SAGE: AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY (THE ADAM STONE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by D. L. EVANS

  "Adam, it's Mack. Are you sitting down?"

  "Jesus Christ, Mack, I'm lying down! What time is it? Don't you ever sleep? You’re taking this vampire thing too far."

  "Ah... no actually. Whaddya on about? It’s after five. The sun’ll be up in a bit. Just listen. I left the gallery when it closed last night, uh... this morning about three I guess and came back here to the station. I'd arranged for Sandy to stay and make copies of the shots of the people that attended and I wanted a look before anyone else. But, that's not what I'm callin' about. Do y' know a guy named Jack Hennessy?"

  "Hennessy, Hennessy.” The name was familiar. “I haven't had my coffee yet damn it... Yah, I think he's the head of security at Lauren's studio, I mean CHAT-TV. Is that the guy?"

  "Not anymore Adam, he's dead. Happened a couple of hours ago."

  "What happened?"

  "The most gruesome murder we've seen for a while, I can tell ya. Martchenko and Elphick were called out on it. Seems whoever whacked the guy must have tortured him, then lost it. At least that's how it looked at first. Someone with an electronically buzzed voice called it in giving the address and said he had destroyed a Disciple of Satan. I've just seen the photos Adam, it's unbelievable. The body’s just been officially identified and it’s Jack Hennessy. He was naked, slashed to pieces and hung upside-down like a piece of meat. But that's not the weird part. Fowler thought it was some kind of rage killing but changed his mind when they investigated.

  "Are you going to tell me the weird part, Jesus.”

  "Keep yer shirt on. Fowler says the perp, there could be more than one, but so far the guy must have had it all planned. They figure he was waiting for Hennessy when he got home which in itself was a miracle with all the security in the place, but not only was he waiting, but he must have had the rope with him, six inch nails and a change of clothes. Hennessy was nailed to the wall, literally, arms outstretched, like Jesus, upside-down. What kind of maniac is this? ... Then... he, the psycho, took a shower! Oh yah, stuck him full of holes, disembowelled him, then took a shower! There was blood in the drain. He also sprayed the apartment with it... on purpose. Long spray trails, like he collected it in a glass and aimed it at the white furniture. I tell ya, this guy is a piece of work. They figured that he changed clothes, and went back out to the balcony and up to a penthouse above. It's empty and there were rope traces on the ironwork. Isn't afraid of heights either, it's fourteen floors up. Must be a fucking fly.”

  "No prints?"

  "The broadloom is knee deep apparently and not one fucking print. Everyone's talking about it here but they're cleaning it up for the press. No pictures to be released, that's for sure, When Martchenko and Elphick showed up, he was still dripping. The psycho wanted him found while he was still fresh. Can you imagine?"

  "God, I wonder what Hennessy did to piss this guy off so bad? Do you have anything on him?"

  "Nothing heavy. Aggravated assault, drunk driving... small stuff. Definitely not one of the big boys, as far as we know, but listen to this. In his bedroom, there was a hidden safe behind a bookcase and it was open. Our Mr. Jack the Ripper, whoever he is, found a huge collection of porn, nicely labelled and organized and laid it out on the bed and floor for us. They can't figure if he did this before Hennessy came home or after he cleaned himself up. Sick stuff, Adam... kids, bondage... the lot. The prize of the evening is the book they found, a journal with all his connections and a computer network detailed. Unfortunately, it looks like the big wigs are referred to with code names. Still, they’re going to have to build a new prison when they're finished with the arrests and convictions they're going to get from that book. Wish I were having the same luck with my case. I can’t even find out what Morgan was up to at the reference library. For some reason, I think it’s important."

  "Any idea who wanted Hennessy dead?"

  "Nada, so far, but he ain’t even cold yet. Well, maybe he’s a little chilled since he’s on a slab at the morgue. One last thing that they're keeping from the press - a deck of cards was scattered on the carpet under his head, soaked in his blood."

  "A message to someone? Or from someone?"

  "What else could it be? He didn't have any gambling problems or debts that they can find in his records but who knows. I agree that it has to be a message of some sort. He went to a lot of trouble after he killed the guy."

  "The porno stuff, was Hennessy in any of the shots?"

  "Not obviously because some of the creeps are in costume or make-up, but apparently there are plenty of other identifiable people in them. Of course he could be the photographer. God, I love it when a shit organization like this goes down. A whole crop of fuckheads posing as human beings off the street in one swoop."

  "Christ, you sound positively elated."

  "Nah, I just like the fallout from the hit and I’m so tired I could sleep standing up. We don't often get perks like this, as you know, and I have a thing against predators on the net. It's so bloody hard to catch these bastards and now we've had a whole organization of them handed to us on a plate."

  ”Just to change the subject, have you interviewed Winston Lucas yet?”

