I made myself at home, for I had been there many times before and knew where she kept the Absolut-in the freezer. I went out onto the balcony with a small vodka and watched fireworks being lofted from West Palm Beach. I knew I had a few hours before Connie arrived, and I vowed to drink moderately and stay sober.
And this solitary wait gave me an opportunity to muse on everything that had happened during the past fortnight.
On that rainy Tuesday, after father and I had driven home from the Gillsworths' garage, we went into his study for a nightcap. We discussed the end of the investigations into the catnapping and the homicides, and we exchanged platitudes on the unpredictability of human behavior.
Then father looked at me with a quirky smile. "Archy," said he, "I suppose you believe Lydia's ghost came back to haunt Roderick."
"Yes, sir," said I. "Something like that."
"Nonsense," said he.
But now, sitting on the balcony, sipping vodka, and watching fireworks, I wondered if there really might be a supernatural world beyond reason and logic. Hertha had known the letter she received from Connie was a fake, and she had accurately visualized the room in which Peaches was being held prisoner. There might be reasonable explanations of both those insights. But there was certainly no logical way to account for Hertha's shriek of "Caprice! Caprice!" in the voice of Lydia Gillsworth during the seance. And was that the reason I so promptly shouted "Caprice!" when Rogoff had asked where the murderer's bloody clothes might be hidden?
I brooded about that a long time, thinking of Hertha's psychic gifts, the existence of ghosts, and all the other mind-numbing manifestations of the paranormal I had recently witnessed.
The display of fireworks ended at the same time I came to the conclusion that I shall never know the truth.
Nor shall you.
But then I realized the whole subject came perilously close to being serious, and I resolutely reminded myself that life is just a bowl of kiwis. And so when Connie finally arrived, glowing, I rushed to embrace her, eager for a larky interlude of laughter and delight.
SPECIAL PREVIEW!
THE POWERFUL DEBUT NOVEL FROM JOHN CLARKSON
AND JUSTICE FOR ONE
"Packs a savage punch." — The New York Times
"Brutally real, fast as a heavyweight champion's left hook-with an unforgettable impact."
— William J. Caunitz, bestselling author of One Police Plaza
DON'T MISS THE JOVE PAPERBACK COMING IN SEPTEMBER 1993
"Dark, sexy, tough and fast. . Reminiscent of early Lawrence Sanders."
— The Kirkus Reviews
Former Secret Service agent Jack Devlin comes to New York for his father's funeral and gets separated from his brother during a whis-key-soaked evening on the town. When his brother is found beaten within an inch of his life, Devlin takes it personally. His investigation into the decadent afterhours scene of New York leads him to a sadistic owner of a string of illegal clubs. It's up to Devlin, driven by revenge, to pull the underworld king off his throne.
"Delivers what it promises. . Action fans will applaud Devlin's arrival on the suspense scene."
— Publishers Weekly
Excerpted from AND JUSTICE FOR ONE by John Clarkson
The alarm clock shrieked a nasty little electronic beep. It finally annoyed Jack Devlin out of his hazy, hung-over sleep, but he kept his eyes shut hoping to suspend everything, hoping to keep away the awareness that it was someone else's alarm clock, that he was sick with a hangover and that he had buried his father yesterday.
But it all came pounding back-the funeral, the reception at his brother George's house, the drunken night out.
The woman next to him finally reached over and turned off the alarm, but Devlin didn't open his eyes. He remembered the frenzied drunken sex, the kind only two strangers can have, but he didn't want to open his eyes and see her. He just wanted to stumble out of there while she slept and leave it behind. The alarm killed that chance. She was awake now. She gently attached herself to him. A long naked leg nestled into his crotch. An arm wrapped around his chest. She gently massaged his shoulder.
He had to leave, but she wasn't letting go. He had to go back to the apartment where he was staying and find his brother George waiting for him there.
He kept his eyes shut, cleared his caked throat and asked, "Did you tell me your name was Helen?" knowing full well it wasn't.
