by George Mann
"So, this is the real you?"
The Ghost smiled, a wan smile. "No, I wouldn't say that, Inspector."
Donovan took in the apartment with an expansive gesture. "Where are we?"
"My apartment. Yours isn't safe, not at the moment. Neither are the hospitals. If the Roman wants you dead, he'll be looking for you. Reece knows you were shot; he'll have people watching the emergency rooms."
Donovan nodded. "So ... Reece got away?"
"Yes. For now."
Donovan drained the glass of water in his hand, gave a spluttering cough. "He'll come after me. I have to find him before he finds Flora."
"Flora?"
"My wife."
The Ghost nodded. "Rest here. You need to recover your strength. Fix yourself something to eat."
"Where are you going?" Donovan asked.
"There's someone I need to see." He smiled. "I'll be back later. I've laid out a clean suit for you, on the bed. I think it should be about your size."
Donovan shrugged. "Thanks." He caught the Ghost's arm as the vigilante turned to leave. "You said you'd tell me who you are."
"You know who I am, Inspector. What you saw ... that's who I am. The rest is just window dressing."
Donovan nodded. He didn't need to know any more. "How can I contact you?"
The Ghost shook his head. "No need. I'll be back in a few hours. Wait here."
"Very well." Donovan watched the Ghost turn and leave, and then set about fixing himself some eggs.
After he'd eaten and dressed, Donovan searched out the holotube unit in the Ghost's apartment. He'd decided to call Mullins. The sergeant deserved to know where he was, or at least what had happened to him. He'd arranged for Mullins to call for him that morning, fearing the worst, and now, he realized, the poor bastard was probably panicking, running about the place trying to deal with the dead mobster he'd found on his boss's carpet. And besides, there was always the slim chance that Mullins had managed to get a lead on Reece. Donovan knew that was probably desperation talking.
The transmitter buzzed; a moment later, the blue light flickered to life and an image resolved in the display cavity. It was Richards, the precinct's administrator.
Donovan cleared his throat. "Richards. Donovan."
The man sounded immediately relieved. "Inspector Donovan? We've been trying to reach you all morning."
"Ah, right. Yes. I ran into a few complications last night. Can you put me through to Mullins?"
The administrator gave an exaggerated shrug. "That's just it, sir. Sergeant Mullins isn't here."
"What do you mean, Mullins isn't there?"
The other man sounded unsure. "There's been another murder, sir. Like the others. Sergeant Mullins is attending the scene."
Donovan ran his hand through his hair, flinched at the stab of pain in his shoulder. Another murder? He stared at the flickering blue image. "Right, man. Give me the address."
"Yes, sir. It's uptown. Two-two-six Eighty-eighth, between Second and Third. Home of a Mr. Williamson, a banker."
Donovan nodded. "Right, I'll get over there straight away. If Mullins calls, tell him I'll be there within the next thirty minutes."
"Yes, sir."
Donovan flicked the switch, ending the transmission. The blue light blinked out, the picture fading from view. Another murder. The Roman had been busy.
He stood, looking for a scrap of paper on which to scrawl a note for the Ghost. Unable to find anything suitable, he threw his hands up in despair and decided to leave anyway. He'd take the Ghost's advice, to a point; he'd return here later to meet the vigilante. Clearly, Donovan's own apartment was unsafe. But he couldn't sit around and do nothing, not when there was a potential lead on the Roman, a fresh corpse, and a worried sergeant, out of his depth and unsure what had become of his superior officer. He couldn't sit and hide himself away, knowing that, no matter how much pain he was in.
The Ghost had left a key dangling from the lock. Donovan seized it in his fist and set out. He'd be back soon enough. And together he and the Ghost could consider how they were going to find Reece.
The taxi hissed up to the sidewalk, slotting in behind the row of police vehicles that crowded the street like a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. Donovan had considered driving-his car was still parked outside the Ghost's apartment, after all-but he couldn't face it yet. The pain in his shoulder was still too intense, and he knew the seats would still be sticky with congealed blood.
