The Night Falconer

by Andy Straka

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever owned an owl?”

  “No, but I know people who do.”

  “Could someone have made one kill our pets?”

  “First of all, if it’s a wild bird, you don’t really make a wild bird of prey do anything. You work with their natural instincts. They respond because of their hunger.”

  “All right then, assuming the owl was hungry enough. Theoretically, could it have killed my cat?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  “But before we start jumping to assumptions, which is what everybody seems to want to do around here, why don’t you tell me exactly how you found out Domino was missing.”

  “I … “ He looked down at hands. “It was all so idiotic.”

  I waited.

  “I’d been out with some customers. Drinking. We’d hit quite a few bars in midtown. I took a cab home. It was late.” He laughed, shaking his head in a mocking sort of way. “It was my own stupidity, you see? For some reason I got it in my head that Domino needed a walk. He’s an indoor cat with a litter box in New York City, but, as I say, I’d had a little too much too drink. And Domino has a leash, from when we used to live in New Jersey.”

  “So you took him outside.”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t remember, exactly. But it must have been well after two. The bar closed at two.”

  “Anybody see you?”

  “Yes, the security guard downstairs, I think, although I wasn’t really paying all that much attention.”

  “What happened then?”

  “That’s where it gets strange, you see. I’m not really sure what happened. I mean, I remember going out with Domino on her leash, but I don’t remember coming back in with her. The next thing I remember I was back upstairs in bed in my apartment.”

  “Was that when you realized Domino was gone?”

  “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “I’m afraid it might have been all my fault.”

  “Had you heard of any other missing pets in the building before this happened?”

  “No. I think mine might have been the first.”

  “And the guard didn’t say anything when you walked back in without your cat? You don’t remember doing or seeing anything else?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m to blame for this whole mess. Maybe I let my cat go when I shouldn’t have and this owl caught him and got a taste for cat blood or whatever.”

  “Have you found any trace of Domino since she disappeared?”

  “No. Not like some of the others. Nothing.”

  I looked over the list of apartment owners Darla had given us and compared it with the list of those involved in the lawsuit with Watisi.

  “I see you’re not involved in the dispute that some of the other owners are having with the developer.”

  “No,” he said. “That is, not directly. I guess we all are though, in a way. It affects all of our properties.”

  “Good point.”

  “Do you think my cat’s dead, Mr. Pavlicek?”

  “She could be.”

  He drew in a raggedy breath, as if he were struggling to get hold of his emotions.

  “I’m sorry. You must have really cared for this cat.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not it at all. Don’t you see?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “This thing keeps hitting the papers like it has?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sooner or later my ex-wife is going to find out.”

  “You mean you haven’t told her?”

  He shook his head.

  We stared at one another in silence for a moment.

  “She’s going to eviscerate me,” he finally said.

  16

  “Oh, boy,” I said.

  “What?”

  We were about to head out the door for our appointment with Damon Hicks’ sister and brother. Nicole, deep in thought, was clicking away at her laptop on the kitchen table of our temporary apartment. I had just finished talking on my cell phone, which had purred as I was looking over her shoulder.

  “That was Jackson Miller.”

  “I thought he wasn’t going to get back to you for a couple of days,” Nicole said.

  “He said after he talked to me, curiosity got the better of him. He was able to track down a friend who’s a dealer on Long Island, who Emailed another dealer here in the city, who talked to another dealer who was able to document the existence of The Book Of The Mews.”

  “Awesome.”

  “It gets even better. Jackson is forwarding us an Email from the dealer who actually sold the book five years ago.”

  “Does he remember who he sold it to?”

  “Oh yeah. He remembers. It was Dominic Watisi.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Couldn’t make that one up if I tried. Anyway, we’ve got documentary evidence of the sale.”

  “Watisi’s fingerprints are all over this now.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What should we do now?”

  I picked up the keys to Lonigan’s Porsche that Nicole had left on the table. “We keep our appointment. We still need to try to find out what Cato Raines’ role is in this and how that falconry lure ended up next to those two bodies last night. After that, we’ll talk with Darla and Dr. Lonigan, hook up with Darla, and see if our falconer shows up tonight.”

  “What about going to the police, see if we can get them to serve a search warrant on Watisi?”

  “It’s still only circumstantial evidence,” I said.

  “But that’s a pretty big circumstance.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s bothering you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m just getting a funny feeling that there is more to this story than we’re seeing.”

  “One step at a time, you’ve always told me.”

  “Sure. One step at a time.”

  We took the elevator downstairs. Jayani Miller was working the security desk again, this time by herself.

  “You’re back,” I said as we passed by.

  “Trying to keep myself awake.” She smiled.

  “You’re missing the fireworks tonight.”

