by Sam Christer
An airbag in Irish’s car broke her nose and left her with multiple bruises, including two black eyes and lips that look like she’s just done Botox.
Mitzi shifts her chair into a patch of shade while the captain reads a note on his computer.
‘The latest from Memorial Hospital is that he’s stable but still critical.’
‘He’s lucky to be alive.’ Mitzi tentatively puts fingers to the painful throb in the middle of her nose.
‘Not so lucky.’ Fulo reads the rest of the note. ‘He has broken ribs, left collarbone, and right wrist. He’s dislocated his right kneecap, sprained his left ankle and’ – he dries up.
‘And what, Captain?’
Fulo continues in an even more sombre tone. ‘His liver’s failing. It’s totally screwed. That’s what caused the blood you say he coughed up just before the blackout.’
‘Liquor?’
‘Years of it.’ His face contorts with anger. ‘Fuck, he was a good cop. Once. Before the freezer case.’
‘The what?’
‘Domestic over in Brookland. Young woman staggered into the precinct looking like she hadn’t eaten in a year.’ He points at Mitzi, ‘She had panda eyes – like yours. Kid was black and blue. Scars all over her flesh and she couldn’t speak.’
‘Shock?’
‘Doctors said some years back her tongue had been stapled to her lip with a carpet-fitter’s gun. When it turned gangrenous, her captor sliced off the end. Kid was left with a stump. But she could write. Wrote down stuff you’d never want to read. Fitzgerald was lead on the case. He went back to the shack she picked out as the one she’d been kept in and abused. Unsub had long gone. Searched the place and he found a freezer in the garage.’
‘I think I can guess what was in it.’
‘I don’t think you can. Fitzgerald found corpses of newborns.’
Mitzi hangs her head.
‘Four of them. Laid out in a line. The psychopathic son-of-a-bitch had abducted the woman when she was thirteen, and got her pregnant four times.’
She grasps at a straw of hope. ‘The kids were stillbirths?’
‘No. He’d delivered them, cut the umbilical cords and put them in the freezer to die.’
‘Why? Why did he keep them? Why not bury them?’
‘Trophies. He told the woman they were proof of his virility.’
‘Jesus. Please tell me this psychopath is on Death Row so I can go cheer when the big day comes.’
‘Better than that. He turned up dead in a motel in New York. Someone tied him to a chair, stuffed part of a bed sheet in his mouth and shot him in the testicles. According to the ME, the killer waited at least an hour before he pulled the sheet out of his mouth and put the gun between his teeth and fired the second bullet.’
‘Nice job.’
‘You’re not alone in thinking that. No one dug too deep to find the triggerman. Least of all, Fitzgerald. He barely seemed surprised. If you follow my drift.’
She nods. ‘I hope the hospital manage to fix him up. Get him a liver transplant, or whatever it takes.’
‘We’ll pull some strings. See what we can do to hike him up a donor list.’ He searches the layer of papers on his desk and pulls up a sheet. ‘This is for you.’
She takes it and stares at a list of names.
‘They’re private numbers for all the main British Embassy staff here and in London.’
‘Thanks. I’ll trawl them when I get back to California.’ She notices a half-smile. It’s the kind bosses always have when they know something you don’t. ‘What’d I miss?’
‘I spoke to your supervisor, Miss Donovan. She’s happy for you to be seconded to run this case from Washington, least ’til we see whether it’s got road to run or is just a dead end.’
‘She never mentioned this when I updated her last night.’
‘I spoke to her an hour ago. She expects you to call her after this meeting.’
‘Captain, I’d really like to see my daughters. I’m sure you can understand that.’
‘Then clear this up quickly, Lieutenant. And let’s not kid ourselves, both you and I know that someone’s going to have to go to England, and that sure as hell isn’t going to be me or Lieutenant Fitzgerald.’
56
SOHO, LONDON
Angelo Marchetti wakes Gisela the hooker.
He pays her off and bundles her out. Now he needs to shower, dress and get ready for his breakfast meeting.
