Damnable

by Hank Schwaeble

Reynolds nodded. “That’s not all. I just found out that our Long Island vic, the dearly departed Mr. Warren, did business with Heart and Soul Imports. Found a file on his computer.”

  Wright said nothing. She stared past Reynolds, thinking.

  “Now, don’t you want to find out?”

  “Find out what?”

  “Why Maloney is talking to a billionaire about Lucas Sherman? Why he’s calling a company linked to Sherman’s high-priced mouthpiece? And why he’s giving Hatcher information from a crime scene that may be connected and practically sending him out to investigate?”

  “And how would you suggest I do all this finding out?”

  “Well, I realize you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have . . .” Reynolds reached into his pocket pulled out a stick of gum. He unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, chewing it for a few seconds before he finished his thought. “But I was thinking we try something really clever, like we pay a visit to Mr. Valentine and ask him.”

  THE DANK SMELL OF THE EAST RIVER FILLED HATCHER’S nostrils as he stared across the water. Lights and reflections, shades of black and glistening surfaces. Shadowy stone and shimmering glass. New York was the only city he’d ever seen that looked like it was floating atop some gigantic barge. Several cities, actually, clustered together, connected by bridges. A metropolis rising out of the depths, water lapping at every edge.

  He listened to the call ring, waiting for Fred to answer.

  “Yes?”

  “Unless you’re supposed to swim there,” Hatcher said, “we’re missing something.”

  Two blocks east of the address on Fifty-first Street put him at the water’s edge. The breeze off the water whistled between the side of his head and the phone, making it difficult to hear.

  Fred made a noise like he was frustrated. Hatcher sensed he made noises like that a lot. “In that case, I’m not sure what to do. Did the card say anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Anything at all?”

  Hatcher pictured the print in his mind, though his thoughts kept slipping back to the photo. “Okay, one thing. It said to call someone named Samarra for an appointment.”

  “Did you say Samarra? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Hold on. Something else I ran across.” Hatcher could make out a light rataplan of keystrokes. “Yes, here it is. Another author lived right near where Steinbeck did, a guy named John O’Hara. Wrote a book called Appointment in Samarra.”

  “Wait a second.” Hatcher inclined his head, stared into the night sky. It was a blackish purple, devoid of stars. Rain was coming. “I know that story. Really short one. About some guy who saw Death and rode off to escape, not knowing he was running off to where Death had an appointment with him.”

  “If you say so. I just remembered seeing it on some site when I pulled up Steinbeck’s address.”

  “Where did this guy O’Hara live?”

  “All I saw was that he was staying at the Pickwick Arms Hotel when he wrote it. It was a few doors down from where Steinbeck had lived.”

  Hatcher pressed a hand to his face, shutting his eyes. That information confirmed the general location, but didn’t seem to shed any light on what he was missing. Five Blocks East of Eden. He had to think, had to tease the answer out.

  “What’s the address for the Pickwick Arms?”

  “Hold on . . . Hmm, it’s not the Pickwick Arms anymore. It’s now known as the Pod. Still a hotel, though.”

  “Unusual name for a hotel. Where is it?”

  “Yes. Apparently the rooms are small. Like pods. From what I’m seeing here, it looks like it’s supposed to be hip and trendy. And cheap. It’s west of Second Avenue, about a block.”

  Hatcher looked out across the dark expanse of river. “But how do I get five blocks east of any of it?”

  “I don’t know. Sorry.”

  “Keep checking for me, if you would. I’m going to go back and take a look around.”

  Hatcher headed back down Fifty-first toward the numbers for Steinbeck’s former residence. He crossed Second Avenue and found the hotel, thought about asking the desk clerk some questions, then realized it would be pointless. He ran the contents of the card over and over in his mind as he headed back toward the water again, passing Steinbeck’s old building once more.

  Five Blocks East of Eden.

