The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  “I want a thorough check on him,” Mace said.

  “I plan to handle that myself.”

  Mace met Patty and Willy in Mandy Lee’s living room.

  “You meet Crazy Horse?” Willy said.

  Mace aimed a disapproving look at Willy, then faced Patty. “What’s tonight’s password?”

  “‘Ulfheonar.’ Norse for ‘wolf coat,’ the wolf-based warriors. We have our Viking werewolf.”

  “Was the vic another NYU student?”

  “No, she wasn’t even in college. Worked in a bank over on Canal. I see little chance of a connection between her and Sarah Harper and even less of one between her and Professor Glenzer.”

  “Any leads at all?” He wanted something, anything. “Just one,” Patty said. She raised a plastic bag with a book of matches inside it. “We found this on the coffee table. Apparently, Mandy liked to frequent Carfax Abbey II, a club on Avenue B.”

  “Guess where you two are going when you finish here,” Mace said.

  Patty steered the unmarked police car across Avenue B. Late night partygoers crowded the sidewalks, and cigarette smoke lingered in the air over their heads. Tides of pale faces and black leather jackets moved in opposite directions.

  “Sorry I found those matches?”

  “Nah,” Willy said, “I can use the OT. But let’s collar this guy soon. My sex life is suffering.”

  “It’s a deal.” She watched a girl with no underwear puke on the sidewalk. “So what’s the Puerto Rican term for werewolf?” “Hombre lobo. Man Wolf.”

  “It’s ass backwards, just like I’d expect.” Willy laughed. “You’re not right.”

  Patty pulled into a parking spot across the street from Carfax Abbey II.

  On the ride home, Mace stared out the window at the buildings along the East River, but his thoughts remained focused on John Stalk.

  Tribal policeman.

  The man had been coy about his objective, but it had been clear enough to Mace that they were after the same monster. He believed the predator stalking the city was a human madman, but Stalk’s comments suggested the Indian actually believed an animal had ripped three people to pieces. Or was he just being clever?

  Mace climbed out of the squad car, went upstairs to his apartment, and stripped to his briefs. As he lay on his side with his chest against Cheryl’s back she reached over, grabbed his hand, and slid it over her belly. She did not ask what had happened, and Mace soon fell asleep.

  Gothic music continued to play inside Carfax Abbey II even though the overhead lights had come on, driving the patrons outside. The club reeked of booze and body odor. Two Mexicans in dirty white linen uniforms set chairs upside down on top of tables so they could mop the floor. Patty led Willy over to the long black bar. The gangly man behind it wore his hair in a Mohawk and stood counting the night’s receipts.

  “Closed,” he said as Patty stepped before him.

  Unclipping her shield, she set it on the bar. “Detectives from Manhattan Homicide South.”

  The bartender glanced at the shield with bloodshot eyes and kept counting. “Okay.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lloyd.”

  “Lloyd, you know a Chinese girl named Mandy Lee?” Making a disinterested face, he shook his head. “Can’t say that I do. I like Cubans.”

  “Tall for an Asian, blue hair, lacy outfits.”

  “Blue hair? Yeah, I think I know who you mean.”

  “Was she in here tonight?”

  Lloyd looked at them for the first time. “What did she do?” “She didn’t do anything wrong,” Willy said. “Now answer the lady. It’s late and we want to go home.”

  “If we’re talking about the same chick, she was in here earlier, dancing up a storm all by herself.”

  “Did you see if she left with anyone?” Patty said. Lloyd gave Patty an unpleasant smile. “Nah, I only check out the ladies.”

  “This lady was murdered tonight.”

  Lloyd flinched as if slapped. “No shit. Another one?”

  Patty and Willy exchanged looks.

  “What do you mean?” Patty said.

  “That girl who was killed last night used to come here. The blonde.”

  “Sarah Harper?”

  “I don’t know her name. I just recognized her photo in the paper. A princess like that stands out in a place like this, you know?” “She come here often?”