  “Sort of,” he answered. “He’s a slimy little gnome. Looks like he doesn’t eat his vegetables. He gabbed for over an hour and yet I felt vaguely uninformed when he was finished, like he’s used to giving the edited, sanitized version of his life. Who knows what the real shit is. I condensed the interview for you. He’s a definite possible for the bad guy for our book.”

  “Our book? Should I just be taking down dictation instead of struggling with the facts? How did I ever manage without your advice?” The phrase in one ear and out the other came to mind.

  “Talking about our book, how’s it comin’? You haven’t mentioned your agent yet so I take it that there’s either not enough to work with or you’re not committed to it as a story.”

  “I’ve written the first chapter about the boy in the river and I’ve blocked out about five scenarios about the various deaths so far. Now... tell me why you wanted to know, exactly.”

  “Well,” he cleared his throat, stalling to find the right words. “I was just wondering if you ever considered coming back to Homicide. It would be nice if we could bounce things back and forth like we used to. The other guys give me a hard time about my theories and all, and well....”

  “Not getting the respect you deserve, I take it. Jesus Mackenzie, as if your record doesn’t speak for itself. So far, let’s just say that the book is all I can handle. I don’t know what’s in the future but I haven’t written Homicide out for good. And as for the team, bake them some funny cookies, let them cramp up and worship the porcelain throne for a night.”

  “Fuck you.” He laughed. “Later,” and hung up.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ADAM STONE:

  Jack Hennessy; dead and gutted. Jack Hennesey, I thought as I twirled through my mental Rolodex trying to remember my impression of him from an introduction that had to have been at least three years ago. Tall, good-looking, slick, like a relative to Roger but not as well educated. I seem to recall a threatening vocabulary, abrupt and crude. Not a man to cross. Christ, someone had crossed him all right. Hung upside-down? Why? Obviously some religious connotation, that and calling him the Disciple of Satan. Maybe that was too obvious. A red herring. Did he, or they, kill the missing women? I couldn’t remember anything religious about beheading, assuming the same guy was involved in the death of Jasmine Train. If not, it was sure going to be a long summer with two freaks on the loose, religious or not. Was this tied up with Smythe somehow? Hennessy worked for him, he had to know something. I wanted to ask the questions, be involved. Instead, I had to settle for my computer. I made a list of questions to diffuse my frustration. More circles within circles. I thought of another list to ask Annie. In a matter of minutes I ended up with eight pages of questions. Was there a pattern? Something told me there was something connecting the weirdness that had been going on since that first day w
hen Lauren and I walked into the Stanford Galleries. A cognitive itch that I wanted to scratch into an answer, some way to string unrelated events into order. Annie feels a stalker, Morgan is murdered but made to look like a suicide and now Jack Hennessy is slaughtered in his own apartment. Could one person be behind these events? What about the three women Mack is investigating... one dead and the other two still missing? It didn’t make any sense that they could be connected in any logical way. And what has Roger Smythe got up his sleeve? Mack doesn’t think he’s a suspect in the case he’s working on but could he be involved with the Gallery or the Stanford women?

  I finished around noon and was starting to feel light-headed. It was time to put a floor under my stomach. A tomato sandwich and a coffee made me feel human again but the reflection in the mirror said otherwise. My eyes seemed to be pulsing in time with my heart. I was getting out of shape and my body was rudely reminding me. I pulled on a tracksuit and hauled the exercise bench and weights out of the closet. An hour later I was wheezing and dripping like an old man of eighty. How had this happened? A cold shower helped but the mirror still said that my eyes looked like something cultured in a Petri dish. Maybe I should cut back on the alcohol for a while.

  I called Annie at the Gallery but ended up chatting with Alison. She thanked me for helping at Morgan’s wake and I felt pleased that we seemed to be coming to an understanding. My charm was wearing her down. I dialled Annie’s studio, knowing that she never answered the phone while she was working and left a message on her machine. She probably needed the day to recharge. I hoped she would call later and tell me what had upset her so. Several calls later, I had accomplished exactly nothing. Lauren was busy taping an interview and Mack had gone home to sleep. I was just about to print a hard copy of my wandering thoughts and theories for my files when a courier arrived. I opened the envelope and pulled out several pages of Mack’s pristine handwriting, notes on the previous days interviews. Important enough to send by courier? Mr. Mackenzie is not one to underestimate his usefulness. I laughed at his expense, skipping the first page titled, Ideas to expand the character of Mason Green. Christ, he would be giving his bloody recipes if I didn’t get him to back off. Still, I needed the notes... what the hell. I thought of his early days and the mild food poisoning episode and laughed again. He would not appreciate that reminder, especially in print.

