Chelsea Avenue Page 4

  The old man smiled. “Her apple pie was delicious.”

  Pavano and another officer swept in and grabbed the old man by his arms. “The other team just found this jerkoff’s shoe print on the back of Alberto’s head. He fucking drowned him.”

  Manny was angry, sitting there and listening to this man's stories while he'd killed one of his family members. “After all my parents did for you, this is how to honor them?”

  “I did what I had to do. He was already dead, and so are the rest of us from that night. Don't you get it? He killed himself by coming back to Chelsea Avenue.”

  “You killed him.”

  As the old man rose, he locked eyes with Manny. “I had to, and eventually, you’ll have to do the same thing. It’s the only way for the Ascension to work this time.”

  Chapter 4

  July 8th 1990

  The guitar seemed to mock him in the corner. Will Anderson wanted to throw his beer can at it but decided to discard it on the floor next to him and search for a full one.

  Nothing was coming to him. No inspiration today or yesterday or this entire fucking week. He rose from the comfort of the couch and stumbled into the kitchen, ignoring the dirty dishes and the takeout boxes on the table.

  It was nearing one in the morning, and he only had five hours until he’d have to take a shower, get dressed, and be out the door for work. Another day grinding away in the convenience store, ringing up customers that he detested, people that looked down on him, made him clean up after their coffee spills and discarded candy wrappers. Most of them didn't even bother to learn his name even though he'd been there for months. Shit, most of the bastards didn't bother to smile at him or even give him a head nod. Would it kill these 9 to 5 zombies to acknowledge his presence to begin their day?

  Music was going to be his big escape from his dead end job and his worthless life. His tunes were his ticket from the mess his world had become, working for minimum wage and living in a dirty apartment with hardly any decent food or spending money. If he was even getting by, he might be happy. He slipped further and further away from break even with each small paycheck.

  He needed to write a killer hook for the song they’d been working on, something that would get them noticed. “Something that would help me pay the electric bill,” he whispered. Will had four days before the power would be turned off again, and he wouldn't be able to plug in his amp.

  The refrigerator was devoid of beer, and he didn’t trust the milk carton in there. Will went into his bedroom and dumped his coffee can of change on the bed, fishing for quarters and dimes.

  Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  He stopped moving the coins around and smiled. He picked up a handful of coins and shook them and then dropped them and listened to them clink together. “The stupidest shit, man. The stupidest shit sometimes.”

  Will had his inspiration in the way the coins had dropped in a rhythm, and now, he was excited. So simple, he thought. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  He’d begin by recording the guitar part on his portable and then bringing it with him to band practice that night after work. He was sure that John would love it, adding a wicked drumbeat on top of it. It was all they needed to start another song. Hopefully, this would be the one.

  So far, his band had gotten no breaks. Shows were few and far between in the four years since they’d formed in high school. Despite not being able to record a serious demo to showcase their sound, they continued writing and recording on cheap equipment. He refused to let the grunge scene destroy his heavy metal dreams. When a promoter dismissed the band and asked for Pearl Jam or Nirvana covers, he was outraged. Hadn’t they ever heard of musical integrity? Will was sure no one had ever asked Iron Maiden to cover disco songs when they were starting out.

  They had a gig coming up in two weeks. Will laughed when he thought of it: another free show at some drunken dude’s party. There would be beer, pot, and easy girls—always a cool thing. But he wanted something more than that. He wanted a real show, a tour, a demo, and a record contract. Fame and fortune. John and Will had stuck together through thick and thin: the two original members of the band since its inception and the only two that could see the vision. The rest of the guys were more interested in getting laid and posing like rock stars than actually practicing, writing new songs, and honing their skills. It was the reason the band had changed over personnel so many times in the four years, and Will and John had yet to find the right fits to their band. In the meantime, they'd keep writing and harnessing their backlist of songs and auditioning new members.

  Will closed his eyes as he cleared his mind and took the guitar in hand. He could hear the beat in his head, imagining John counting off to open the song. With any luck, they could finish this one and debut it at the next gig and get a crowd reaction. The guys they were currently gigging with were only temporary; they'd be replaced within the next three gigs. Will already knew they didn't fit in with the master plan. They didn't live and breathe the band like Will and John.

  The phone rang, scaring Will. He almost dropped his precious guitar. “Who the fuck is this?”

  He placed his guitar back down and grabbed the phone from the wall. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, man. It’s John.”

  Will laughed. “What the fuck are you calling me this late for? Fuck, I just came up with a cool riff for that song I told you about.”

  “Great. Grab your axe and meet me around the corner.”

  “What? Nah, I gotta go to work soon. I want to get this shit down before I forget it.”

  John sighed on the line. “I need you to meet me right now, Will. Bring your axe with you, and meet me on Chelsea Avenue, near the water.”

  “Regan, you aren’t making much sense. There’s nothing there.”

  “Meet me where Murphy’s Law used to be. I got us a real gig.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll tell you everything when you get here. Hurry the fuck up.” John Regan hung up.

  Will Anderson, elated, grabbed his guitar and ran out the door.

