“He does like to sue,” Budge cautioned.
“Well, we’ll see what happens,” I said, not so sure anymore.
Budge sighed. “So, no persons of interest yet, huh?”
“Vince Cole,” Hoffman repeated.
“Everson?” Budge said.
I remembered what Sunita had shared about Ludvig, but being strange and getting caught in a collection room didn’t make him a serial killer. And I was afraid that when Hoffman recognized Cole as a dead end, he’d go after the next lukewarm lead like a shark in an inflatable kiddie pool. I decided to keep the suspicions about Ludvig to myself.
“No, but I have a hunch something in the Discovery Society collection is involved,” I said. “Mims is its curator. I’ll see what he can tell me.”
“The papers smell blood,” Budge said somberly. “Two are planning to run editorials tomorrow saying the progress of the last couple years was an illusion, that Murder City is back. If the story grows legs, this morning’s sell-off is gonna be a whimper compared to the coming shitshow. And without that funding, we can kiss our redevelopment plans goodbye. We’ll have to cut services, including police. Next thing you know, the tax base is fleeing, which means even less money. Then we really will be Murder City again. Christ, guys. I need something by the end of the day. Can you do that?” he pled.
I didn’t want that future for the city or my family. It sounded too much like the shadow present. “We’ll keep at it,” I assured him.
Hoffman grumbled something incoherent.
“Gotta run, guys,” the mayor said suddenly and clicked off.
I was about to end the call myself when Hoffman growled, “Croft.”
I sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to be a pain in your ass. You drew a really bizarre pair of cases, and I’m doing everything I can to help. That’s why you brought me in, right?”
“I just got a message that Mims left his place,” he said.
“What?”
“Walked out. The officers on duty lost him in the subway. Thought you’d wanna know before heading over.” Hoffman sounded as if the mayor’s parting words had emptied his resolve, but my own was ramping up.
“Where was he last seen?”
“The Jefferson Street station.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“If you get something solid, let me know.”
Hoffman may have wanted to stomp me for challenging him in front of the mayor, but he wasn’t going to sever a lifeline. Before I could reply, he hung up.
“What’s going on?” Bree-yark asked as I started to swear.
“Walter isn’t at his apartment. He’s gone AWOL.”
“You think he’s behind the murders?”
“Either that or he’s being a dipshit.”
With the phone pressed to my chin, I considered the mayor’s plea and the Doideag’s verses about a coming war. I also considered that I could be yanked into the shadow present at any moment.
“No more fucking around,” I muttered.
“Oh, you’re free to use that word when it suits you, I see,” Tabitha said from the back seat.
I called Vega, who had left the apartment for work shortly before me and Bree-yark.
“How’s it going?” she answered.
“I need a favor.”
A half hour later, the building superintendent was unlocking Walter Mims’s door for me and a pair of NYPD officers. Vega had arranged the “wellness check” on the pretext that Walter wasn’t answering his phone and that the officers on duty might have been mistaken about seeing him leave.
We stepped into an untidy apartment whose living room had been transformed into an office, a large computer desk holding court, surrounded by several bookcases.
“Walter?” one of the officers called.
Leading with her sidearm, she and her partner disappeared into the back.
I nodded at the superintendent that we could take it from here, and he closed the door behind me. Legally, we were in a gray zone. Once the police ascertained Walter wasn’t home, and there were no signs of foul play, we were required to leave.
Wasting no time, I activated my hunting spell while scanning the apartment on the physical and astral planes. Planetary models stood here and there while photos of colorful galaxies adorned the walls.
Nothing atypical, and my cane wasn’t picking up anything.
“Place is empty,” the officer said, reholstering her sidearm. “Let’s go.”
“Okay, just give me a sec,” I said, ducking into the bathroom. “Nature calls.”
“Croft, we’re not supposed to—”
I snapped on the ventilation fan, cutting her off. I’d already sighted the brush sitting on the edge of the sink. Closer inspection revealed snagged strands of thin brown hair. Got you, you son of a bitch.
I was pulling several free when my phone rang. It was Vega.
“I’m at the apartment,” I said, speaking above the fan while trying not to be heard through the door. “Place is clean, but I’ve got some good material for a hunting spell. Shouldn’t take too long to locate him.”
“Don’t bother,” she said.
I stopped, a knot already forming in my gut. “Why not?”
“His body was just found.”
28
By the time I arrived at Morningside Park, Hoffman was there, looking even more haggard than he’d sounded on the phone. He led me wearily past the police tape. In front of a park bench, a covered body lay flat on its back.
“First responders were trying to resuscitate him when I got here,” Hoffman said. “Torso wasn’t inflating.”
“His lungs are gone,” I said more than asked.
“Yup, and no cuts, like with the others.” Standing unevenly on his ortho boot, he held up a photo. “This is how they found him.”
I studied the image of Walter Mims sitting on the wrought-iron bench, neck craned back, the mouth below his inverted V mustache hanging open. His lips were deep blue, and his eyes stared from his crooked glasses in shock. Being suddenly without your lungs would do that, I thought grimly. Not a fate I would wish on anyone.
