmer the sandwich guy at Duke’s Deli. He served three years for drug possession; been clean for ten years.
“He’s a good guy.” Joe leaned back in the chair. “You got something else?”
“I’m getting heat to wrap this up. Swedge’s attorney packs a lot of weight. We’re not going to look for the identity of the sandwich eater.”
Joe knocked the cigarette inside a coffee can that he used as an ashtray. He rubbed the back of his head. “Why am I not surprised?” The phone rang. The caller ID said Pole Dancer. He pointed toward the door. “I’ve got to take this call.”