“Uh-huh. But if you want to know what kind of a mood he was in, I would say ‘warpath’ just about sums it up.”
Oh, God, thought Decker, don’t say that Maggie has had a fit of conscience, and confessed everything. If Cab had found out about that, he wouldn’t have to worry about Changó. His last day on earth would be over before lunch.
“By the way,” Hicks added. “I found out all about this Saint James Intercisus dude.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah … and if that’s what’s going to happen to you, well, if I were in your shoes I’d be booking myself a plane ticket to some place very, very, very far away.”
“Go on.”
Hicks produced a printout from the Catholic Patron Saints Web site. “Says here that Saint James Intercisus was a military adviser and a courtier to King Yezdigerd the First of Persia, back in the fifth century. Seems like he was converted to Christianity, but he made the mistake of confessing his conversion to King Yezdigerd’s successor, King Bahram. Apparently King Bahram really liked him, and didn’t want to do nothing to hurt him, but, you know, he couldn’t have people worshiping God when they were supposed to be worshiping him. King Bahram asked Saint James to give up on God, but when he wouldn’t, he ordered him hung up from a wooden frame and subjected to the Nine Deaths.”
“The Nine Deaths? Not too sure I like the sound of that.”
“It means chopping bits off of you, one at a time, until you say uncle. First of all they cut off Saint James’s fingers and thumbs, that was the First Death, but all he said was, ‘Lord, I may not have any fingers to write my prayers, but I still worship you.’ Then they cut off his toes, the Second Death, but he still wouldn’t renounce God.
“The Third and Fourth Deaths meant cutting off his hands and the Fifth and Sixth Deaths meant cutting off his feet, but he still refused to deny God. They cut off his ears, the Seventh Death, and then they cut off his nose.
“He was given one last chance to recant, but all he said was, ‘I am like a ruined house, but God still lives in me.’ So that didn’t leave King Bahram a whole lot of choice. He ordered his guards to whop Saint James’s head off.
“All in all, they cut him into twenty-eight separate pieces, which is why they call him Intercisus, which I guess is Latin for ‘cut up into twenty-eight separate pieces.’”
Decker sat staring at Hicks for a long time with his mouth open. Then he said, “Hicks, I think you just seriously spoiled my day.”
“Only telling you what it says on the Web site, Lieutenant. By the way, Saint James Intercisus is the patron saint of torture victims and also of lost vocations.”
“Lost vocations? That’s me all right. I always wanted to be a country-and-western singer.”
Cab’s door was open but Decker knocked on it just the same. Cab was on the phone and he pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. When he had finished talking he took out his handkerchief and loudly trumpeted his nose.
“I’ve had a complaint,” he said.
“Sorry to hear it. Sounds like you still do.”
“I don’t mean that kind of a complaint, I mean I’ve had a complaint about the way that you’re investigating these homicides. Ms. Honey Blackwell from the city council says your homicide team has been unjustifiably discriminating against people of color, especially those of the Santería religion. These santeros, they’re very sensitive people. They don’t like being rousted.”
Decker lifted both hands in a gesture of innocence. “Captain—I’m not discriminating against anybody. I just happen to have a strong suspicion that the motive for all of these homicides is linked to Santería.”
“Junior Abraham’s okay. But the other victims were four white middle-class people. What makes you think that they could have any connection at all with Santería? Where’s your evidence?”
“Ah. Well, it’s only circumstantial, at the moment. More theoretical, really, than circumstantial.”
“All right, then, tell me what your theoretical evidence is, so that I can get Ms. Blackwell off my tail.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d really like to wait until I can firm things up a little.”
“Decker, I’m your superior officer and as such I am ultimately responsible for the progress of this investigation, which so far seems to be achieving nothing whatsoever, except to cause major irritation to the Afro-American community, whose trust and confidence it has taken me the best part of seven years to build up.”
“With all respect, sir, Honey Blackwell isn’t the Afro-American community. Honey Blackwell is a racially motivated political opportunist, and a fat one, at that.”