  He closed his eyes, tried visualize the card in detail, focusing on the writing. For Directions Or An appointment Ask samarra. He recalled noticing how some of the words hadn’t been capitalized like the others, and now he knew why. Enemy networks in Afghanistan and Iraq had done similar things to call attention to key pieces of information. Misspellings, wrongs words, deliberately improper punctuation. He’d extracted enough information from captured combatants to know it was common.

  The reference to Appointment in Samarra was an orienter, he was sure of it. It was meant to let the recipient know he was on the right track, to confirm the reference to East of Eden. If Fred’s info was correct, Steinbeck and O’Hara had lived on the very street Hatcher was walking. That wasn’t a coincidence.

  Five Blocks East of Eden.

  Crossing the East River put you in Brooklyn. The card said Manhattan. That was also an orienter. It was there to let the decrypter know to disregard that option and to stay on this side. Hatcher tried to recall what all the makeshift little field codes he’d come across had in common. The only thing he could think of was they always referred to something other than what they seemed to. Where was a good cryptoanalyst when you needed one?

  Five Blocks East of Eden.

  Hatcher continued walking east, studying the rows of buildings, brownstones, brick townhomes, cement slivers. Serried structures of varying heights with adjacent walls, an occasional restaurant or store at ground level. This was a residential block, lined with trees and fenced-off flower gardens in front of some of the dwellings. It was quiet and upscale. Very expensive real estate, even for Manhattan.

  At the corner of First Avenue, Hatcher leaned against a pole and shut his eyes again. It had to be nearby; there were too many clues. He was still missing something.

  Five Blocks.

  Blocks of what? Stone? Didn’t make sense. Could blocks mean buildings? Maybe. He’d have to remember to go back and check the fifth building east. He was pretty sure it was a residence.

  He jerked his eyes open and pushed off the pole. Five B? An address? He tossed the idea around. Maybe one of the residences? Or a slyly embedded clue, like someone named Lock in an apartment 5B? He would need to check every building east of the Steinbeck place, look for anything numbered 5B.

  As he started to walk west, the idea lost some of its luster. Another thing these codes had in common, at least the ones he’d encountered, was that they pointed to things visible from a road or an alley. You never wanted someone knocking on the wrong person’s door and creating suspicion with his questions. Or leaving a trail for others to reconstruct.

  Hatcher scanned the buildings in each direction. What was visible from the street? Not all that much. Façades, windows, signs on the businesses. He glanced at the restaurant on the corner. It had an Italian name written in script along the side of the green awning extending from it. A dry cleaner was next to it. A few floors up, a sign in the window announced it was the Center for Kabbalic Studies.

  Several paces up the street, Hatcher stopped and turned around. Center for Kabbalic Studies. He pictured the words from the business card one more time, saw them start to take a shape consistent with their meaning. CKS.

  “Oh, you clever, clever bastards,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE MUTED SOUNDS OF THE CITY SEEMED DISTANT WITHIN the confines of the car. Wright was feeling a bit cramped. Uncomfortable. It was all she could do to sit still.

  “Pretty tony neighborhood, huh?” Reynolds said.

  Wright nodded. “It certainly is.”

  “Well, the rich ain’t like you and me. They have more mo
ney.”

  “Will Rogers,” Wright said.

  “Good one.”

  She glanced over at the younger detective. He was chewing another piece of gum, sitting back in the passenger’s seat, loose and composed, bantering like some old pro. His red hair was pulled across his head in waves.

  “What’s gotten into you, Reynolds?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re just acting so much more relaxed than you usually do.”

  His mouth widened and curled at the edges. “Well, if you want the truth . . . you might say I’m not a very trusting person. And for some reason, I’ve never trusted Maloney at all. Not even a little. There was always something that didn’t seem quite right. Now, just as I realized why, I also realized that you’re not like him. I think I can actually trust you. So, I’m letting my hair down.” He smiled broadly at her. “So to speak.”

