Antenna Syndrome

by Alan Annand

  “Sure. What about my gun?”

  “I’ll trade you for the flash drive you took from LeVeen.”

  She hesitated.

  “Otherwise I give your gun to the cops and they match it to the slug in LeVeen’s head.”

  “It’s in the bedroom.”

  I put on my latex glove and took out the Bobcat to follow her, just in case there was another gun. She went to a dresser, opened a jewelry box and took out a blue flash drive the size of a thumbnail. She dropped it into my waiting hand.

  “Have you looked to see what’s on it?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks.” I pocketed both the drive and the gun as I headed for the door.

  “Hey. You said you’d give me back my gun.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you.”

  Chapter 36

  I retrieved my pistol from Security and took the elevator down to the garage where I’d left my bike. I now had two guns, although one of them was a huge liability. The Bobcat was probably the weapon that had killed LeVeen.

  Although I’d been careful not to get my fingerprints on the gun, I’d probably left prints in LeVeen’s apartment the first time I’d visited him. Worse, the second time I’d been there had probably been within minutes of his murder, and I had no alibi to put me elsewhere at that critical time. People had been jailed on less circumstantial evidence.

  I debated blowing the whistle on Tatiana, but was afraid of what she might say to the cops. I’d been rough with her tonight, plus which she’d be desperate to weasel out of her own predicament. She might tell them she’d walked in on me right after I’d shot LeVeen in his apartment. That she’d fled and I’d tracked her down. That I’d beaten her and threatened to kill her if she talked. Between the he-said/she-said, we’d both be detained and questioned for days.

  And even if the police released us, the bratva would be waiting.

  As I returned to my bike, I scanned the garage for cameras. I saw one above the elevator door, another near the exit ramp. There may have been more but I took a chance.

  I’d parked my bike behind a pillar on which was mounted a fire extinguisher. I put on my helmet and stepped up onto the bike seat. Screened from the camera behind the pillar, I climbed onto the fire extinguisher.

  I used my latex glove to pull the Bobcat out of my pocket, and stashed it out of sight atop an overhead beam.

  Five minutes later I was on Fifth Avenue. I stopped at a trash can, used my lighter to melt the latex glove, and dropped the residue in the garbage. As I continued down Fifth, I used the little pieces of the puzzle I’d gathered tonight to assemble the bigger picture.

  With Vivien out of the house to make the ransom payment, Jack had visited Tatiana to establish an alibi. After the ransom drop, his associates had gone to Jordan’s house, disabled the security system, and stolen Marielle’s paintings. What had Vivien said they were worth? Millions? Even after splitting with the Russians, Jack would be flush again.

  But first they had to dispose of the paintings. Even if Schiller refused to handle stolen art, he might still have introduced Jack to somebody who would. Times were hard, and money had no morals. It had been prescient of me to have Walker tail Randall. If Jack were smart, he’d have lined up a buyer before the theft, so as to get rid of the paintings as quickly as possible. It could be happening tonight.

  I’d just turned onto Terrace Drive, cutting through Central Park on the way back to Clinton Hill, when I received an incoming call. I couldn’t hear anything on the motorcycle so I killed the engine and coasted onto the shoulder. It was Walker.

  “Thought I’d better bring you up to date,” he said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Pier 57.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I staked out the house in East Massapequa until Jack left. He drove into the city and rendezvoused with two vans – one white, one dark blue – at Canal and Sixth. I tailed them up to Jackson Square and they circled it a couple of times. I had to pull over and sit tight, in case they were checking for a tail. Then a white Caddie showed up, and they all headed out 13th Street to the river.”

  “What’s at Pier 57?”

  “A couple of small warehouses with loading docks.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “They’re all just parked here. Jack got into the Caddie a few minutes ago. The driver of the white van went to sit with the driver in the blue. They’re all just sitting there waiting for something.”

  “Did you get their plates?”

  “No. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s foggy downtown tonight.”

  “Can you get a little closer?”

  “If I leave my car I’d be out in the open. What if they spot me?”