"What?" She stopped massaging his shoulder and arm. She lifted her head. "What did you say?"
"Hold on a second. Where's your bathroom?"
"Down the hall."
Devlin gently extricated himself, swept the sheet off, and swung his legs to the floor. The room was air-conditioned down to a chilling cold. He clenched his teeth, stood up and squinted at the piercing pain in his head. It had been a long time since he'd drunk so much. With one eye half-open he left the bedroom and walked into a short hallway that led to the bathroom. The hallway was hot and stuffy after the air-conditioned bedroom. He ducked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
The shower water was steaming. He adjusted it with cold water and stepped in. The soothing water washed over his head and face and ran down his muscled belly. He filled his mouth with water, swirled it around and spit it out.
He lathered all over twice, shampooed his hair and shaved with a Lady Bic razor he found in the shower. He dried himself off with a clean blue towel and walked back to the bedroom feeling for dirt with his bare feet.
Daryl was sitting up in bed with her arms crossed under her breasts. In the dim light that leaked around the window shades she looked a lot better
than Devlin expected. A hell of a lot better. He sat in a chair next to the bed and looked right straight at her. Her breasts were nearly perfect. There wasn't an ounce of fat on a stomach that was just on the verge of showing some muscle. One long leg, uncovered by the sheet, was casually crossed over the other. The white sheet just about bisected her at the crotch, barely covering her sex.
She had a friendly, quizzical look on her face. A long, slim nose, full lips, and streaked blond hair that was permed into the crinkly style that made some women look sexy and others look just messy. On Daryl it worked.
Maybe that's what you call a wry look, thought Devlin. He tried to see the color of her eyes in the dim light and decided they were probably blue.
Devlin liked the way she didn't seem at all bashful about being naked with a stranger.
"Did you ask me if my name was Helen?"
"Yes."
"You don't remember my name?"
"It's Daryl. Daryl Austen."
"Why'd you ask me, then?"
"I don't know."
"Were you thinking of someone else?"
"No. You get up this early every day?"
"Yes. Who was drunker last night, you or me?"
"I figure me."
"Did you tell me your name?"
"You don't remember my name?"
"No, are you insulted?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
Devlin started to gather his clothes. "No."
"How old are you?"
"You don't remember my age either?" "You didn't tell me."
"How would you know?"
"Come on," she asked. "How old are you?"
"Thirty-eight, how old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"I'm too old for you," Devlin told her.
"The hell you are, with that face and body. So what is your name?"
He leaned over the bed and shook Daryl's hand. "Jack Devlin."
She shook his hand and looked at his swaying cock. "Not too shy, are you, Jack Devlin?"
"No."
"Guess you don't have to be, Jack."
"Guess you don't either, Daryl."
"Well, I see you've showered and all. A couple more minutes you'll be dressed and you can get the hell out of here without any more morning-after chitchat."
Devlin looked to see if there was any anger in her,
but she still had that crooked smile.
"I'm sorry, but I do have to leave."
"Well, don't leave before I tell you that I don't usually go to bed with strange men I meet in bars."
"I don't see why you'd have to."
"I don't."
"Why did you?"
"Because my fucking bastard of a boyfriend broke up with me and I was angry and depressed and I figured it would do me good to get laid."
"Did it?"
"Yes, but I don't like this hangover. And I don't like the feeling that you want to leave as fast as you can."
He told her, "It's not because of you."
"Why, then? You have to get to work?"
Devlin's face twitched. He picked up his pants from the floor and started to step into them.
Daryl watched and waited for an answer.
Devlin said, "No, I'm not going to work. I kind of ran out on my brother back at that bar. I want to catch up with him."
"That big guy you were with was your brother?"
"Yeah."
"And you said you two were out drinking because …" She stopped herself and put her hand on her mouth. Then she asked, "Were you telling me the truth about your father?"
"Yes."
"You really were?"
"Yes."
"Oh shit. I'm sorry."
