Darkfall

by Dean R. Koontz

  “Just stay the hell out of our way,” Nevetski said irritably. “We're going to pry into every crack and crevice in this fuckin' joint. We aren't leaving until we find what we're after.” He had a surprisingly hard voice, all low notes and rough edges and jarring metallic tones, like a piece of broken machinery. “So just step back.”

  “Actually,” Rebecca said, “now that Vastagliano's dead, this is pretty much out of your hands.”

  Jack winced at her directness and all-too-familiar coolness.

  “It's a case for Homicide now,” Rebecca said. “It's not so much a matter for Narcotics any more.”

  “Haven't you ever heard of interdepartmental cooperation, for Christ's sake?” Nevetski demanded.

  “Haven't you ever heard of common courtesy?”

  Rebecca asked.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Jack said quickly, placatingy. “There's room for all of us. Of course there is.”

  Rebecca shot a malevolent look at him.

  He pretended not to see it. He was very good at pretending not to see the looks she gave him. He'd had a lot of practice at it.

  To Nevetski, Rebecca said, “There's no reason to leave the place like a pig sty.”

  “Vastagliano's too dead to care,” Nevetski said.

  “You're just making it harder for Jack and me when we have to go through all this stuff ourselves.”

  “Listen,” Nevetski said, “I'm in a hurry. Besides, when I run a search like this, there's no fuckin' reason for anyone else to double-check me. I never miss anything.”

  “You'll have to excuse Roy,” Carl Blaine said, borrowing Jack's placating tone and gestures.

  “Like hell,” Nevetski said.

  “He doesn't mean anything by it,” Blaine said.

  “Like hell,” Nevetski said.

  “He's extraordinarily tense this morning,” Blaine said. In spite of his brutal face, his voice was soft, cultured, mellifluous. “Extraordinarily tense.”

  “From the way he's acting,” Rebecca said, “I thought maybe it was his time of the month.”

  Nevetski glowered at her.

  There's nothing so inspiring as police camaraderie, Jack thought.

  Blaine said, “It's just that we were conducting a tight surveillance on Vastagliano when he was killed.”

  “Couldn't have been too tight,” Rebecca said.

  “Happens to the best of us,” Jack said, wishing she'd shut up.

  “Somehow,” Blaine said, “the killer got past us, both going in and coming out. We didn't get a glimpse of him.”

  “Doesn't make any goddamned sense, “ Nevetski said, and he slammed a desk drawer with savage force.

  “We saw the Parker woman come in here around twenty past seven,” Blaine said. “Fifteen minutes later, the first black-and-white pulled up. That was the first we knew anything about Vastagliano being snuffed. It was embarrasing. The captain won't be easy on us.”

  “Hell, the old man'll have our balls for Christmas decorations.”

  Blaine nodded agreement. “It'd help if we could find Vastagliano's business records, turn up the names of his associates, customers, maybe collect enough evidence to make an important arrest.”

  “We might even wind up heroes,” Nevetski said, “although right now I'd settle for just getting my head above the shit line before I drown.”

  Rebecca's face was lined with disapproval of Nevetski's incessant use of obscenity.

  Jack prayed she wouldn't chastise Nevetski for his foul mouth.

  She leaned against the wall beside what appeared to be (at least to Jack's unschooled eye) an original Andrew Wyeth oil painting. It was a farm scene rendered in intricate and exquisite detail.

  Apparently oblivious of the exceptional beauty of the painting, Rebecca said, “So this Vincent Vastagliano was in the dope trade?”

  “Does McDonald's sell hamburgers?” Nevetski asked.

  “He was a blood member of the Carramazza family,” Blaine said.

  Of the five mafia families that controlled gambling, prostitution, and other rackets in New York, the Carramazzas were the most powerful.

  “In fact,” Blaine said, “Vastagliano was the nephew of Gennaro Carramazza himself. His uncle Gennaro gave him the Gucci route.”

  “The what?” Jack asked.

