Abracadaver (Esther Diamond Novel)

by Laura Resnick

  We were all silent for a moment of somber reflection, though I doubted that John and Nathan were thinking the same things that I was thinking about the misfortunes of the Yee family.

  Then Lucky said, “I know Sam’s with his wife and kids today. Big holiday, and all that. So I guess this is everyone, huh? I think we should get down to business.”

  John let out a slow breath and nodded. “Yeah, we should talk about this. If I can explain it without sounding crazier than Susan Yee sounded today. I have no idea what to think about what happened here a little while ago. Or what to do—if anything.” He paused, seemed to give himself a mental shake, and said, “I’m going to make a concerted effort not to babble. I swear.”

  “That’s perfectly all right, John. Something has obviously distressed you,” said Max. “What has happened here?”

  Nathan and John exchanged a look, and the father said to the son, “You tell them.”

  “Are you sure? You’re the one who saw—”

  “You start,” Nathan said firmly.

  “Okay.” John collected his thoughts for a moment, then began, “After the police took my statement and said I could go home—I have to go down to the station and give another one, but they’ll call me about that . . . Tomorrow maybe? I don’t know.” He paused. “Sorry, that was almost a babble.”

  “You’re doing fine,” Max said soothingly, well accustomed to the confusion and distress of normal people who encounter mystical phenomena—if that was indeed what had happened here. “Please continue.”

  “Um . . . I came back here, took a shower, tried to relax. But I was so wound up after what had happened.”

  “‘Course you were,” Lucky said gruffly. “Lookin’ down the barrel of a gun held by that crazy girl.”

  “And where the hell did that fire come from?” John wondered. “I didn’t imagine it, did I? Susan dropped the gun because fire shot out of my mouth, right? Um, out of the mouth of the lion head I was wearing, I mean.”

  I thought we should probably move on, so I said, “It’s been a really weird day all around. So, anyhow, you came back here, took a shower, and then . . .”

  “Then John called me,” said Nathan.

  “That’s right. I didn’t want Dad to hear from the Chinatown grapevine about what had happened. That would scare him to death—especially since creative editing would ensure that by the time the story got to him, people would be saying I was dead or maimed or in a coma.”

  “John,” his father admonished faintly.

  Lucky said to Nathan, “So you dropped what you were doing and came here straight away.”

  Nathan nodded. “After I got here, we talked for a while, and then I thought maybe work would help John calm down and get his mind off what had happened. So I suggested he do Mr. Capuzzo’s hair.”

  “Whose hair?” I asked.

  “Capuzzo is a client whose wake will be held in Antonelli’s this week,” said John. “And I thought Dad was right when he said that focusing on some work might help me calm down.”

  I sincerely doubted that touching a corpse would help me recover from nearly having become one . . . but, then, I hadn’t been raised in a family of morticians, whereas John had. And, after all, for all that I loved being onstage, I was well aware that the prospect of performing in front of an audience struck many people as terrifying rather than exciting or enjoyable. To each his own, it takes all kinds to make a world, and so on.

  “So I did Mr. Capuzzo’s hair. And it did calm me down a little. Then . . .” John frowned, looking distracted again.

  “Then the detective showed up,” Nathan reminded him.

  “Oh, right, the cop.” John nodded.

  “Was he looking for me?” Lucky asked darkly.

  “No, for me,” said John.

  “Was it Lopez?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Detective Lopez from the OCCB.”

  Years of friendship with Lucky apparently ensured that Nathan recognized the initials. “He did mention being from the Organized Crime Control Bureau, but his name wasn’t . . .”

  His voice trailed off as the door chimes tinkled softly. Nathan rose from his seat to greet the newcomer, and we all looked in the direction of the entrance hall to see who it was. I wondered with mingled tension and hope whether it would be another cop—one particular cop, of course—and I was both disappointed and repelled to see who it actually was.

