The 8th Circle

by Sarah Cain

  The Caddy slammed into the ground, and Teddy jolted forward. The air bags exploded into him, grainy particles swirling through the air.

  The car rocked back and forth on its roof.

  Engulfed in the airbags, Teddy couldn’t move, couldn’t see, but he was alive. He smelled gasoline and heard the rush of the water close by. It was going to be all right. He just had to get out of this crumpled mess of a car.

  Then he heard a soft whump, like a sack of flour being ripped apart.

  Shit.

  *

  The driver of the Porsche continued down the Lincoln Drive and then swung onto Ridge Avenue East and back up Midvale to park on the campus of Philadelphia University. He pulled on a pair of sunglasses and walked to the Henry Avenue Bridge, where a plume of black smoke rose in the air. A small group had gathered to stare down at the valley below.

  “What happened?” the driver said to a pair of young guys who looked like students.

  “Oh, man. You missed it. There was a massive crash a few minutes ago,” said a tall kid with bright-orange hair tipped with purple. He looked like a pumpkin on a stick.

  “Really? A crash?”

  “No, dude. That car flew,” said the second kid. Dark haired, medium build, he might have been normal enough, except for his mass of piercings. Goddamn freaks. The driver would have happily tossed them both over the bridge, but he didn’t work for free.

  “A one-car crash?” He peered over the edge. All he could see were smoke, flames, and a couple of cop cars. The scream of the fire engines announced their impending arrival, but Teddy Powell was already a roasted pig. “Geez, I hope they got whoever was in there out.”

  “I don’t think so, man,” said the pumpkin head. “That car must have been going a hundred miles an hour to explode like that.”

  “I’ll bet that was something.”

  “We didn’t actually see it,” the dark-haired kid said. “But we heard it. I think the whole world heard it.”

  The driver nodded. He drifted back into the crowd and sauntered back to the Porsche. Too bad his next stop was the chop shop, but details were details, and someone might have noticed his car.

  Now he could report that the congressman with the big mouth was toast. That was the penalty for being a dumbass. Powell had cost them valuable merchandise. He had broken the rules. There was a price to be paid.

  8

  Danny almost never took Valley Forge Road through the park, but this afternoon, he did. He pulled over into a turnoff and then crossed the covered bridge by foot to the other side of the creek. The sky had turned pewter, the air raw. Soon it would probably start to pour, and he was wandering around in the woods.

  He followed the path, listening to the murmuring creek as he walked. Beth had come this way. The state cops had said she’d lost control on the twisting road. The Jeep had hit a low barrier, flipped, and lost a wheel, ending up in a crumpled mess in the creek. That afternoon, it had been snowing, and Beth hated driving in it. Black ice? Could something have been wrong with the car? Something the cops missed?

  “We’ll take your Jeep,” she’d said.

  Danny sagged against a tree. Beth had been driving his Jeep. He used to get death threats all the time, but he’d never taken them seriously. If he didn’t piss people off, he wasn’t doing his job.

  Could some nut job have damaged the car? Run her off the road? No, that was insane.

  Crouching down, Danny pressed his hands against his forehead. He could smell decay and death, the cold metal odor of the morgue.

  The lot of love is chosen. His mother had whispered that to him as she lay dying. Her beloved Yeats. Her lot was to marry a drunkard, bear him four kids, and die young. His was to choose Beth. He never regretted it. Never. She’d given him Conor.

  Inferno.

  Danny picked up a rock and threw it, then another and another. He heard them bounce off trees and splash down into the creek. The wind sighed through the trees, and Danny shivered. Branches scratched at the sky. A crow flew from the woods in a flurry of black wings, its caw piercing the raw air.

  *

  Novell walked behind Sean McFarland and gazed up at the redbrick facades of the row houses, now turned into apartments, on Pine Street. It was a pleasant neighborhood, filled with little boutiques and restaurants and couples out doing their Christmas shopping.