  “Maybe you’re just out for a walk.”

  “After dark? Are you nuts? There are neo-Nazi punks in this ‘hood. They’ll beat the shit out of anyone they run across.”

  “Don’t you have a gun?”

  Walker groaned. “All right, I’ll go get the fucking tags.”

  “Be careful, though.”

  “Duh.”

  Walker signed off. I started my bike and raced across the park, emerging on 72nd West. Running a few red lights on West End and Eleventh, I was at Pier 57 in less than 10 minutes.

  I idled along the greenway, looking for Walker’s car. I saw no vehicles parked at the two warehouses on Eleventh. I called Walker but got no answer. Maybe everyone had departed and he was following them. But why wasn’t he picking up his phone?

  I spotted his black Camaro parked in the shadow of a utility building on the east side of Eleventh. I made an illegal turn and shot across the avenue on a pedestrian crosswalk. I pulled up alongside the Camaro. It was unoccupied, the doors locked.

  I secured my bike to the wrought iron fence at the tiny 14th Street Park. I crossed the avenue and the greenway to Pier 57. I regretted not having asked Walker at which of the two warehouses Jack had made his rendezvous.

  I tried calling him again. Above the noise of traffic, I heard a tinny guitar riff coming from the warehouses. I followed the sound until I saw a body lying in the shadows beneath a loading dock. I terminated the call.

  I took out my pistol and went forward in a crouch. I recognized Walker by his brown corduroy shirt and the muscular arms that lay sprawled at his side. I squatted a few feet from his body, stifling my gag reflex. His arms were deeply slashed with defensive wounds. His right hand was missing three fingers. I saw his gun lying a dozen feet away but chose not to touch it.

  His head was nearly severed from his neck, and had tilted crazily backwards, leaving a yawning crescent of open gore just above his collarbone. There was a lot of blood and I really didn’t want to get any closer to him for fear of getting some on me.

  Reluctantly, however, I rolled Walker onto his side and pulled out his wallet. I took back my business card and money I’d given him. I didn’t bother with his car keys. I doubted there was anything there that could help me, and I didn’t want to leave any fingerprints on his car.

  I quickly checked the two warehouses. There were three loading docks for each, but all were secured with massive locks equipped with transponders that would squeal to the police as soon as anyone started tampering with them.

  I returned to my bike and left the neighborhood. No phone calls to the cops this time, even though Walker had been working on my tab. I’d learned my lesson at Myers’s place. If Mundt and Boyle found me at this scene, they’d really put me through the wringer. I felt sick to my guts about it, having coerced Walker into taking a closer look at the vehicles. But there was no point in crying over spilled blood.

  Chapter 37

  I retraced Walker’s route. Jackson Square was twitchy with the usual night life – homeless and sleepless, hookers and dealers, cops in cruisers keeping an eye on it all. I lapped the square half a dozen times, keeping an eye out for a white Cadillac, but saw no sign of it.

  I cruised down Greenwich and Sixth
to Canal where Jack had rendezvoused with the two vans. I went around Capsouto Park a few times. It was near the Holland Tunnel entrance, close to Little Italy, Chinatown and Tribeca.

  I racked my brain, wondering which way to turn. More than 48 hours on this case, I had nothing to show for it but a growing sense of frustration and failure. And dead bodies…

  I needed to touch base with my client. Maybe there was more to this case than she’d told me. I dialed the number Natalie Jordan had given me. The phone rang for a long time. Out on the West Coast it’d be going on nine, after dinner but well before bedtime. Just when I thought I’d have to leave a voice-mail, she came on the line.

  “This is Natalie.”

  “Keith Savage in New York.”

  “Have you found Marielle?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m in a meeting and I can’t talk right now. I’m flying back East late tonight.”

  “Can you call me later?”

  “Sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow morning to set up a meeting. You can give me a progress report then.” She hung up.