  “Once or twice a week, maybe. Never for long.”

  “How about last night?” “Sorry. I don’t remember.”

  Patty laid a card on the bar top. “Call me if you remember anything else. You’ve been a big help.”

  Lloyd pocketed the card. “I do my part.”

  “Two girls, one nightclub,” Patty said outside.

  “Quite a coincidence.”

  “We’ve got our connection. Now let’s find this son of a bitch and crucify him.”

  CHARTER TWENTY-TWO

  Miguel unlocked the side door to the church shortly after 1:00 AM. He switched on the lights in the hall, then the kitchen, and finally the gymnasium. Walking back through the kitchen, he turned on the radio. As usual, he found it set to an oldies station. He twisted the tuning dial until he found the beats he liked and cranked the volume. Next he opened the janitorial closet and mixed cleaning solution with hot water in the rolling bucket. While the green mixture foamed, he mounted the five stairs to the church itself, clicking on lights as he moved through the hallway, past Father Hagen’s office, and into the worship hall, avoiding the stairway leading into the basement. The place was goddamned creepy.

  He strode up the aisle, looking for litter beneath the pews. Seeing none, he smiled; he would not have to mop the floors, even though that’s what Father Hagen expected him to do every night he worked. Five nights a week of this shit, he thought. The bathrooms were the worst. The congregation consisted primarily of senior citizens, and half of them didn’t even try to get their shit in the toilets, so it fell to Miguel to clean up their messes.

  He stopped at the collection box, his motivation for working here. Unlocking the wooden box, he removed the metal cash box, which he carried into Father Hagen’s office. He pried the box open with his pocketknife and dumped its contents across Father Hagen’s desk. Extending the fingers on his right hand, he chopped at the coins and rolled-up dollar bills, separating one third of the cash from the rest of the pile. Then he filled his pockets until they bulged.

  Miguel had been scamming the church like this for two years. First he had pilfered subway fare, then dinner money, then pocket change. Now he kept one out of every three dollars deposited into the collection. He stole more than the church paid him every week—much more. Tonight’s take probably totaled almost two hundred dollars. He would treat himself to some real good blow.

  He scooped the church’s take back into the coin box, which locked automatically as soon as he latched it. Leaving the black box in the middle of Father Hagen’s desk, he turned to leave—and came face-to-face with a figure as rigid as a statue. His heart leapt in his chest, and before he could help himself, a high-pitched squeal escaped his throat. Red faced, he groped for his chest. “Jesus, bro, you scared the shit out of me!”

  Standing in the doorway, Pedro said nothing. He merely glared at Miguel.

  “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

  Pedro glanced at the cash box on the desk, then stepped forward. “Empty your pockets.”

  “What?” Miguel offered an insincere smile. “What are you—?”

  It took Pedro only two quick strides to reach Miguel. Using his left hand, he seized the taller man by the throat and applied pressure to his Adam’s apple.

  Miguel clawed at Pedro’s wrist with both hands. It was like squeezing an iron bar.

  Pedro slid the fingers of his right hand inside Miguel’s left pocket and tore it off, spilling cash all over the rug.

  Miguel thrashed like a beached fish. “Get off of me!”

  Pedro hurled Miguel
against the desk like a rag doll. “Empty your other pocket.”

  Miguel focused on the pocketknife he had used to pry open the cash box. He had left it on the desk blotter. Curling his fingers around it, he lunged at Pedro. “Fuck you!”

  Pedro jumped back, raising his arms at the same time, like a dancer, and sucked in his stomach. The blade sliced through his shirt but only grazed his skin. He delivered a side kick to Miguel’s ribs which sent him crashing into a bookcase.

  Stunned, Miguel shook his head. But before he could recover his balance, Pedro had pinned his knife hand against the wall.