My cane wiggled, indicating Walter’s body. At some point following last night’s meeting, someone had slipped him the bonding potion and killed his shadow self. I glanced at the crowd gathered beyond the police perimeter.
“Was anyone with him?” I asked.
“Eyewitnesses say he came solo.”
“Why would he leave the safety of his apartment and go to a random park?”
“To feed the birdies? The hell should I know?” Hoffman said irritably. “We’re working on the warrant for his phone. Gonna see if he communicated with anyone before his death.”
I was weighing different possibilities when Bree-yark called me. “Uh, Everson?”
I looked over to find him jerking his head toward a growing commotion. Gretchen was bumping and shouldering her way through the onlookers. She’d dolled up again, this time topping her outfit with an obscenely large sun hat. Oblivious to the crowd’s complaints, she rose onto her tiptoes and peered around.
“There you are!” she called, spotting me.
“One sec,” I said to Hoffman and ducked back under the police tape before Gretchen could barge into the crime scene.
I attempted to steer her from Bree-yark and Tabitha, but she used subtle enchantments to ensure we met right in front of them. “Oh, hi, Bree-yark,” she said, affecting surprise. “Hello, Tiffany.”
“It’s Tabitha,” she hissed from her harness leash.
“What’s up?” I asked Gretchen.
“I found the information you asked for on organ harvesting.”
“Okay, great, but can we keep it down a little?” She was getting looks not only from the crowd now, but the investigative team. “In fact, let’s go over here.” I led her to the far side of a maple tree.
She checked to make sure Bree-yark followed before lowering her voice slightly. “In ancient Greece there was a movement among certain
cult leaders to only use clean organs for their god offerings. They eliminated the brain and heart first, common sacrificial organs at the time. The cults believed they held humans’ worst qualities: greed, lust, that sort of crap. Over time, other organs were struck out for this or that impurity—the stomach, for instance, because it was considered gluttonous. By the end, the puritanical cults deemed only three organs worthy of the gods.”
“Let me guess—kidneys, liver, and lungs?” I peered back toward the crime scene.
“Yup, and they were offered in boiling blood, which represented the soul, the purest of the pure.”
I nodded at her, impressed. She’d delivered a succinct explanation of exactly what I’d asked for. I couldn’t remember that ever happening.
For Bree-yark’s part, his expression remained stoic; he might have been thinking about our earlier talk. Tabitha was using him as a barrier so she wouldn’t have to look at Gretchen’s face. A few biting remarks emerged from behind Bree-yark’s legs, but I was too fixated on the last thing Gretchen had said.
If there was blood yet to be harvested, the killer wasn’t done. Though grisly, the idea also offered a sliver of hope. We could still stop the killer from completing what appeared to be a god offering.
“Was the Attican cult among them?” I asked.
“Now that I didn’t find out,” Gretchen said. “It’s very possible, though. There were a number of puritanical cults active during that time. They worshipped gods across the entire pantheon, old and new.”
“So maybe the Hermes cult, maybe not,” I said, thinking out loud. “But why Discovery Society fellows? Why would they be targeted?”
Gretchen shrugged. “Anyone hungry? There’s an oyster bar nearby that’s supposed to be halfway decent.”
I caught Bree-yark’s ears perk up, but he quickly flattened them again.
“Hold on,” I said as Gretchen started to turn. “You promised to check out that silver residue on me.”
“Oh, right,” she said unenthusiastically. Even putting on her best face for Bree-yark, she could only sustain her good will for so long. Arms folded, she cocked her head, eyes roving the length and breadth of my body.
“Ah, there it is,” she said at last, then snorted. “Looks like you’re festooned in tinsel.”
“Did someone put it there?” I asked, struggling to come up with how or when that would have happened.
“The pattern’s too random. It’s almost like someone hit you with a blast of birdshot.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, thinking back. “When Bree-yark and I were in the landfill and the garbage animation had him by the leg, I didn’t invoke a protection before dispersing the box’s magic. There wasn’t time. The release hit me in a scattershot, but because it didn’t seem to do any damage, I dismissed it.”
“Well, there you go,” Gretchen said, losing complete interest.
“So that magic’s the reason you’re going into the shadow present?” Bree-yark asked me.
“More than likely.”
I thought about my theory that the thieves’ cult had developed the ability to cross in and out of the shadow present, focusing that magic into an object—possibly whatever was inside the box. Or even the box itself. The first time I’d crossed felt spontaneous, but the second time someone had not only sent me, but arranged for the police to be there to receive me. Once again, I tried to tap into the residue, but I couldn’t feel it.
I turned to Gretchen. “Can you remove it?”
“Afraid not.”
“You’re not even going to try?” Bree-yark asked.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. My magic’s telling me to leave it.”
I eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure that’s not your stomach?”
“Pretty sure, but I’m getting cranky, which means I really do need to eat. And since you have Bree-yark on a leash even shorter than Tiffany’s, it looks like I’ll be asking Enzo to accompany me. Too-da-loo!”
In a flash of light, she disappeared.