  “The uppercrust clientele in the dope business,” Blaine said. “The kind of people who have twenty pairs of Gucci shoes in their closet.”

  Nevetski said, “Vastagliano didn't sell shit to school kids. His uncle wouldn't have let him do anything that seamy. Vince dealt strictly with show business and society types. Highbrow muckety-mucks.”

  “Not that Vince Vastagliano was one of them,” Blaine quickly added. “He was just a cheap hood who moved in the right circles only because he could provide the nose candy some of those limousine types were looking for.”

  “He was a scumbag,” Nevetski said. “This house, all those antiques — this wasn't him. This was just an image he thought he should project if he was going to be the candyman to the jet set.”

  “He didn't know the difference between an antique and a K-Mart coffee table,” Blaine said. “All these books. Take a closer look. They're old textbooks, incomplete sets of outdated encyclopedias, odds and ends, bought by the yard from a used-book dealer, never meant to be read, just dressing for the shelves.”

  Jack took Blaine's word for it, but Rebecca, being Rebecca, went to the bookcases to see for herself.

  “We've been after Vastagliano for a long time,” Nevetski said. “We had a hunch about him. He seemed like a weak link. The rest of the Carramazza family is as disciplined as the fuckin' Marine Corps. But Vince drank too much, whored around too much, smoked too much pot, even used cocaine once in a while.”

  Blaine said, “We figured if we could get the goods on him, get enough evidence to guarantee him a prison term, he'd crack and cooperate rather than do hard time. Through him, we figured to finally lay our hands on some of the wiseguys at the heart of the Carramazza organization.”

  Nevetski said, “We got a tip that Vastagliano would be contacting a South American cocaine wholesaler named Rene Oblido.”

  “Our informant said they were meeting to discuss new sources of supply. The meeting was supposed to be yesterday or today. It wasn't yesterday—”

  “And for damned sure, it won't happen today, not now that Vastagliano is nothing but a pile of bloody garbage.” Nevetski looked as if he would spit on the carpet in disgust.

  “You're right. It's screwed up,” Rebecca said, turning away from the bookshelves. “It's over. So why not split and let us handle it?”

  Nevetski gave her his patented glare of anger.

  Even Blaine looked as if he were finally about to snap at her.

  Jack said, “Take your time. Find whatever you need.

  You won't be in our way. We've got a lot of other things to do here. Come on, Rebecca. Let's see what the M.E."s people can tell us.”

  He didn't even glance at Rebecca because he knew she was giving him a look pretty much like the one Blaine and Nevetski were giving her.

  Reluctantly, Rebecca went into the hall.

  Before following her, Jack paused at the door, looking back at Nevetski and Blaine. “You notice anything odd about this one?”

  “Such as?” Nevetski asked.

  “Anything,” Jack said. “Anything out of the ordinary, strange, weird, unexplainable.”

  “I can't explain how the hell the killer got in here,” Nevetski said irritably. “That's damned strange.”

  “Anything else?” Jack asked. “Anything that would make you think this is more than just your ordinary drug-related homicide?”

  They looked at him blankly.

  He said, “Okay, what about this woman, Vastagliano's girlfriend or whatever she is…”

  “Shelly Parker,” Blaine said. “She's waiting in the living room if you want to talk to her.”

  “Have you spoken with her yet?” Jack asked.

&
nbsp; “A little,” Blaine said. “She's not much of a talker.”

  “A real sleazebag is what she is,” Nevetski said.

  “Reticent,” Blaine said.

  “An uncooperative sleazebag.”

  “Self-contained, very composed,” Blaine said.

  “A two-dollar pump. A bitch. A scuz. But gorgeous.”

  Jack said, “Did she mention anything about a Haitian? ”

  “A what?”

  “You mean… someone from Haiti? The island?”

  “The island,” Jack confirmed.

  “No,” Blaine said. “Didn't say anything about a Haitian.”

  “What fuckin' Haitian are we talking about?” Nevetski demanded.

  Jack said, “A guy named Lavelle. Baba Lavelle.”

  “Baba?” Blaine said.