  I flipped to the information on Vlad Roman’s interview. Mack wrote that he was a definite suspect. There was lots of useless statistical information and background fluff, most I already knew. I had to agree, as far as looks went, he would be the perfect villain in a book or a movie. Or would he be too obvious? Still, a great character, larger than life. Maybe I should branch out, away from the cold reality that I tried for in the Stalking Murders and go for a little fantasy. I could write ‘Vlad the Vampire’ and give Ann Rice a run for her money. Nah, not my style. I glanced through the rest of the pages. According to Mack, the models Roman used, (six in all) since he’s been in town, five of them women, all sang his praises (even the guy). That had to be bullshit, public relations. What else were they going to say about the icon that immortalized them in bronze and signed the cheque? More relevant, they were all alive and well. If he didn’t kill the models that posed for his work, what motive could he have for killing strangers? It didn’t make sense. And why would he want to kill Morgan? It appears that they were friends. I think I remember Alison saying that Vlad had introduced them so she probably owed him for getting her recognized in the art world... Intimate? Hardly likely. He has his choice of lovelies and was rumoured to have slept with most of them plus any number of students. No. Morgan didn’t physically qualify for his bed... He didn’t drive or own a car. No arrests or problems in his background, but then, Mr. R. Smythe’s record read like he’s qualified to run for Pope too. Didn’t mean squat unless some pro had dug around and come up empty. Still, Roman’s was pretty high profile person. Cameras aimed at him whenever he stepped out in public even when he tried to hide. His persona was really created for the public, like an actor inventing himself. He might be nuts or just an arrogant creep but I didn’t see him as a killer... So what did Mack see in this that I didn’t? The last page was interesting. The great man had two assistants, Serge and Gregor Mentz. Hmmmm. A couple of dogsbodies from the old country. Quite a resume between them. Serge was a qualified pilot, flew the entourage around the world in a private Lear jet, and brother Gregor drove the rented limo and did the cooking. Vlad obviously didn’t need a wife with these two. As I recalled, they also acted as bodyguards and of course, they checked out as perfect citizens as well. Maybe nothing was connected. Maybe I was looking for something that didn’t exist. Co-incidences do happen... and pigs fly.

  I pulled out the notes on the interview with Winston Lucas. Hopefully they would be more promising. I was getting desperate for murder suspects and as I recalled from my first impression, he was definitely a potential. I noticed that Mack had added his comments as well. I skimmed past the preliminaries and went to the questions about the Stanfords.

  Transcript of Interview between Det. Lieutenant Mack Mackenzie and Winston Lucas:

  Mackenzie: How long have you worked for the Stanfords?

  Lucas: Thirty-two years, sir, thirty-two years. The last two as Miss Alison’s assistant.

  Mack: That’s a long time.

  Lucas: No complaints, no complaints.

  Mack: Do you have any family?

  Lucas: No. No I don’t. The Stanfords are my family.

  Mack: Must have been a big change for you, I mean working all those years for the old man and then getting passed along to the niece.

  Lucas: I know what you’re implying Lieutenant but you couldn’t be more wrong. Mr. Stanford has made me financially secure for my services over the years. I don’t need this job. I don’t need it. When Alison took over from her uncle, she asked me personally to stay on and help her. I’ve been in the art business all my life and she knew what value I could be at her side.

  Mack: You get along OK then?

  Lucas: Yes sir, oh yes. When Alison took over from her uncle, she asked me to stay on. No one, even Richard, knows more about what’s going on in the art world than me. It’s a privilege to be her assistant and she’s very generous, not just to me, but the entire staff.”

  Mack: So, you get on Ok?

  Lucas: Yes, yes. I’ve already said so. I’ve known Alison and Annie since they were small children. I’ve been the... the buffer between the girls and Richard. He’s not... comfortable with his role as guardian. No, not at all. I remember their birthdays. I arranged their schooling and hired the nannies. I researched the holiday camps and tutors when needed. So, you can see, in answer to your question, no there was no problem switching responsibilities to become Alison’s assistant. None at all. None.

  Mack: Are you close?

  Lucas: How do you mean?

  Mack: Does she confide in you?

  Lucas: Of course, of course. We make all major decisions together.

  Mack: About personal things?

  Lucas: I don’t know what you’re getting at. I’m sure I don’t. She... Alison has a brilliant mind. Never forgets anything. Tell her once and it’s there forever. I recognized it at once when she was still a child. She was curious about the business, the financial end of things, and I took her under my wing, as it were. She needed direction, you see, but as soon as she was ready she stepped in, you understand… stepped right in. Believe me, I never lost sight of the fact that the girls would one day run the gallery, it was their birthright.

  Mack: OK. Enough about the business, how about their personal lives.

  Lucas: Personal lives? Well, well now, of course, I’m a bachelor and not in a position to advise young women about.... life, but...

  Mack: So, they kept their private lives, private. Behind closed doors?

  Lucas: Are you implying that...

  Mack: I’m not implying anything. How involved were you with them outside the business?


  Lucas: What difference...? Why do you want to know about their personal lives?

  Mack: I’m asking the questions, Mr. Lucas.

  Lucas: Well, they were away a lot at boarding school and riding camps in the summer, but we were always in touch. Always. There were the usual problems, nothing important, you see. They could always call me, day or night, for any reason. May I have a glass of water please?

  Mack: Did they?