Feast of Shadows, #1

by Rick Wayne

  Holding the pair in his hands, Pan-ku rose to his full height. With a voice that boomed from the clouds, he decreed that if fire and water should be brought together again, they would extinguish each other. Then he released the heartbroken lovers to their heavenly duties. Pan-ku took Dragon’s gift and put it over the day and called it the sun. Then he took Phoenix’s gift and put it over the night and called it the moon. Then he pressed his hands together and made the shape of the yin-yang as a sign to all creation that the universe is in harmony only when opposites are balanced, when we are neither stingy nor wasteful, neither foolish nor foolhardy, and when we are respectful of tradition—and of each other.

  That was what I was thinking about as I was falling to my death, an old man’s myth.

  Only I didn’t die. I landed in a bin of debris, including a pile of old seat-cushion foam from inside the theater. It was not a pleasant experience by any means, and I walked away with a few cuts, several new bruises, and a mildly sprained neck. But, miraculously, I lived.

  The funny thing was, I remember glancing down when Fish’s goon leaned me over the edge. It’s instinctive. You look to see where you’ll land. I remember flattened cardboard and concrete, not a giant bin of theater rubbish conjured out of nowhere. But it’s not like I was going to go back up and ask Fish for a do-over. Besides, my luck ran out almost immediately. I had some trouble climbing out of the bin, and when my feet finally touched the street, a couple of uniforms were waiting to nab me, like I was a fleeing junkie or something. I’m sure I looked like it. As they put the cuffs on, I swore to them that there was a man at the end of the alley and asked why they didn’t arrest him. He was standing behind the plume of smoke that erupted from an open door—a bald man with his hands in a coat. But they didn’t see anything, and when I blinked, he was gone.

  I was at the station before I realized I didn’t have my purse, which meant no phone and no wallet. No phone meant no Kell. No wallet meant no money. And no ID. My one satisfaction was that whoever found it would be graced with a locked phone, less than twenty bucks in cash, and a couple maxed-out credit cards.

  Eventually a van came for us. I slept on the floor. The chick next to me told everyone very loudly that I smelled like vomit. I slept again on the floor of a bench-lined hall. At some point, I was shown to a bathroom and allowed to pee and clean myself up. I could see sunlight through the narrow opaque window near the ceiling. I thought I was going back to the big room, but instead, I was taken separately to a squad car and driven to a different station where there was even more waiting. I was slumped sideways in a chair, legs pressed to my chest, sleeping soundly, when a lady officer woke me and told me I might want to wipe the drool from the side of my face. She handed me a tissue. Then she handed me the box. She asked me to sign something, and after another short wait, I was taken down a hall to a room marked Interview B. She knocked and a detective opened the door, a black guy in a tousled suit, sans coat, who introduced himself as Detective Rigdon. There was another detective, a white guy with broad shoulders and slightly more hair, standing near the mirror. He said his name was Hammond. He had a kind of rounded block head that I thought it might be nice to sculpt.

  There was a single empty chair on the far side of a faux wood table.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked, taking it.

  “For?” Detective Rigdon asked.

  I thought that must be a trick, where any answer I gave would be an indirect admission of guilt.

  “Does that mean I can go?”

  Detective Rigdon sat down opposite me, in front of the two-way mirror, and placed a notepad and two pens on the table next to a manila file folder. He had a third pen in his hand. He was prepared. Detective Hammond with the broad shoulders and the block head leaned against the closed door. Not menacingly or anything. More like he just didn’t feel like sitting, like maybe he expected this was going to be over quick.

  “We’d like you to answer some questions,” Rigdon said.

  I shrugged. “Just make it quick, huh guys? I’m playing golf with the mayor this afternoon.”

  “Looking like a bent dipstick?” Hammond asked. His eyes moved over my ear and the red cuts and blue bruises that dotted my arms.

  I crossed them. “What can I say? Bruises turn him on.”

  “Mayor’s a woman,” Hammond said.

  “Her, too.”

