by Marc Olden
“Oh?”
“Yes. When we were hiding back there behind the exit door, you drew your gun and I said you didn’t have to, that he was only a boy and maybe you could scare him. You looked at me as though I was some sort of idiot and drew the gun anyway. I understand now. He could have killed us both. He certainly tried.” She touched her breast gingerly.
“Half of all violent crimes are committed by kids,” said Bess. “They shoot, rape, and put your eyes out if they get a chance. This one could have been carrying a gun or a knife, for all I know. As it is, I got careless.”
“My fault.”
He shook his head. “Mine. I was just a hair too slow, a bit too relaxed.”
A door opened. “I called the police,” said a short, gray-haired woman. “Miss Heggen? Is that you? I didn’t recognize you when you were on the floor. I thought …”
She let the words trail off.
“That’s all right, Hattie,” said Marisa. “This is detective Bess.”
“I see,” said the gray-haired woman, who didn’t see at all.
She pointed to Marisa’s door. “I guess that must belong to you.” She was pointing at a brown paper bag lying in front of Marisa’s apartment.
Bess walked over to the bag, squatted slowly and picked it up.
He looked at the gray-haired lady. “Thank you, Mrs?”
“Feinmel. We live just across from Marisa.”
“I know. Marisa, let’s go inside.”
“What’s in the bag?” said Mrs. Feinmel.
“Marisa?” said Joseph Bess.
Marisa looked at Gregory. “What about him?”
“I’ll keep an eye on him from the doorway. Thank you Mrs. Feinmel.”
Bess was firm in his dismissal and Mrs. Feinmel backed into her apartment, her eyes flicking from the detective to Marisa and back to the brown paper bag.
When Mrs. Feinmel’s door had closed, Bess looked into the bag and frowned.
Marisa asked, “What is it?”
Bess bit his lip.
“Joseph?”
He closed the bag and looked away.
“Joseph, what’s in that bag? Does it concern me? Look, either you tell me or I’m going to scream. I mean I’ve had enough today. It does concern me, doesn’t it? Please!”
She snatched the bag from him and stepped back out of reach.
“Marisa don’t—”
She looked inside and her jaw dropped and the bag slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor at her feet.
The severed hand, an ugly, gray thing of incredible evil, was only inches from her and as she covered her face with her hands and wept, Joseph Bess knew that from today on his life was changed forever. He had stepped into a darkness that could destroy both him and Marisa.
She said, “He … he was going to leave it here, here. In my apartment?”
Bess went to her and took her in his arms, his eyes on Gregory.
I’m scared, too, he thought. Jesus, am I fucking scared.
The changeling, who was one of the most politically powerful men in New York, sat alone in the back of his parked limousine and sipped brandy from a thin, silver flask while watching the joggers in Central Park. It was a warm, pleasant Saturday morning and the park was closed to all traffic. However, the changeling’s license plates had been immediately recognized by passing policemen, who either ignored him or smiled and touched their caps in respect, avoiding the limousine as though it were diseased.
The changeling’s chauffeur, who also acted as his bodyguard, had left the car and now stood several feet away eating a hot dog and listening to the peddler tell him about the trouble he was having with black and Hispanic kids selling dope around him. The chauffeur listened, not because he wanted to, but because he had to stay away from the limousine until the changeling, whose true identity he still didn’t know after five years of service, signaled him to return.
A band of male and female joggers drew near and as they passed, one man lagged behind, then ran in place beside the limousine until the other joggers were far ahead. Seconds later the jogger, breathing heavily and glistening with perspiration, opened the limousine’s back door and climbed inside.
Slumping against the back seat he gulped air through his mouth and fanned himself with one hand.
“Shin splits,” he finally said, reaching down to rub his calves and ankles. “Always get ’em. Should have done some stretching before I came into the car. Muscles tighten up if you don’t.”
The changeling capped his flask and slipped it into a jacket side pocket.