“Nutritionally challenged, I’ll admit. But we still need her support. I’ve also had the interim chief on my tail, wanting to know what we can report to the media.”
“You can tell them that we’re very close to a major breakthrough. We have a prime suspect and we should be making an arrest within a matter of days.”
“We have a prime suspect? Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Who?”
“I don’t want to go off at half-cock on this, sir. The prime suspect isn’t aware that he’s a prime suspect, so my strategy is to keep him believing that we’re still floundering around in the dark.”
“You still haven’t told me who he is.”
“No, sir. You’re right. I haven’t.”
Cab was about to say something when his phone rang. He picked it up and demanded, “What the hell now? Oh, sorry, ma’am.”
It was the interim chief again. While Cab flustered and blustered, Decker idly looked out of his open office door. He looked, and then he looked again, frowning. He couldn’t be sure, but the wall of the corridor outside appeared to be slightly distorted, as if he were seeing it through a sheet of flawed glass. He moved his head from side to side, and as he did so, the distortion shifted and altered.
He took off his glasses, but the wall was still oddly curved. He stood up. Cab pressed his hand over the telephone receiver and said, “Lieutenant—I’m not done with you yet!” But Decker ignored him and stepped outside the office.
Halfway along the corridor he saw a tangled, transparent shape. It reminded him of a huge jellyfish that he had once seen in Cumtuck Sound—a glistening and deadly disturbance that was visible only for what it wasn’t, rather than what it was. He didn’t know if he ought to approach it or not. If it was Changó, cloaked by a Santería spell, then he could be in truly appalling danger.
He lifted out his gun, cocked it, and raised it in both hands. Then he edged his way carefully toward the transparency, trying to distinguish some kind of outline, some kind of distinguishing features. But it kept on rolling and unrolling, knotting and unknotting, and every time he thought he could make out a face, or an arm, or a shoulder, it unraveled itself into another shape altogether.
“Is that you, Major Shroud?” he said, with a phlegmy catch in his throat.
The distortion moved away from him, and now it became more geometrical, so that the wall behind it appeared to be broken up into irregular diamond patterns. He began to realize that he was witnessing an optical trick, a way of diverting his attention away from what he was really looking at, like a mirage, or a complicated arrangement of mirrors.
“I know you’re there, Major, or Changó, or whatever you call yourself. I know you’re there and I know where to find you and believe me, you bastard, I’m coming to get you.”
He had no idea if this ripple in the air really was Changó, or Major Shroud, or if he was simply experiencing another illusion. Neither did he know if it possessed any intelligence, or if it could hear what he was saying—or, hell, if it could be stopped by a bullet, or stopped by anything. Maybe Hicks was right, and his mind was giving way.
At that moment, Cab came out of his office. “Lieutenant, what in the name of God are you doing?”
Decker didn’t turn around. But as soon as Cab approached, the distortion in the air rolled away and disappeared. Decker waited for a m
oment to make sure that it had gone, and then he cautiously holstered his gun.
“Lieutenant?”
“Oh … I was practicing my grip, Captain. Sergeant Bliss down at the range said that my balance needed some work.”
“Your balance? Too damn right it does. Listen—I have to go talk to the chief. Give me an update on what you’ve been doing and leave it on my desk. Like, immediately.”
“Yes, sir, Captain. It’s done already.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
He swerved his Mercury into the curb outside Queen Aché’s house and both he and Hicks rolled out of their seats like TV cops. Two squad cars followed close behind, with four uniformed officers, three of them black and two of them female. Decker knew his politics.
George and Newton, Queen Aché’s bodyguards, stood shoulder to shoulder and blocked the front steps.
“Queen Aché ain’t seeing nobody today.”
“Says you. I have a warrant here for Queen Aché’s arrest on suspicion of homicide in the first degree.”
He held it up and George peered at it closely. “Like you can read,” Decker said, and whipped it away again.