Devlin was dressed except for buttoning his shirt. Daryl got out of the bed and walked quickly to her closet. He looked at her firm buttocks and legs and wondered how much she worked out.
She pulled out a robe and slipped it on with her back turned to him.
"Do you want any coffee or anything?"
"No thanks."
"Come on. It'll take another five minutes."
"Okay."
"Regular or decaffeinated?"
"Regular."
She left the bedroom, suddenly seeming remote and far away from him. As he put on his socks and shoes, he kept thinking about her smooth sleek belly that curved so nicely down to the dark patch between her legs. She wasn't a natural blonde. But Daryl Hannah probably wasn't either and as far as he was concerned this Daryl looked better.
Devlin sat where Lettieri had left him and worked the phone. Bellevue Hospital, New York University Hospital, Lenox Hill Hospital, and Beth Israel had no George Devlins admitted in the last twenty-four hours. Neither had Mount Sinai, Columbia Presbyterian, Harlem Hospital, St. Luke's Roosevelt, or Gouverneur.
Six hotels hadn't either.
Marilyn called him twice while he was looking up phone numbers. He'd kept her at bay. He didn't think he could do it a third time.
He threw the phone book on the floor and turned on the answering machine with the speaker on high. If it was Marilyn he wouldn't answer. If George called he'd hear the voice and pick up.
He took a quick shower with the door open and changed into fresh clothes. The last vestiges of the night before were left in a pile between the dresser and a wall.
His big brother, who didn't have a mean bone in his body, and who had taken care of him more than once when they were growing up, was gone. Why? If someone had hurt his brother, Devlin was going to find out who did, why, and make them pay for it. He was very good at doing all three.
He met Detective Lieutenant David Freedman in a small park surrounded by nonstop traffic. It was in Abingdon Square in the West Village. A play park that would be crawling with little kids by early evening when their yuppie parents returned from work. But now at three in the afternoon it was empty except for a few homeless bums and two Jamaican ladies airing out infants and visiting with each other.
Years ago Freedman had helped Devlin on a case that ended with a lot of people being killed, but made the NYPD look as if they had solved a major crime. The case had also made Freedman a lieutenant, but he never wanted to live through another one like it.
Freedman approached Devlin with a deprecating smile and a shake of his head. He was a short, wiry man with kinky black hair and the tough manner of a New York cop who had lived in the town all his life. He stuck out his hand and Devlin shook it. Devlin's smile was full force. Freedman's first words were, "I see you're still alive, Devlin."
"So far. How are you, David?"
"Still fighting the good fight."
"I appreciate you coming. And so soon. I know you must be busy."
"Yeah, yeah. You look like you've been hiding on a beach somewhere."
"On a sunny beach."
"Nice. Why are you here instead of there?"
"My father passed away. I came home for the funeral."
"Oy, shit. I'm sorry. It was sudden? How old?"
"Heart attack. He was eighty."
"He was healthy until then?"
"Yes. It was quick."
"I guess that's good. But it's a loss. I'm sorry."
"Thanks."
Freedman became the tough cop again. "So what the hell you want with me that won't get me into too much trouble?"
"I have a problem, David, and I want your advice."
Devlin told the cop about the post-funeral drinking bout with his brother, picking up Daryl, staying the night with her and losing George.
Freedman shook his head slowly. "Wonderful. Perfect. Death, booze, and a blonde."
"Yeah. Reminds me of why I don't drink very much."
"I presume your brother is not the kind of guy who disappears for a while."
"No way. He's a citizen. Wife, kids, career, house in Westchester. The whole normal everyday scene. I've called a few hospitals and hotels. No record of any George Devlin."
"This isn't good, Jack. Not in this fucking city. Not really. I tell you what I'll do. You give me the information and I'll file the report up in the one-nine. I'll make sure it gets into the channels fast and really gets assigned instead of just added to some guy's list."
"Thanks."
"I'm sorry there's not much else I can do."