  “Happy birthday, kid,” Vic Tankard yelled from his office. Manny faked a smile and waved before exiting the Long Branch police station for the evening. His eight-to-eight shift had been uneventful despite the date. A couple of drunks near the bars, a fight near the college, and a domestic violence call near the apartments.

  He wanted to unwind with some fast food, deciding to head to the McDonalds before home. Manny realized how tense he was and how tense he’d been all day.

  Despite working on the west side of town today, an area that he knew Tankard had penciled him into on purpose to keep him away from Chelsea Avenue, he’d taken his lunch break and driven past the lot. It was as he remembered it: overrun with weeds and debris. It looked as if no one had even looked at the lot in the last year, and it was probably a true statement. Manny owned the lot, and a local realtor had tried to interest him in selling it, but he didn't think he could let it go just yet. Someday…

  Mike Galvin, his partner, had taken a sick day today, and Manny had waved off having someone else drive with him. He realized, now, Chief Tankard had probably worked that one ahead of time. Galvin was more trouble than he was worth. He was also the kind of irritating jerk who would bring up the date and the fire a hundred times while they were on patrol.

  The empty lot was anything but empty to Manny. He could still imagine the screams of the crowd, the smell of the fire and the smoke, the roof collapsing. He imagined his parent’s last moments before the building they’d built from nothing had taken their lives and the lives of so many more in the community.

  He was going to get out of the squad car, but he was frozen. He felt something watching him from the weeds, something that wanted to do him harm. Instinctively, his hand went to his holster. He’d driven away and tried to shake the feeling the rest of the shift.

  The car behind him was beeping its horn. He came back to the present and ordered three cheeseburgers, fries, and a Coke. He wondered
if he’d be able to catch the Yankees or Mets game on TV after a hot shower. He decided that tomorrow, he’d go to Eatontown and join the gym with the rest of the guys on his shift. While he was friendly with most of them, he was more of an outsider. He’d only gone out after shift a few times with them, grabbing a beer at the Brighton Bar or down to Asbury Park or to Belmar to see a band. But he didn’t consider anyone on the force his close friend, especially not Mike Galvin. He knew some guys even mistook him for being close to Mike since they were partners, but the two getting paired up had more to do with the politics of Russ Galvin and his pull than anything else. The senior Galvin knew Manny would be the only one to cover his son's ass and not put a bullet in his head.

  When he pulled up to the house, two squad cars were waiting for him, lights and engines still on. Without a word, he pulled in behind them and followed. He knew exactly where they were heading.

  God forbid I get one birthday away from this shit, he thought and knew he was being selfish. People were dying, and he was pissed because his night was ruined. A night of fast food and falling asleep in front of the television while another birthday past him by.

  He left his food, uneaten, on his passenger seat and exited the car when they stopped at the exact spot where he’d been today. Darkness had settled on the lot on Chelsea Avenue, but the bad feeling was still hanging in the air.

  “Sorry, but I thought you’d like to be involved. I know how you are about this place and this lot…” Officer Pavano shrugged and led Manny through the maze of police cars, ambulances, and TV reporter vans.

  Several fellow officers looked away when Manny approached. He was annoyed but tried not to let it bother him. In the years since the fire, especially with all of the ‘coincidental’ deaths that happened on this date at this spot, he knew he would forever be linked to it. It was also a grim reminder of how his life had drastically changed.

  Two years on the police force, and he knew he was already a valuable asset. Manny knew these streets like no one else, his family name imbedded in the community. Unfortunately, his family name would forever be linked to this lot. And people would be watching him as this date approached each year. Today, before his patrol began, no one bothered to talk to him or even glance in his direction during roll call. There wasn't a birthday mention for him. Manny would like it better if it was just another day, but he was the proverbial pink elephant in the corner, and everyone stayed away from him like the plague.

  Now, here he was again, standing on Chelsea Avenue.

  The fire that destroyed the pier and the Haunted House had been a different story since the pier—a smaller version—had been rebuilt within sixteen months. The Haunted House was no more, just a memory on some postcards and some snapshots from the locals. Most eateries in the area had at least one Asbury Park Press newspaper clipping about the fires, fading yellow with curled edges, taped near the register. It had affected Long Branch deeply. Besides the lives lost, the survivors of both fires had been changed. If you were there, you didn't talk about it, and if you weren't a part of the terrible historical footnote, you tried your best to ignore it.

  The lot was waterlogged as usual, and Manny sunk up to his ankles in water. Pavano noticed and grinned. “You ruin quite a few pairs of shoes in this swamp, eh?”

  Manny nodded as they approached the middle of the lot, where temporary lights had been erected and a slew of detectives and uniformed officers were busy at work.

  Chief Tankard met Manny with a strong handshake. “It’s pretty bad.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  Tankard laughed. “You know just about everyone, so it’s hard to say.” He moved aside and walked the last ten feet with Manny.

  Three bodies were piled, unceremoniously, in a large puddle, feet and arms splayed at odd angles. They’d all been bludgeoned, lumps of flesh pouring into the water.