  I shook my head. Progress report? I’d barely identified the key players in this case. Maybe I’d show her an astrology book with a cutaway hole for a poisonous spider. Or a video clip of giant hornets on Ronkonkoma Lake. Or the still-warm gun I’d taken from Tatiana. Maybe she could help me sort out this jigsaw puzzle.

  I circled the square a few more times. It was a symbolic admission of failure. I was literally going in circles. I was tired and getting nowhere but I didn’t want to go home.

  Suddenly I realized where I was. When I was a teenager, Capsouto Park used to be called CaVaLa Park, where Canal, Varick and Laight intersected. I was just blocks away from the Avatar Clinic on Laight!

  I rode west, returning to the block I’d visited yesterday. On the corner of Laight and Collister was the red-brick three-story Avatar Clinic. Three large doors faced the street. Two had been retained as vehicle access, the third converted to a main entrance. I rode my motorcycle onto the curb for a closer look.

  Beside the entrance was a plaque that read Avatar Clinic. By appointment only, with a phone number. Below the plaque was an intercom box. I used my goggles to capture the phone number, just in case it was different from what I’d found online.

  I heard a faint whirring noise and looked above the entrance. A camera pointed at me. A light came on, flooding the sidewalk with halogen brilliance.

  I gunned my bike. Rather than continue on Laight and risk the camera tracking my plates, I cut left and went the wrong way down one-way Collister. The building spanned the block to Hubert Street, where I saw another garage door. I did a fast drive-by and continued on my way.

  On Hudson I pulled over onto a vacant swath of land adjacent the Holland Tunnel traffic circle. I killed the engine and reviewed what I knew about the Avatar Clinic.

  According to LeVeen, Crabner had been treated at the Avatar Clinic, where Dr. Globik was the resident surgeon. Marielle had asked Myers about the clinic for her own use. She’d tried mailing something to Crabner via its address. Walker had seen Jack rendezvous with the two vans just blocks from here. Was the dark blue van the same I’d seen at Luna Deli last night when Globik’s bodyguard picked up sandwiches? Was the white van the same that disappeared with Marielle on Saturday, and removed her paintings today?

  The building housing the Avatar Clinic covered half a block. It was big enough to house a clinic, a laboratory, even a small factory, maybe residential space on the upper floors. Was Marielle holed up there with Crabner? Kidnapped or not? Guarded by Buzz, the bodyguard I’d seen at the EDGAR demonstration?

  I went back for another look at the Avatar Clinic. All of its windows were covered with heavy blinds.

  I went the wrong way down Collister again, figuring there was little chance I’d meet opposing traffic this late at night. Collister was narrow, with a cobbled street and marginal sidewalks, giving the impression of having stepped back in time. With the bike I mounted the sidewalk opposite the clinic and idled there, scanning the wall across the street.

  The windows here all had heavy blinds too. But in one of the second floor windows, the vertical blinds had not been fully closed.

  I killed the engine, set the foot stand and stood atop the saddle. From that height I saw, through the parted blinds, someone in a white lab coat pass a wall of refrigeration units. I glanced around to see if there was a fire escape ladder, a drainpipe or even a well-secured video cable to climb higher for a better look.

  A vehicle appeared at the end of the block. It was the size of a truck, with articulated panels on either side like a snowplow. It came my way on large rubber tires, its side panels spanning the street, a light blinking from a console atop its chassis.

  A sharp yowl pierced the silence. Two cats shot from a doorway niche and ran toward me. Something hissed and a tongue of rubber skittered across the cobblestones, coiled both cats in its grip and yanked them back through a gaping hatch at the front of the vehicle.

  EDGAR.

  I dropped onto the seat and started the motorcycle. I’d barely got it turned when something hit me from behind. I went head over handlebars as the bike was yanked out from under me. My helmet broke my fall and I was on my feet after a stunned moment. EDGAR’s articulated arms shoveled my motorcycle into its maw, shredder fully engaged. The bike gave off a metallic scream as EDGAR dismembered it.

  I was pissed off. EDGAR wasn’t supposed to eat bikes. People leave them chained to posts all the time. This was a rogue machine!