He said, “I want you to contact Rupert Comfort. Tell him I want to see him as soon as possible. This business of his constantly switching hotels makes him hard to pin down.”
Cornell Castle removed a damp sweatband from his head. “Just as well. He’s not the type I’d like to have close to me all the time. The doctors are going to have to put two pins in Herod’s elbow. And no one knows when the cast will come off.”
The changeling gently stroked his own nose with a thumbnail. “Shows you what happens when you talk too much. Which brings me to Gregory. When you reach the Comforts mention that I want to discuss the matter of Gregory with them. The boy’s been in jail twenty hours and he’ll stay there until Monday, which is the earliest a judge and district attorney will be able to set bail. Fortunately for us, the courts don’t work weekends, and that may be the only reason the coven hasn’t ended up in trouble.”
Cornell Castle swallowed. “I don’t understand.”
The changeling shook his head. “That I can believe. Gregory’s young and he’s never been arrested before. It’s only a matter of time before the cops make him talk, and what do you think Gregory will talk about?”
Cornell Castle, said nothing.
“Exactly,” said the changeling. “He’ll talk about you, about Herod, and he will also talk about me. He’ll say we’re all members of a witches’ coven. The cops will snicker, but they’ll start to dig. Oh, they will. Sooner or later that hand Gregory was carrying around in a bag like some damn peanut butter and jelly sandwich will be traced to those Puerto Ricans the Comforts killed in the park.”
The changeling’s voice grew harder. “And that’s when the snickering will stop and the digging will begin in earnest. So what do we have, Cornell? We have two murdered Hispanics and a fat boy pointing the way to us. We will become accessories after the fact. And we will also become the focus of some rather sordid news-media stories about murderous occult conspiracies. Now before you bore me with your version of what’s going to happen, consider this: A seventeen-year-old boy gets caught breaking into an actress’s apartment by a police detective, whom the boy also assaults. So now in addition to B and E, your average breaking and entering, you also have a charge of resisting arrest and doing bodily harm to a cop. Not good, Cornell, not good at all.”
The changeling continued: “New York State now tries youthful offenders as adults. Gregory isn’t going to reform school. He faces prison. Don’t you think his mother knows what will happen to her son in prison once those nigger cons get their hands on his tender white ass? The odds are strong that Denise prefers Gregory out of jail rather than in, which means she just might encourage the boy to spill his guts. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
Cornell Castle nodded and cleared his throat. “You want to talk to the Comforts about killing Gregory?” he said in a whisper.
The changeling leaned back in his seat, hands resting on his knees. “I can run for senator,” he said softly. “All I have to do is nod my head once and the movers and shakers will applaud and do cartwheels. They know and I know that I can run and win. I’ve been promised a war chest of ten million, three times the amount anyone else can raise. If I need more, I can get more. From senator, I can go higher.”
He looked at Cornell Castle. “What makes you think I’ll let Gregory or anyone else throw that in the garbage?”
The changeling opened the limousine door. “Soon as possible, C
ornell.”
When Cornell Castle stood outside the car, the changeling leaned forward and said, “You know where to reach me. The matter of Gregory was not on the Comforts’ list of things to do, but let’s face it: They are more than responsible for a certain amount of tension we’re all under at the moment. I don’t feel the slightest connection with my village in England. Can’t remember what the damn place looks like, yet I’m supposed to jump when some old party from across the water and his wife snap their fingers.”
The changeling’s smile was cold. “I’ve long since left the nest, Cornell. Been in business for myself for a long, long time. I’ve simply neglected to make it official. The operative word here is finesse. I’m going to finesse the Comforts into doing what I want. When I’m through talking to them, they’ll take the time out from their appointed rounds and perform this little service for me. They’ll do it because I’ll have them going away thinking they’re really helping themselves, which in a sense they are.”
The smile disappeared and the changeling’s eyes became a hard green. “The Comforts are a problem and problems are to be solved, to be dealt with. Disposed of.”
