A Cruel Season for Dying

by Harker Moore

  It was as good a save as was possible. Especially the DNA bluff. She hoped the sharks appreciated it. As for her, it was mission accomplished.

  Willie and Darius were waiting for him when Sakura returned to his office. They looked like conspirators. He didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d brought them together, but it wasn’t exactly this. He felt a small prick of jealousy at their alliance.

  He greeted them both, sat down behind his desk, littered with surveillance photos from last week’s funerals. “I didn’t expect to see you here today,” he said to Michael.

  Darius remained silent. It was Willie who spoke. “It was pretty rough out there at the end. What do you think about this thing with the locket?”

  “Ms. Kahn generally has her facts straight,” he answered. “Johnson’s headed to the Mancusos’ to check if the sister lied.”

  Willie frowned. “Losing the physical evidence is tough,” she said, “but it’s not our whole case. We still have the bartender and—”

  “And Graff’s still dead.” Sakura was aware of how he sounded. “No need now for probable cause.”

  “He did leave a confession.”

  “‘I’m sorry.’” He quoted the note. “Graff didn’t say for what.”

  “Would an innocent man kill himself?” She was playing devil’s advocate.

  “Maybe if he couldn’t see a way out,” he answered. “Circumstantial evidence piling up. He photos a guy whose roommate turns up among the dead. Gets ID’d by a witness who’s seen some guy with glasses and a hat for two minutes in a bar. Not to mention he’s been publicly outed and basically screwed with the Church.”

  “Might make me depressed.” Michael had finally said something.

  Willie shook her head. “I can’t pretend that losing the necklace wouldn’t be a real blow, and aspects of the profile still bother me….”

  “Nothing fits, Willie,” Sakura said. “We’ve made it fit.”

  “I know,” she conceded. “There’s always been something wrong with how we’ve looked at this case. It’s like one of those Magic Eye pictures, where the surface pattern hides the 3-D image. If we could change our normal focus somehow … look through the surface. That’s where the real meaning is, in a place we haven’t begun to imagine.”

  He had nothing to say to that.

  “I had this idea the other night,” she went on, “that maybe the killer is selecting the victims by their appearance, not their sexual orientation. Lucia could fit then, if you grant that she was something of a tomboy. And the men were all fairly effeminate….” She let it die, thinking no doubt what they were all thinking. That time was running out for Jimmy. That the fiasco of the necklace would demand a scapegoat.

  Willie stood. “I want to get some of my notes…. I’ll meet you in the squad room.” She looked at Michael.

  He watched Darius watching her leave. “You and Willie seem to be getting along.”

  Darius turned to him, tilted back in the chair. “Yeah.”

  “‘Yeah’ …?” he repeated the monosyllable.

  “What do you want to hear, Sakura? That my intentions are honorable?”

  “Willie can take care of herself,” he said. “Maybe you should be careful.”

  Darius ignored the comment. Let the chair fall flat. “He’s still out there.”

  They were back to that. He swiveled in his own chair now. A Kabuki dance. “Do you think I fucking don’t know it?”

  Darius’s eyes narrowed. He reached in his pocket for his cigarettes, then seemed to think better of it. “I’d like to go through the files.”

  This was another surprise. “Give Kelly a call first. I’m leaving this afternoon. I’ve got a conference in Baltimore tomorrow.”

  Darius nodded and stood. “If I figure anything out—”

  “You have my cell phone number.”

  The snow came down as it had long threatened, in tiny needlepoint flakes that blew in misty swirls through the plaza. The man stood his ground, not far from the ramp going down into the headquarters garage. He had been in this particular spot for a while now, watching the cars that drove in and out. He’d have to move on again soon. He didn’t want the guard in the booth to spot him and wonder what he was doing.

  He had gotten to Police Plaza as quickly as he could, searching for the man he’d seen on TV. Since he’d arrived, he’d remained outside the building, dividing his time between the ramp and the main entrance. Occasionally he’d gone indoors to look around, his camera bag at his shoulder, reprising his role as photojournalist.

