The performers in the show had all allowed their feet to be compared to the mold made of the partial footprint left on Zack Burnham’s terrace. Six men with the show could have been the person who left the print. Al Simpson looked at the plaster of Paris cast on his desk and drummed a pencil. They could all account for their whereabouts. Goldstein had been on Long Island. He had credit card receipts for the trip in his car. Haaken Bergkvist, was brand new. He’d stayed to rehearse with Deborah Morton so was here during the show’s brief hiatus. But he’d only joined the show after Ling Wong’s murder, coming fresh from Sweden. Fire eater ‘Antoine’, his legal name, and a couple other big footers had solids.
Misha Severinsky had flown up to Montreal. Records showed he had boarded and gotten off the plane. He said he stayed in his apartment and drank and slept for the duration of his break. There had been nothing to tie him to the Wong murder. A maid said she had seen him. He let her clean his room while he was in the shower at roughly the time of the murder.
Damn, everyone else had been cleared. There was that sketchy two hours the clown said he’d been sleeping in the men’s dressing room. But no evidence there. Unfortunately sliminess was not evidence of guilt. Maybe Lincoln Harris had come back to town. The DA said he didn’t have enough to press charges and the guy was no sucker. He hadn’t even flinched when Al had threatened him with the death penalty. He hadn’t cared what happened to him. He had cried about the girl and Al had grudgingly believed him despite what anyone else had thought he’d been thinking at the time. Could the guy be that good? He even said he forgave Al for what Al had to do. It would have been so much simpler if he really thought the guy guilty. It bugged him the missing running outfit had not been found. Severinsky said he was in the gym. Saw Harris with a bath robe over his sweats. That was odd. Severinsky when to the gym after his shower? Hmmm. Harris was skinny but long all over. His shoe was probably custom. Eighteen at the very least. Too big. Al looked at the plaster of Paris shoe sole he had propped on his home office desk. He knew all about big feet.
Now Trollie the clown made his living wearing shoes too big for his feet. Could the guy wear shoes several sizes too big and climb twelve stories. Seemed unlikely. The witness said the climber was tall. Middle of the night, sleepy, and possibly stoned. Not exactly reliable. But this was no coincidental human fly. The person had skills of the type utilized by the circus. He had clearly targeted Burnham’s condo. Too bad the little clown had skated. He had a history of assault accusations in B.C. Police in Vancouver informed him the little clown, Walter Jones to the company, real name Atlas Hollenbeck, had had several suits against him for inappropriate contact with several women who were patients at his psychiatric practice. A fucking psychiatrist of all things. No charges were filed for lack of evidence but his license had been yanked. He was a groper and freely admitted he frequented prostitutes. He’d said some very unpleasant things to Monica Whitman at the airport. But he had gotten on the plane. Could he, or Severinsky, for that matter, have come back to Chicago on the sly?
Was the clown playing a sick joke on Ms. Whitman or did he have a twisted need to expose himself to her that indicated an even more deeply disturbed nature? It was a nasty joke from a nasty man. Either way he was trying to prove something. The round heel from West Grand said he had wanted to tie her up. She said another fifty bucks, he said no deal. It was sleazy, but maybe not a compulsion. Gonna find that man and when he does…” But his gut said it wasn’t the clown.
Al looked at the clock. He’d burned the midnight oil then woke early, lying beside his sleeping wife in the dim morning light, thinking. Burnham might be awake. Poor fuck was shot up and heartbroken. He groaned at the impulse to go over to the hotel and check on him. Now he knew he was getting soft in his old age. He climbed gently out of bed. “You stare at that plaster shoe sole all night?” Dolores turned toward Al with a sleepy look, her short gray hair disheveled.
“Go back to sleep baby, Libby’s bringing the kid’s over ain’t she?” He slipped into his trousers. “You’re gonna need the rest.”
“She wants to shop for new school clothes for the kids. She’s taking Chloe and leaving the babies here. Try to be back for dinner. They want to see their grandfather. I want to see their grandfather.” She reached out a hand.
Al leaned over and took it, brushing his lips on the knuckles. “You gonna sentence me to hard labor if I’m late, Judge?”
Dolores chuckled. “I’m retired. When are you gonna retire for real?”
“I’m thinkin’ real soon, baby. Real soon.” He watched his wife pull a pillow over her head. She mumbled, “That’ll be the day.”
