Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  Jamie was kicking around the idea of calling his father when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Jamie? How are you doing?” a familiar voice asked.

  “Hey, Sully. Eh, unfortunately, about the same. What’s up?”

  “Just checking in. You’re not feeling any better? Any good news from the doctors?”

  “No, just lots of needles and tests but nothing to show for it. I’m scheduled to head down to Baltimore next week and get a whole new series of tests at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Man,” exclaimed Sully, “and they can’t find any answers?”

  Jamie felt implicit questioning in his commander’s voice. Easy does it, boyo. You can’t read too much into what anyone says unless they come right out and slap you in the face with it. “Nope. Let me tell you, I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

  “Well…” Sully paused. “I can’t have you going out with Cal any more on any of your cases, Jamie. HQ would have my ass in a sling if they found out. I’ve put the new guy, Ramirez, with Cushing in your absence, and they’re handling everything now. Until you find some answers, Jamie, you have to stay away from your cases.” Jamie could hear steel creeping into Sully’s normally easy-going voice.

  Jamie swallowed his initial angry response, and after pausing for a few seconds he said, “I understand, Sully. No more official involvement with cases.”

  “Now, Griffin, don’t go trying to split hairs on me….”

  “Sully, I’m promising you not to be officially involved until I’m better, but I’m not going to promise not talk with Cal or meet him somewhere to discuss a case. I’m just not.”

  A moment of silence lingered. “Jamie, you do what you have to do, but I’ll do what I have to do. I’m not going to let Cushing risk his career, and I’m sure as hell not going to let you risk my career by being a cowboy. If I find out you’re directly involved in a case, I’m going to have to report it up the line.”

  “You do that,” retorted Jamie, “and while you’re at it, tell my Da that if he wants to put me on the bench, he needs to man up and tell me himself.”

  “Now, Jamie,” began Sully.

  “Now nothing. This whole god-damned situation sucks, and you know it. I appreciate the call, Cap.” Jamie punched the end button on the phone much harder than needed to disconnect.

  Hmph. Jamie thought, distraught at his conversation with Sully, his lingering anger at his father, and his general dissatisfaction with life. Then he got up to head downtown.

  * * * *

  “Griffin,” came a shout from behind Jamie. He turned to see Cal and Mario Ramirez walking toward him. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  Jamie stood in front of a brick building on Hull Street near where they had visited Rufus Choate. The trees in Copps Hill Burying Ground were starting to transition into brilliant shades of red and gold. Jamie waited until the two men reached him, Cal with his hands spread in supplication. Ramirez, a much younger man, was uncomfortable, a rookie between two decorated veterans of the force. “I’m just here as an interested party, Cushing. Not in any official capacity.”

  Cal grabbed Jamie by a shoulder. “Listen, Sully read us the riot act about not letting you be involved. You’re benched, and I’m not going to get my ass in a sling because you won’t sit this out.”

  Jamie scowled. “Listen, Cushing, Eileen and Sully have both read me the riot act too. Hell, even the in-laws called and tried to ‘reason’ with me.”

  “Since when have you ever been reasonable?” retorted Cal.

  Jamie laughed and changed the subject. “Ramirez, you have some kind of identity crisis or something? How the hell did you end up with an Italian first name with a Hispanic last name?”

  Ramirez glanced sideways at Cushing, then back to Jamie as he replied. “Not my fault, man. Mom’s family is Italian and since Dad had the surname, she insisted on the first and middle names. It coulda been worse.”

  “How?” asked Jamie.

  “My brother is named is Anastagio Dominico Victoriano Ramirez.”

  “Holy crap,” said Cal. “You gonna share your middle names?”

  “Not on a dare,” replied Ramirez.

  “Listen,” said Cal, returning to Jamie, “you’ve got to back off. Everyone at the station is wondering what the hell is going on with you, and Sully is getting big-time heat from the brass to keep you out.”

  Jamie snorted. “Not the brass. One person is behind this and we both know who.”

  “I don’t care—your father swings a damned big hammer in the department. Are you really going to put our careers on the line so you can play cowboy?”

  Jamie got angry. “I’m not playing cowboy. I’m going to back off on all my cases except this one. There’s too much going on here, and I can help out at home most of the time without getting you guys into trouble. I helped you identify the person at the top of this group. I interviewed ibn Ezra and Choate with you. So, I need to be face to face with the woman behind all this, and you need me to be face to face with her as well.”

  Cushing exhaled a deep breath. In the weeks since their interview with Choate, their leads had dried up. They couldn’t find any illegal or even suspicious activities on the part of the Disciples of Endor or Samuel Properties. Nor were they having any luck in putting names or faces to the criminal gang known as the Mazzimah.

  The most recent murder, a young Boston U student, had allowed them to keep the case active, but they needed to find something more or it wouldn’t stay active much longer. Then Jamie, working at home scouring the Internet, had stumbled upon an interesting tidbit involving Samuel Properties, located just down the street from the building before them now. Jamie had cross-referenced the building address with property tax records showing the name of one Sedecla Aba as owner.