He climbed out of the cab and paid the driver. Then, crossing the sidewalk, he mounted the steps that led up to the front of the large house, the home of Mr. Williamson, the dead banker. He rapped on the door. A uniformed man cracked the lock and held it open, peering out at him suspiciously through a slight gap between the door and the jamb. When he realized it was Donovan his demeanor changed entirely and he opened the door wider, beckoning the inspector in over the threshold. "Morning, sir."
Donovan bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Morning."
"They're in the back, sir."
Donovan made his way into the bowels of the house. It was spacious and richly furnished; plush, deep carpets, expensive-looking works of art plastered over every wall, furniture in the modern style. The banker had clearly carved out quite a career for himself.
Donovan followed the sound of voices to the dining room. There he saw Mullins and three other men standing around the oval dining table, regarding the naked white corpse of the banker. The man had been obese-grossly obese-and balding, with a stark, pale complexion. But now his face was blue, bloated, the blood vessels broken to form a cracked network of lines across his face. His thick, stubby fingers were spread out upon the table, his hands palm down on the glassy surface, adorned with innumerable gold and platinum rings. Ban knotes-huge sheaves of yellowed banknotes-had been stuffed into his mouth, choking him, suffocating him with their papery promise.
His body had been positioned over the table, stripped naked and posed so that his behind was jutting rudely into the air, his feet spread apart, his tree-trunk-like legs on either side of a carved wooden dining chair. More banknotes had been forced brutally into his asshole.
Bizarrely, the room smelled of freshly cut flowers. Donovan gave a polite cough. Mullins looked up. "Inspector! We've been trying to reach you."
"I heard. I ran into a spot of trouble." He looked at the sergeant expectantly.
Mullins looked concerned. "Is that a new suit, sir?"
Donovan waved a hand. No mention of the dead goon in his apartment? "Not now, Mullins. Is this ... ?"
"Yes, sir."
"What about the coins?" Donovan looked at the man's eyes. They were bulging from the sockets like glassy orbs. He looked away again.
"They're here, sir. One under each palm. It's definitely the work of the Roman."
Donovan nodded. If it was Reece, he'd been busy. He glanced back at the corpse, trying to hide his disgust. The banknotes were too much of a coincidence: Reece was sending him a message. He grimaced.
Mullins crossed the room, coming to stand beside him in the doorway. Together, the two men regarded the bloated corpse in all its macabre glory. "Do we have any idea what time?" Donovan said wearily.
Mullins shrugged. "Late." He was looking sideways at the inspector, as though sizing him up, as though he felt he needed to ask Donovan if everything was all right.
Donovan nodded. "I'm alright, Mullins." He paused, considering his next words. He didn't want to make matters worse by spilling the whole thing to his sergeant. Didn't want to admit he was working with the Ghost, a wanted vigilante. It would complicate things. And he didn't want Mullins getting wrapped up in Reece's games, either. "Did you stop off at my apartment this morning?"
Mullins nodded. "Yes. I knocked but you didn't answer, so I assumed you'd changed your mind and made your own way to the office. When I got there you weren't around. Then the call came in and we headed up here without waiting."
Donovan nodded. "I had a run-in with a few of the Roma
n's men. Roughed me up a bit."
The portly man wiped a hand across his brow. He looked concerned, had clearly noticed the way Donovan was carrying himself to ease the discomfort in his wounded shoulder. "What happened, sir?"
Donovan sighed. "Later. It can wait." He scratched around in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, realized with dismay that this was not his jacket pocket as his fingers closed on empty space. "Mullins, have you got a cigarette?"
"No, sir."
"Goddammit!"
The sergeant looked shaken. He quickly changed the subject. "Reports from the neighbors suggest the incident took place between two and three this morning."
Distracted, Donovan stared at the dead man's milky-white back. Two or three a.m. Well, it could have been Reece. That was long after he and the mobster had parted company.
"Do you need anything, sir?" Mullins' voice cut into his reverie.