Cornell Castle blinked. “You’re kidding.”
The changeling looked down at his $150 Sulka tie, brushing away an imaginary hair. “I never kid. You ought to know that. I said disposed of and I meant disposed of. All in good time, Cornell, all in good time. Finesse, remember? Now you just swish on out of here and tell Ronald to throw away that slop he’s eating and drive me away from this place. The sight of these sweating fools running around in their underwear with glazed looks on their dumb faces is more than I can stand.”
FOURTEEN
“WITCHES AND THIEVES THROUGHOUT Europe and England would use it,” said Marisa. “They called it a hand of glory. They found a man who’d been hanged, cut off a hand, then dried and prepared it in some grisly fashion. Supposedly it put people into a deep sleep, allowing the thieves and witches to prowl about the victims’ home undisturbed. It also was said to have the power to make a person talk and reveal hidden secrets. Sort of a very weird truth serum, you might say.”
She shook her head. “Listen to me. I read a few books on the occult and all of a sudden I’m an expert on black magic!”
Joseph Bess yawned, covering his mouth with both hands. “Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep this weekend. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork that goes with any arrest. Our fat friend Gregory—”
“Is now back on the street,” said Marisa in disgust. “Back lurking in doorways, probably. Or eating pizza. I think the only way to get rid of him is to drive a hero sandwich through his heart.”
Bess chuckled. “It’s called due process. Arraignment, hearing, and bail. Everybody’s entitled to it and that includes Gregory.”
Adjusting her sunglasses, Marisa looked around her as though expecting to see Gregory in the crowds at the Central Park Zoo, where she, Bess, and his daughter, Gina, were having lunch. They sat outdoors on the café patio.
Gina had left the table and was several feet away, talking to a friendly Latin-looking man who was selling huge multicolored balloons on a stick. The man allowed Gina to help him fill the balloons with helium from a metal container and her squeals of delight each time she filled one pierced the air like a whistle. Marisa noticed that Bess kept his eye on Gina.
Over the weekend he’d told Marisa what had happened to Gina three years ago, and Marisa now knew why it was so important to him to find Raymond, the child-porn merchant.
The weekend. Too shaken to sleep in her apartment after Gregory’s second attempted break-in, Marisa had spent the weekend at the Plaza Hotel on Central Park South, indulging herself in room service and relative security and anonymity. Each day she took one or two long walks, losing herself in the nearby Fifth Avenue crowds, shying away if anyone seemed to recognize her.
By the end of the second day she’d calmed down and begun to take satisfaction in having physically fought Gregory and distracted him long enough for Joseph Bess to do the heavy work. For the first time in her life, Marisa could see the attraction people found in violence. Fat Gregory had been giving her some uneasy moments, but Marisa, with a strong assist from Joseph Bess, had gotten her own back. There was a lot to be said for getting even.
Bess, still on sick leave, had spent the weekend filling out forms needed to charge Gregory Vandis with attempted breaking and entering, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, and continued harassment of a civilian. Bess didn’t think the last charge would stick, but for Marisa’s sake he was determined to try.
She and Bess hadn’t seen each other over the weekend. Instead they’d kept in touch by phone, speaking three or four times a day. He was the one person she could talk to, the only one she could tell the truth to. Who else would believe what she was going through and why? Druids and the writings of witches were things that didn’t happen in real life. Except they were happening to Marisa.
As for Robert, Marisa telephoned him in California, more from a sense of duty than from desire, and was relieved to find him not at his hotel. She wasn’t in the mood for Robert and his belief that his good luck came from the Book of Shadows.
Marisa was upset that not everyone saw Gregory as the danger she did.
Joseph Bess said, “We can’t formally connect him to the hand. He claims he never saw it before I showed it to him. Without witnesses who saw him bring it to your apartment, I’m afraid he’s going to get away with that story.”
