“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Griffin.” Cal walked over and filled his travel mug with coffee, then added sugar and creamer.
“Damn, Cushing, why do you have to go and ruin good coffee that way?”
“You must be better if you’re giving me so much shit so early in the day.”
Jamie shrugged his shoulders and studied the light streaming in through the kitchen windows. “Yeah, I’m a little better. I have more tests tomorrow.”
Cal put his cup down after making sure he’d gotten the mixture right. “You’re still sick? Sully told me that I couldn’t take you along if you weren’t cleared yet.”
“Ah, Christ, the doctor can’t find anything wrong with me, so that means I’m cleared for work, doesn’t it?”
Cal shook his head. “If something happens to you while we’re out, it’ll be my ass on the line.”
Jamie made a rude noise. “If this is the worst thing you do all day, Sully will count his blessings. Now get your ass in gear, and let’s head downtown.”
“Just because that’s true doesn’t make it right, Griffin.”
They got into their dark blue Dodge Charger, Cal driving. “So we’re heading to some place on Newbury Street?” he asked.
“Yeah, believe it or not, that’s where this group has their storefront.” Newbury Street, located in Boston’s Back Bay area, was an eclectic mix of shops housed in renovated nineteenth century brownstones. Running roughly east-west from Boston Public Gardens to Massachusetts Avenue, it has been called one of the most expensive streets in the world.
“Man, I hate trying to park on Newbury Street,” groused Cal as they reached their destination.
“Not when we’re on duty, my friend.” Jamie pulled out their Police tag and motioned Cushing to the first open spot that had a No Parking sign.
“True. Well, let’s pay these fine folks a visit, shall we?”
“Let’s go.” Jamie opened the car door and exited very carefully, while not showing how much he was holding onto the car. I just need a moment to get my balance, he thought. Jamie’s head was still pounding, and he felt like he’d just finished a marathon. At least the vomiting and diarrhea had stopped, and he was no longer running a fever. All things considered, I call that progress.
They walked down Newbury Street, which was crowded with tourists, students, and Back Bay residents. Jamie walked slowly, taking care with each step, but not too slowly, lest Cal caught on.
“How do you want to handle this?” asked Cal.
“Let’s play it by ear,” replied Jamie. “I think we should just get some information about the group first, if possible. Then we can flash our badges and get to someone in charge, show them the picture of the skandola, and see what their reaction is.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
They walked about a block before arriving at their destination. A tasteful sign proclaimed, Disciples of Endor, at the top of a set of stairs that rose above a street level New Age boutique and a Middle Eastern restaurant. Like many of the storefronts on Newbury Street, the building had bay windows extruding out from the front, giving the exterior the effect of an ocean wave, undulating in ripples down the street.
“Here goes nothing,” said Cal, as they trudged up the stairs.
Jamie had a brief moment of terror as he climbed the stairs. He felt light-headed and off balance. Fortunately, he grasped stair rail and maintained his balance to the top.
Cal opened the door for Jamie. “Age before beauty.”
“You wish, Cushing. You wish.”
Jamie and Cal entered a large, open room, with cushions on the window seats at street side and a gleaming mahogany floor. Across the room was a massive cherry workstation, staffed by a stunning dark-haired woman with Mediterranean features and a fabulous figure. “Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked, with a musical lilt.
“So much for some unobtrusive reconnaissance,” muttered Cal softly.
“Yeah, well, we do what we can,” replied Jamie just as softly, and then he held up his badge as he and Cal crossed the room. “I hope so, miss,” he replied in a louder voice. “I’m Jamie Griffin, and this is my partner, Cal Cushing. We’re with the Boston Police Department.”
The woman, whose nametag read Aaliyah, did not just acquiesce to the sight of badges, as most people would. Instead, she calmly held out her hand. Jamie handed over his badge, as did Cal. After examining them for several seconds, the receptionist handed them back. “I hope you detectives aren’t offended—I’ve been instructed to check the identity of any official visitors.”
“Really?” replied Jamie. “So security is pretty tight around here?”