  “They don’t do anything for me anyway.”

  We went across to the parking garage and found the Porsche in its usual slot. We climbed in and I was just about to turn over the engine when a tall, lanky young man with curly brown hair appeared beside the car and put his hand on the windshield. In it, he was holding some form of ID.

  “What the—?” I locked the door, cranked the engine, and powered down the window a notch.

  “You Frank Pavlicek?” the young man asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Barry LaGrange, reporter with the Post. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “No comment,” I said, and threw the car into reverse, preparing to back up.

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.”

  “I said no comment. Now move, unless you want to get run over.”

  “For a guy who makes his living snooping around into other people’s lives, you sure aren’t very forthcoming yourself.”

  “Comes with the territory.”

  “I’m just looking for more of a story here,” he said. “Maybe we can help each other.” He was passing a business card through the window.

  I ignored it and started backing up.

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  The card dropped in my lap as the man leapt away from the fender swinging into his legs. I shifted into first, swung the wheel, and screeched past him.

  “Great,” I said. “As if we don’t already have enough to worry about.”

  “I thought he was kind of cute,” Nicole said.

  I shook my head and by the time I shifted into third, heading further down the street, he was only a small figure in my rear view mirror, standing and staring at us with
his hands on his hips.

  * * * * *

  It took nearly half an hour to drive the thirty blocks up to Lenox Terrace and find a place to park. The holiday evening celebration was just beginning and everybody seemed to be going somewhere. Rain was in the forecast, a chance of thundershowers, but that didn’t seem to dampen anyone’s spirits.

  Marianne Hicks lived in a tastefully renovated brownstone across the street from some projects. There was a small back terrace off the alley and the smell of steaks grilling. You would have thought a party was in progress had it not been for the black ribbon hung across the door.

  “You’re right on time,” the dead teen’s sister said to Nicole as she opened the front door. “My brother’s upstairs. I’ve told him you’re coming.”

  “Marianne, this is my father, Frank.”

  Marianne Hicks was a startlingly attractive black woman of about thirty. She took my hand and shook it. “I’m very sorry to hear about your brother, Ms. Hicks” I said.

  “Not half as sorry as we were that he ever let himself get mixed up with that gang. Please, come on in.”

  She led us into the living room, which was a long room modestly furnished with aging furniture.

  “The funeral isn’t until Tuesday,” she went on. “But lots of people have been calling and coming by.”

  A pyramid of flower arrangements and cards took up most of one corner, and food and drinks were set out on trays. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairwell in the hall.

  A bespectacled black man of moderate build and wearing a dark tux came into the room.

  “Stephen, these are the private investigators I was telling you about,” his sister said.

  Stephen Hicks shook both of our hands in turn. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I only wish it were under different circumstances. Sorry for the penguin suit.”

  His sister smiled. “Stephen’s a limo driver, but he also sings baritone in his church choir. They’re quite well known and they’re doing a benefit concert tonight.”

  “We thought of asking them to cancel it,” Stephen apologized, “but then, after talking with the pastor, we decided it was okay to go ahead.”

  “You have a few minutes to talk, though?” Nicole asked.

  “Oh, it’s okay. The concert doesn’t start for another hour and a half.”

  We all took seats around the living room.

  “I understand you two have an interest in the shooting last night,” Stephen said.

  “We do,” I said.

  “Marianne explained the situation to me. We’ve already been questioned by the police. Are you thinking this person you’re looking for may be connected with whoever shot Damon?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “And you want to know how Damon came to be there.”

  “It might help.”

  The singer blew out a breath and cupped his hands together for a moment. “Damon had had problems since he was eleven or twelve,” he said. “He lived with my father, who passed away two years ago. Since then, it’s been hard to track him down.”

  “Marianne told me earlier that you and your sister weren’t raised by your father,” Nicole said.

  “That’s right. Our parents divorced when we were young. Mom’s a nurse. Damon was the youngest. Our father was unemployed most of the time, but he managed to hang onto Damon.”

  “So after your father died, Damon hit the streets?”

  “Pretty much. We tried to get him to come live here. He would have none of it.”

  “Was he in school?”

  “If you can call it that. I doubt he was there very often.”

  “Where was he living?”

  “We could never really get a fix on that. He seemed to move around a lot.”

  “But you knew he was involved with Los Miembros,” I said.

  Stephen nodded. “It was like they took over everything and became his family.”

  “Seems unusual, though, if you don’t mind my saying. I mean, it appears you and your sister could have supported him financially.”

  “You’re right,” Marianne said. “Most of those kids come from nothing—abject poverty. But with Damon it was never about the money. It was all about power, and his mistaken ideas of being a man.”

  I hesitated. “You mind telling us what kind of things he was into?”