“She still ain’t seeing nobody. She gave me orders. ‘Tell everybody I ain’t seeing nobody no matter what,’ that’s what she said.”
“George Montgomery, you are under arrest for obstructing a police officer. You have the right to remain silent—”
“Okay, okay! Cool. I’ll tell her you’re here. She won’t like it, though. She’s holding an asiento.”
“I don’t care if she’s holding her breath. Get her to open up.”
George went to the intercom and buzzed it. “Mikey,” he said. “It’s trouble. We got Martin down here and half of the police department. He has a warrant.”
After a while, Mikey opened the door. Decker turned around to the uniforms and said, “Give me a couple of minutes, will you? I’ll whistle if I need you.”
He and Hicks followed Mikey into Queen Aché’s throne room. As before, the white wooden shutters were all closed, and the room was illuminated only by a few thin shafts of sunlight, like a chapel. Queen Aché wasn’t there, but Mikey said, “Wait, okay? I’ll go bring her.” Scores of candles were steadily burning on Queen Aché’s shrine, and there was a strong, bittersweet smell of herbs and spices and flowers in the air, escoba amarga, prodigiosa, yerba luisa, and cinnamon. The aroma heightened the sense of unreality in the house, as if he and Hicks were visiting a dream house together. Hicks nervously flexed his shoulders and tugged at his shirt collar.
After a few minutes Queen Aché appeared through the double doors, and she was like a tall ghost flowing into the room. She wore a headdress of blue flowers and silver stars and she was robed in flowing white muslin, with blue and white and crystal beads around her neck. Her makeup was ivory white, although her eyes were circled by crimson eye shadow and her lips were bloodred. Her face reminded Decker of a West African death mask.
“This intrusion is an outrage, Lieutenant! I am holding an asiento for my friend’s cousin, an initiation. This is the día del medio, the day in the middle, when all his family and friends will be gathering to pay tribute to his orisha.”
“Oh,” Decker said. “Bummer.”
“You can come back in two days. Make an appointment with Mikey.”
“Sorry, Your Majesty, this can’t wait. I’m here to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Herbert ‘Junior’ Abraham.”
Queen Aché flapped one hand in contempt, so that her bangles clashed. “You think I would soil my own hands with such a deed? In Santería we say oddi oche—absolved through lack of evidence.”
“In the City of Richmond Police Department we say that maybe a perpetrator can make herself invisible but she always leaves some evidence behind her, no matter how smart an occult cookie she thinks she is.”
Queen Aché sat down on the chaise longue. She could even make sitting down appear erotic, the way she slid sideways and crossed her thighs and looked at Decker from out of those bloodred eye circles around her eyes. “Nobody knows what is at the bottom of the sea, Lieutenant.”
Decker cleared his throat. “I’m not worried about the bottom of the sea, Queen Aché. I’m concerned with what happened at Jimmy the Rib’s.”
“Pfff! I was here at home. How should I know what happened?”
“I have at least one eyewitness who is prepared to swear on oath that it was you who came into that restaurant, and that it was you who personally blew Junior Abraham’s head off. I’m talking to other eyewitnesses, too.”
“You’re crazy. I saw it on the news. Everybody said that Junior was shot by a man—a man who looked like a waiter.”
“Sure they did. But that was before I asked a very special somebody to jog their memory. A very special somebody who saw you clearer than anybody else.”
“Is that so? I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who that very special somebody is.”
“For sure. The best witness of all. Junior Abraham himself. You tricked everybody else into thinking that they saw a waiter, didn’t you? But there was one person you wanted to show yourself to, and that was Junior. Just so he was absolutely clear why his brains were going to be splattered all over the wall.”
“Ha! Since when did the Richmond City police detectives confer with the dead?”
“Since we found out just how powerful your magic is, Queen Aché. Since we learned what tricks you can play with people’s perception. I’ve learned a whole lot about Santería these past few days, and I have to say that I’ve developed a very healthy respect for it. A religion that can call on every force of nature. Wind, fire, lightning, you name it. You can walk through solid walls if you know how to do it. You can walk through a crowded room and nobody can see you. You can change the way that people look at you, so that they think you’re somebody else.”