"Just a cigarette, Mullins. If you can find me a cigarette." He swallowed. "Then I need to catch the bastard responsible for this."
The two men stood together in silence for a moment. Then, suddenly, Donovan turned to face the other man. "Mullins. Any luck finding that link you were talking about, the thing that connects the victims?"
Mullins looked solemn. "No, sir, not yet. But I know it's there. I will find it, given time."
Donovan sighed. "Time, Mullins, is the one thing we don't have." He stared at the floor for a few moments, a ponderous expression on his face. Then he reached into his pocket, retrieved a small folded envelope, and turned it over in his fingers. "You know, there is something you can do for me, Sergeant."
"Yes, sir?"
"You can see that this gets to my wife. She's staying with her sister in Brooklyn. I've written the address on the envelope." He paused, adding: "It's important, Mullins."
Mullins accepted the note. "Of course, sir," he said. "I'll have one of the men run it over directly."
"Thank you, Mullins." He smiled at the other man. "I'll leave you to make the necessary arrangements here."
"Can I ask where you're going, sir?"
"I'm going to find a cigarette, Mullins. And something illegal to drink."
The sergeant frowned as Donovan turned, left the room, and went off in search of cigarettes.
here was no party that day at Gabriel Cross's capacious home on Long Island. Celeste had cancelled it, shooed away all of the guests, tired of their presumption, their preening, and their constant, relentless need for validation. Tired also of being alone, of being trapped there, away from her life, away from the city, with nothing to occupy her time, save for the execrable company of Gabriel's perpetual houseguests.
At least, that's how she described it to Gabriel as they drank coffee in the drawing room around eleven o'clock that morning. She was dressed in an immaculate blue dress that pooled around her knees like a splash of azure water, and she had kicked off her shoes, folding her legs up beneath her in the chair. Her painted toenails peeked out, matching the color of her hair.
Gabriel himself was slouched in his chair, twirling a cigarette in his fingers as he pondered her words. "But Celeste, what is it with this anxiety to get back to the city? It's hardly as if you're desperate to reinsert yourself into society life." He gave a slight cough and smiled at her, a gleam in his eye. "It's no wonder you're feeling abandoned, anyway-you've frightened away all of my guests."
"Gabriel ..."
He continued, unabashed. "Besides, I thought we'd decided the city was too dangerous at the moment. All that business at Joe's." He blew cigarette smoke at the ceiling, glancing nonchalantly out of the window.
Celeste looked somewhat perturbed by this apparent indifference to her plight. "That was days ago. I miss the city. I miss ... you." She paused, weighing her words. "You're never here, always off gallivanting
"Gallivanting!" Gabriel snorted. "Taking care of business, you mean. Looking after my interests in the city."
"Interests indeed!" She sounded indignant.
Gabriel gave her a sidelong glance. What was she thinking? What was the root of this sudden change in demeanor? "I'm trying to protect you. That's all, Celeste."
Celeste sighed. She offered him a weary smile. "I know. And you're a dear, dear man. But Gabriel, I do not need your protection."
Gabriel stubbed his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, frustrated. "Then what about the other night? Car chases and gunshots? What of those?"
Celeste looked at the floor. The timbre of her voice changed. "There's ... there's things about me you don't know, Gabriel. Important things. Dangerous things."
"Things that Gideon Reece is interested in, you mean?" Gabriel chewed his lips. He could see the worry that was etched onto her face; felt the need to somehow console her. Yet he was also aware of the emergence of a hollow feeling, a feeling that seemed to start in the pit of his belly and spread up through his torso, overwhelming him, making it difficult to breathe. He cared for this woman more than he cared for anything else in the world, more, even, than he cared for himself. He loved that he did not know everything about her. That was part of her allure, part of the frisson of their attraction. But this? This was troubling.
She did not answer him.
He leaned forward in his chair, bringing himself closer to her. "Talk to me, Celeste."
She was gazing out of the window. He wondered what she was thinking, what she was seeing behind those shining eyes. He could see the wintry colors of the garden reflected in them. After a moment, she turned to him. "I can't. I can't talk to you, not while you're like this."