  Pedro then slammed his fist into Miguel’s stomach, doubling him over and knocking the wind out of him. He twisted Miguel’s left wrist until it made a loud snap. Miguel tried to scream when his knife struck the floor, but no sound came out. Pedro cracked Miguel’s left elbow like a dry twig, and Miguel sucked in his breath, screaming inwardly. Gripping the shattered elbow, Pedro wrenched Miguel’s arm, dislocating it from its socket. Then he released Miguel, who crumpled to the floor, disjointed arm resembling a tentacle.

  “Pick up the money you stole and put it on the desk.”

  Hot tears streamed down Miguel’s face. He scrabbled at the cash on the floor and threw it on the desk, the movement sending shock waves of pain through his injured arm. He grabbed another handful of cash but tipped over and fell on his arm. Lying on the floor, he found his scream.

  Pedro dragged him to his feet and ushered him into the worship hall. As they marched up the aisle, he said, “When you steal from a church, you steal from God. Come back here and I’ll break your other arm. Seek retribution against me or Father Hagen and I’ll kill you.” He opened the front doors and pitched Miguel down the cement stairs.

  “Oooooh, shit!” said a shadowy figure on the other side of the fence.

  Pedro returned to Father Hagen’s office. He cleaned up the remaining cash and left it on the desk. Locating the janitorial closet, he found a list of duties posted on the wall. He picked up a mop and dipped it into the bucket of cleaning solution. As he finished mopping the floor between the worship hall floors, his cell phone rang.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  As silent as a shadow, Angela Domini descended the stone steps to the left of Synful Reading’s entrance. Her heart and mind heavy with worry, she unlocked the iron door at the bottom of the stairway and stepped into familiar darkness. Even as she swung the door shut behind her, she detected a scent from her past.

  No, she thought, heart speeding up when she saw the silhouette of a man sitting at her table in the middle of the wide living room. Before she could flip the light switch on the wall to her left, the upright halogen lamp beside the table flared, bouncing bright light off the ceiling. She jumped, her throat issuing a startled sound.

  “Sorry,” Stalk said, removing his booted feet from the table and straightening up.

  Pursing her lips, Angela caught her breath. “How did you get in here?”

  “I held on to my keys all this time. You didn’t change the locks.”

  Exhaling, she turned on the overhead light, which balanced the illumination in the brick-walled basement apartment. He had grown his hair long, making him almost unrecognizable, but she refused to acknowledge the change. “What do you want?”

  “I need your help.”

  He said that so calmly, she thought. “You don’t need anything from me.”

  “I need a place to stay.”

  “I’m sure you can afford a hotel.”

  “One of your people might spot me.”

  “They’re more likely to spot you here.”

  “If they think I’m under your protection, there’s a chance they’ll leave me alone long enough for me to do what I came here for.”

  “And they might not.” She felt old anger rising within her, and she didn’t wish to experience that emotion again.

  “I’ll have to take that chance.”

  “Why?” Her voice grew louder than she wanted. “Why can’t you just leave well enough alone?”

  Rising, Stalk moved closer to her. “You know why. Because of what I know.”

  Angela turned her back on him. “Go back to the reservation, where you’re safe.” A slip of the tongue; she did not want him to know that she knew he lived and worked on the Chautauqua Reservation.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You know what this means.” Folding her arms across her breasts, she sensed him moving still closer.

  “They would have found me sooner or later anyway. You did.”

  Unable to control herself, she spun toward him. “That doesn’t mean you have to walk right into their territory!”

  Staring into her eyes, he spoke in a calm voice. “I can’t run away, Angie.”

  Her throat hardened. “You did before.”

  Reaching out, he stroked her face. “I was scared then—for both of us.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and she felt her lips quiver. “You didn’t even say good-bye.”

  Stalk wiped away the tear with his thumb. “There wasn’t time. I knew I was being followed. I saw them wherever I went.”

  She pretended to ignore his touch. “You could have taken me with you.”

  “They’d have come after us both. By leaving alone, I protected you as well as myself.”

  “Then why come back now?”