  Danny Teng appeared in the broad doorway of this reception room. He was dai lo—the leader—of the Red Daggers, a Chinatown gang that worked for the Five Brothers tong. He was violent, stupid, dangerous, and sexually aggressive enough to be menacing.

  “Is Uncle Six here yet?” he asked the Chens, not even bothering to say hello.

  “Not yet,” said Nathan. “The police might release the body to us in a couple of days.”

  What’s left of it, I thought.

  Lucky exchanged a glance with me, and I could see he was thinking the same thing.

  Uncle Six, aka Joe Ning, had taken a swan dive off a sixth-floor balcony, and it seemed certain he would have a closed-casket funeral. No matter how good the Chens were at their profession, they weren’t miracle workers.

  Joe Ning, head of the Five Brothers tong, had been murdered by Susan Yee because he’d financed Ted’s film after the first backer died (also killed by Susan). But apart from me, Lucky, and Max, no one recognized the significance of the broken gourmet fortune cookie found near the spot where Uncle Six had slipped and fallen to his death. To the mundane world, Joe Ning’s death appeared to be accidental—or possibly a suicide which his immediate family members, the only other people in his apartment that night, were determined to conceal. Because Ning was a kingpin in Chinatown’s criminal underworld, I assumed the cops also considered murder a possibility—but death by cookie would never occur to them. And they would never believe Susan had killed him with a curse, not even if she confessed to it.

  Looking at Danny now, I hoped for Ted’s sake that there was never even a vague rumor about Susan’s involvement in the tong boss’s death. Danny was so amoral and bloodthirsty, he might retaliate against Ted if he ever suspected the ex-filmmaker’s sister had whacked the old man. And with someone like Danny, retaliation would mean another funeral.

  As dai lo of the Red Daggers, Danny had reputedly done a lot of special jobs for Uncle Six. In fact, Ning had assigned Danny to watch over his newest investment, Ted’s film, which was why Danny had been hanging around the set of ABC lately. He was on the set when he got the news of Ning’s death, and he’d been so enraged and out of control, I was afraid he’d lash out and hurt me or Ted. It was a relief when he stormed off to go commit mayhem somewhere else, and I had hoped never to see him again.

  Not happy about seeing him now, I noticed he was swaying slightly, and I supposed he’d been drinking—as was often the case.

  “When you get Uncle Six here,” Danny said to Nathan, slurring his words a little, “you gonna do right by him, you hear me? You gonna make him look good.”

  “Yes, of course,” Nathan said soothingly, with as much confidence as if Ning had died of a something much less messy than a very long, hard, fast fall onto a city street.

  “Uncle Six deserves the best.”

  Danny, who was about my age, spoke English with a slight Chinese accent; his first language was Cantonese. His long hair was slicked back and tied in a ponytail, as usual, and he sported a little mustache and goatee that didn’t suit him. He habitually wore blue jeans, boots decorated with silver studs and chains, and a black leather jacket. And he was almost certainly armed.

  “Uncle Six will get the best,” Nathan assured him.

  “If he don’t,” Danny warned blearily, “then I’m gonna cut you.”

  John rose to his feet, openly angry about seeing his father threatened. Striding forward, he said tersel
y to Danny, “You need to leave. Right now.”

  Nathan turned his back on Danny (which I wasn’t sure was wise) as he stepped into John’s path, put his hands on his son’s shoulders, and met his gaze. “John,” he said quietly, “let me handle this.”

  John ignored his father’s request. “Get out,” he said to Danny—who started laughing.

  I didn’t like to intrude, but I rose to my feet, too, and placed a hand on John’s arm. “Your dad’s right,” I said quietly. “Let him deal with this.”

  I had seen on a previous occasion that Nathan had an enviable ability to deal calmly with thugs like Danny and take some of the edge off their aggression. Probably because he was a respected elder in the community. Whereas a tall, muscular young man like John would just make Danny feel challenged—especially the way John was glaring at him right now, as if ready to throw down with him.