“No, but the head of our order, the Ganzibra, does not wish to have the privacy of our adherents violated in any way.” She smiled as she handed the badges back to Jamie and Cal. “I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“Somewhat,” replied Cal. Without even thinking, they had slipped into the role of good-cop—bad-cop. While Cal would not be too aggressive, he would ask the tougher questions and Jamie would try to act as the conciliator. The technique worked about as well with the average person as with suspects—sometimes great, sometimes not at all, “but we need to ask some questions, so if the ‘zebra’ guy is available, we really need to speak with him. It’s important.”
Aaliyah’s smile froze into place, losing all warmth. “Very well, gentlemen. If you will have a seat, I will see if the Ganzibra has time to meet with you.” She gestured to a set of overstuffed chairs to the side of the room.
“That would be great, miss. Thank you,” said Jamie. As they were walking to the chairs, he whispered to Cal, “Zebra? Zebra? Good one, Cushing.”
“Hey, just playing my part,” Cal whispered back.
They took seats on either side of a wooden table that had literature spread out atop it. They each took samples of the material, ranging from specific topics, such as “Who Are the Disciples of Endor?” to more general topics such as “Why Today’s World is Failing Us.” They placed the brochures into their portfolios.
After several minutes, Aaliyah sauntered back into the room, put her hand on one hip, and said, “You gentlemen are fortunate. The Ganzibra is available. He will see you now. Follow me, please.” Without waiting, she turned and started walking down the hallway just behind her desk.
“Man, I could follow her anywhere,” murmured Cal. “I shoulda been the good cop this time—you’re a happily married man.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Cushing” Jamie whispered back. “She’s playing in the major leagues while you’re still trying to get out of Little League.”
Cal had to bite off any retort as they caught up with Aaliyah and followed her down the hallway. As they entered, Aaliyah held up her hand and ushered them into the room. “Detectives, may I introduce you to Achan ibn Ezra, the Ganzibra of the Disciples of Endor.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned sharply on a stiletto heel and walked back out of the office.
ibn Ezra’s office was appointed much like the outer room, but the décor was much more lush. The office had tall windows lining the outer walls, including two cutouts. From his oak desk the size of a small aircraft carrier, ibn Ezra could look out over the bustle of the Newbury Street crowds. Built-in floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves lined the sides of the room, and two large tapestries adorned the walls at the rear of the room, depicting the Garden of Eden and the Tree of Life. A small conference table and four chairs sat before one of the tapestries. Several cushioned chairs and a coffee table before the other. The room was huge—maybe the size of the entire squad room back at the station, and the polished hardwood floor was covered in the center of the room by a silk Hebrew Kashan rug of rich brown, gold, and red hues.
“Detectives,” purred a baritone voice. Achan ibn Ezra appeared to be in mid-to-late forties, with close-cropped black hair and beard, both of which were threaded with gray. He wore a black cap similar to a yarmulke. As the man rose from behind a set of oversized color moni
tors and a computer, Jamie could see that ibn Ezra was of average height and slender, although it was hard to figure his exact body type within the flowing dark red and brown tunic the man wore. “Please, please,” he said, coming out from behind his desk and gesturing toward the comfortable chairs in the front of the room. “Let us sit over here and be comfortable. Can I offer you any refreshments? Kaffe, water?” Jamie could detect a definite Mediterranean accent, although the man’s English was excellent.
The three men walked to the chairs and sat, ibn Ezra on one side of an octagonal coffee table, Jamie and Cal on the other.
“No thank you, Mister ibn Ezra, “replied Cal. “We just have some questions we need to ask you.”
“Very well, Detective, ah, Cushing, was it?” ibn Ezra’s dark eyes glittered as he picked up Cal’s gauntlet. “However, please be so kind as to refer to me either by my title, Ganzibra, or as ‘kohen,’ much in the same manner you would address your religious representatives as ‘Father’ or ‘Reverend’.” Cal and ibn Ezra gazed without blinking at each other for a few seconds before he continued. “How may I be of service to the Boston Police Department?”