“He’s lying,” said Marisa.
“Probably. The hand belongs to Norbert Ruiz, one of the two dead Puerto Ricans we found in Central Park a couple of weeks ago. Norbert was called Crazy Horse, and with good reason. He walked around with a machete wrapped in a towel. He’d use the machete on you, too.”
Bess sipped milk and looked over the patio railing at his daughter. “Gregory says he never saw the dead men before and we can’t shake him on that. No matter how hard we try there’s no way we can link him to Ivan Baez and Norbert Ruiz. The Ricans were street freaks and petty hoods. Gregory lives at home with mama, who swears fat boy was watching television with her the night the Ricans got sliced.”
“Shit.”
Bess finished his milk. “She could be lying. She could also be one of the weirdos who are after you. But there’s no proof. The only way I can stay on this case is to keep after Gregory as a break-in artist, nothing more. If I were to mention Druids again, or witches for that matter, I guarantee you nobody would listen. They might even drop a net over me.”
“Or ignore you, which is worse.”
Bess aimed a forefinger at her. “Now you know what it’s like to be Armenian. History’s ignored us from day one. We don’t exist anymore, except as parts of Russia and Turkey. Armenia was once an independent nation, but a few wars, a few million Armenians slaughtered, and goodbye independent, nation. There’s four million of us scattered throughout the world and nobody knows we once had our own country. Jesus, don’t get me started. More and more I find myself talking about what I used to have and don’t have anymore.”
Marisa reached across the table and touched his hand. “You have a lot.”
“My wife didn’t think so. She married me with the hope of reforming me. Women do that, you know. She figured I’d drop the idea of being a cop and go into some other line of work. When she found out she’d figured wrong, well …”
He looked into Marisa’s eyes. “I keep telling myself I didn’t kill her.”
“You didn’t.”
“Officially, it reads an accident. She got in the car, she drove too fast, and she crashed. And she died. That’s what’s on record. But, I guess she couldn’t take the weight anymore. Too much worry. She told me she’d begun to hate the phone. Every time it rang she thought it might be somebody telling her I was dead. Didn’t help matters that two cops we’d known had gotten killed and she knew their wives …”
His voice trailed off.
Marisa said softly, “I think yo
u ought to change the subject. Hindsight’s very easy to come by. We can all look back and see what we should have done. Doesn’t take any guts to do that. Takes guts to get off the floor and try living once more. Joseph, we all make choices. Your wife made hers. Who says the choice has to turn out the way you want it to? I’ve made choices and haven’t been that happy about it, but I’m learning to do my crying in private.”
Bess squeezed her hand. “Choices. Maybe I can pay somebody to make mine for me. It seems to be getting tougher and tougher.”
He looked at Gina. “I have to make choices about her.”
“You still worry about her, don’t you?”
“Better believe it. Can’t help thinking it was my fault that it happened …”
“Stop it.”
“I mean it. If I wasn’t so hot on being a cop twenty-four hours a day, maybe I’d have been there when that guy came for her.”
Marisa touched his face. “Look at me.”
He did.
“Hindsight, remember? Stop playing God. The part’s already taken.”
“If I could only have gotten my hands on Raymond.”
Marisa thought a few seconds then said, “How’s your partner coming along with his checking out the tenants of that Sutton Place co-op?”
“Zilch. They’re all respectable and the building management isn’t cooperating worth a damn. They tell me the sort of thing I mentioned, meaning child prostitution, doesn’t happen in their building. We can’t connect one tenant to Raymond. Not one. They’re all people with money, connections, influence. You go near them and they drop lawyers on your head by the carload. There’s one duplex in the building which the governor occasionally uses when he’s in town. The vice president of these United States has even slept there, among other heavies. A building with those kinds of people dropping by doesn’t want scandal and it doesn’t want police poking around. What’s more, they’ve got the clout to give us a hard time.”
“And you’re sure Raymond was supposed to be going into that building?”