  The force of the wind increased, blowing stinging flurries in his face. He took it as a sign to move on, and pulling the drawstring of his hood tighter, he began walking around the building. A reporter, whom he recognized, started up the stairs as he approached. He slowed, glancing around at the crowds of bundled people moving toward the doors. He heard the reporter’s voice ahead of him, calling to someone. Reflexively he turned and looked up at the man who was coming out of the building with the dark-haired woman at his side.

  “Sergeant Darius.” The reporter was backpedaling slowly down the stairs ahead of him, dancing in front of the man, attempting to stop his forward progress. “You back on the force, Sergeant?”

  “No, I’m not. Just a private citizen.” The man took the woman’s arm, pushed forward and free, passing only feet from where he was standing. The light moved with him and lit the windblown snow, a blazing glow of milky incandescence.

  Sakura leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. Darkness lay beyond the darkness, a thick debilitating blackness that sucked air from his lungs, drained blood from his veins until he was no more than the vacated shell, surrendered by the locust he’d once kept as a child. Even now, he could see into the deserted bamboo cage, could hear the crackle as his seven-year-old fingers crushed the brittle exoskeleton into brown dust. The locust had escaped its old life. A perfect reincarnation that had left him sad and bewildered.

  “I might be getting drunk after what happened at that press conference.” Faith Baldwin stood in the threshold of his office, backlit by the squad room chaos. She closed the door.

  “Where were you?” He brought up the fact that she had not shared the stage with the rest of the higher-ups.

  “I was delayed, but arrived in time to hear Ms. Kahn’s news. Quite the bitch, but I admire her tenaciousness….” She had moved next to his chair and was looking down at him.

  He felt himself straighten, the earlier darkness transforming itself into a liquid heaviness resettling in his gut. “One piece of evidence doesn’t make a case. Or lose it.”

  She walked away toward the glass window separating his office from the squad room. “No, but I wouldn’t have enjoyed prosecuting the good priest and having that locket bite me in the ass.” She toyed with the blinds, finally closing them. “But it’s all moot since Thomas Graff bailed out on us.”

  “Suicide points more to guilt than innocence.” He stood, turning to make tea.

  “We can’t know that unless the killer strikes again.” There was an edge of excitement in her voice, as though she were holding her breath, waiting for another murder.

  “I’m leaving for Baltimore today.” He turned and saw she’d sat down. The room’s fluorescence had turned her legs to milk.

  She raised her brows. “That’s convenient.”

  He went back to the hot plate. “What do you want, Faith?”

  She rose, moving to where he stood behind the desk. “You’re no fool, Sakura. Don’t let McCauley, or any of the others, force your hand. You know as well as I do that the chances of Graff’s guilt were iffy at best. That killer’s still out there. When you do get him, I want some solid evidence.”

  “I’m running out of time.”

  The green in her eyes shifted. Then reaching down, she slipped her hand between his thighs. A laugh curled in her throat. “I can still give you a hard-on.”

  His fingers tightened around her wrist, pulling her away.

&
nbsp; She shrugged, then smiled. “But everyone knows it’s only what happens above the belt that counts with James Sakura.”

  The ductwork in the apartment house was relatively new and spacious, and without his jacket the man fit easily inside the galvanized corridor that ran between ceiling and floor and within the skin of the building. He left his shoes with the parka and the camera bag next to the grille he’d replaced, and he crawled as silently as he could to the outmost lineal point, the junction between the topmost floor and this one.

  He had followed the light. From Police Plaza to the subway. Then emerged behind the man and the woman at the station, tracking them through the streets to this building and its cryptlike lobby. He had waited in the shadow of a column, watching as they’d walked together past the elevators and the ornate marble stairs, to disappear into a discreet hallway. After moments he’d followed to find at its end a small private elevator to the top floor, its access controlled by a keypad.

