The Night Falconer

by Andy Straka

  Watisi’s brow narrowed at the mention of Dr. Lonigan. “Yes, I read about the supposed sightings in the paper too. You say you are a falconer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am a hunter, you know. But with a rifle. Not with birds.”

  “So I’ve heard. We saw the big cats on the wall inside.”

  “I’ve seen this falconry, of course. It is a popular sport in Egypt where I grew up. For centuries, a pastime for princes.”

  “Yes.”

  “And ruled by a code of chivalry.”

  “It carries that association.”

  “For knights and noblemen and those who would stay true.” He nodded. “Would an owl be worthy of a falconer?”

  “That depends,” I said. “A better question might be, if it were the right bird, would a falconer be worthy of the owl?”

  The developer looked at his watch. “I’m very sorry to hear of the threats against Ms. Barnes. But the idea I would have anything to do with knives or barn owls or whatever happened to the poor creatures from the Doctor’s building is ridiculous.”

  “A Great Horned Owl,” I said.

  “Yes, whatever. I pay for top security at Grayland, as I do at all of my properties. I’m sorry that Dr. Lonigan and some of her fellow owners have decided to turn our small dispute into a public spectacle. I’m sorry all of you have to get so involved and waste so much time on the matter as well.”

  “We’re not wasting time if it turns out we find someone who is making threats and murdering animals,” Nicole said.

  “I assure you, young lady, neither is the case with me. Now, if you’ll please excuse us.”

  Watisi climbed in the back of the Mercedes.

  Nicole put her hand on the edge of the car for a moment. “Just one more question,” she said. “You have any pets yourself, Mr. Watisi?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Dogs, cats, hamsters.”

  He failed to answer, but Mrs. Watisi smiled from across the seat. “Our nine year old daughter Alvina is a budding zoologist, I’m afraid,” she said. “We have two dogs—Pomeranians—three hamsters, a turtle, and eight species of aquarium fish at last count, I think.”

  “But no cats.”

  “No cats.”

  Igor, or whatever his name was, almost slammed the door on Nicole’s hand with a disgusted look on his face. He climbed in front and they sped off, leaving nothing but a trail of carbon monoxide.

  “That was fruitful,” I said.

  “So much for animal-torturing serial killers.” Nicole said.

  7

  I deduce they’re hiding something,” I said as I wheeled the Boxster back downtown.

  “You think?” Nicole rolled her eyes, reaching over the seat and pulling her laptop out of her bag. “Places are starting to close down for the holiday. I need to find a fast internet connection laptop so I can really start looking into this guy’s finances and other dealings. Something that isn’t wireless.”

  “Hopefully we can get you set up back in the apartment where we’re supposed to be saying.”

  “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Darla wants to meet me at the Central Park precinct before the shift changes. There’s a detective there she wants me to meet. Later on, I’ve got the guard in the lobby to talk to. After that, we’ll see what you find out about Watisi, and if I think the guard makes any sense at all, we can take over Darla’s stakeout duty in the park. If we can find this idiot with the owl, we might save ourselves a lot of trouble.”

  “What about asking a few more questions of our client?”

  “Why? Don’t you trust her?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Me either. But she’s not going anywhere for the time being.”

  “You want me to run a check on her too? See what I can find?”

  “Go for it.” I said.

  * * * * *

  NYPD’s old Central Park precinct building on 86th and Transverse Road looks like a cross between a gingerbread house and a brick and stone fortress. I’d never visited the tired looking edifice during my years on the force. No occasion to.

  I wouldn’t be visiting today either. The building was supposed to be undergoing renovations and the word was they might go on forever. The precinct was now being housed next door in a big red structure that looked more like a Broadway theater, complete with marquee sign, than a police station.

  Ruminate all you want about the ironies of the park itself, eight hundred acres of nature wedged in the middle of the metropolis—a manufactured wilderness. If I had it to do over again, working as patrol officer, I’d have applied to work here.

  The reception area and waiting room were surprisingly empty. A lull in the busy weekend crime blotter, no doubt. I knew I was in trouble, though, when the desk sergeant, a burly mound of a man with a shock of red hair, turned to look up at us as Darla and I entered.

  Warren Fitzhugh had been working the streets back when Toronto and I were still detectives. A grin spread across his face as soon as our eyes met.

  “Hey, hey, hey. Would you look who’s here.”

  Darla had already told me about her visit to the precinct a couple of days before to talk about the Lonigan case. I didn’t expect to be running into a ghost from my past like Fitzhugh.

  “Don’t I know this guy?” He cocked his head, shifting his gaze between me and Barnes. “Frank Pavlicek. Didn’t you used to be a real cop?”

  “Some people used to think so.”

  He lumbered off his stool behind the bullet-proof glass, depressing a switch that clicked open a heavily fortified door. Stepped out to greet me and pumped my hand so long I thought I might develop arthritis before he gave it back to me. “Hey, you lost a few pounds since I last saw you.”

  “Blame it on the country air.”

  “Sure. You’re where now, North Carolina? Charlotte or something like that?”

  “Charlottesville, Virgina.”