The upcoming face-to-face is, after all, why he flew here some thirty hours ago.
He’s acutely aware that the man he’s meeting also owns the room he’s staying in and the illegal casino downstairs where last night he won several thousand pounds. No big deal, considering the business he’s about to conclude will net him millions. Millions and a new start. One far away from Owain Gwyn and his army of do-gooders.
Marchetti fastens the slim-cut white shirt that hangs loose over blue jeans. In the mirror, the thirty-four-year-old studies flecks of grey in his jet black locks and designer beard. His youth has gone and the signs of ageing make him nostalgic. As a teenager he played soccer for Napoli. Three short years during which he earned millions and spent much of it helping the poor in Campania.
Then came his blackest day.
A leg-breaking tackle that robbed him of his first international cap. The type of injury that would lead to years of rehab, painkillers and failed comebacks. At first, he fell back on his investments and continued to be a dedicated young philanthropist, building projects and hope for street kids in Scampia and Secondigliano. It was these acts that attracted the Arthurians to him and for a time gave him a reason to live. He worked hard at keeping young Italians out of the grasp of the Camorra and the Mafia.
Then had come the second blow.
Both he and his wife were having secret affairs. She with a former teammate. He with drink and drugs.
At first, the addiction was purely painkillers. They tamped the physical and mental hurt. Then as loneliness bit he befriended cocaine and heroin.
He moved to America to be out of the reach of the mob-owned dealers he owed money to, but as his debts grew so too did his addictions. He added gambling to his opiates in a bid to raise enough cash to pay everyone off and start again. Only he lost ten times more than he won.
The rap on the door shakes him from his thoughts.
He peeps through the spyhole.
Three figures fill his view – two large men, both armed.
And him.
The man Gwyn had spoken so much of.
The one the SSOA fear and hate the most.
57
POLICE HQ, WASHINGTON DC
Mitzi all but slams the phone down on Donovan.
The last thing she wanted was to stay in DC.
Ruthy, Jade and Amber are going to give her hell when she tells them that the couple of days she promised to be away is going to be more like a couple of weeks.
Now she needs more clothes. Unless she wants to end up smelling worse than Irish or his car. What’s left of it. What’s left of him, for that matter. She makes a mental note to call the hospital – right after she’s worked her way through the list of names Fulo gave her.
A vending machine coughs out something close to coffee and she takes it to Irish’s desk in the Homicide Squad Room. The whole square yard of space smells of him. Booze, fast food and dust have seeped into the cloth and wood where he’s done all his hours. Or not done it, judging by the piles of stuff stacked up.
She clears junk and gets down to the job of calling around. Systematically, she works her way through the private office and cell phone numbers of Britain’s entire senior diplomatic staff in the USA, both present and past.
No one picks up.
Unperturbed, she leaves messages for them to get back to her but doubts that they will.
Mitzi’s about to call her sister when a woman with spiky black hair and a pale, androgynous face appears at the edge of the desk and catches her by surpr
ise. ‘Hey! Don’t go creeping up on people like that.’ She puts her hand to her chest. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Sorry. Are you the lieutenant sent from the FBI?’
Mitzi looks over the dyed locks, black top and matching skinny jeans and boots. ‘Not if you’re the Grim Reaper. What’s with the look?’
‘I’m Kirstin Collins.’ She gestures to her clothes. ‘I’m working drugs, undercover at a club, but I was helping Irish out as well. Do you know how he is?’
‘Lieutenant Fallon.’ She stretches out a hand. ‘From what I heard, he’s in a bad way.’
‘Looks like you took a whack yourself.’
‘Yeah, that’s just because I can’t put make-up on. I always look this bad, even without the bruises.’
Kirstin laughs.
‘I’m going to call the hospital in a minute and check on him. Take a seat.’ Mitzi points at a chair. ‘Irish spoke highly of you. Said you’d make a good cop one day.’