  Security was lax, and he was able to look around the lobby—a tourist with his camera, interested in old buildings—till the receptionist at the desk had returned to her novel. Then he’d slipped down the stairs to the underground parking he had noticed from the street. There were several vehicles parked in the designated spaces, including an SUV in a slot labeled DARIUS. He took his time checking everything out, then rode the elevator as far as it would go and, finding the stairwell locked, he made his way into the ductwork.

  He braced himself now inside the metal walls, the leg he’d reinjured in the church screaming its protest. He ignored the pain, snaking upward the twelve-plus feet to the ceiling of the forbidden floor, crawling to an open grille. Below him was a hallway and nearby a door. He could see the top of its frame, where a spare key was hidden.

  He was still there, watching and waiting, when finally the door opened and the man and the woman came out, the ineffable light of Samyaza spilling from the body bag called Darius. The woman was speaking, saying that Sakura would not be back from Baltimore till Wednesday. In silence he looked on as the couple passed below him and took the private elevator down.

  In minutes he was inside the apartment, and for a short time he just sat in the dark, breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The woodsy scent, pine, he decided, hung heavy inside his nostrils, flushed deep into his lungs. The top note. Lower, the molecules were sweeter. Fruity. He licked his lips and swallowed full. Then in the next inhalation he found the musk, elemental and defining. It clotted inside him. A solid knot. A nucleus of beginnings. And endings.

  He stood, expanding his vision to take in the whole of the living room. Love seat. Table. Rug. Then like a mass of unformed flesh, a sofa in front of a bone white wall. Leather. He could smell the leather. Slowly he moved forward, hands reaching out like eyes. Touching. Soft, like new skin. Onto his knees he pressed his face into a cushion. Ahhh, his head falling backward. His musk here too. Soaked into the leather, a part of it now. His tongue stroked the pillow’s edge, where the pieces of hide had been fitted and stitched. The darkness of the abyss parted, and Gadriel entered.

  He collapsed against the floor, weak and shuddering with the deliciousness of his victory. He felt himself hardening, and he pressed the palm of his hand flat against his erection. With his head tilted back, he gurgled, the musky rawness bubbling inside his throat. Spittle ran down his chin, a single pearl landing on his chest.

  Somewhere a clock ticked. He opened his eyes. Regaining his balance, he stood and walked to the telephone. He lifted the receiver. Trembling, he pressed the numbers and waited.

  “Hello.”

  Her sweet voice. Zavebe’s voice.

  “Hi, Hanae. Adrian Lovett. Had to miss class this afternoon,” he said. “But I hope we can get together before Christmas. I have a little something for you.”

  James Sakura sped along the turnpike. It felt like running away, even if it were true that his speech at the Law Enforcement Conference was something that had been scheduled months ago. He was glad at least that he hadn’t booked a flight. It was better to be driving, despite the chancy weather. It gave him the illusion of control.

  Adelia Johnson had called, catching him at home as he was packing his overnight case. Celia Mancuso had confessed to the lie. The necklace was hers, not her sister’s, and had been lost in a make-out session with some boy. Without the necklace there would never have been enough for an arrest, or even the credible threat of one. Without the necklace Thomas Graff might still be alive.

  He had managed to avoid McCauley before he’d left the office, which was a clear indication of the chief’s avoiding him. Not quite ready to let the ax fall. Waiting, no doubt, for reaction to Kahn’s revelation to develop in the press. For public anger to coalesce. A predictable anger that the monster, now preying on children, had not been caught, after all. That a priest, no matter how flawed, had been hounded to his death by an incompetent investigation.

  He had seen it all before. The cathartic public rage allowed to peak before the announcement, which would inevitably come when the killer struck again. Lieutenant James Sakura would be replaced as the head of the task force by an officer of no lesser rank than captain. Proof of the seriousness of the NYPD in addressing public concern.