  They reached the correct address, and Sean hit the buzzer. The woman’s voice sounded scratchy and strained after Sean explained who they were and why they had come, but she buzzed them in. She lived on the top floor.

  Kate Reid stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, her hair pulled back from her pale face, and her eyes filled with wary curiosity. She wore black, which was fitting. Kate always seemed born to wear black.

  When she stepped back to let them enter her apartment, she didn’t look at him or Sean. Maybe because she knew he never appeared bearing good news. Maybe because she wanted to forget they had ever known each other. Novell didn’t blame her in either case.

  “Miss Reid,” Sean said, “I know this must be a difficult time for you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  She nodded.

  “We’re looking into Michael Cohen’s death, and anything you can tell us about him, anything at all, no matter how trivial it might seem, could be helpful.”

  Novell gave Sean points. He oozed a certain Boy Scout charm calculated to soothe. He doubted Kate was moved, but at least she wasn’t cursing. She glanced at Novell for a moment and turned her attention to Sean.

  “I knew Michael. I felt sorry for him. He didn’t seem to have a lot of friends.”

  Sean tilted his head as if puzzled. “Why do you say that?”

  “Michael was a bit different, I guess. He liked to hang out with me because I didn’t judge him.”

  “But other people did?”

  “I guess. I don’t really know. We didn’t discuss it.”

  “Did he mention what he was working on?”

  Kate chewed on her lip. “A piece about restaurants.” She stared into the space just beyond Sean’s forehead and motioned to the sofa. “Please. Sit.”

  The sofa was expensive. Novell recognized the quality of the creamy leather that enveloped him, and the thick, blue rug with its maroon-and-cream geometric patterns looked pricey as well. In an apartment where the rest of the furniture was comprised of Goodwill specials, these pieces seemed so out of place that it was jarring. Did that matter? Novell wasn’t sure.

  “How did you meet Michael?” Sean asked.

  “He’s a reporter, and I work for a senator,” she said in a tone with just enough calculated breeziness.

  “But he wasn’t a political reporter.”

  “No. If I recall correctly, I met him at the opening of a community center or something like that. I’m not sure Senator Harlan was even there.”

  She’d turned herself into a neatly packaged professional woman. She deserved a good life. It seemed small to begrudge her one. Novell rubbed his mouth. He’d become a sour old bastard. A scotch would taste good right now. Several, lined up like dutiful soldiers.

  “So when did you last see Michael?” Sean said.

  “Oh. I’m not sure. Sometime last week. He liked to drop by to watch movies. Michael liked movies. Old sci-fi, slasher flicks, gory stuff.”

  “Not your cup of tea.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I’m more of a rom-com girl.”

  Novell cleared his throat. That was a laugh. Kate didn’t believe in love, and she’d thrown in her lot with one of the worst pieces of shit in the Senate.

  “So you didn’t talk to him or hear from him the day he died?” Novell said.

  Kate narrowed her eyes and looked at him. “Why would I?”

  Neither an affirmative nor a negative. Novell wondered if she’d learned her technique from Senator Harlan. Kate would be difficult to crack, but he’d figure out a way.

  *

  “Impressions?” Novell said when they were heading out
of the city.

  Sean hesitated for a few seconds before he answered. “I don’t know. You ever meet a witness who says all the right things and seems to cooperate but something seems off?”

  Novell nodded.

  “Maybe it’s because she just came from Michael Cohen’s funeral and didn’t want to talk about him. But she feels wrong. She hung out with him, but she seemed so detached.”

  “Maybe they weren’t that close.” Novell figured he might as well play devil’s advocate. Not that Kate needed one.

  “Maybe, but something’s off. She lives in this funky apartment with a four-thousand-dollar sofa and some kind of designer rug. That’s weird.”

  “Maybe she saved up for it.”

  “If you’re moving up, generally you move in steps. Secondhand sofa to Ikea to a two-thousand-dollar job. You don’t generally go from zero to four thousand in one leap. And that rug must have cost at least eight. I’m betting they were gifts.”