  “That’s very flattering, but let’s not drag the lieutenant’s name through the mud like that, okay? He may act like a jerk once in a while, and sometimes his passions get the better of him, but I don’t think he’s a bad guy. And no, I’m not going to tell him about anything you said. I just don’t want you to think it’s fine to bad-mouth him that way. Scandalous words can tarnish a reputation.”

  “Whatever you say, Detective. Want to go see if our man is in?”

  Wright nodded and they got out of the car and crossed the street, heading toward Winslow Tower. It was a majestic building, standing tall among other majestic buildings in an area known for its stratospheric rent. As they reached the far sidewalk, Reynolds stuck an arm out across Wright’s body, signaling her to stop. He nodded in the direction of a limousine with tinted windows emerging from the parking garage adjacent to the tower.

  “Recognize that?” he asked.

  Wright watched the car slowly turn away from them onto the street. “Should I?”

  “It’s the limo Lucas Sherman was driving when he was arrested the other night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m the one who inventoried the contents. I’m almost positive that’s it.” He snapped his fingers, nodding. “Yeah, I think that’s the plate. In fact, I know it is.”

  Wright stood watching the taillights move away. “Okay, that’s strange, I’ll admit.”

  Reynolds swiveled his head, looking over to her. “Well?”

  “Well what? Are you saying we should get back in the car and follow him? What about Valentine?”

  “Don’t you want to know where Sherman is going?”

  She hesitated, throwing a glance at the back of the limousine as it pulled up to the traffic light at the corner, its brake lights coming on.

  “We don’t know that’s him. Even if it’s the same limo, we don’t know who’s driving it.”

  Reynolds made a face. He seemed about to respond when another vehicle, a rental do-it-yourself truck, came out of the garage and turned onto the street heading in the same direction, pausing just long enough for both of them to get a good look at the driver.

  There was no mistaking the man behind the wheel in this one. Huge arms, bald head, and sideburns that curved into a mustache. He’d tossed a quick look down the street as he pulled out, but if he noticed them standing there, he didn’t show it.

  One more glance at Reynolds, then they both started a restrained jog back to the car.

  “I told you this had something to do with Sherman.”

  Wright looked at him as they hurried, seeing the younger detective in a totally new light. She thought of the clown mask on his desk, how it seemed like he’d been wearing a mask of his own all this time, one that was finally being pulled off. He was starting to remind her of someone. Red hair, ruddy complexion, lots of attitude. David Caruso, maybe. “I don’t know what to make of you, Reynolds. You’ve always just kept quiet, seemed kind of moody. Always waited for people to tell you what to do. Suddenly, you’re out of your shell and cocky as hell.”

  “You like it?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m still trying to understand it.”

  “Like I said, yesterday I didn’t know who I could trust. Now that I’m past that, I can finally be myself around you, act like a cop.” He jumped in the passenger seat as Wright rounded the car and got behind the wheel. “And let’s face it, what good is being a cop if you don’t let yourself enjoy the job, right?”

  STANDING IN THE TINY ALCOVE NEXT TO THE DRY CLEANER, Hatcher flipped the phone shut and put it in his pocket. The directory on the wall had a list of names, each with a black button next to it. The topmost entry simply read “CKS.”

  He counted down five slots, read the name listed for the occupant. Any doubts he had about whether he had figured it out were wiped away. John O’Hara.

  Five Blocks East of Eden. Five—B—Lo—CKS. East of Eden. Cute.

  He pressed the button, feeling the vibration of the buzz in his fingertip, and waited.

  Almost a full minute later, a hollow-sounding voice, feminine, came through a round piece of metal screwed into the wall next to the directory.

  “Who are you here to see?”

  Hatcher took a breath, pausing. The tone of the voice was neutral, but he could still tell its owner expected a certain answer. “I’m here to see Samarra. About an appointment.”

  The response was immediate. “Where did you come from?”

  Hatcher had to think about how to answer that, and the silence seemed like it started to stretch the moment it started. No other option than to just take a stab. “Steinbeck’s place. West of here.”