  I ran toward Laight, fleeing EDGAR’s Velcro-rubber collector tongue. Fifty feet ahead, another EDGAR arrived to block the intersection. This one seemed to have more of an appetite, because it came at me with frightening speed. I was trapped between the two of them.

  What the fuck? They weren’t supposed to kill people. Had they been programmed to guard the Avatar Clinic, or just kill me?

  I grabbed a trash can from an alcove and hurled it at the second EDGAR. Its tongue shot out, snatched the skittering trash can and yanked it into its maw.

  Without breaking stride, I followed hard on the heels of the trash can while the tongue was still occupied. In high school track and field, I’d competed in hurdles, but I’d never faced this kind of pressure before. I didn’t quite clear the height of the collector panel, and banged my hip pretty hard as I went over. But I landed on all fours, got to my feet and ran, ignoring the pain.

  It took EDGAR a minute to realize what had happened. By the time it had reversed back onto Laight, I was long gone. On West Street I flagged a taxi, flung myself into it and told the cabbie to put the pedal to the metal.

  I pulled out my PV and inserted a fresh cartridge of KavaKat. I sucked it all the way up West Street, trying to bring my heart back from the edge of cardiac arrest.

  Chapter 38

  I was in a foul mood all the way to Clinton Hill. Since it was increasingly dangerous on the streets at night, cab companies had all raised their fares between midnight and six AM.

  After the loss of my bike, it just added insult to injury. Although the BMW was insured for more than it’d cost, would the insurance company pay out? Did I even want to file a claim? To do so would pit me against Voromix Industries, and if I went to court, they had more lawyers than I did. Who’d believe me anyway?

  I didn’t know how long the first EDGAR had been lurking at the bottom of the block. If its video had been running, it might have tracked me entering Collister the wrong way. If so, my claim would be deemed fraudulent. I’d face charges and a fine. Just as EDGAR had eaten my bike, I might have to eat the loss.

  As the cab went up Tenth, now just two blocks from my condo at 57th, I saw a blond woman walking alone, followed by two guys wearing hoodies pulled up. I told the cabbie to stop for a better look. Despite the enviro-scarf, I recognized my neighbor. I rolled down my window.

  “Darcia!”

  She looked my way. I beckoned to her. She ventured to the curb, peering into the ta
xi.

  “Hi, Keith? What’s up?”

  “Let me give you a lift home.”

  “It’s okay, I need the exercise.”

  “Then you’d better start running. See those two guys behind you?”

  She looked over her shoulder. Something about them signaled trouble. I opened the door and she jumped in. The two hoods sprinted, hoping perhaps to snatch her purse or shopping bag. The cabbie powered the window up, locked the doors, and pulled away in a squeal of rubber. A mostly-empty beer can bounced off the rear window, hazing the glass with ejaculated suds.

  “What are you doing on the street so late?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I went out to buy some groceries.”

  “This time of night, that’s crazy.”

  “Maybe we’re all a little crazy,” she said. “Still living here, when all the sane people have left.”

  “Out here on the perimeter,” I said, “we are stoned, immaculate.”

  She nodded. “The Doors, right?”

  I paid the taxi fare and offered to carry her groceries, but she insisted she could handle it. In the elevator, I looked at her. She wore jeans and a loose top, her hair in a ponytail. She’d tugged her scarf down from her face, and even with no makeup she was simply beautiful.

  When we reached our floor I said, “I owe you a drink for helping me the other night.”

  “It’s kind of late.”

  “You said you couldn’t sleep.”

  She shrugged. “Okay. Maybe it’s what I need. Give me a few minutes to put my groceries away and then I’ll come over.”

  I went back to my place and tidied up my living room. I had a little time to spare, so I accessed the recordings I’d made today on my iFocals and copied two brief segments. One was from this afternoon when the kidnapper had called, and Viv had asked about Marielle’s welfare, and a girl had screamed in the background. The other was from tonight when I’d twisted Tatiana’s nose and she’d emptied her lungs in pained protest.