  He closed the distance between them, and she felt his breath on her face. “Do you really think I could have stayed away, knowing what I do? You know me better than that.”

  “I’ll talk to them.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t do any good.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, obscuring her vision. “I’ll make them understand.”

  “They’ll never accept me.”

  She felt herself trembling with rage. “Damn you! Why did you have to come back?”

  Still he remained calm. “We damned each other a long time ago.”

  Fighting back more tears, she closed her eyes. Then an inhuman wail filled the apartment, forcing her to open them again.

  Stalk’s gaze moved to the iron bedroom door. “Angus?”

  She nodded. “He must recognize your scent.”

  “He didn’t make a sound when I came in.”

  “He’s not well. I had to move him here so I could keep an eye on him. I … I’d better go look in on him. You can sleep on the sofa.” Angela crossed the apartment to the heavy door. Producing a long key, she unlocked the door and opened it just enough to slip into the bedroom. Then she closed the door and locked it from the other side.

  CHARTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Candice Smalls removed a roll of black tape from her black bag and said, “Arms.”

  Patty, sitting topless on a stool in the decoy apartment’s bedroom, raised her elbows level with her shoulders, like a chicken flapping its wings. Outside the window, which overlooked Grove Street, blackness had claimed the sky.

  Candice pressed the tape’s end against Patty’s left breast and unwound it around her back, beneath her arms, then over both breasts.

  Patty took a deep breath. The tape felt tight. “How am I supposed to lure this creep with my tits taped flat?” Candice pushed her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose and wrapped Patty in tape again, this time under her breasts. “Honey, I’m giving you the best support of your life.” She pressed a wireless microphone against the tape between Patty’s breasts. “Hold that there.”

  Patty held the mic in place with her middle finger. She had painted her nails black to match the temporary dye in her hair.

  Candice wound the tape around Patty’s torso again, this time covering most of the tiny black microphone. She stepped over to the tablewhere her recording equipment had been set up. One screen displayed a wide-angle view of the interior of a car in a parking garage. The image was transmitted by a night vision camera, and everything in the frame appeared bright green. Candice pulled on a set of headphones and focused on the audio meters on the digital recorder. “S
ay something.”

  Looking down, Patty said, “I like New York in June.”

  Candice glanced at Patty. “Look straight ahead, not at the microphone.”

  Patty looked at her fellow policewoman. On the monitors before Candice she saw opposing views of the male cops waiting in the living room. “This is Foxy Lady, hoping to catch a big, bad wolf.”

  “Okay, put your top back on.”

  Patty pulled on the sleeveless black top, which left her midriff partially exposed.

  “Keep talking.”

  “I can’t help but wonder why these women allow this guy to pick them up. They must sense he’s off. Why take the chance for a casual fuck?”

  Candice adjusted the sound levels on the recorder. “You’d know better than me. You’re single, aren’t you? I’ve been married twelve years. You’re good to go.”

  Patty exited the bedroom, followed by Candice. Sitting on the sofa, Mace and Willy looked up. Morrissey and Landry stood with four POs and Rod Kramer, the detective in charge of DATR—Digital Audio Transmission and Recording.

  Willy whistled at the sight of Patty in pumps, fishnet stockings, and a black Lycra miniskirt. “Trick or treat. Vampira’s risen from the grave.” He nodded at the cross on her right bicep. “Where’d you get that fake tat?”

  “That’s real, wiseass.”

  “You Irish Catholic gals are hardcore, girl. I wouldn’t recognizeyou if we bumped into each other on the street.”

  “That’s because you never look at faces.”

  “True.”

  Patty looked around the room. During the time it had taken for Candice to wire her up, Landry and Morrissey had replaced the generic décor with artistic black-and-white photos and paintings of people with haunted expressions. “Nice job.”

  “My cousin’s a fine arts major,” Landry said. “She’s into this gothic scene.”

  Mace stood. “The fiber-optic camera’s all hooked up.”

  Patty said, “I know. I saw it on the bedroom monitor.”