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“Oh, yeah, it’s from the company that installed computer software to coordinate our phones and radios and some of our vans. There’s a sticker on every piece of equipment that was updated.”
“When were they here?”
“Maybe three weeks ago?”
I did a quick calculation and realized that was shortly before Chloe Tumber had been murdered. “How many people from the company were here to install the software?”
“I think it was just one dude. Honestly, I don’t remember much about him. He was only here for about a week.”
He was a ghost, I thought.
Chapter 82
Daniel Ott was essentially finished with the software and hardware upgrades at the trucking company in Queens but was enjoying hanging out with the men on the loading dock. They’d come to him for a couple of other engineering issues after he’d impressed them with his system of loading tires so quickly. They’d even invited him out for a beer one evening after work. He’d never experienced this kind of friendliness before.
Now he was just wrapping up the last few issues before heading home to Omaha. Ott wasn’t quite sure he was ready to leave New York. He was reveling in the media attention, and he doubted he’d get the same amount of news coverage anywhere else. Reading the articles and hearing the TV stations relentlessly covering his crimes tickled him.
Ott wanted one more notch in his belt before leaving New York. That would be his last word to Detective Michael Bennett.
Since he had not seen any news stories about the bus hitting the younger detective, he assumed the investigation was ongoing. If the detective had died, there would’ve been a report about it. Perhaps injuring him was just as good. Maybe even better. It would distract other people in his unit. They would visit him in the hospital, wasting time.
He had heard a couple of the truck drivers talk about the excellent hamburgers at a sports bar on Greenpoint Avenue called The Queen’s Castle, and he decided to go for an early lunch. The place looked a little hokey on the outside with fake towers and turrets, but Ott felt his stomach rumble, looked at the menu posted outside, and then stepped through the door.
He glanced around the dimly lit sports bar and noticed that the half dozen flat-screen TVs hanging on the walls were all dark and silent. The door next to the bar led to the kitchen. He didn’t see anyone back there.
Then he heard a woman’s thick Long Island accent. “What the hell? It’s not even eleven. We’re not open yet.”
Ott looked up to see a tall, athletic-looking woman with frizzy black hair behind the bar, dressed all in black.
Ott stated, “Sorry, I was hungry.”
“Jesus Christ, eat around noon like everyone else,” she muttered.
Ott didn’t like the verbal abuse. Especially when he had done nothing to deserve it. He calculated the odds of other workers showing up if he took action right now against the woman yelling at him to leave.
He felt for the knife in his front pocket. He pictured what he would do to her given enough time. It made him feel excited instead of annoyed. Why wait?
The woman continued to work behind the bar. She didn’t look up again.
He slipped on his rubber surgical gloves and circled the area, measuring his angle of attack. He inched closer, blade extended. The bartender still had her head down, slicing a small mountain of lemons and limes. She’d never see him strike.
Suddenly Ott heard the noise of the front door opening, and a man’s voice called out to the bartender. “Boss told me to come in early, help you prep. Tell me you’re glad to see me!”
Ott wasn’t glad. He quickly folded and stowed the Gerber knife, ducked his head, turned, and walked out the way he’d come in.
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Ott decided he would follow her home later and make her his grand statement before he left New York. He wouldn’t even bother with reconnaissance. If she lived with anyone else, they could be part of his farewell masterpiece too. He was already picturing it in his mind. Walls smeared with blood. Her body laid out in the middle of the living room.
New York really was going to be a hard place to leave.
Chapter 83
My heart was thumping as I jumped into my car and raced back up Broadway. Despite state and local ordinances, I had my cell phone in hand. Out of habit, I almost dialed Brett Hollis. Instead, I tried Harry Grissom. There was no answer. For all I knew, he was down at One Police Plaza, explaining how I’d left John Macy alone in the office. Then I tried Emily Parker. I got her voicemail.
As soon as I got to my desk, my next call was to Alvin Carter in the Atlanta Police Department.
As soon as he answered, I blurted, “This is Michael Bennett with the NYPD. I think I might be onto something. Have you ever heard of a company called Computelex?”