  “Eight hundred?”

  “Eight thousand. My mom’s really into that shit. Believe me, my parents’ house has been redone more times than I can count.”

  “Maybe she has rich parents.”

  “If she came from money, her clothes would be better.”

  Novell almost laughed. Sean had his uses. He was the guy who could tell whether that antique was a genuine or phony. Maybe all kids from rich families were schooled in that. Maybe someone had paid her off. Maybe they were gifts from Michael himself. Novell wasn’t sure if she knew something relevant to Michael Cohen’s death or she was embarrassed by the connection.

  “And didn’t you think it was weird she had no personal shit anywhere? Nothing. No picture of mom and dad or boyfriend or a dog, for Chrissake. You ever walk into a place where someone had nothing personal around?”

  “Not everyone is sentimental.” As for the personal items, Novell understood that. Kate had nothing personal because she had almost nothing of her life to keep. “We’ll deal with people he saw regularly for now.”

  He’d deal with Kate later. She might not know who killed Michael Cohen, but it’s possible she knew why.

  *

  When Danny pulled into the driveway, Beowulf was waiting at the back door, so he didn’t bother putting the car in the garage. He just unlocked the door and let Beowulf run free. The dog raced straight toward the pond, stopping to pee against his favorite willow tree. Danny followed. There was a lot more gray in Wolf’s coat these days, and he ran much slower, but he’d always be that shivering pup with oversized paws that Danny had scooped from the trash.

  Even Beth, who had been constantly exasperated by Wolf’s desire to be a lapdog, would allow him to sleep on the family room sofa.

  “Did you train him to put his paw up like that?” she’d said when Wolf followed her into the room one day and sat in front of her with his paw out.

  “Are you kidding? He barely listens to me.” It was a lie. Danny had spent weeks teaching Wolf that trick. But Beth got used to having him snuggle against her on the sofa. She never did lift the upstairs ban, but she’d give him strips of beef and buy him special bones from her organic butcher. That was the side she had kept hidden from the world, the side he loved.

  “I don’t know who’s worse, you or that dog,” she’d say as she tossed Wolf a treat from Le Gourmet de Chien, and Danny would pick her up and howl until she laughed. The good days. He didn’t know how they had screwed it all up.

  Beowulf came running up to him amid a flurry of honking geese. When Danny squatted down to accept his dog’s affection, Beowulf knocked him over on the damp ground, and for a few moments, they wrestled just like old times. Danny could almost hear Conor giggling, and he jerked up. He took a breath, the memory a shard of glass. Beowulf pushed his head up against Danny’s chest. Danny clung to him for a moment and pulled some leaves out of his thick fur. He had to get himself together.

  “Race you back,” Danny said and ran up the hill to the house. He was sweating by the time he reached the back door. Beowulf was there already, waiting.

  “Extra hot dogs?” Danny said, and Beowulf pushed ahead of him into the house.

  Later, Danny looked at the DVDs he’d gotten from Michael’s place. Porn, shot in low light. From the length and quality of the picture, Danny thought it must have been shot at a sex club, a very kinky one, where the clients wore masks, cloaks, and not much else. They appeared to be mature, but the help seemed young. Too young. He tried to get a better look at a girl in a metal collar being led around the room by two dwarves. She looked no more than sixteen and seemed barely aware of her surroundings.

  All stone and marble, the club was like some kind of peculiar cathedral, though it seemed to lack windows, at least in these shots. Either Michael was looking into it or he was participating. Danny knew he should show these discs to Novell, but they might not be connected to Michael’s death. He owed Linda and Andy the truth before he handed these over to the police.

  Novell wanted to clear a murder. Danny wanted to find out what the hell Michael was doing and where he was doing it.

  His cell phone rang, and he debated answering it until he saw the name on the caller ID. Alex Burton.

  “Ryan,” he said.

  “Yo, Daniel. We need to talk.”