  An audible click, and Hatcher realized the conversation was terminated. Nothing happened for a couple of seconds, then a buzz rattled through the speaker. It took Hatcher a second to realize he was being let in. He pushed on the door and stepped into the building.

  The inside of the building smelled like a public restroom after a cursory cleaning. The lobby was narrow, leading back to a door marked “Stairs.” Something about the layout seemed unusual, awkward, like a cluttered room where a sofa or chair was missing.

  He climbed the staircase to the third floor and exited the stairwell. Instead of a hallway running the length of the building, he found himself in a small vestibule, facing an unmarked door. He knocked.

  A mechanical-sounding hum, barely audible, then a click. The door swung gently inward.

  The apartment was large and open, with islands of furniture. The walls were a shade of dove gray, but everything else was one of two colors. Whatever wasn’t black, was red, and vice-versa. Black sofa, red carpet. Red love seat, black bearskin rug.

  Red lipstick, black dress.

  The woman wearing them boasted some exceptions to the scheme. Platinum hair. Eyes an evening shade of blue.

  She was sitting on the red love seat, reclined to the side, legs tucked beneath her, a drink in her hand. Hatcher walked toward her to the middle of the living room, though he wasn’t certain if that’s what it was. The room was shaped like a horseshoe, wrapping around a large chunk of wall to his right. The wall seemed to take up a huge portion of the floor.

  Hatcher glanced around, pretended he was admiring the décor.

  The woman didn’t move, other than to lift her glass. She eyed Hatcher without a word or gesture, waiting. Not a good sign, he realized. Patience like that was unsettling. Those capable of it were always the most dangerous. They waited for your mistakes, instead of making any of their own.

  “Please, don’t get up on my account.”

  The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched slightly and she took a sip of her drink.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Doe. My friends call me John.”

  The woman stuck the tip of her finger in her drink, stirring it. “How did you find us, Mr. Doe?”

  “Some guy named Spitzer gave me your card. Are you Samarra?”

  “More so than you’re Mr. Doe.” Samarra lifted her finger from her drink and placed it in her mouth, closed her lips over it in a pucker. Sh
e slid it out slowly. “I’ll ask you again. How did you hear about us?”

  “Deborah St. James.”

  Samarra nodded, pursing those red lips. “Are you armed, Mr. Doe?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Only with my charm.”

  “I should warn you, it is not in your best interest to lie. The way to the PI is guarded by sentries. They are very good at divining whether someone is carrying a weapon. If they determine you are, you won’t have the chance to explain. So you’d better tell me now.”

  “I already did.”

  “In that case, tell me why you’re here.”

  “I was told Pleasure Incarnate was the one place I had to see for myself.”

  “And you say Deborah sent you?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  The woman set her drink on an end table and stood. She closed the distance between them with graceful steps, coming close enough for her breasts to brush against his torso as she looked up at his face and started to circle his body, finally coming to a stop directly in front of him. She was tall, but not as tall as him. He peered down into her eyes, trying to get a read on her, finding nothing.

  “One night. Ten thousand dollars. In cash.”

  She smelled like something delicious, a mix of vanilla and orange and cream. Her proximity caused his already stirring erection to grow stiff. It had to be showing.

  His thoughts turned to how ridiculous his libido was becoming. First the hospital, then at Deborah’s, now here. He hadn’t popped standing boners like that since he was a teenager.

  “Okay,” Hatcher said.

  The woman turned away abruptly. “You can pay when you get there.”

  “There? Where am I going?”

  She crossed to Hatcher’s right and opened a door in the large section of wall in the middle of the room. She stepped to the side and leaned back against the wall, arms behind her.

  “Somewhere you’ll never forget.”

  The door led to what looked like an unused closet. It was a small, square area, completely empty. No clothes, no shelves, no boxes. A small bulb in a round, plastic dome in the ceiling bathed the walls and floor in a bright yellow light. On the opposite side was another door.