“Ganzibra,” Jamie said, speaking deferentially as if trying to avert confrontation, “we are not familiar with your sect or its traditions. Please forgive us if we fail to observe any of your customs.”
ibn Ezra turned his gaze upon Jamie and smiled. “It is no problem, Detective Griffin. I merely wished to point this to your partner. What brings you to our offices today?”
Jamie continued. “We are investigating a homicide, kohen, and what we have found has led us to your group for answers.”
The cleric’s face lit up with surprise. Whether real or feigned, Jamie could not tell. “Homicide? Surely such a thing does not involve any of our disciples. We teach tolerance and peace, living in harmony with both man and God, and we strictly observe His rules.”
“Well, kohen Ezra…” began Cal.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt you, detective, but again, just so you know, my last name is ibn Ezra, not Ezra. So the proper address would be Kohen Achan or Kohen ibn Ezra.” A grim smile played about ibn Ezra’s face as he corrected Cal.
Cal paused and, then resumed. “As you say, Kohen ibn Ezra. While I’m sure the majority of your ‘disciples’ as you call them are good people, I’m also sure that you don’t believe them to be above the occasional transgression. It happens in our congregations as well, I can assure you.”
“Just so, detective,” sallied ibn Ezra in return, “but such transgressions are always dismaying to any cleric, whether myself, or one of your priests or ministers.”
“Very true, kohen, very true.” Jamie again injected himself into the discussion as a mediator, “but as my partner started to tell you, we have some evidence that has led us to believe that someone from your group may at least have some knowledge about this homicide.”
“Indeed. Please explain this to me, and I will do my best to provide you with answers.”
Jamie held out the picture of the skandola that he had printed from the Internet. “Do you know what this symbol is, Ganzibra?” He handed the picture to ibn Ezra.
The cleric paused for an almost imperceptible second before replying, his eyes momentarily darting to his left. Jamie couldn’t tell for sure, but it appeared as if ibn Ezra was startled to see the image. He saw that Cal was jotting something down as well.
“Of course. This is a picture of a skandola, specifically of the Mandaean Skandola.” He handed the paper back to Jamie.
“What, exactly, is a skandola and what is it used for?” asked Cal.
“The skandola is a symbol of power, of authority, in several Middle Eastern religions, ours included. Think of it as you would the amethyst rings worn by your Roman Catholic bishops.”
“His Roman Catholic bishops, your kohen-ship,” replied Cal. “I’m Methodist, not Catholic.”
“My apologies, detective.”
“So, this ring would be used only by a cleric of a Middle Eastern religion, such as yours,” continued Jamie.
“Typically, yes, that is true, detective, although as I’m sure you can appreciate, there is nothing that would stop anyone from purchasing such a ring.” ibn Ezra spoke in a slow, measured voice, as if weighing each word. “What does a Mandaean Skandola have to do with your homicide?”
Cal now decided to see if he could take advantage of having knocked ibn Ezra off balance. “Because we found the image of a skandola burned into the flesh of the victim,” he said, tossing the coroner’s photographs into ibn Ezra’s lap, one showing the body with burn mark and the other a close-up of the burn mark, plainly displaying a Mandaean skandola.
ibn Ezra caught the pictures, and as he did so, Jamie could see obvious fear and recognition in the man’s eyes. Got you. Jamie looked at Cal, who had the same look of triumph in his eyes. Neither man said anything, however. They waited for ibn Ezra. Sometimes waiting out a person was the best way to obtain information.
After several moments of silence, ibn Ezra carefully handed the photos back to Cal. “Detectives,” he said coldly, “I am not sure what your purpose is in coming here this morning and interrogating me. Are you implying that I or one of my disciples had something to do with this murder? Surely we are not the only group in all of Boston connected to a skandola.”