  “It looks pretty brutal. All three victims were killed with those.” Tankard pointed to a destroyed guitar, a bass guitar, and a microphone stand.

  Manny stared at the objects. “I don’t get it.”

  “Will Anderson, Brian Philbin, and Craig Reynolds. They made up three-fourths of a rock band called Suffer Within.”

  Manny almost threw up. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s an odd question. Of course we’re sure.” Tankard stepped in front of Manny. “Talk to me.”

  Manny shook his head. “This is unreal.”

  “What?”

  “These guys were all there the night of the fire; I’m sure of it. Their band was the last one to play that night.”

  “Coincidence?” Tankard asked skeptically.

  “No way.” Manny closed his eyes and collected his thoughts. “I need to talk to you in private.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it sounds crazy, the thing I’m going to tell you.”

  “Take a walk with me.”

  The two headed down the block to the sea wall. Manny tried to keep from glancing at the corner where the guy in the trench coat was that night but couldn’t help himself. Manny stared at the dark water and was thankful that the Chief didn’t push him until he was ready.

  “This is going to sound crazy.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Right.” Manny glanced at his boss. “Every year, since the fire in ’87, there’s been at least one death on or near this site.”

  “Well documented,” Tankard said with a nod.

  “If I’m right, and I think I am, every death so far—my cousin last year, these three victims this year…”

  “Christine Gouveia and Ron Freeman in 1988?” Tankard asked.

  “I didn’t realize they were part of this; I didn’t know them.”

  “You need to find out. Ron’s car was found across the street; I remember that well enough. We towed it right before the festivities that year and found their bodies washed up a few days later. At the time, I thought nothing of it, but since being promoted to Chief last year, I’ve been digging myself.”

  “Why didn’t you share this with me sooner?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Manny smiled. “Fair enough. I didn’t think it was all tied together until tonight. I knew there would be something that happened here today, felt it so deeply it hurt.”

  “It’s only been a few deaths; it could still be coincidence.”

  “It’s not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” Manny glanced back over his shoulder at the lot. “I just know.”

  “Where do you think we go from here?”

  “Long-term, someone is doing this.” Or something. “They are killing people here, at this spot, for a reason.”

  “A serial killer?”

  “I guess. I’m not sure how the first two deaths tie in. Were they murdered?”

  “No. They both drowned. They might not even be involved in this. It might be the part that is coincidental.”

  Manny grinned. “You can keep using that word, but you know it’s horseshit. This is all related, and it feels like it will get worse before it gets better.”

  “I want you to figure this out and keep me in the loop.” Tankard leaned closer to Manny. “I want you to keep this low-key. Until we get more information, we need to do this quietly.”

  “No sense in everyone thinking we’re crazy, right?”

  Tankard winked. “Exactly. I need you to do some research and find out if Ron and Christina were at Murphy’s Law the night of the fire.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “No, you’ll be asking for a couple of days off first. Relax; get out of Long Branch for a few days. Unwind, and come back into this fresh.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You have no choice. Go into Manhattan, catch a Mets game, go up to Cooperstown and visit the Hall of Fame. I want you out of Jersey for at least three days. That’s an order.”

  “I’ll give it a shot.” Manny turned to go back to the crime scene
.

  “One last question.”

  Manny turned back around. “Okay.”

  “Who do you think did this?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The drummer is missing from the band.”

  Tankard looked quizzically at Manny.

  “John Regan is the only surviving member of Suffer Within.”

  An officer walked up to the two men. "There's a man dead in the surf. Someone tied a block of cement around his feet."

  Tankard nodded. “Ten bucks we found our missing drummer.”

  Chapter 5

  July 8th 1991

  The bank on Joline Avenue was crowded this early in the afternoon. There were six customers: four in line and two at the counter, making transactions. This time of day, the security guard was in the back, grabbing a quick bite to eat.

  Dillon Wells had cased the joint six straight business days, getting down the routine of the staff and the guard. He decided today was going to be the big score, and he pulled his pickup truck across the street and parked. Traffic was moderate, and he cursed when there wasn't an available parking spot up front. Dillon didn't want to put the ski mask or the black baseball cap on and waltz across two lanes of traffic with a shotgun.

  Maybe he should wait until a spot opened up. Maybe today wasn't the day. “Maybe you're going to punk out just like you did in Houston,” he whispered.

  Texas was the reason he'd spent the last two years in jail. The fact he'd been so quick to turn in the guys who'd done the robbery and he was only the driver helped him only get four years and serve twenty-five months. He knew when his cousin David and his friend Rick got out of jail in eight to ten, they'd be coming for him. Hard.

  Dillon needed to get some money and get out of New Jersey as quickly as possible. He had no real destination in mind. He just needed to leave. His family had disowned him because he'd ratted out his cousin. He was currently living in his pickup truck and unable to find a job even as a short order cook. No one wanted to hire an ex-con and a rat. He thought going back to Long Branch would be a good thing, but now, he knew his reputation had preceded him. Everyone either looked away when he entered the room or shot him a dirty look.