‘One day?’ She laughs. ‘He’s got a cheek. Fulo says you’re running his case, that right?’
‘I guess so. Why? Have you got something?’
She tries not to stare too much at the black eyes and plastered nose. ‘You know Irish got a lead on the SUV and the Lincoln from Traffic?’
‘Yeah, I’m up to speed.’
‘Well, I looked on the map for all-night food joints near the exit where the vehicles came off. There were only a few. None had surveillance on their parking lots.’
‘That’s the way the cookie usually crumbles, Kirstin.’
‘I know. But I did talk to the overnight managers about whether they saw anything suspicious.’
‘I’m guessing one of them did, or else you wouldn’t be recounting this tale.’
‘Right. Guy called Ludo working ANAR, the All Night All Right franchise out near Stead Park, noticed a Lincoln leaving his lot. Minutes later a tow-truck appeared, hooked up the SUV and hauled it away.’
‘This Ludo get the name of the garage?’
‘No. But that wasn’t what stuck in his mind.’
‘What did?’
The SUV driver had eaten in the diner, but the Lincoln owner hadn’t. Soon after the paying customer left, Mr Lincoln owner came in and used the washroom. Then he reappeared and went straight back out again. This got the supervisor pissed, because they hate people just using the john and not ordering anything, so he went outside to shout at him. Only he didn’t holler because he saw the guy was at his car and looked like he was in pain. Ludo said he was struggling to get into the seat, holding a stack of paper towels to his arm. Then, as the Lincoln drove past him he saw the plates. He asked himself why a diplomat wanted to use his bathroom so urgently and why he needed a stack of towels for his arm.’
‘And?’
‘He went back to the restroom and found spots of blood on the floor.’
‘I’m going to ask a stupid question. By any chance did he mop up and keep the rags or sponge?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not, but deep inside me lives a young pixie called Hope and sometimes she just won’t shut the fuck up.’
Kirstin laughs. ‘Well, your pixie might be in luck because Ludo did notice something strange. Despite the spatter on the floor, there were no stained towels in the bin. No mess. Just the drips.’
‘So he came over all Dexter and did some blood analysis?’
‘Kind of. He thought maybe Mr SUV had been caught banging Mr Lincoln’s wife and been chased down to the diner where it all kicked off. He went outside to check everything was okay and saw the SUV being trucked away.’
Mitzi curses a lost opportunity. ‘Shame about the blood.’
‘Not really. My boyfriend’s a CSI. He went round and swabbed the floor for me. Even though it had been cleaned, he got traces from the mortar between the tiles. They’ve been processed in the labs and we have two good DNA profiles.’
‘Two? As in killer and victim?’
‘I guess that’s your pixie mouthing off again, Lieutenant. I really don’t know what he got. I’m just about to run the profiles through Records. You want to join me?’
58
SOHO, LONDON
The two bodyguards are not as tall as Marchetti but they’re more muscular and much younger.
In contrast, their employer is a small, slender man in his mid-forties. The Italian can hardly believe this unassuming figure is the notorious Josep Mardrid. He walks them through to the lounge area of the suite.
Mardrid sits on a cotton sofa, while the muscle stand around him like bookends. ‘Are you disappointed, Marchetti?’ He unbuttons his jacket. ‘Did you expect me to come wearing a black cape and have the horns and tail of a devil?’
‘I didn’t expect anything. Your intermediary gave you one of the burial crosses. Do you want to do business or not?’
‘What do you have for me?’
Marchetti slips a hand onto the shelf beneath the table and produces a Celtic cross.
Mardrid takes it and turns it in his palm. ‘You promised me valuable artefacts and secret information, Mr Marchetti. All I see there is a lump of old iron.’
‘It’s more than that. It’s an Arthurian burial cross.’
There’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. ‘Tell me more.’
‘When one of their knights is killed, he is buried with a cross placed on his chest. It is said they are forged from the same ore as Excalibur.’
‘A quaint story. How is this any use to me?’