  9

  Danny stood in the crowded lobby of Seasons 52 and waited for Alex to appear. Outside a light, powdery snow drifted down. It wasn’t enough to make driving treacherous, but in a few hours, the roads would freeze. A bad weather night. A chill slithered down his neck, but it was just a gust of wind from the door opening.

  “Dan Ryan!” Alex said. She pushed through the crowd and made her way to his side where she gave him a hug and kiss. “You on that new starvation diet plan?”

  He smiled. Alex was nothing if not direct. “How’s it working? You can stop now. Ten more pounds and you’ll disappear.”

  They followed the hostess to their table, and Danny thought of all the times he and Alex had worked together. She covered city politics but had started to widen her area of expertise to the state and national scene and had made a name for herself as the one reporter the mayor didn’t want to face at a morning briefing. Pointed, pitiless, and pithy. He’d missed her company.

  They were seated with drinks on the way when he said, “I gather you’re upset about Michael.”

  “I always knew you were a smart guy.”

  “Has anyone talked to you about him?”

  She frowned. “Not yet, but I have an appointment with two cops, Novell and McFarland, to talk about our relationship. Some relationship. Michael used to steal my pens—you know how I love my purple pens—but he did help me with my computer. He was way better than the IT guys. I always thought he should’ve done that, not writing.” She paused when the waitress set a glass of Pinot Noir in front of her. “I heard if it was real news, you wrote his stuff.”

  Danny stared at his club soda. “That’s not really the point.”

  “Isn’t it?” She shook her head and softened her tone. “Hey. You were my mentor—damn, that sounds weird. But I don’t think I’d have had a career in Philly if it hadn’t been for you.”

  “You’d have been at the Times.”

  She waved her hand. “Andy offered me a column.”

  “And you said?”

  “Hell, no. He wasn’t offering me a column like yours because he said you’re coming back. I would be writing about black fashion and food. Puh-lease. You know what I think?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “This is serious, Daniel. I think someone was putting pressure on Andy to get me off the street.”

  “Come on, Alex. You’ve been driving the pols crazy for years. Andy loves that.”

  “About a month ago, I was on Teddy Powell—the late Teddy Powell. You know how there’ve been rumors about Teddy Powell for years—going after pages, that sort of thing—but there was never any proof?”

  “That’s old news, but yeah.”

  She
leaned closer. “So I was heading out to a town hall two weeks ago, and Michael says, ‘Ask Teddy Powell about Tophet.’ So I’m like, ‘What the fuck? Sure, whatever.’ I thought, there goes Michael again. But I get there, and Teddy’s doing one of his patented ‘All poor people are lazy’ blah, blah, and the words just popped out.”

  “You asked him if he ever heard of Tophet?”

  She grinned. “You bet. I figured it was some kind of joke and maybe he’d just look at me like I was crazy and then go on, but that motherfucker turned even whiter than usual and says, ‘No more questions.’ That’s it, and I didn’t even know what Tophet was.”

  “But you do now.”

  “Sort of. Tophet is the name of a place in some valley near Jerusalem that was used for pagan worship. So I see Michael and I asked him why he told me to ask Teddy about some valley in Jerusalem where they had human sacrifices. Teddy Powell’s an asshole, but I don’t see him running around making sacrifices in a ditch.”

  “And he said?”

  “Someone needed to do it.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “Are you crazy? Michael’s dead, and so is Teddy Powell. All I’ve got is this.” She paused and glanced around before she pulled out five pages of Xeroxed notes from her purse. “Michael gave me these and said to hold on to them as backup. I started to do some research on my own.”

  Danny wanted to kiss her when he saw the pages and Alex’s purple notations. “Why did he want backup? For what?”

  “He said you didn’t want them. Then he just gave me that creepy giggle and went off. So I take the list, start looking up names, ignoring the penis drawings, of course. It’s a lot of weird shit, nothing that makes sense. Check it for yourself. There’s Styx, by which I assume he meant the river, and Avernus, which is a lake near Naples.”