  Jamie had become suspicious when he could locate almost no paper trail for this person, and he only discovered that it was a female by one of the salutations in the scant documentation online. Apparently, Sedecla Aba did not have a driver’s license, which was not unusual in Boston because of the great public transportation. However, Jamie could not find a Social Security Number for her, nor could he find any tax returns in her name. From what he could find, a shell corporation named Malkuthakh Enterprises owned everything. “Malkuthakh” was an Aramaic word for “kingdom.” Malkuthakh Enterprises owned both Samuel Properties and all of the assets attributed to the Disciples. It had taken Jamie quite some time to contact someone connected with Malkuthakh Enterprises, and even after he did and had requested an interview with Aba, he hadn’t received an answer for several days. Then he was informed that she would see him today at ten. “This is my lead,” finished Jamie vehemently, “and the appointment is with me, not you, not Ramirez, not Sully, and not my damned father.”

  Cal raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.” Then he glared at Ramirez. “Rook, as far as you know, Jamie uncovered this lead prior to being benched and we were instructed by Ms. Aba that Jamie had to accompany us to the interview. Got it?”

  Ramirez nodded. “Hell, yes. It’s my ass on the line too.”

  Jamie smiled and put a hand on Ramirez’s shoulder. “Hey, the kid learns fast. Let’s go.”

  They stepped up to an ornate wooden door with no signage of any type—just an unobtrusive doorbell, that Jamie rang.

  A young woman opened the door. In her early twenties, with dark skin and hair, and average appearance, she asked, “May I help you?” She glanced at the men, avoiding direct eye contact.

  “Yes, miss,” said Jamie, showing his badge. “I’m Detective Jamie Griffin. These men are my associates, Detectives Cushing and Ramirez. We’re here for my appointment with Sedecla Aba.”

  As experienced detectives, both Jamie and Cal noticed the girl tense at the mention of the name. “Very well, gentlemen,” she said, holding the door open. “Please come in and follow me.”

  They entered a large foyer, with inlaid tile surrounding the entrance and burnished, golden oak fl
oors leading into another room to their left. To their right, the restored brick walls held a plain wooden door. The only way open to continue was through the archway to the left.

  The woman led them into an open room, about twenty feet square. The interior walls also featured restored brick, and they were adorned with various tapestries and artwork of Middle Eastern appearance. The oak floor continued throughout the room, broken up by an expensive looking Persian rug. At the far end of the room sat an ornate ebony desk, credenza, bookcase, and workstation. The furniture stretched almost from side to side along the back wall. There were no windows in the room, and the only other exit was a stone and tile, spiral staircase that wound upward in the right hand corner of the room.

  Another woman sat in a cushioned, high-back office chair, seemingly in her early thirties, also with dark hair and features, but with a much slimmer figure than the woman who had admitted them. “That will be all, Afya.” Her voice was a cultured contralto and she spoke slowly, with a faint Mediterranean accent. She also spoke with quiet authority and steel beneath her words.

  Afya bowed. “Yes, Mistress.” She walked to the staircase and left without another word.

  The woman behind the desk turned her gaze back to the men before her. Jamie felt power emanating from her hazel eyes. Her face was a slim oval, with a small birthmark above her lip and dark black hair that cascaded to her shoulders. She was dressed simply in what looked to be an expensive dark red and brown robe, cinched at the waist with a gold, metallic belt. She wore no earrings and only a plain black ring upon the third finger of her left hand. After a silent moment of appraisal, she spoke. “My name is Sedecla Aba. Which one of you gentlemen is this Jamie Griffin who demanded an interview?” Although there were chairs in front of her desk, she did not indicate that they should sit.

  Nevertheless, the three detectives seated themselves as Jamie extended his right hand, saying, “That would be me, Ms. Aba.” He held his hand out for several seconds.

  Sedecla looked at his hand, then into his eyes, a tiny, wry smile playing about her full lips. “Forgive me if I do not shake hands, detective. In my culture, it is somewhat presumptuous to shake hands with strangers. Please feel free to be seated,” she said, with a faint tinge of irony in her voice.

  Jamie slowly withdrew his hand and sat in the center chair between Cal and Ramirez. “No offense taken, ma’am. I apologize if I have offended you in any way.”

  Sedecla waved a slim hand in dismissal. “Not at all, detective. I am so glad that you understand. Now, why have you come here today?”

  To Jamie, it felt as if she were trying to turn the tables on them, making them the subjects of the interview. He held her gaze for a moment, then replied, “Well, ma’am, we’re investigating a series of homicides, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Sedecla widened her eyes and cocked her head. “Homicides? Really? Why do you think you need to ask me questions about such a distasteful situation?”

  Cal leapt into the breach, falling into their standard pattern of alternating questions, from different attitudes and demeanor. “Ms. Aba, while you may not see any connection to yourself, our investigation has revealed links between you and an organization which may be connected to the murders—the Disciples of Endor. Are you aware of any illegal activities on the part of this group?”

  Sedecla’s hazel, almond shaped eyes flashed in response to the challenging tone of Cal’s voice. “Indeed not, detective. I have connections with several organizations. Why do you think to connect the Disciples with the homicides you are investigating? From my knowledge, the last thing in which they would be involved is homicide.” While her eyes betrayed anger, her voice did not rise, and her speech remained even and calm.