‘It’s more than quaint, it’s true. Thousands of these men have been buried for centuries on land owned by Gwyn. They are laid in what the Order knows as Knight’s Graveyards. Sacred plots in secret places, all over the world. I imagine that if I were to give you their locations, and you were to make them public, then as the police and press began their enquiries, it would be advantageous to you to see Sir Owain exposed in such a way.’
‘Go on.’
‘I can do that.’ He picks up the cross. ‘This circle in the middle of the crucifix isn’t Celtic; it symbolizes the Arthurian round table. You can expose Gwyn as a fantasist, or whatever you like.’
‘I may have misjudged you, Mr Marchetti. If this cross is all you say it is, why did one of your men try to sell it, or one like it, to a Jew dealer in America and then have him killed?’
‘A mistake. Some idiots I employed acted out of turn. It was a question of money.’
‘Idiots do that kind of thing.’ He turns the cross over in his hands. ‘I would like to do what you said. It would be pleasing to see Gwyn’s warriors dug from the earth, and amusing watching him cope with the press fervour.’ He stretches out a hand. ‘Give me the details of these burial grounds.’
Marchetti laughs. ‘I may have employed idiots, but I am not foolish enough to have such details here with me. They are safe and tradable.’
‘Then let’s trade. What do you want for them?’
‘Ten million dollars for every graveyard.’
Mardrid smiles. ‘A ridiculous price. But not unreasonable for the ruin of Owain Gwyn.’ He gets to his feet and straightens out his suit. ‘Mr Marchetti, know this: there is now no going back on this deal.’ He wags the cross at him. ‘If you do not deliver as promised, I will have my men dig you a grave and bury you alive with your cross. Good day.’
59
POLICE HQ, WASHINGTON DC
Mitzi tips the water cooler and drains the last drops into a blue plastic cup. It’s enough to swill down another dose of painkillers.
Kirstin Collins stares at a monitor. She’s waiting for the national lottery of databases to play out and tell her if she’s struck lucky with matches to the two DNA profiles created from blood found at the diner near Dupont Circle.
‘How we doing?’ Mitzi drags a chair next to her.
‘Still searching. I like how on TV cop shows it’s all done in a single click.’
‘Yeah, and the guys in the squad are so handsome and have hearts of gold.’
The screen pings up the first result.
‘Profile One is not a winning ticket,’ says Kirstin. ‘No matches to any known offender.’
There’s an agonizing pause before the second profile result is revealed.
‘We have ourselves a hit! Bradley John Deagan. Forty-two years of age. One previous conviction for fraud.’
‘What kinda fraud?’
Kirstin scrolls down. ‘Something to do with a painting.’ She reads on, ‘Looks like he tried to sell one that never existed.’
‘What?’
‘Hold on. Let me click through to find the rest.’ Kirstin follows a link to supporting documentation. ‘Okay, here we go – the artwork was done by a guy named Eyck. It’s called The Ghent Altarpiece and was made up of different paintings – what they call panels. One of these was stolen and never found. Deagan tried to con a man called Christie by saying he had it and wanted to sell it.’
‘I think you mean Christie’s – it’s an auction house, not a person. They specialize in art and antiques.’
‘My bad for not knowing. I don’t buy a lot of art. Not unless you count my Chippendale poster.’
‘I don’t.’
‘If you saw it, you’d change your mind.’
‘I’m sure I would. Does the report say anything more about the piece he tried to sell?’
Kirstin scans the text. ‘Not much. Says part of the altarpiece shows four groups of people gathering in a meadow to worship the Lamb of God and Deagan claimed his painting showed a fifth group, one that had never previously been identified.’
‘Any values on there? Either for the real painting or what Deagan wanted for his fake?’
She reads as she scrolls. ‘The altarpiece was fifteenth-century – and wow was it big – eleven feet by fifteen.’ Kirstin spots a dollar sign. ‘Ten million. Deagan wanted a minimum of ten million bucks for his fake. Man, it must have been good.’