“No, Ganzibra,” replied Jamie, moving in for the kill alongside Cal, “but it turns out that there is more than just one homicide victim in the Boston area who had this mark on their body or whose body was in a similar condition to the most recent victim’s. Guess what link we found between many of these victims?” Now Jamie was in full cop mode. When ibn Ezra did not respond for several seconds, Jamie continued. “We found that many of the victims were connected somehow with the Disciples of Endor. Either they were themselves members or someone they knew was a member.”
ibn Ezra frowned. “I’m sure there are other connections, detective, and as you yourself said, not all of the victims had any connection to our group.”
Cal leaned forward. “No, Mister ibn Ezra, but there are enough connections to grab any cop’s attention. In my experience, connections like this are no coincidence.”
After pausing in silence again for a moment, ibn Ezra stood and looked down at Jamie and Cal. “Detectives, I do not know what to tell you. We are a religious group, not a Mafia hit squad. We do not engage in illegal activities. If you had any actual proof connecting these victims to the Disciples, I’m certain we would be having this discussion in your offices, not mine. Therefore, this interview is over.” ibn Ezra walked to his desk and pressed a button.
Jamie and Cal stood and walked to face the cleric. “We were hoping you might cooperate with us,” said Jamie. “It would be easier for all of us if we could have that cooperation.”
ibn Ezra smiled grimly. “I disagree, detective. Aaliyah, please show these gentlemen out. If you have any further questions, officers, you should direct those to our attorney, whom I will be calling now to discuss what I consider to be harassment on your part. Here is his card.” ibn Ezra leaned over the desk and handed the card to Jamie. “This interview is over.”
“Gentlemen?” The statuesque receptionist was in the doorway, gesturing with her hand.
“We’ll be in touch Ezra,” said Cal in a parting shot.
Aaliyah walked them back to the entrance in silence, and then she held the door open for them. “Good day, gentlemen.” With that, Cal and Jamie left, deciding to return to Jamie’s house and compare notes.
* * * *
Sedecla sat in her comfortable, high-backed chair in the subterranean chamber. She was meeting with her managers, discussing the situation, which had occurred earlier today. Once ibn Ezra had finished relating the visit he had received from the police, Sedecla began questioning him closely. “So these detectives had nothing but the mark of the skandola linking their victims?”
ibn Ezra shook his head. “They claimed to also have found links between some of t
he victims and the Disciples.”
The manager of the Mazzimah also shook his head. “They don’t have anything—they’re just throwing everything they can find against the wall to see what sticks.”
“Can you be certain of that, Timothy?” Choate’s deep voice sounded like the rolling of distant thunder in the room. “I know you are also a detective, but shouldn’t we be worried about this pair connecting us to these cases?” The fat man, as usual, was dressed immaculately, this time in a tailored, dark brown suit with a deep peach shirt that somewhat obscured his true size.
Timothy scowled at Choate. “Rufus, you worry like an old woman,” he scoffed.
“So that makes me an old woman as well?” Sedecla said softly. “Of course, that is literally true in my case, but like Rufus, I am disturbed that these two detectives have managed to perceive a link between us and our gathering activities.” She smiled warmly, but it chilled the men’s blood.
“They have no concrete links, only guesses and hunches. Nothing they could take to court.”
“I am not interested in whether or not this could go to court, Timothy.” Sedecla was displeased. “This isn’t about court cases—this is about my ability to continue gathering the power I need without interference.” No one spoke for several seconds—Sedecla in thought, the men awaiting her next comment. “Timothy, your position in the central homicide division gives you ultimate jurisdiction over these cases, does it not?”
“Not completely, Mistress. These detectives have the authority to continue investigating any crimes within their division. They are only slightly overreaching by including these other cases.”
“Tell me of these two men, then.”
Timothy paused. “As you are aware, I know these two men well.”
“Indeed—that is why you must take the lead in this matter.
“Jamie Griffin and Cal Cushing have been detectives in the Dorchester division for several years now. I have worked with them in the past on cases and I was, in fact, on the scene with them when they discovered the latest body.”
“Are they good detectives? Could we mislead them? Could we possibly convince them to look the other way or even join our cause?”
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