  “Sounds like a clown, “ Nevetski said.

  “Did Shelly Parker mention him?”

  “No.”

  “How's this Lavelle fit in?”

  Jack didn't answer that. Instead, he said, “Listen did Miss Parker say anything to you about… well… did she say anything at all that seemed strange?”

  Nevetski and Blaine frowned at him.

  “What do you mean?” Blaine said.

  Yesterday, they'd found the second victim: a black man named Freeman Coleson, a middle-level dope dealer who distributed to seventy or eighty street pushers in a section of lower Manhattan that had been conferred upon him by the Carramazza family, which had become an equal opportunity employer in order to avoid ill-feeling and racial strife in the New York underworld. Coleson had turned up dead, leaking from more than a hundred small stab wounds, just like the first victim on Sunday night. His brother, Darl Coleson, had been panicky, so nervous he was pouring sweat. He had told Jack and Rebecca a story about a Haitian who was trying to take over the cocaine and heroin trade. It was the weirdest story Jack had ever heard, but it was obvious that Darl Coleson believed every word of it.

  If Shelly Parker had told a similar tale to Nevetski and Blaine, they wouldn't have forgotten it. They wouldn't have needed to ask what sort of “strange” he was talking about.

  Jack hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind. It's not really important.”

  If it's not important, why did you bring it up?

  That would be Nevetski's next question. Jack turned away from them before Nevetski could speak, kept moving, through the door, into the hall, where Rebecca was waiting for him.

  She looked angry.

  VI

  Last week, on Thursday evening, at the twice-a-month poker game he'd been attending for more than eight years, Jack had found himself defending Rebecca. During a pause in the game, the other players — three detectives: Al Dufresne, Witt Yardman, and Phil Abrahams — had spoken against her.

  “I don't see how you put up with her, Jack,” Witt said.

  “She's a cold one,” all said.

  “A regular ice maiden,” Phil said.

  As the cards snapped and clicked and softly hissed in all's busy hands, the three men dealt out insults:

  “She's colder than a witch's tit.”

  “About as friendly as a Doberman with one fierce damned toothache and a bad case of constipation.”

  “Acts like she don't ever have to breathe or take a piss like the rest of humanity.”

  “A real ball-buster,” Al Dufresne said.

  Finally Jack said, “Ah, she's not so bad once you know her.”

  “A ball-buster,” all repeated.

  “Listen,” Jack said, “if she was a guy, you'd say she was just a hard-nosed cop, and you'd even sort of admire her for it. But 'cause she's a hard-nosed female cop, you say she's just a cold bitch.”

  “I know a ball-buster when I see one,” all said.

  “A ball-crusher,” Witt said.

  “She's got her good qualities,” Jack said.

  “Yeah?” Phil Abrahams said. “Name one.”

  “She's observant.”

  “So's a vulture.”

  “She's smart. She's efficient,” Jack said.

  “So was Mussolini. He made the trains run on time.”

  Jack said, “And she'd never fail to back up her partner if things got hairy out there on the street.”

  “Hell's bells, no cop would fail to back up a partner,” Al said.

  “Some would,” Jack said.

  “Damned few. And if they did, they wouldn't be cops for long.”

  “She's a hard worker,” Jack said.. “Carries her weight.”

  “Okay, okay,” Witt said, “so maybe she can do the job well enough. But why can't she be a human being, too?”

  “I don't think I ever heard her laugh,” Phil said.

  Al said, “Where's her heart? Doesn't she have a heart?”

  “Sure she does,” Witt said. “A little stone heart.”

  “Well,” Jack said, “I suppose I'd rather have Rebecca for a partner than any of you brass-plated monkeys.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. She's more sensitive than you give her credit for.”

  “Oh, ho! Sensitive!”

  “Now it comes out! “

  “He's not just being chivalrous.”

  “He's sweet on her.”

  “She'll have your balls for a necklace, old buddy.”

  “From the look of him, I'd say she's already had 'em.”