  “Lykke Raimi was found dead yesterday,” Detective Rigdon interjected. “Along with his driver, a man named William Randall.”

  Cue long silence.

  I looked to the detectives. They were so serious.

  Detective Rigdon looked back at me, expressionless. “How did you know Mr. Raimi?”

  I shrugged again. “I met him once. A few days ago. Shit. How did it happen?”

  Rigdon thought for a second like he was deciding whether or not I was allowed to know.

  “He appears to have fallen from the upper floors of one of his investment properties. Out in Brooklyn Heights. You know it?”

  “Fallen? As in jumped or pushed?”

  Detective Rigdon pulled some photos from his file. “It’s a six-hundred-million-dollar construction site. Gonna be condos or something.”

  I saw Lykke’s body impaled on a row of ridged rebar poking from a recently poured concrete slab. It was stuck two feet off the ground. One of the bars had pierced his ear and twisted his head into an odd shape. Another got him right in the groin. They were all wet and sticky, and there was a pool of dark red blood on the concrete below. His wheelchair rested on its side nearby, as if it had followed him over the side like a faithful dog.

  I covered my mouth as Rigdon slapped another photo on top of the first.

  “He appears to have been taken from his home by force.”

  A headless body was slumped against the wall near the waterfall on the fourth floor of the Raimi mansion. It was William bouncer-man. I recognized the turtleneck. There was a splatter of blood on the wall over him, smeared down, as if he’d been cleanly decapitated while standing. In his hand was an automatic pistol. The top part was back, revealing the barrel, as if he’d emptied it at his killer.

  “We still haven’t found the head,” Hammond explained dryly from the back.

  “So who’d you guys piss off?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “To get the shit detail. A dead billionaire’s gotta have a whole team of people. You can’t tell me you all treat that the same as normal people. Yet, here you guys are talking to me. You gotta be in trouble or something.”

  Rigdon scooped up the photos and put them away. “We’re going entry by entry through the day planner on Mr. Raimi’s phone, which indicated he had a meeting with you recently.”

  I’m sure my name stood out, sitting there next to his business contacts and wealthy associates.

  “Care to tell us what your meeting was about?”

  “It was nothing. He was looking for a friend of mine.”

  “Would that be Kelly Ann Sobricki?”

  I nodded.

  “After his meeting with you,” Hammond said again from the door, “he had his accountant begin liquidating some large investments, and there’s evidence he planned to leave the country.”

  “From what I understand, he was always leaving the country,” I said. “For work.”

  “What work is that?” Hammond asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m gonna take a wild guess and say real estate development. I dunno. I told you. I just met him.”

  “Then how do you know he was always leaving for work?”

  “Kell must have mentioned it.”

  “What was your relationship with Mr. Raimi?”

  “Relationship? Dude, I keep saying, I met him one time.”

  “So he didn’t stop by your apartment the other day?”

  I paused. I could see where they were getting confused since normal people would probably count that as two times.

  “Okay. That doesn’t count.”

  Dete
ctive Rigdon fiddled with the pen in his hand. “Where were you between the hours of eleven and two a.m. last night?”

  “I’m pretty sure you guys already know the answer to that question.”

  “You weren’t picked up at the underground club until well after two. Can anyone confirm you were there the entire time?”

  I looked between them. They both looked back. Emotionless. They waited for me to answer. The longer I didn’t, the more tense it became.

  I pressed my hands together under the table. “Bastien.”

  “What’s Bastien’s last name?”

  “Rops,” I said. “But that’s not his real name. I don’t think.”

  “It’s not?”

  Now the two men were definitely all ears.

  I shook my head. “Pretty sure it’s a reference to Felicien Rops.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “French artist. Or Belgian maybe. From the 19th century. Painted all kinds of decadent and transgressive stuff. Black masses and all that.”

  “So what’s Bastien’s real name?” Rigdon asked.

  I shook my head again.

  “You’re dating a boy and you don’t know his real name?”

  “We’re not dating.”