Gabriel frowned. "Like what?" He didn't know what he could have done wrong.
"Oh, Gabriel. Haven't you worked it out yet? Haven't you realized? I know who you are. I know who you really are, beneath that ridiculous veneer." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Even if you don't know it yet yourself."
Gabriel slumped back in his armchair, wishing now that he'd asked Henry for something far stronger than coffee. Could she mean ... ? Did she know? Did she really know? How the hell had she worked it out?
He stared at her, unable to form any words.
"We all have secrets, Gabriel. All of us. Some of them are better left unshared." She brushed her hair back from her face. Her lips were parted. She looked more serious now than he had ever seen her before. "I needed you last night."
The moment stretched.
"I ... I was needed elsewhere." He couldn't offer her any more than that.
Celeste smiled, a wan smile. "Yes, I rather think you were," she said. She flipped over the folded newspaper that was lying beside her on the coffee table. Gabriel could see the headline: DISASTER ON MADISON AVENUE, and beneath it: BIPLANES CRASH, TWO DEAD. WITNESSES REPORT VIGILANTE SEEN IN WRECKAGE.
Gabriel's heart was thudding in his chest. So she did know. Everything. But what did that mean? And what was she keeping from him?
He sipped at his coffee, and for a dreadful moment he wished for the party, wished that he was surrounded by those indolent, carefree specters that haunted his double life, dripping compliments and holding vacuous conversations in the doorways, fucking each other in the guest rooms and falling drunk into the duck pond. For a minute he wanted that, wanted to lose himself in its counterfeit embrace, to escape from the reality of this awful moment. She knew.
Gabriel swallowed. "Alright, Celeste. Alright. But this doesn't change anything."
Celeste shook her head. "It changes everything, Gabriel, can't you see that? Everything." He couldn't read her expression. "It was all a perfect lie, anyway, wasn't it? The parties, the jazz, the girls."
Gabriel shook his head emphatically. "Not you, Celeste. Never you. You were never that." He could see her bottom lip was quivering. He got out of his chair, crossed to her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "I had never loved, until I loved you."
She looked into his eyes. He could see the tears brimming, waiting to tumble down her cheeks.
"Look, once we're done here, once this is over with, we'l
l get away, we'll go somewhere new, together. Somewhere we can forget about it all." He kissed her forehead. "You choose. Anywhere."
Celeste shook her head. The tears were now streaming down her face. "Don't you see, Gabriel, that's just it? We can't. You don't understand."
The statement cut him to the core. "No. I don't understand."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "There's more to this than guns and nightclubs, mobsters and crashed airplanes. Much more."
"What do you mean? What do you know?"
But all she could do was sob, and all he could do in return was clutch her to him, holding her head against his chest and stroking her hair as she succumbed to her emotions.
Gabriel's head was full of questions. Questions that he did not know how to ask, that he couldn't even begin to phrase to the tortured, beautiful woman who lay beside him. How had she figured it out? How long had she known? What did it mean, for them? Did anyone else know? And what was it that was troubling her? Something else, something that she was clearly afraid to discuss. He thought he would go insane with the uncertainty. So many questions.
He lay on the bed beside her, fully dressed, his arms wrapped around her body. She was fast asleep. He watched her chest rise and fall with a regular rhythm. He'd wanted to spare her this, to save her. But then he thought of Donovan, holed up in the Ghost's apartment in Manhattan, concerned for his wife, hiding from the mob. Gabriel and the inspector were not so different, after all. He'd have to get back to the man soon. But ...
He glanced at Celeste. How could he leave her?
Gabriel leaned his head back against the wooden headboard in frustration. He considered taking Celeste back to Manhattan with him, and then rejected the idea. It was too dangerous, and she'd be too much of a distraction for him. Here, he knew she was safe. He couldn't risk it. He wouldn't be able to focus. And if Reece's men got to her ... he didn't even want to think about that. What did they want with her?