Spider - Michael Morley [111]
‘Zack, where are you, sweetheart?’ she called, as she trekked across the garden. She was in no mood for hide-and-seek. She’d played it a dozen times already and she’d promised Paolo she would review the Specials menu for tonight, while he and Gio made a quick trip into Pienza.
‘Come on, sweetheart, Mommy’s very busy. Let’s go inside and get some chocolate.’ Bribery usually worked. But this time Zack was obviously standing his ground and making her hunt some more. The handle on the kitchen door was too high for him to reach, so she knew that he had to be in the garden somewhere.
She searched among the apple, orange and peach trees, looking for evidence of his red sandals hiding behind some trunk or other. But she could see nothing. If he was lying down in the vegetable garden, she was going to be cross. He’d been told about that before. And if he was sitting in the herbs, stuffing them in his mouth again, then there really would be trouble.
Nancy strode over to the areas she’d told her son were out of bounds and shouted sternly, ‘Zack! Come out right now.’
There was no answer.
‘The game’s over now, Zack; come on, please.’
Nancy’s maternal instinct prickled. Her eyes darted around the gardens, across the pathways, among the trees.
No Zack.
And then she saw it.
At the edge of the terrace, where the ground had collapsed and where Vincenzo the landscaper had moved the temporary fencing to survey the subsidence, there was Zack’s overturned trike.
75
FBI Field Office, Brooklyn, New York
Jack and Howie cleared an office of furniture and spread a variety of maps on the floor. They had everything from military maps to Brooklyn bus and cycle routes and there wasn’t room enough or time enough to pin them to the walls. They both agreed that they had to take chances. There was no way they could canvas all of Brooklyn, so they had to send out teams to highly prioritized areas.
Jack’s eyes ran down the Westside. Hunters Point – down where the ferries ran to Manhattan – this was a place that would have old isolated housing. Coming north down the East River – Williamsburg, near the Bridge area looked promising. Fulton Ferry and Brooklyn Heights – they were good too.
Howie was making similar choices: Prospect Park, out near the zoo – that offered ample opportunities. ‘What about Greenwood Cemetery, close to the 278, lots of residential nearby – Perfect for getting rid of his leftovers too?’
‘That’s a good one,’ said Jack, ‘put it towards the top of the list.’
‘And maybe Dyker Heights around 72nd Street, it’s residential but isolated out there,’ added Howie, circling the areas with black markers.
Jack looked down at his map, focusing on Brighton Beach, zooming in on Beach Avenue where he’d just been. He now visualized the area as if he were in a helicopter flying over it. He could see the cars crawling down the shopping streets looking for somewhere to pull in and park. SUVs were heading up to the sands. A marching army of ant-like office workers moved out towards Manhattan. Day-trippers with sandwiches, soft drinks and excited kids migrated to Coney Island. And then, his earlier thoughts tumbled back to him: a street girl would never have agreed to drive a long distance with a stranger. The killer would not have wanted her in his car any longer than necessary. It couldn’t be far from there.
Jack’s eyes moved east on the map. A patch of isolated green caught his attention. He slid a fingertip along Belt Parkway; just four junctions away was the exit to Brooklyn Marine Park and the residential settlement of Gerritsen. Flatbush Avenue ran northwards from the other side of Marine Park, a straight road all the way down to Brooklyn Bridge. ‘Come here and look at this,’ he said.
Howie was still on his knees and stumped his way over to him.
‘Look at Marine Park,’ said Jack, jabbing a finger at the map. ‘It’s ideal. Flatbush and the Belt give fast exit routes. It’s pretty isolated and JFK is just down the road. What’s more, the Beach is less than ten minutes away and