"One other thing," Devlin said. "If I'm going to really canvass the hospitals and hotels I'll need some help. He could be registered under a different name or as a John Doe waiting in a crowded emergency room somewhere. I need someone who can get around and see if anybody matching my brother's description was admitted. Do you know a reliable private detective?"
"Yeah, but what about your people at Pacific Rim? That's their business. They must know someone in New York. You could get professional rates or something, right?"
"Yes, but I'd rather not have them involved unless I have to. At the moment things are a little strained between us."
"What things?"
"I think I've been trying to avoid doing the work, David. I don't feel right about some parts of it."
"The killing part."
"Yes. The killing part."
"But if something happened to your brother I'll bet you'd almost enjoy killing that person."
Devlin stared at Freedman. He had a tough, uncompromising look. Freedman had long ago decided some people deserved to be killed and he made no apologies, but he was smart enough to know that he was implying George might be dead and he apologized for that.
"Hey, I'm sorry. That was stupid. The main thing is to find your brother. Especially now. My father died two years ago. It wasn't a good feeling. I got a brother and a sister. Believe me, we're closer now. This ain't the time to lose your brother.
"I know a guy who can help you. A good, honest detective, if there is such a thing. His name is Sam Zitter. He's getting to be a crotchety old fart, but he knows what he's doing, and he gets around. He'll give you a full day's effort. He has a lot of contacts which more than make up for his age slowing him down a little bit. He's right near here, too. Go see him. He's over on Eighth Avenue, just below Fourteenth Street. The name of the place is Intrepid Investigations. Give his receptionist my name, otherwise he probably won't see you."
"Okay. Thanks."
Freedman stood up. "Let me know if you need anything else."
"Take care, David."
"You, too. Let me know how it turns out."
>
"I will."
"Sorry for your troubles, Jack."
Devlin watched him walk away and knew that David Freedman was genuinely sorry for his troubles. They both knew the troubles weren't over.
By 2:30 a.m. Devlin was standing in the shadowy entrance to a hardware store across the street from O'Callahan's bar.
It was a quiet night. Warm but not hot. The city seemed to be finally cooling down from the day's heat. Devlin stood without moving, feeling the air, sensing the quiet. Maybe the humid spell was breaking, he thought.
He watched the last two patrons leave the bar. Brian the bartender started closing up. Fifteen minutes later the cook and two young boys left the bar. All three spoke Spanish to each other.
Another fifteen minutes went by and the bartender was finally at the bar's doorway. He turned and switched off the neon sign in the window, closed the front door and locked it. It looked as if he were about to hail a cab, but then he started walking uptown on Second Avenue.
Devlin quickly crossed the street and trailed behind him about ten feet back.
Devlin wondered how he should do this. He felt too visible on Second Avenue. At the moment there was no one else in sight, but there was plenty of traffic moving down the avenue.
As they approached 84th Street, he quickened his pace. Just before they reached the corner, he closed the distance and quietly called out, "Brian."
The bartender hesitated then turned to look behind him. Devlin backhanded him across the face with a sharp, brutal slap. It was enough to knock the Irishman back a few steps, but Devlin quickly grabbed the man's shirt, pulled the bartender toward him, and smashed his left elbow into his temple.
Devlin watched the man's eyes glaze as he teetered on the edge of consciousness. The bartender had no control of his legs and looked like a man too drunk to walk.
Devlin was surprised at how much anger he felt. He observed it as one would analyze the symptoms of the flu. It had curled over him and enveloped him like a wave. He suddenly wanted to beat his fists into this man who had lied to him.
What had pulled such rage out of him?
Was it fear about what might have happened to his brother? Was it anger because he was so powerless to change what happened after he had left his brother?
Devlin knew he had to get off the street before he lost control. At that moment the anger filled him with such strength, he could have scooped the bartender up with one arm. He grabbed him around the waist and looped the man's left arm over his shoulder.
McNally's luck (mcnally) Page 26