  Nathan and I exchanged a glance, and I said more sharply, “John! Your father has this under control.”

  After another tense moment, John let his shoulders sag a little and he nodded his acquiescence. He was a smart man—and he respected his father.

  In any case, Danny was no longer paying attention to him. He had noticed me. Oh, joy. “Esther . . . what are you doing here? And why are you dressed like that?”

  Danny was used to seeing me in costume for Ted’s film, where I’d played an airheaded uptown slut who never felt the cold. Not wanting to interact with him, I ignored the question.

  Nathan turned back to Danny again, subtly stepping between us to shield me from the gangster’s gaze, which I appreciated. I looked over my shoulder, surprised that Lucky hadn’t intervened. He was still seated in his chair, leaning back, one hand stroking Nelli’s head to keep her calm, since she had sensed the tension in the room and was uneasy . . . But the expression on Lucky’s face was chilling as he stared hard at the drunken young thug who’d just threatened the Chens. I sometimes forgot that, although he always said it was strictly business, Lucky had killed people—including some very dangerous people. Looking at him right now, I was amazed it was something I was ever able to forget.

  But Lucky had a cool head and excellent command of his temper. And, like John, he respected Nathan. So he let this scene play out without his interference. Which was very fortunate for Danny Teng, I suspected.

  Nathan started walking toward the exit, his body language encouraging Danny to accompany him. “We will, of course, keep you informed of funeral arrangements. I know you were a valued associate in Uncle Six’s life, and you will be involved in the rites of his death. He would have it no other way.”

  “Hmph. Fucking right.” Despite his language, Danny sounded slightly mollified. But then he said with dark savagery, his voice floating back to us, “I’m gonna find who killed Uncle Six, and I’m going to blow him away, the bastard!”

  Just to be on the safe side, I decided I’d call Ted and advise him to think seriously about getting out of town for a while.

  I could hear Nathan’s voice in the hallway, thanking Danny for his “visit” and bidding him a good evening. When he returned to this room, he said in gentle admonishment to his son, “You need to exercise more patience, John. Consider the excellent example your uncle has just set.”

  Lucky grunted. John looked at the ceiling.

  “What a dreadful young man,” Max said. “I fear he will cause terrible grief someday, if he has not already done so.”

  “He’s a stupid, vicious thug,” John muttered.

  “No argument there,” I said. “But your father handled him very skillfully.”

  John scowled for a moment, then smiled ruefully and admitted, “He did.” He met his father’s eyes and shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “You’ve had a difficult day,” replied Nathan, dismissing the subject.

  “Which brings us back to the purpose of our visit,” said Max. “Before that young, er, person interrupted your narrative, you had just finished working on the deceased Mr. Capuzzo’s coiffure. And the gentleman was, I take it, quite dead?”

  “Quite dead,” John confirmed.

  “Unquestionably,” said Nathan. “I examined John’s work after he was done, and I guarantee that the deceased was . . . well, deceased. No question whatsoever.”

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  “I turned my back to put away some tools and refill some supplies that were running low. I was concentrating on these tasks for several minutes before I heard . . . heard movement behind me.”

  I felt a chill. “No one else was in the room but you and the dead guy—uh, you and the departed?”

  “No one else. I didn’t react at first—”

  “You didn’t?” I blurted. I’d certainly have reacted.

  “The recently deceased aren’t exactly silent,” John said to me.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Upon death,” said Nathan, “body chemistry starts changing, tissues begin breaking down, gases expand and release . . . And noises can accompany some of these processes. Occasionally there’s even a little movement.”

  “Oh,” I said faintly, realizing I’d probably be more nervous on my future visits to this place. It had never occurred to me that the corpses here might gurgle or shift.

  “But what the dead don’t ever do,” said John, “is get up out of their coffins and walk away.” He paused, then added, “Well, until today.”

  “That was the movement you heard?” Max looked to Nathan for confirmation.