  She looked at her brother, who looked at the floor. “He could have been a murderer himself, for all I know,” Stephen said. “In fact, he probably was.”

  “Were they dealing drugs?”

  “Sure. But I heard some other stuff a couple of months ago that caused me concern.” He paused.

  “Which was?”

  “I heard Los Miembros—or at least whatever subgroup Damon was a part of—had gotten heavily involved in the sex trade. Another lawyer I know downtown said he prosecuted a case where one of them was convicted of running a prostitution ring and trafficking in women, a couple of which had come from overseas.”

  Marianne was shaking her head. “Our little brother. A slaver.”

  “The world really has turned upside down,” Stephen said.

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I don’t guess Nicole did either. It was quiet in the room for a few moments.

  “For what it’s worth,” I finally said. “NYPD thinks he and Mansuela were only peripheral players.”

  Stephen nodded. “That’s what they told us too. Not that it really makes much difference.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “He could have been such a leader, such an example, such a great young man.”

  “Couldn’t they all?” I said.

  17

  “Sounds like you’ve got some heavy duty stuff going on here, Franco,” Darla Barnes said.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Maybe our kitty thing is just the tip of an iceberg.”

  “You think Lieutenant Marbush must be thinking the same thing by now?”

  “Probably.”

  We were still in the apartment, even though it had been dark for over an hour. The plan called for Nicole to be staked out on the balcony of our apartment, armed with a low light camera, spotting scope, night vision goggles, and a good pair of binoculars, while Darla and I trolled through the park below. We had to wait for Darla.

  We’d been able to see a little bit of the fireworks through the back windows of the apartment that faced the West Side.

  “We thought you’d been abducted by aliens,” Nicole said.

  “Just about. That Halverson lady can talk your ear off. I left her a message this morning and thought I’d stop by to talk with her. Sorry I’m late.”

  “She’s the one with the missing puppy, right?”

  “Right. And the other one who found what looks like remains along with a feather.”

  “Those gone off to the lab too?”

  She nodded. “Roger.”

  “What?”

  “The puppy’s name was Roger. One of the little girls named it.”

  “You already talked to Mrs. Halverson before though, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I wanted to talk to her again after Jayani told us she was asking about the case down in the lobby. That woman talks to anybody and everybody.”

  “Find out anything new?”

  “Not really. But now that you’ve told me about this book and the connection to Watisi, we’re probably wasting our time canvassing the building. Maybe we’ll be able to talk to Watisi after the hearing tomorrow.”

  “You’re coming, then?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. This is turning into my biggest case.”

  “You didn’t happen to run into any reporters, did you?” I said.

  “No, why?”

  “There’s a channel 12 news van parked down on the curb in front.”

  “Maybe I should hide you two in a closet.”

  “It’s been there a while now. They must be talking to someone else in the building.” I also told her about our encounter with the repor
ter in the parking garage.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “Can’t stop the power of the press. Let’s hope whoever’s down there doesn’t spot us.”

  I went to the window again while Nicole helped Darla with the equipment. Down on the street, everything appeared quiet. A tall, skinny man exited the front of the building with quick short steps. He was too far away for me to be able to decipher the look on his face, but he was definitely in a hurry. It was LaGrange, the reporter from the Post.

  “There goes our friend from the Daily Planet.”

  “Good,” Darla said behind me. “Maybe that’s one less thing to worry about.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Why’s that?”

  There was no mistaking the slender blonde who had left the building at LaGrange’s side and whom the young man was now talking to.

  “Our client just walked out the front door too,” I said.

  Like any reasonably well-informed person, I read a lot. I tend to favor books over magazines and magazines over newspapers. Call it my suspicion of the “now factor,” the pressure faced by those who must literally report what they think is “the news” overnight. Any literate adult on this planet knows that what happens in real life often tends to play out over time. It’s the problem with photos too. Still-lifes that capture the perfect “moment” often result from tossing out a hundred or more other negatives that cumulatively might have told a more interesting story. The winning ballplayer holding the trophy might be struggling with a cocaine addiction. The smiling girl in her mother’s arms could be cuddling up to her child abuser.

  Certain people in everything from politics to business to religion have learned how to manipulate this weakness we have for wanting life made simple; how to parse words for the right quote, how to set up for the perfect photo-op, how to play the game.

  I hoped our client wasn’t becoming one of them.

  Darla and I must have looked like a pair of washed up SWAT team members as we stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby.

  On the street in front of the building Dr. Lonigan was gone, but in her place a bearded man hauling a TV video camera on his shoulder appeared as if on cue from around the corner of the building. He was followed by a teen with a dark goatee sporting a professional grade digital camera who was followed by LaGrange.