The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  “Did he fuck you like a dog last night?”

  Mace tried to show no reaction. He could never have asked a female suspect such a question in that manner.

  Aishe’s voice remained steady. “I didn’t give him the chance. I knew he killed that old man and that girl who looked like Paris Hilton. Why would I let him put his animal cock inside me? I’m not an animal bitch. I killed him as soon as he came home.”

  “He drove his cab at night?”

  “From sunset to sunrise. Last night was no exception. Can I smoke in here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Give me a cigarette.”

  Without missing a beat, Patty took out her Marlboro Lights and allowed Aishe to draw one from the pack. Holding out her lighter, she lit the cigarette, which Aishe sucked on.

  Exhaling smoke, the woman made a disdainful face. “American cigarettes …”

  “Aishe, what makes you think Pitti killed Professor Glenzer and Sarah Harper?”

  “I am a professional tarot card reader. The cards told me the truth.”

  “Did your husband keep a record of the trips he made while he was working?”

  “You’re being ridiculous. He was a gypsy cabdriver. Roma people keep their money because we keep no such records.”

  “How did you kill your husband?”

  Sitting back, Aishe tapped her cigarette into a metal jar lid serving as an ashtray. “I poisoned his coffee. Then I stabbed him in his black heart with a silver-bladed butcher knife. I cut off his head and set him on fire.”

  “That’s a lot of action. You killed him four times over.”

  “It was necessary. He was a loup-garou. He was only vulnerable because I attacked him when he was in his human form.”

  “You did all that by yourself?”

  “Once I’d poisoned him the rest was easy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care what you believe.”

  “I think you’re protecting someone. A lover or a family member.” Aishe stared into Patty’s eyes. “If I am protecting someone, you’ll never learn who it is.”

  Patty turned to Mace, indicating she had run out of questions to ask. Clearing his throat, he reached into his coat pocket and took out Terrence Glenzer’s book. “Aishe, does this mean anything to you?” He showed her the illustration of the Blade of Salvation.

  Aishe pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, nothing.”

  “Did your husband collect artifacts?” “Pitti?” She laughed. “Animals have no culture.” Mace rose. “Thank you for your time.”

  As he and Patty exited the interview room, Aishe called after them, “I deserve a medal for saving this city from that monster!”

  “Good work,” Mace said as they got back into the car.

  “Thanks,” Patty said. “Do you think Pitti was our man?” “Aishe sure thinks so.”

  She started the engine. “She also thought her husband was a werewolf.”

  “Pitti doesn’t exactly have an alibi. Dead men tell no tales.”

  “You think she whacked him by herself?” “Not a chance.”

  “Wood says no costume was found in the house or in Pitti’s car, and they don’t own a dog.”

  “Maybe he was a werewolf.”

  Patty didn’t laugh.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Looking up from the detective reports spread out across his desk, Mace saw a tall Chinese man wearing a tan trench coat enter the squad room. Although he had already briefed Hackley and Stokes on Peter Danior’s murder in the One-One-Four, it came as no surprise that Louis Chu had come to check up on him. Unlike most cops, who achieved promotions by taking civil servants’ exams, those above the rank of captain climbed the departmental ladder at the discretion of their superiors, and Chu had become an inspector despite an aversion to NYPD politics. Mace hoped to do the same one day.

  Rising, he saw Landry greet Chu in the bull pen, shake his hand, and escort him to Mace’s office. Mace opened the door before they reached it. “Hello, Inspector.”

  “Tony.”

  “Come on in.” They shook hands. “Thank you, Ken.”

  Landry returned to his office, and Mace gestured to one of the two chairs facing his desk and closed the door.

  Chu hung his coat on the upright rack in the corner and sat. “Landry serving you well?”

  “Very well,” Mace said as he settled into his chair. “He’s competent and dedicated.”

  “Captain material?”

  “Someday.”

  “After you’ve moved up?”

  “I just got here, Lou.”

  “Maybe so, but Hackley’s in your corner. You do well here and the sky’s the limit. You could make deputy inspector in two years.”