  “Right. The wife wants us to retire down to Carolina. Get out of this friggin cold. What, you working with Ms. Barnes here now?”

  “Just lending her a hand on a case.”

  He glanced at Darla, who was watching both of us with a bemused half-smile on her face. “Bringing in some old- school talent, huh Barnesy? I’m impressed.”

  She shrugged. “You know I just lie awake nights, Sergeant, trying to figure out ways to impress you.”

  “Don’t I wish. Hey …” He looked back at me. “You’re not talking about this Kitty Hitter deal, are you?”

  Word had obviously gotten around.

  “Kitty Hitter?”

  “Yeah. That’s what Marbush, the Lieutenant who took the report, dubbed Barnesy here’s case involving some woman doctor who claims a guy with a bird killed her cat and a bunch of other pets.”

  “Cute,” Darla said.

  “Yeah, but at least the doc went and hired you so now the NYPD can rest easy.” He turned back to me. “That’s not the case you’re talking about though, right Frank?”

  “That would be it,” I said.

  Fitzhugh stared at me. “I’ll be damned.”

  Darla added: “Actually, Frank’s a falconer. Works with big birds and stuff. Doctor Lonigan thought his expertise might be useful in our investigation. And we stopped by because we’ve got an important development to report,” she said.

  “Yeah?” The big cop eyed her for a moment. Then he motioned toward the squad room in back. “Why don’t you two come on back.”

  He punched a combination into a keypad by the door. It clicked open and we followed him into a large, brightly lit hallway that opened up to a great room full of desks, some of which were sectioned off by partitions.

  “You guys want something to drink?”

  We both declined.

  “Smart,” he said. “Last time I tried to drink the battery acid they call coffee around here, I thought my ulcer was going to explode.”

  We rounded a corner and passed a room where four or fi
ve other cops were meeting. The space was filled with desks, phones, and computer terminals, all snaked together by what appeared to be miles of cable taped and bundled into walk-overs on the floor.

  “Looks like a hacker’s convention,” I said.

  Fitzhugh addressed the room. “Hey everybody, look what the cat dragged in.” He tried not to break out laughing.

  “Stop,” Darla said.

  “Ms. Barnes has a new partner on the Kitty Hitter thing. Mr. Frank Pavlicek, also formerly of the NYPD.”

  A few mildly curious looks. A muscular Latino man in dark pants and a white collared shirt stared in our direction.

  “Hey, Pavlicek, ain’t you heard? Jim Carey already done the movie.”

  Guffaws rippled across the room.

  Fitzhugh waved his hand. “You guys are hopeless,” he said. Turning back to us: “C’mon. I’ll take you to meet Marbush.”

  We moved on down the corridor toward the back of the building.

  “You just get into town, Frank?” Fitzhugh asked.

  “First thing this morning.”

  “This doctor must be getting real serious about her missing feline.”

  “Something happened out at the airport,” Darla offered. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Okay.”

  “I went to pick up Frank and his daughter, who works with him. When we got back to my van, someone had broken the glass and stuck a Bowie knife through my kid’s car seat.”

  “Christ, what’s the world coming to.” Fitzhugh stopped and gave us both a hard stare. “You piss somebody off?”

  “Maybe.” She told him about the threat she’d received and the note she’d found in the car.

  “Kind of moves us a little ways beyond the pet detective scenario, doesn’t it,” he said.

  We all looked up as a tall woman with short red hair came out of a doorway ahead.

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” Fitzhugh said. “We got visitors.”

  The woman glanced up from the file she was holding. “Yes?”

  “You remember Darla Barnes. And this is Frank Pavlicek. Also ex-NYPD, living in Virginia now. Folks, Lieutenant Stacy Marbush.”

  She stepped forward and shook our hands. There was a blankness to her face, the mask of one who had been on the job so many years she’d learned to bury her emotions. Her fingers were pale and gripped mine firmly.

  “Got a new case? Not more cat stuff I hope.”

  Darla smiled. “No. Still working the kitty thing.”

  “Jesus.” Appraising me. “What, you’ve gone and brought in more talent?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Look, people, I’d really like to help with this, um, matter. You’re welcome to look at my report. But right now I’ve got a lead on a couple of rape cases.”

  “There’s been a more serious development,” Fitzhugh said.

  “Oh?” She raised an eyebrow.

  Fitzhugh excused himself to return to his post in front.

  Darla began telling the lieutenant about our discovery at the airport. About halfway through, Marbush motioned us into her office. We sat in chairs beside a metal table she was using as a desk.

  “So you’re trying to tell me you think these two things are related? Some doctor with a crazy bird story in Manhattan and your knife thrower in Queens?”

  “Yeah. We think they may be related.”

  “Okay. What else, exactly, do you expect me to do about this?”

  “I don’t know,” Darla said. “Maybe nothing. We just wanted to keep you informed. Frank here and his daughter, who’s also a private investigator, may be mounting some surveillance in the park, hoping to spot this falconer people claim to have seen.”

  All right,” Marbush said. “I’ll let patrol know about it. Anything else?”

  “You still think this whole thing is some kind of fool’s errand.”