Zack opened the door and stared into Al’s big dark face. “What now?” He left the door open and sat cautiously on a chair.
“You’re in a crappy mood, Burnham.” Al strolled over to the coffee pot and helped himself. “Pain any better?”
“Jesus, Simpson, do you really have room to talk? Its eight thirty o’clock on a Sunday morning. I’ve been around you too long, but my work is done here. I’m going home.” Zack’s bag was on the bed. “I got comp coming. I’m going to lie around and heal. Okay, I’m going to lie around and drink. Hopefully healing will occur.”
“You got it bad, son. You think I don’t know about that? She kick you out the door or are you just stubborn?” Al thudded onto the other chair with the coffee.
“She didn’t exactly kick me, but she let me know in no uncertain terms that I was no longer…ah…what she looked for in a man. Who could blame her? Yeah, I was an ass. No surprise to you, eh, Al? If we’re suddenly buddies I may as well confess it. I was a total ass.” Zack pulled the large envelope out of the bag, “Wanna job?” He tossed it into the wastebasket.
“What’s that?” Al twisted in the chair. He slopped some coffee on his tie with a curse.
“Job offer. From La Cirque du Celestial. They want to form in house security. They, or I should say Rodrigo D’Mario, wants me to head it up.”
“How’s the money?” Al hid his near smile in a sip.
“You thinking about a career change.”
“My wife always made the better money. Now she’s retired, got a pension. I got my CPD pension and I do all right here. Just curious.”
Zack snorted. “Hard to see you as a family guy, Al. One eighty a year. Bennies out the wahzoo. And a percentage in company stock. They’ll be looking for someone.”
“I would say Les Moore’s a good choice but he’s been offered a partnership in his current firm. He doesn’t wanna travel. Maybe they were thinking of how much money they’d save if you shack up with the star.”
“Have your laugh, Al. I’m outta here today. But I do have something I wanna run by you. Could be nothing…”
Al interrupted him. “You may have your own people in mind but let me give you a piece of advice. Hire Gary Lao if you can. Small, but former special forces. World contender black belt. Don’t look surprised, I checked up on all of ‘em. It would have to be top dollar but he’s top flight.” He paused while Zack snorted with disgust. Al could read his ‘ain’t gonna happen’ look a mile away. He continued anyway. “Talk to Lourdes Garcia. I offered her a job but she said no, she didn’t wanna be cop. Too limiting she said. Ha. She has a CJ degree and did some time at Loyola Law. Left to go to Iraq. Signed up. She was in a blast that killed everyone in the jeep she was in but her. She was a sharp shooter and an MP. Like you she can wear refrigerator magnets if they ever get fashionable, but she’s tough. She’s single so can travel. She deserves a better opportunity.”
“Why are you telling me this? Tell Roddy.” Zack zipped his bag. “Look, my friend Dino is going to be here in a few minutes. So listen. I got up early and started thinking about what happened at my condo. There are only so many people it could be. Misha Severinsky is one of them. I’ve checked his return flight back from Montreal and he wasn’t on it. I checked all the other flights for the several days before that and no dice. He was seen back here morning of the day t
he new run started. That Friday. He didn’t fly back on his return ticket. He could’ve come back at any time. I checked everything, all the airlines. Nothing. But Al, the guy has always given me a strange feeling. He’s like a puppy dog with Mo but I’ve seen him look at her in what I thought was kind of a, well, calculating way.”
“We all know what we’re calculating when we’re around a beautiful woman, Burnham. He’s around your girl all the time, why wouldn’t he have done something if he wanted to. And the maid…”
“Yeah, yeah the maid.” Zack rubbed his stubble. He’d forgotten his pain while his mind worked the problem. “I’m grasping. I’m gonna have to go. Al, keep an eye on Mo, would ya? I’ll see ya at Bull’s trial if he doesn’t cop.
“He won’t cop. By the way, I’m gonna take a closer look at Misha Severinsky. You in? I talked to the housekeeper again. She never laid eyes on him.”
Zack froze for a moment. “What the fuck?”