  Mace offered a thin smile. “You didn’t come over here to discuss my future.”

  “Not directly. How’s Lane doing?”

  “She’s one of the best I’ve got. You read her report on this Danior homicide?” He knew that he had; it had to be the reason for his visit.

  Chu nodded.

  “She was on top of everything. Handled the gypsy woman like a pro and kept in touch with everyone in the field.”

  The inspector’s features remained impassive. “I’d feel a lot better about leaving her in charge if we had more to show for it than a possible name for your broken sword.”

  “The results wouldn’t be any different if I’d been the primary myself.” Don’t push it, he thought.

  “The real question is whether or not this Danior was your perp.”

  Not our perp. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “What’s your gut tell you?”

  Mace considered the question. “That it’s a long shot. But it would be nice to put this to bed early, wouldn’t it?”

  Chu nodded. “Stokes has his hands full. The press has already begun making inquiries to the CPI’s office. Someone at the One-One-Four must have leaked.”

  Someone like Wood. Collaring a high-profile murderer would increase the detective’s post-NYPD career prospects.

  “What steps are you taking in case Danior isn’t good for this?”

  “I’ve authorized a third shift with limited personnel. My sergeant, Don Gibbons, will be in charge.”

  “Expensive,” Chu said. “Let’s hope they won’t be necessary.”

  “Amen,” Mace said, and he meant it.

  When he entered his apartment, Mace was surprised to see the black-and-white image of The Wolf Man on TV. Cheryl sat engrossed in it, taking notes on her laptop. She had the picture-within-picture function in the upper right-hand corner set to New York One News. Mace hung his coat in the closet. Moving beside the sofa, he saw a small stack of DVD cases on the table, which he examined: one werewolf movie after another. “You’re missing a few.”

  “I’m skipping sequels. Lon Chaney played the wolf man four more times, not counting TV appearances. And they made five sequels to The Howling, most of which the fans hate.”

  “Junior.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lon Chaney Jr. His father’s the guy who played in The Phantom of the Opera and The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and the studio wanted to capitalize on his name. He’s famous for creating his own makeup in the silent films. Junior didn’t multitask.”

  Cheryl raised her eyebrows. “When did you become such a film historian?”

  “Just some trivia I picked up in the field today. How many of these have you watched?”

  Freezing the image, Cheryl looked up at him. “Just Werewolf of London and this. I’m going sequentially.”

  “How was Werewolf of London?”

  Removing her glasses, she massaged the bridge of her nose. “Entertaining but useless. I’m looking for effective footage for a segment on tomorrow’s show, and the werewolf in that one isn’t very impressive. The star didn’t want to cover up his good looks. The guy who played Charlie Chan was in it too—he played a rival werewolf.”

  Mace set down the DVDs. “What a
re we doing for dinner?”

  “I’m working.”

  “Right. Chinese or Italian?”

  “Let’s just order from Gracie’s. I’m in the mood for a turkey burger and fries.”

  “You’re on. Let me shower first.”

  She nodded at the TV. “Stokes just did his act.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Queens woman who killed her husband and set her house on fire?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “She told neighbors that her husband killed Glenzer and Harper.”

  “And?”

  “Stokes said it was too soon to confirm her story.”

  “How did he sound?” “Cautiously optimistic.”

  “Good. I’m on call tonight.”

  “There’s a message on the machine I think you should hear.”

  Walking over to the telephone, Mace pressed the answering machine’s Play button, and a familiar voice made his skin crawl. “Hi, Tony. This is Carl Rice. Good news: USA’s going forward with the TV movie based on Rodrigo Gomez: Tracking the Full Moon Killer. Can you give me a call? I have an idea for a new book I think we should collaborate on.”

  Knowing what Rice meant, Mace erased the message.

  As Mace emerged from the shower, Claude Raines dispatched Lon Chaney Jr.’s Larry Talbot character with the aid of a walking stick adorned with a silver wolf’s head handle. Over dinner, he and Cheryl watched Oliver Reed fill Chaney’s fur in The Curse of the Werewolf, a 1961 film from Hammer Studios. Then Mace took out his copy of Transmogrification in Native American Mythology.