  Marbush scratched the back of her head. “I don’t know, Darla. And no disrespect to either of you. But it’s the middle of summer. Kids are off school. The homeless don’t have as much need for the shelters. Right now, I’ve got a caseload that would break your heart. A lot of minor stuff, but several bigger offenses too. So if you’re asking me do I have time to go chasing down some woman’s lost cat or searching for some phantom bird man, the answer is no.

  “Even if there might be a link to what happened out at LaGuardia, all you’ve really got are vague threats and some missing pets. Why don’t you touch base with me again after the holiday. That’s about the best I can offer you right now.”

  “Fair enough,” Darla said.

  Marbush turned her quizzical gaze on me. “Pavlicek, your reputation precedes you. What’s your interest in all this?”

  “Help out an old friend,” I said, nodding at Darla. “Maybe rein in some guy with a big bird who’s gone off the reservation. That was about as far as it went until the knife thing.”

  “You think there’s something more here?”

  “I do. What do you know about this developer, Watisi?”

  She shrugged. “Whatever I read in the papers, same as everybody else.”

  “He’s clean then.”

  “Far as the NYPD is concerned. There may be tenant complaints and such. You can talk to the housing authority. But nothing criminal that I’ve ever heard of.”

  “What a guy,” I said. “So much money and he’s probably never even been audited.”

  “That, I wouldn’t know.”

  Darla shifted in her seat. “Frank and I have both tried to talk with this guy, but he’s stiff arming us. Can’t you give us any help at all?”

  “If we start finding solid ties to Watisi or his building regarding these threats,” Marbush said. “Then we can start bringing some heat.”

  Phones rang almost simultaneously somewhere across the building and for a moment I was back in my own precinct fifteen years before.

  It had been different then, of course. Different time and place. The 45th Precinct had been housed in a much older building in the Bronx. But a similar uncertainty hung in the air, a stale, institutional shabbiness that went beyond the dust in the corners, the smell of gun leather, or the urine stink of a drunk. As a cop, you had to learn to keep a lid on your feelings, had to learn to listen impassively and with grave attention, because somebody had to wade knee deep into the garbage and attempt to sort it all out.

  “You still with us, Frank?” Darla asked. She and Lt. Marbush were staring at me.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” I said. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Watisi thinks of himself as being noble.”

  “So?” Darla shrugged. “Don’t we all?”

  “Yeah, but standing by the car earlier, he wanted to talk about falconry and chivalry.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “Just something buzzing around in the back of my brain.”

  8

  Though her shift had ended, Jayani Miller was still working when I returned to the lobby of Grayland Tower. Out through the glass doors, she and her fellow security guard were helping a statuesque blonde fit a feeble old man into the passenger seat of a gray sports car parked in the turnout.

  Somehow, their earpieces and finely tailored suits didn’t look so impressive when they were playing doormen. I guess every job has its lesser moments.

  As the Mercedes slid out into traffic, the two came back inside to assume their posts behind the desk.

  Jayani smiled at me. “You made it.”

  “Promised you, didn’t I? You still working? I thought you finished up at five.”

  “Nah, I’m done. Just helping out until you showed up.” She nodded at her partner, who seemed ready to begin shouldering his duties alone. This was not the same man who had been working with her earlier. The other guard must already have left for the day.

  “There’s a coffee shop two doors down,” Jayani said. “You want to buy me a cup?”

  “You got it.”


  A couple of minutes later, she sat across from me sipping a Grande Mocha. I myself made do with a bottle of sparkling water. Figured I’d save the additional caffeine imbibing until later when I might really need it.

  Once she was out of range of her place of employment—with her earpiece tucked away in a pocket—Jayani seemed like just one more bright ambitious young person in a city always looking for fresh faces. But for the discreet Grayland Tower insignia on her breast pocket, she might have worked on Wall Street or for a publishing company.

  “Okay,” I began. “I know you’ve been through all this before, Jayani. But I’d like you to tell me again exactly what you think you saw the other night.”

  “Not what I think I saw,” she said. “What I know I saw.”

  “Okay.”

  “It was three days ago. I was working the graveyard shift that evening, not much happening, a pretty quiet night.”

  “Alone?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Just like you saw now. We only keep one guard on after midnight during the week and after five on the weekends. It’s mostly the snooze patrol.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyways, about three o’clock in the morning, I hear this thud against the glass out in front. Not real loud or anything, just a thud. So I stepped outside to check on it.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I didn’t see anything at first. There’s a Japanese Maple between the street and the sidewalk around the corner. I was thinking maybe it was a squirrel or a bat or something that flew out of the tree. Then I saw the guy with the bird running down the sidewalk across the street. They disappeared into the alleyway between the buildings.”

  “You saw a guy with a bird? You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What kind of bird?”

  “Well, I’m not very good at identifying birds. It was big. I thought it might be some kind of eagle or something.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I yelled out, ‘Hey! Hold up!’ But the guy didn’t even turn to look at me, just kept going.”

  “You see anybody else on the street, anything else unusual?”

  “Nope. It was kind of eerie, to tell you the truth. I went back inside and called the cops to report a prowler. A patrol car cruised by a couple of minutes later, but by then he was long gone.”