  “Yes. I realized after a moment that the sounds I was hearing were too noisy and continuous to be normal,” said Nathan. “I turned around to look, thinking perhaps there was a mouse or something in the room with me.” He looked at me, then at Max, then at Lucky. “There wasn’t.”

  “What was there?” Lucky asked, on the edge of his seat now.

  “Yes, what?” I prodded.

  Nathan met John’s gaze, then said with obvious reluctance, “Mr. Capuzzo had gotten out of his coffin and was walking away from it, with his back to me. He was moving slowly and awkwardly. And . . . and . . .”

  “And?” Lucky and I said in unison.

  “And I screamed,” said Nathan. “I’ve never screamed like that in my life. I think I just kept on screaming.”

  “You did,” confirmed John. “Scared the shi—um, scared me to death. So I came running.”

  “While I was screaming, Mr. Capuzzo collapsed, fell down, and just lay there. Not moving.”

  “About five feet away from his coffin,” added John. “It’s where he was lying when I entered the room.”

  “Did you examine him?” Max asked.

  “Well, not at that exact moment,” John said. “We both, uh . . . needed a time-out. But after a few minutes, yeah, we looked him over.”

  “And?”

  “And he was still dead,” said John. “I’m a scientist. My father’s an experienced mortician. We’re sure. This guy has been dead for at least a day.”

  I glanced at the door leading to the working rooms of the mortuary. “Is he still here?”

  “As far as I know,” said John.

  I repeated, “As far as you know?”

  “We closed the door, I called you, and we haven’t gone back in that room since.”

  “Understandable,” said Max. “And probably wise. I would, of course, like to examine the body.”

  “Oh, yay,” Lucky said gloomily. “I was hoping we’d get to visit this thing.”

  But Max liked to be thorough and methodical, so first he asked the Chens to tell their story again, and this time he kept stopping them to ask for more details or get clarification.

  Upon reaching the climax of his tale again, Nathan said, “So I turned around and saw Mr. Capuzzo, with his back to me, walking away from his coffin. And I screamed.”

  “And I came running,” said John.


  “Where exactly were you at the time?” Max asked.

  “When I heard Dad scream?” John looked around. “Actually, I think I was right about here.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I was on my way to the office, coming back from the front door. I had just shown that cop out of the building.”

  “The cop!” I exclaimed, startling the others.

  “Yeah, the cop who came here to ask me some questions about today,” John replied. “The one who seemed skeptical when I said I didn’t know why Susan wanted to shoot me.”

  “An OCCB detective, right?” I prodded, remembering what Nathan had said only a moment before Danny’s unwelcome entrance.

  Lucky sat bolt upright and met my gaze as the penny dropped. “An OCCB detective.”

  Nathan said soothingly, “He wasn’t here for you, Alberto. He—”

  “Who was he?” I demanded.

  John shook his head. “Not the Latino cop you mentioned. This guy had an Irish name . . . He was a redhead . . . I don’t remember—”

  “Quinn,” I said with dread. “Detective Andrew Quinn.”

  John looked surprised. “Hey, yeah, that was the name. Quinn. You know him?”

  “Quinn.” Lucky fell back against his seat as he looked darkly at Nelli. “Same guy.”

  “First Nelli,” I said to Lucky. “Now this.”

  “It can’t just be coincidence,” he said.

  “What can’t be coincidence?” John asked.

  Max looked from Lucky, to Nelli, to me. “What is the significance of Detective Quinn?”

  “It’s why we left the scene of the shooting so suddenly today,” I replied. “Why we came looking for you. We didn’t understand exactly what it meant, but we were pretty sure it was a big deal.”

  “What was a big deal?” John asked, apparently realizing we weren’t talking about Susan trying to kill him.

  I looked at Nelli for a moment, then continued, “After Susan was arrested and things were calming down a little, Detective Quinn walked past Nelli and Lucky. That was all—just walked past them.”

  “Didn’t come close to us,” Lucky added. “Didn’t even look in our direction.”