  “Synful Reading?” Cheryl said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We got a copy from there yesterday. I have an intern reading it.”

  “Maybe your intern and I should compare notes.”

  She leaned close to him. “Maybe we can work something out.”

  “Such as?”

  “An exclusive interview with the cop who captured the Full Moon Killer and is now hunting the Greenwich Village Monster?”

  He smiled. “Not on your life.”

  “Tony …”

  “If I consent to an interview on a show produced by my wife, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Cheryl started to kiss him, then pulled back. “Have it your way. I’m not a producer, I’m an associate producer, and you’re hurting my chances of getting a promotion.”

  “I’m not standing in your way …”

  “Read the book yourself.”

  She put on The Howling, and Mace found himself distracted by scenes featuring a character named Eddie Quist, a werewolf who doubled as a serial killer. When the film ended with Dee Wallace Stone’s newscaster character transforming into a cute puppy dog on national TV, Cheryl said, “I’m moving the show into the bedroom.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mace said in a playful tone.

  She held up the case for An American Werewolf in London. “Yeah!”

  They brushed their teeth and climbed into bed. “I’m only going to make it through half of this one,” Cheryl said.

  “I’ve seen it.” Ignoring the clock, Mace opened his book again. He listened to the movie, vaguely recalling it starred the guy he had seen in Dr Pepper commercials as a kid. He looked up when a werewolf attacked the guy and his friend on a British moor. Listening to the ferocious snarling, he thought of the sounds Mrs. Welsh described hearing during Sarah Harper’s murder. Glancing at Cheryl, he saw that she had fallen asleep. He closed his book, reached for the remote control, and turned off the TV. His cell phone rang twenty minutes later.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “The Navajo word for wolf, ma’iitsoh, also means ‘witch.’”

  —Navajo Cultural Superstition, Terrence Glenzer

  Stalk followed 219 South to Route 17 East, then took the I-87 across the Tappan Zee. He usually preferred cutting through Pennsylvania to inject some scenery into his trip, but he was in a hurry and had to settle for flat, gray highways. As he crossed the RFK Bridge, the sense of dread that had been nibbling on his guts since he departed the reservation became an outright gnawing sensation.

  New York City.

  He had lived in Lower Manhattan for almost a year, keeping his presence there a secret. Then he had been discovered and forced to flee. He spent the next two years on the road, working as a bounty hunter, before following his instincts to his father’s reservation. One year later, his spirit felt cleansed, thanks to Tom Lenape. The Indians on the Chautauqua Reservation had no use for a real shaman. To them, Tomwas an oral historian, a link to their past. But to Stalk, Tom had been so much more.

  On the day Stalk had first visited the shaman, Tom had sensed the tragedy and violence in the younger man’s life. Stalk had broached the subject of skinwalkers as well as the lemikken and the manitou. To his surprise, the medicine man did not laugh. In fact, Tom had invited him to be his pupil. Stalk learned of the Frenzy Way and of the Great Spirit that watched over the land. Following Tom’s instructions, he came to accept the spirit Waken Tanka.

  As Stalk drove through Manhattan, absorbed in traffic and shaded by immense skyscrapers, he recalled what Tom had said only hours earlier: “You must face your fear in the way of our people. Do not let the white man’s ways cloud your judgment.” Tom thought of him as a true Indian, while the rest of the tribe merely tolerated his presence. Navigating the perimeter of Times Square, which had been closed to traffic since he had lived in the city, he marveled at the changes that had occurred there in just three years: a dazzling display of brighter signs with flashier animation; stores and restaurants that reached out over Broadway; and even greater pedestrian congestion.

  As he traveled Avenue A in downtown Alphabet City, the haunted expressions of drug addicts staring at him with suspicious eyes reminded him of the shell-shocked survivors in Baghdad. He accepted his wartime experiences as part of his makeup and did not try to shut out the memories that came flooding back to him. But he already missed the tranquility afforded by the trees and streams on the reservation and found it difficult to grasp why people actually preferred living on top of each other in this crowded landscape.