“Tiffany,” Tabitha spit, waddling from behind Bree-yark’s legs. She squinted at Gretchen’s just-vacated spot with murderous eyes. Bree-yark regarded the same spot gloomily before collecting himself.
“So you could still be sent back there?” he asked.
“Yeah, but at least I’ll be ready.” I patted my pockets of potions and the concealed shotgun, wishing I felt more confident than I did.
A sharp whistle sounded, and I looked to find Hoffman waving me back over.
“They’re getting ready to bag him,” he said when I arrived at the edge of the police tape. “Need anything off the body?” He shook several aspirin into his mouth and began crunching them.
I considered Walter’s covered form. I could perform a scrying spell on the hairs, like I’d done with Bear’s, but that would take time. His shadow had probably been similarly incapacitated by the shapeshifter, never getting a look at the killer’s face.
“I’m good,” I decided. “But can we agree this isn’t the work of Vince Cole?”
The bruised bags of flesh around Hoffman’s eyes bunched up as he ran his tongue around his teeth. “I’m willing to suspend that line of thinking till we find something better. What do you suggest?”
“Three murders, three Discovery Society fellows. I think it’s time for a raid.”
“Fine by me,” he growled, “’cause I’m ready to break something.”
29
With a blow from a battering ram, the front door to the Discovery Society splintered open, and the Sup Squad team poured inside. Hoffman and I followed, his sidearm drawn and my grip slick around my sword hilt. The last time I was here, I’d been sent to the shadow present. I was also ninety percent sure the killer had been here that night as well.
In the corridor of portraits, an iron-haired man was shouting and waving his hands as Sup Squad members ordered him to the ground at rifle point. I almost didn’t recognize him without his hat and uniform, but the purple mole beside his nose was a giveaway.
“His name’s Eldred,” I said to Hoffman. “He’s the doorman.”
By the time we arrived, officers had patted him down, and he was sitting grumpily against the wall in an undershirt tucked into pressed gray slacks.
“What are you doing here?” Hoffman demanded. “Place is supposed to be closed.”
“I have an apartment in the building,” Eldred snapped back, making his mole bounce. “Did you know that door you just battered is hand carved? It goes back to the society’s founding!”
“Like I give a shit,” Hoffman snarled. “Anyone else live here besides you?”
When Eldred compressed his thin lips, I assumed the role of Good Cop and placed a restraining hand on Hoffman’s arm. “Robert Strock was killed last night and Walter Mims earlier this morning,” I said. “That’s three fellows in the last week, and all under similar circumstances.”
Eldred glanced over at me. Though he was trying to remain indignant, I could see that the news upset him.
“We’re just trying to find and bring the killer to justice,” I said.
“I’m the only one who lives here,” he allowed. “But wait until the endowment hears about this.”
“You can start by telling your endowment we have a no-knock warrant.” Hoffman flapped the paper in front of his face. “If they have a fucking problem, they can take it up with the judge.”
Though Hoffman was being needlessly rough, at least he’d recovered his spirit. We soon received the call that the five-story club was secure; Eldred was the only one here. Leaving him with an officer, we split up, each with our assignments. Mine was to go room-by-room, searching for any traces of the bonding potion.
I revisited the library and the meeting room, the last place I’d seen Strock and Mims alive. The staircase to the basement Sunita had mentioned was located in the back of a small storage room. I descended, flipping switches as I went, and stepped into an open area, the high ceiling helping temper my underground phobi
a. A pair of climate-controlled cases stood against a wall, holding several leather-bound books and exploration artifacts.
I looked them over before shifting to my wizard’s senses.
Something stirred, making my skin prickle. It was a suggestion more than a presence, a shadow, but Sunita had been right to call it dark. It was also hungry. I tried to draw a sharper bead on it, but like an eye floater, every attempt only pushed it further away until I couldn’t sense it anymore.
A bleed from the shadow realm?
Or from the past; it was hard to say. I spent another few minutes trying to find it again before returning upstairs, relieved to be above ground again. Though the basement had been cool, my shirt clung damply to my back.
On the second floor, I arrived at the next location of interest: the club lounge. It was a cozy room with wood paneling and leather chairs. The Sup Squad had already pulled liquor bottles from cabinets and set them on the small bar.
As I passed my cane over the assemblage, it wiggled.
The hunting spell honed in on a mostly full bottle of single-malt scotch labeled Discovery Select.
I pictured Strock shooting the potion-laced drink before last night’s meeting and Walter sipping it on ice after. Now both were dead. Sunita’s teetotalling had likely spared her—for now, anyway. Before coming, we’d upped the police protection around her. She was the final living fellow, and I wanted to keep it that way.
“Bag this bottle as evidence,” I told an officer.
As I stepped out, I nearly ran into Hoffman coming from another room holding a thick ledger.
“Mims’s office,” he said. “Can’t get onto his computer yet, but it looks like he kept physical records of the club’s inventory. I’ll have it scanned for Vega so she can start going through it. Find anything?”
The shadow in the basement wouldn’t mean anything to him, so I told him about the hit on the bottle in the lounge.
Shadow Duel (Prof Croft Book 9) Page 17