  He had never failed before, not in any serious way. And he found himself wondering how he would react when failure had to be faced. This was itself troubling. A warning sign. He was observing himself like an object, as if emotion were divorced from mind. He had strayed from his path, from the Tao.

  An image of Hanae sadly bidding him good-bye flashed like silver in his mind. His wife had been unhappy for weeks. He had sensed it clearly but had shut it out, allowing her to protect him from whatever was the trouble. He must be ruthlessly honest. The truth was, he did not accept that he could fail, either in his job or in his marriage. But such confidence was unrealistic. A mask for his fear.

  He could fail. Any attempt to salvage his case must be based on this truth. He could waste no more energy on protecting his ego from McCauley, or from himself. When he returned from Baltimore, he would have very little time. He must make the most of it. And despite any cost, he had much to gain from a very long talk with his wife.

  He was nearing the bridge now and he reached to turn off the wipers. The snow, which had seemed to follow him from the city, had ceased.

  Michael Darius, standing in the hallway, reached above the door frame for the key to the apartment. It was foolish putting the key here. Probably foolish to lock his door at all, since only the staff and a very few people had the code for the elevator keypad. But he had always locked his apartment, a symbolic thing no doubt, as symbolic as the hidden key had become. It was Margot who had started leaving the key above the door. It had stayed here since she’d left him, in some half-unconscious belief that someday she might come home and need it to get in.

  Darius opened the door and, as if in a gesture of mere habit, put the key back into its place. He moved into the dark apartment and, tossing his coat on the sofa, crossed the room to the long windows. The night he looked into was cold and still. The snow with its stinging fury had died away—a torrent of white gnats that had plagued the day, matching his mood. An anxious restlessness he could not shake, even here.

  He moved to the cabinet and took out a bottle of scotch. Poured himself a double. The message light on his phone was blinking, the light too irritating to ignore.

  Sorry for wimping out on going back with you to Jimmy’s office this afternoon. Willie’s throaty voice, distinctive. Catch you there tomorrow…. Oh, and, Michael, bring my notes. I left them on your coffee table. A hesitation before the click, as if she might have said something more.

  He sank into the corner of the sofa. Downed half of the scotch. He had been glad today when Willie had decided not to join him. Glad that Sakura had already been gone when he’d returned to Police Plaza. He had hoped that his time alone with the files might produce some fresh insight. It had not.

  He finished the drink and sta
red into the darkness. Something was not right. His restlessness was an energy that buzzed inside these walls. He reached and switched on the lamp, as if the light might annul its piercing frequency. But his tension only increased.

  He stood. Knowing where he was going. But not why.

  Their bedroom was as he’d left it. But not the same. Beneath Margot’s heady lingering of civet and roses, his and not his, the odor of peaches dying.

  CHAPTER

  20

  The weather was again worsening by the hour. Clouds like dirty woolen batts seemed pinned into place. Working all day with Darius in Sakura’s box of an office, Willie felt a gray oppression that was more than a reflection of the sky.

  She was tired, physically exhausted with this ten-day roller coaster since Lucia Mancuso had died. She rubbed her eyes, looking at Michael across the space of the desk. He might have been a million miles away.

  “Ten days,” she said to him in the silence.

  “What?” He lifted his head.

  “It’s ten days since Lucia. There were twelve days between Pinot and Kerry.”

  “And it was two weeks after Westlake before he killed Pinot.” Darius’s voice was flat, sounding as tired as she felt. “There’s no pattern. He killed the first three in less than a week.”

  “I know,” she said. “I just can’t help wondering when he’ll strike again.”

  He didn’t comment, going back to whatever he was reading, sinking in, oblivious.

  She continued to watch him for a while. He was a natural speed-reader, plowing quickly through boxes of files. She imagined him devouring case law in just the same way. He would pass the bar easily, she decided, if he ever bothered to take it.

  “I want to get through everything,” he said, looking up at her again. “But you go ahead.” He made the effort to smile. “You look tired.”