“Do you seriously think that anybody is going to believe you?”
“Oh yes. Because me and Sergeant Hicks here, we’ve been prepared to approach this investigation with a very open mind. That means we’ve been talking to people that other detectives would never think of talking to. Like dead people. Like people who can tell us how you did what you did. Like santeros.”
“You can’t convict me with the words of a headless corpse. Obbara osa. You’re crazy.”
“You want to know how crazy I am? I’m also arresting you for the murder of Catherine Meredith Meade.”
Queen Aché dismissively waved her hand. “Catherine who? I don’t even know who this person is.”
“Oh, I think you do, Your Majesty. Catherine Meredith Meade was my partner during that time a couple of years ago when I was investigating your various enterprises with illegal substances and property scams. I was called out in the middle of the night to investigate a suspicious drowning. As soon as I was gone, you came to my apartment—you, personally—and you blew that poor girl’s brains out. Now do you know who she is?”
Queen Aché said, “I am not going to speak to you anymore. This is insanity.”
Decker held up a small plastic evidence bag containing two beads. “Yours, I think. You left them at the crime scene.”
“What do two beads amount to?”
“Murderers have been convicted on a damn sight less. We nailed one guy when we found a single grain of gunpowder in his coat pocket, practically invisible to the naked eye.”
“I was never at your apartment and I can prove that I was never there. You’re wasting my time.”
“Ah, but somebody saw you there. Somebody heard you speak.”
“I was never there. Never. You are a fool, Lieutenant.”
Decker looked at her with his eyebrows raised, saying nothing. Then he turned to Hicks and said, “Sergeant … you want to give me a moment alone with Queen Aché here?”
Hicks didn’t look very happy about it, but he said, “Whatever you say, sir,” and left the room. Decker called out, “Close the doors, would you, sport?”
He went over t
o Queen Aché’s shrine, with all its steadily burning candles. “Who’s your personal orisha, Your Majesty?”
“Yemayá, the goddess of the sea waters, and of the moon.”
“Powerful, is she, Yemayá? I would guess so.”
“She is the mother to everyone. Her children are as numerous as the fish.”
“Powerful as Changó, say?”
“Hmm. That shows how little you know of Santería, Lieutenant. I said that Yemayá is the mother to everyone. She is also Changó’s adoptive mother, and perhaps more than that. When Changó returned home after many years away, he did not recognize Yemayá, and fell in love with her.”
“So … Yemayá could have some influence over Changó? I mean, if Changó was causing trouble, Yemayá could tell him to, like, cool it?”
“Why are you asking me this? I thought you were more interested in proving that I am a killer.”
“I know you’re a killer, Queen Aché.”
“Oh yes, I forgot your evidence. Your two beads, produced years after your girlfriend was murdered.”
“Not just beads, but several small hairs, which I’ve sent for DNA matching. And something else. Another eyewitness account.”
Queen Aché stood up. “I don’t have the time for these fantasies, Lieutenant. I have to get back to my asiento.”
“You just wait up,” Decker cautioned her. “When Cathy’s killer entered my apartment building that night in February, he or she left no footprints and no fingerprints and no image on the closed-circuit television cameras. There is nobody else I know of who could have done that, except you.
“The killer passed through a solid door and didn’t materialize until he or she was actually standing in my bedroom. There is nobody else I know of who could have done that, except you.
“I know it was you, Queen Aché. You came up real close, so that you could shoot Cathy point-blank in the face. Cathy grabbed your hair and pulled out some of your beads. You said, ‘Irosun oche!’”
Queen Aché stared at him, her eyes so wide that she looked as if she had gone mad, and actually shuddered. Her white dress was illuminated so brightly by a single shaft of sunlight that it looked like an incandescent gas mantle.
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