  “Any day now, she'll be wearing a brooch made out of his—”

  Jack said, “Listen, you guys, there's nothing between me and Rebecca except—”

  “Does she go in for whips and chains, Jack?”

  “Hey, I'll bet she does! Boots and dog collars.”

  “Take off your shirt and show us your bruises, Jack.”

  “Neanderthals,” Jack said.

  “Does she wear a leather bra?”

  “Leather? Man, that broad must wear steel.”

  “Cretins,” Jack said.

  “I thought you've been looking poorly the last couple months,” all said. “Now I know what it is. You're pussy-whipped, Jack.”

  “Definitely pussy-whipped,” Phil said.

  Jack knew there was no point in resisting them. His protestations would only amuse and encourage them. He smiled and let the wave of good-natured abuse wash over him, until they were at last tired of the game.

  Eventually, he said, “Alright, you guys have had your fun. But I don't want any stupid rumors starting from this. I want you to understand there's nothing between Rebecca and me. I think she is a sensitive person under all those callouses. Beneath that cold-as-an-alligator pose she works so hard at, there's some warmth, tenderness. That's what I think, but I don't know from personal experience. Understand?”

  “Maybe there's nothing between you two,” Phil said, “but judging by the way your tongue hangs out when you talk about her, it's obvious you wish there was.”

  “Yeah,” all said, “when you talk about her, you drool.”

  The taunting started all over again, but this time they were much closer to the truth than they had been before. Jack didn't know from personal experience that Rebecca was sensitive and special, but he sensed it, and he wanted to be closer to her. He would have given just about anything to be with her — not merely near her; he'd been near her five or six days a week, for almost ten months — but really with her, sharing her innermost thoughts, which she always guarded jealously.

  The biological pull was strong, the stirring in the gonads; no denying it. After all, she was quite beautiful.

  But it wasn't her beauty that most intrigued him.

  Her coolness, the distance she put between herself and everyone else, made her a challenge that no male could resist. But that wasn't the thing that most intrigued him, either.

  Now and then, rarely, no more than once a week, there was an unguarded moment, a few seconds, never longer than a minute, when her hard shell slipped slightly, giving him a glimpse of another and very different Rebecca beyond the familiar cold exterior, someone vulne
rable and unique, someone worth knowing and perhaps worth holding on to. That was what fascinated Jack Dawson: that brief glimpse of warmth and tenderness, the dazzling radiance she always cut off the instant she realized she had allowed it to escape through her mask of austerity.

  Last Thursday, at the poker game, he had felt that getting past Rebecca's elaborate psychological defenses would always be, for him, nothing more than a fantasy, a dream forever unattainable. After ten months as her partner, ten months of working together and trusting each other and putting their lives in each other's hands, he felt that she was, if anything, more of a mystery than ever….

  Now, less than a week later, Jack knew what lay under her mask. He knew from personal experience. Very personal experience. And what he had found was even better, more appealing, more special than what he had hoped to find. She was wonderful.

  But this morning there was absolutely no sign of the inner Rebecca, not the slightest hint that she was anything more than the cold and forbidding Amazon that she assiduously impersonated.

  It was as if last night had never happened.

  In the hall, outside the study where Nevetski and Blaine were still looking for evidence, she said, “I heard what you asked them — about the Haitian.”

  “So?”

  “Oh, for God's sake, Jack!”

  “Well, Baba Lavelle is our only suspect so far.”

  “It doesn't bother me that you asked about him,” she said. “It's the way you asked about him.”

  “I used English, didn't I?”

  “Jack—”

  “Wasn't I polite enough?”

  “Jack—”

  “It's just that I don't understand what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.” She mimicked him, pretending she was talking to Nevetski and Blaine: “Has either of you noticed anything odd about this one? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything strange? Anything weird?”

  “I was just pursuing a lead,” he said defensively.

  “Like you pursued it yesterday, wasting half the afternoon in the library, reading about voodoo.”

  “We were at the library less than an hour.”

  “And then running up there to Harlem to talk to that sorcerer.”

  “He's not a sorcerer.”