  It was like trying to explain modern art to my dad.

  “Bastien have a phone?” Rigdon asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He doesn’t have a phone?” Hammond repeated. “Who doesn’t have a phone anymore? I practically have to pry them out of my daughters’ hands.”

  I shrugged.

  “What about Ms. Sobricki?” Hammond jumped in.

  “What about her?”

  “Her phone seems to have been disconnected. Any idea where we might find her?”

  “It’s in my apartment, actually. You’re welcome to it. And no, I don’t. Not at the moment.” I paused. “We had an argument.”

  “About what?”

  I paused again. “Bastien.”

  Rigdon took over again. “Mr. Raimi’s housekeeper indicated she’d been living in a guest room for the past several months, but that she left in a hurry.”

  I nodded. “She told me he kicked her out.”

  “She say why?”

  “No.”

  Rigdon scratched notes. “Did you ever get the sense your friend wanted to hurt Mr. Raimi?”

  “She’s not a murderer, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Ms. Song. I’m just trying to understand everyone’s role in this man’s life. What did you think of Mr. Raimi?”

  “I didn’t. I told you. He was Kell’s thing.”

  “So you two were never romantically involved?”

  “Involved? No. God.” I made a face. “No way.”

  “Why ‘no way?’ He was a sophisticated guy. Rich. Traveled all over the world buying art and all that. I’d be impressed.”

  “Then you should’ve dated him.”

  Rigdon wrote a few more things down. Or maybe he was catching up.

  “What about your eye?” Hammond asked.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s quite a bruise. How’d it happen?”

  “I passed out at the club. Hit my head.”

  Rigdon wrote more. It seemed to take longer than it should if he was just transcribing what I said. He scratched on the paper in silence.

  “How did Ms. Sobricki and Mr. Raimi meet?” he asked finally.

  I told the two of them the whole thing, or most of it anyway—Bastien, Rey’s suicide, the gala at The Met, all of it. Rigdon jotted down more notes.

  “We found a large stock of pregnancy tests in one of the guest baths at the Raimi house. What can you tell us about that?”

  “Come on. I know you guys are only cops, but I bet you can do the math.”

  They didn’t react.

  “Did she tell you the name of the father?” Hammond asked.

  “She said it was Lykke.”

  “Did the two of you talk at all about what she planned to do?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  He didn’t flinch. He never flinched.

  “Did she plan on asking Mr. Raimi for support?”

  “What? Like a paternity suit or something?” I made a face again. “No.”

  “What is Ms. Sobricki’s occupation?” Rigdon asked.

  “She was working retail.”

  “And now?”

  I shrugged again. I bit my lip.

  “And you?” he asked. “What do you do?”

  “I work at the halal market. Under my flat.”

  “Mr. Suleiman mentioned that was just in lieu of rent. What are you doing for money? Groceries, cell phone, all that.”

  “Good question,” I said, eyes down at the table.

  He scratched more notes.

  On and on it went like that. They asked me the same question more than once, but in a different way, like they were trying to trip me up. Then Rigdon said, completely casually, “We’d like to get access to your phone records if that’s okay.” Like it was no big deal. Like he was a checkout girl asking if I wanted to apply for a store card and get a 15% discount. Like it was just something he had to do and didn’t care whether I said yes or no. He didn’t mention I had the right to say no.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Whatever helps.”

  Hammond stood straight finally. “Just one more thing, Ms. Song. You have any plans to visit family?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “In Hong Kong? Ha. No. I can’t even afford my cell phone bill.”

  “All the same, we’re gonna have to ask you to let us know if you plan on leaving town.” He reached over and handed me his card while his partner finished writing on a piece of paper folded over at the top so I couldn’t see.

  I took it. “I don’t suppose you guys wanna tell me what’s going on.”

  He shrugged. “A man is dead. We’re trying to understand why.”

  And with that he opened the door and I shuffled out. Two minutes later, I was standing in shock on the sidewalk.