“She heard his voice. She was rattled by the murder and didn’t think about it. She cleans a lot of rooms. But later she contacted the department and said she’d thought it very strange. She’d keyed the door. No sign. She called out. Heard the shower and called asking if she could clean. He said ‘Sure, okay!’ and started singing. He shouted out some more. The way he talked sounded strange to her. We thought she must mean his accent; anyway it went in the file. It seemed clear he was in the room. She realized later she thought she’d seen him but had mixed him up with another man. Somehow that statement got lost in the shuffle. I just came across it this morning. You with me, or you going back under?” Zack was squeezing his eyes shut in pain or in thought, Al wasn’t sure.
The camera on Misha’s floor had been broken at the time of the murder. Maintenance had gotten a work order to replace it but the work hadn’t been done. It was broken before the performers had even shown up for the run. Al rubbed his jowl. They’d been over this territory. The show had been in New Orleans before Chicago. With a ten day break in between. They’d all long since had had their room reservations. So maybe he showed up early and sapped the camera. Zack frowned as he sat with the maintenance records. The camera on 14 E had gone out around the time of Ling Wong’s murder. The security guard monitoring the screens said it has been flickering a lot for several days so he was not alarmed when it went out.
The company had shown up four days before the first show. Enough time to screw with a camera if you had a plan. “I haven’t found any flights to Chicago under Severinsky’s name. We need to get into his room.” Zack held his side.
Al could see the pain in his eyes but the young idiot wouldn’t take so much as an aspirin. He wasn’t going to tell him how like his father that was. “Every room has been turned upside down. You’re right. This guy’s pretty slippery and he may have learned a few tricks from his father who was involved in trying to boot the Russians out of the Ukraine. Wound up having to flee the country when the side he supported turned out to be just as corrupt as the Russians. If my information’s right he knows a thing or two about false papers and dodging nasty government thugs. Now that Ukraine is its own country, young Severinsky fancies himself a Chechnyan sympathizer.
“You have been busy. He’s got the tattoos to prove where his sympathies lie. Though I don’t see that being a connection to all this. Though it might indicate a tendency toward obsession, or fanaticism.” Zack looked at Al and took a deep breath. “Vince Smith can get us in. I’ll get a pass key. He’s up to his neck in shit already and afraid Whitney’s gonna yank his plush rug out from under him.”
“My money’s on Ben-Ghury. Bedlow only has his job because of Smith and she’d do the yanking with zero remorse. Vince is already history. Heard it from the mayor.”
“Tyler?”
“My mayor. She is an actual mayor, you know.”
“Bet you don’t ‘little lady’ her. I’m gonna go find Smith.”
Al slipped the key in the slot. The green light came on and in they went. There had been some argument from Smith but he wasn’t about to stand up to Al. Maybe he figured he’d need a job soon. They had made sure Misha was at the coliseum. Yet they felt it was a long shot. The guy would have to be very stupid to have any evidence in his room especially since it had been searched twice before. But arrogance has led to stupidity many times. They had Harve Graver questioning the maid yet again with a translator, since Al wasn’t sure that his Spanish was good enough at seven in the morning to not Ms. anything. They hoped they were on the right track.
Zack looked at his watch. They had waited until the Sunday matinee show would be close to starting to guarantee Severinsky wouldn’t be coming back. They didn’t want the guy to panic and do something stupid. They looked in all the places the police would have looked in the aftermath of the murder and after the man had appeared in Mo’s bathroom window. One thing they knew, it was a performer with the show. No one had seen Misha in Montreal during the break. Apparently the man was more talented than anyone had guessed. Turns out he had been a mechanical genius in high school and had only gone into the circus as the outlet for a rebellious streak. Zack guessed it ran in the family. “Let’s pull the registers. Bet your boys shined a light in and went for donuts.”
Al gave Zack an annoyed look and pulled out a Swiss army knife. “This is fruit of the poisoned tree, Burnham. You got the nerve?” He worked the Phillips head as Zack looked around. He tilted pictures and found the wall safe. He had it open in no time finding two thousand dollars in cash and three passports. “Look.” He held the passports in a fan. “Let’s see last time these were stamped. Bingo. Here’s a stamp from the night the plane landed in Monty. In the name of Ivan Goshinsky. Dude was making tracks. Crossed the border from Sault Saint Marie into Michigan by car at ten thirty four p.m. That’s hell of a distance from Monty.”
“Not if he flew there from Monty. Get on that fancy phone of yours and find out when planes fly from Montreal to Sault Ste. Marie. See what you can find for that Sunday. He coulda been here in what, seven, eight hours from the border driving? I don’t see him biding his time once Ms. Whitman baled on the flight.” Al pulled out the register. Nothing. He went to work on another one.