  He circled Lower Manhattan: the West Village, the Bowery, Little Italy, and Chinatown. Pulling into a parking lot on the outskirts of Astor Place, he turned on his police band radio and waited.

  Mandy Lee lived in a one-bedroom apartment in a four-story walk-up on Eldridge Street owned by her father. She worked as a bank teller on Canal Street, and with her inexpensive rent, managed to survive. Mandy dreamed of moving to San Francisco one day, but that was another expensive city, and she had trouble saving money because she liked to go out. Without a steady boyfriend, that added up.

  In her bedroom, she dressed for the night: sheer black stockings, leather miniskirt, satin top, stilettos. She teased her dyed blue hair, then grabbed her keys and headed out for what she hoped would be an exciting night on the town. She avoided the clubs in Chinatown: not her scene.

  Instead, she followed Avenue B to her favorite nightspot, Carfax Abbey II. The gothic club occupied a former bank. Maybe that was why she liked it: it represented a perversion of her day job. A group of pasty-faced people in their late teens and early twenties, dressed in uniform black, stood outside smoking. Mounting the granite steps, she swung her hips to the pulsing techno beat coming from inside. At the top, she nodded to the doorman, who never carded her. Good thing; she was still just twenty, two years out of high school. The only reason she’d landed her job was because her father knew the bank manager.

  That little toad. Mr. Chang disgusted her. Despite his relationship with her father—or perhaps because of it—the small man had made several overtures to her. She always turned him down flat, but he continued to pursue her in his own manner: touching her hand, rubbing his hip against hers, breathing down her neck when checking her cash drawer. She hated him and looked forward to the day when she could tell him to fuck off in front of the other tellers.

  Inside, darkness washed over her, punctuated by flashing s
trobes. She scanned the purple-gray interior. Lithe bodies twisted and preened on the dance floor. A good-sized crowd for a weeknight. She crossedthe space to the bar and ordered a Sex on the Beach, shouting to be heard over the music throbbing in her ears.

  The bartender, a skinny guy with a purple Mohawk and a chain running from his pierced nose to his right ear, said something she didn’t hear, but she nodded as if she had.

  Looking sideways down the bar, she spotted a white guy staring at her. He looked at least twenty-five, maybe even twenty-eight. He might have even been thirty, which would have been gross.

  The bartender set her drink on the bar top. As usual, she left a dollar tip and hoped he’d buy her a drink later. Sucking the fruity cocktail through its swizzle stick, she glanced again at her admirer. He wore his short, wavy black hair slightly parted in the middle. Sharp eyebrows sliced his face above dark eyes, and his lips formed a taunting smile.

  Mandy had grown accustomed to being stared at in clubs. Hell, that was half the fun of hopping. But this dude stared right through her and made her feel naked. She sensed something dangerous in him. And that appealed to her. It didn’t hurt that she liked white guys.

  Finishing her drink, Mandy walked onto the dance floor. With her blood warmed by the vodka and peach schnapps, she swayed from side to side, turning in half circles. She loved to dance, which she saw as a spiritual experience, a way to combine the sensual feelings of her body with her existential philosophy. Her body absorbed the music like a sponge. A muscular young man with dark green hair circled her, but she turned her back to him. Her thoughts kept returning to the stranger at the bar, and she hoped he was paying attention to her. Before she knew it, she grew wet between her legs. The song climaxed and she almost did too.

  Returning to the bar, her face wilted. Her admirer had vanished. Maybe he had hooked up with someone else while she had been on the floor. She nodded to the bartender, who brought her another Sex on the Beach. As she reached into her wallet for cash, he waved her off and pointed. Following the direction of his finger, she saw her mysteriousadmirer sitting at a small round table near the dance floor. Had he relocated there to watch her? As she sipped her drink, he braced one foot on an empty chair and kicked it. The chair slid across the floor and stopped three feet short of her.