  “Shit!” I screamed. Only not in English. “Shit shit shit! Ce-Ze-Lei, you fucking idiot.” I stomped my foot.

  People coming out of the building looked at me. They stepped wide as they passed. That’s when I noticed Detectives Hammond and Rigdon in the second floor window. Watching. They totally didn’t care I saw them. They didn’t flinch. They never flinched.

  I don’t think they believed anything I said.

  ⚖

  I suspect the police of any country tend to take the murder of a rich man very seriously. I could only imagine the important people pressuring them for an arrest. Lykke’s murder wouldn’t go unsolved. Even if they never actually found the guy, someone would be convicted. I was sure Hammond and Rigdon weren’t the only detectives working the case and that the task force or whatever they’d set up would follow up on every aspect of my story, and anyone else’s who had the barest connection to the departed. I was clearly one of the last people to see Lykke Raimi and his bodyguard alive. There was a witness to our altercation a day or so before. Sooner or later the police would find the ten grand locked in the safe at the market, if they hadn’t already. That plus a million dollars’ worth of liquidated assets suggested a payoff, which suggested a very serious motive. Blackmail maybe—perhaps over the contents of Kell’s womb.

  Short of a better patsy, she and I were likely the chief suspects. A lack of physical evidence wasn’t proof of innocence. It was just a hurdle for a clever prosecutor. It was only a matter of time before I was questioned again, if not detained. Next time, I figured, I’d meet someone fairly important, a senior officer maybe, and they wouldn’t be nearly as polite. Telling the unvarnished truth would implicate my friend. Being caught in a lie would implicate myself. My alibi already sounded like a complete fiction, so much so, I’m not sure I believed it myself. I had no idea where to find Irfan or Bastien and no idea what either of them would say if question
ed by the police. The Kingfish, for his part, would be happy to tell them whatever story he figured was most likely to send me upstate, which meant—for the time being, at least—I was fucked.

  However, in the interminable hours of waiting at the police station, something very important occurred to me. Too many things had had to happen at just the right time to leave me in that much shit—up to and including my unfortunate fall from the rooftops and right into the hands of the police. I didn’t know who could orchestrate something like that, but it seemed to me there were three suspects: the Kingfish, the man he was arguing with, or the chef, who I’m certain was in the alley. Only I didn’t know why any of them would want to murder Lykke. All I knew for sure was that I wasn’t going to take the fall for it. I was going to find which of them had done such a wonderful job of setting me up and do something legitimately terrible to them—so terrible, in fact, I hadn’t actually thought it up yet.

  I flagged a cab outside the station and went home. To be honest, I stiffed the poor guy out of the fare. I do feel guilty about that. I ran inside as he yelled after me. I cleaned up quick and changed. Fresh panties, matching socks from the clean pile, and my best vintage green Captain Caveman tee, which I only wore when I needed the extra mojo, mostly dates and job interviews. I stood in front of the mirror. I pulled up my shirt and ran my hands over the mark on my belly, which was now broken and faded. I looked at my tattoo in the reflection. I didn’t much feel like a fenguhang, but I was looking more like her. My black eye was healing, so instead of a consistent deep purple, there were now splotches of yellows and browns at the receding edge. I had a dark red scab on my ear, around which my skin was flushed and pink. There were a litany of cuts and bruises running down my forearms that looked almost like feathers from a distance, and my neck was so stiff, I could only move it slowly. But Captain Caveman, at least, worked his magic. In a desperate search of my apartment for any and all loose cash, I found an old train card I thought I had lost months ago. It had a little over four dollars on it, which is why I hadn’t spent very much time looking. With the additional $1.56 in coins I found scattered throughout the mess on my floor, minus the ones from Hong Kong and the random Canadian penny, I had just enough to get me where I was going. I snuck down the fire escape, just in case the cabbie was still out front, walked to the station, and exchanged both the card and the loose change for a little paper ticket. The woman behind the window looked at the change and at my black eye and then at Captain Caveman, but she didn’t say anything.