Zack downloaded an app and got info on flights between the two cities. “Monty to Sault Ste. Marie. Port Marie Express landed 8:46. Just over an hour flight. Maybe he had dinner before crossing the border. Maybe he rented a car.”
“Maybe not. Call Harve. Have ‘im call Monteal police and run registrations in all those names. Bet he had a car there already.” Al snorted in disgust at the second empty register. He looked around and eyed the wall safe. It had just had a few inconsequential papers in it during the search. Oddly to Zack, Al sniffed a loud sniff and took a closer look.
While Zack talked to Harve he narrowed his eyes at Al as the big man reached into the safe. He held the money a moment then set it aside. He drew the papers out, keeping them carefully in order. He felt around the safe as Zack watched, eyebrows raised. He flipped out the blade of the Swiss army knife. He started prying at the bottom of the safe. It wasn’t steel or drywall but dark grey painted plywood. Severinsky had altered the safe.
Zack’s phone rang. “A hit! Car registered to one Ivan Goshinsky. Address matches Severinsky’s in Montreal. Our guy’s not as smart as he thinks.”
“Dumb and dangerous; it’s worked before.” Bits of plywood scattered as Al worked at the bottom of the safe. After a couple minutes he pulled up the false bottom. It had an eyebolt attached to it. Zack saw Al pull at a long red ribbon which was attached to the eyebolt. Up came a plastic bag with what looked like a few curls from a long black wig hanging out. It was attached to the ribbon of cloth with a black tension clip. Up came a canvas bag. Last was an expansion rod with its own smaller red ribbon attached. “I thought I smelled paint. Smells like the spray paint I used on my lawn chairs.”
“Son of a bitch,” Zack said as Al pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. The canvas bag held a housekeeper’s uniform and a pass key.
It also held a small but expensive looking tape recorder and some tools including a socket wrench. Al turned on the tape recorder. “Sure!” The sound of a shower with singing. Then the flush of a toilet. “Okay!” More singing and a shower door closing. “Go ahead!” Operatic singing going to a hum. More singing while the shower ran.
“You want to convince a housekeeper you’re in the shower? Just leave the ‘do not disturb’ sign off and hit play. Must have lifted the key in advance. Used the wig and uniform to go to Ms. Whitman’s room without being noticed.” Al put it all back into the wall. “Harve and Simmons can search once they have the warrant. Between the maid’s statement and Severinsky not being on his return flight I’m sure we’ll get one. Your lucky day Burnham you won’t have to eat the poisoned fruit after all.”
“Never did have a taste for it. Hey, you ever notice housekeepers?”
“Maybe you’re getting your brain back, Burnham, who does?”
Persephone flew through the air twirling the flaming batons. She offers fire to fire. Hades took the gifts and set them aside prepared to consummate their love. They descended into hell, the flames wavering to the haunting song. On the various stages the demons dance with joy. On the trapeze Demeter, mother of Persephone, mourns and calls out to her daughter. Zeus throws thunderbolts at Hades.
But the happy queen arises inflamed by Hades dark kiss. She is a queen. The Bride of Hell. She does a dance of fire. Hades burns with his desire for her. Persephone cannot give up her love even for all the gods of Olympus. He has breathed fire into her. She has breathed life into him.
Mo had done her best to focus but felt her performance was stilted. She could not get Zack off her mind. She was worried and had avoided answering questions about his condition all day. He’d not shown up. Had not come to the arena. Her sadness had sucked the energy out of her. She felt weighted every time she flew through the air. No one seemed to notice. She watched Roddy do Trollie’s bit while Sally and Betty changed her. He had donned a demon suit and stabbed at the flame shooting at his back end with the trident. He subdued one flame and started to make his way across the cable on a unicycle. Another would shoot up to torment him. He seemed to be enjoying himself but she was worried about him. Luciana gone back to New York in another huff and the Italian was concealing his feelings about it. She planned on trying to pump him after the show. It was about time to stop dwelling on her own dramas and get back in cinque with the people who had been her family for the past ten years. “Hey, Deb, good job.” Mo encouraged Deb as Betty adjusted the circlet of fire. “When we get to D.C., Sunday is all yours. You feel good with Haaken?”
Fly With Fire Page 33