  Jamie stepped back up to the plate. “That may be, ma’am, but several of the victims were members of the Disciples, former members, or otherwise connected with the Disciples. In our experience, whenever we find commonality between victims, there’s usually a connection.” Ramirez, being a rookie, took in the byplay while staying silent. His only task was to observe Aba.

  Now Sedecla’s tone of voice took on a definite edge of anger. “I daresay you could probably find many such connections amongst your victims—places of employment, hobbies, places of worship, other groups to which they belong. If only some of the victims have a connection to the Disciples of Endor, then it seems to me that you are following a false lead.” Clearly, she was not a woman who was used to being questioned or challenged.

  “Well, Ms. Aba,” replied Cal, his own voice sharper now, “we wouldn’t dream of telling you how to conduct your affairs. Unless you have a background in law enforcement, you probably shouldn’t tell us how to conduct ours. Plus, you haven’t answered the original question. Are you aware of any illegal activities on the part of the Disciples of Endor? You seem to be closely aligned with this group, so you may be implicated by association.” Cal leaned forward in his chair and locked gazes with the woman.

  Sedecla did not respond for several seconds, but neither did she break the staredown with Cushing. Finally she replied, “To my knowledge, the Disciples of Endor are not, and have never been, associated with any criminal activity. Does that answer satisfy you, Detective Cushing?”

  Cal paused, then leaned forward, grabbed Sedecla’s left hand, and turned it so the detectives could see the black ring on her finger. It happened so fast that Sedecla couldn’t draw back immediately. “You may have answered my question, Ms. Aba, but I think it’s an odd coincidence that the ring you are wearing has the same image as what was burned into the bodies of the victims. Whaddya call it, Jamie?”

  “A Mandean skandola.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  Sedecla snatched her hand back from Cushing with a deep hiss. “How dare you,” she exclaimed in a hoarse, soft whisper, silk sliding over sandpaper. “Despite my earlier admonition, you dare to grab me?” She stood now, her body tensed with anger. “This interview is over, detectives. I do not have to answer to you about these matters. Any further questions can be directed to my attorney.”

  “Who would that be, ma’am?” asked Jamie politely.

  Still furious, Sedecla slammed open a desk drawer, withdrew a card, and flicked it at Cushing. Saying nothing, she pressed a small button at the edge of the desk.

  Cal deftly caught the card and looked at it. “Hunh. Another odd coincidence. You have the same attorney as the Disciples. I’m starting to think you’re much more involved in that cult than you let on.”

  Now trembling with rage, Sedecla held out her left hand, pointing her index finger at the men and began chanting, in a soft voice at first, but rising to just short of shouting, deadly power and anger infusing each word as she spoke. Jamie did not understand the words, but he understood the meaning and intent behind them. If he’d had any doubts, they evaporated when she continued in English. “I curse you all, your friends and your family, all who know you in any way. Death and darkness shall follow your steps and misery shall be your constant companion. Pray to whatever gods you hold dear, fools. Your days are now numbered.” As she finished, four large men, carrying weapons underneath their black suits, came thundering down the spiral staircase. “You will leave now.”

  The three detectives stood , glaring at Sedecla and at the goons she had summoned. They turned and strolled to the door, followed by Sedecla’s men. They walked out the door, and then turned to face the men. “Tell your mistress that this is not the end of our investigation,” said Cal, as the door slammed in their faces.

  * * * *

  Sedecla was still in a rage when her managers arrived at her residence in response to her summons. She was stalking around the formal living room on the second floor of her building. The men entered cautiously at her command and seated themselves in chairs before her. In a voice trembling with rage, Sedecla related the interview with the detectives and the curse with which she ended the meeting. She wound down, regaining control of herself, and walked to an end table, p
oured herself a glass of wine, then sat and leaned back into a dark red fainting couch.

  After a moment of silence, ibn Ezra spoke up. “What would you wish of us, Qedesh? Surely your curse will deal with these kapura as they deserve?”

  A bitter smile played about Sedecla’s beautiful face, rendering it fearsome in her now smoldering anger. “Faithful kohen,” she said to ibn Ezra. “Yes, my curse will descend upon them, but I will also pursue retaliation in this sphere of existence as well.” She now looked at Choate and O’Neill in addition to ibn Ezra. “Thus, I instruct you all to learn as much as you can about these three detectives. I want to find ways to inflict great pain upon them for their insolence.”

  O’Neill cleared his throat. “Three detectives, Mistress? I thought only Griffin and Cushing were coming to see you.”

  “As did I, Timothy,” she replied evenly, her temper now under control, “but there was a dark skinned man who said nothing during the interview.”

  O’Neill thought for a moment, and then said, “I think I know who that must have been. I’ll find out for sure.”

  “I want you to do far more than that, Timothy. I want you to tell me how we can best hurt each of these men. I want to destroy them.”

  O’Neill said nothing for a few seconds. He just returned Sedecla’s fierce gaze. Then he said, “I understand, Mistress. However, I must again warn you: taking overt actions against the police will only intensify scrutiny. I would advise against any direct action and allow your curse to do its work.”